Jig stopped, indignant. Didn’t he know you only grabbed children that way? No adult goblin would allow himself to be dragged about by the ear. He should bite off Barius’s hand for this. He should plant a lizard-fish in Barius’s bedroll!

Glimpsing the prince’s face, he decided that he should do nothing at all. Barius tied a quick loop in the rope and tightened it about Jig’s neck. Still, the freedom to use his hands was a victory, if a small one. Jig was a small goblin. Perhaps his triumphs were better taken in small bites.

With an impudent grin, Jig headed for the door. Darnak knelt with Riana to one side, trying to boost her spirits. He had given her a bit of his ale, a kind gesture which may have been a mistake. To judge from the way her head wobbled, elves didn’t handle dwarven ale very well.

“Don’t worry about a lost finger,” Darnak said gently. “Many an adventurer has lost a finger, or worse, and still gone on to accomplish great things. Have you heard the song of . . . I forget his name. The little guy with nine fingers, from the middle continent. The one involved with that ring business a while back.”

Jig hovered over them both, clicking his toenails against the floor until Darnak acknowledged him.

“I need a bit of twine.” He held his hands a foot apart to indicate how long.

Darnak said nothing. He still seemed a bit uncomfortable with Jig. Did he feel guilty for almost letting Riana die? Jig didn’t care. In fact, the more uncomfortable they felt, the happier he would be.

Riana wouldn’t look at him at all, but it was harder for Jig to feel pleasure at that. Still, what did Jig care for an elf’s goodwill? If they hated him, he would hate them right back. That was his job. He was a monster and they were adventurers.

As he had hoped, among the endless junk the dwarf carried upon his back, Darnak managed to find a ball of twine, tangled up like an abandoned nest. He ripped a piece free and handed it to Jig.

He seized his trophy and moved to the front of the door, humming quietly under his breath. For once he knew exactly what to do. Better still, none of the others had thought of it. He scooped up one of Riana’s discarded tools, a thin steel rod as long as his hand with several diamond-shaped ridges near one end. He also grabbed her severed finger.

As he lashed the rod to the end of the finger, he began to sing. In Goblin, of course. The song sounded ridiculous in Human.

Oh, down came the humans into the dark.

Up raced the goblins, ready for a lark.

The humans were weary, much had they drunk that day.

The goblins found them sleeping, said, “Come on, let’s play.”