Rownie stood at the corner of the building and wondered what the fuss was about. He was glad to see a familiar face—even one with a long nose and pointy ears—but he didn’t want to stand between a cursing goblin and the object of his ire. He didn’t want one of the curses to fly off course and hit him by accident.

“Excuse me,” said someone behind him.

He moved out of the way. A small, slight goblin passed him with two arms full of costumes. She wore the sort of dress a lady might wear, but with the skirts hitched up over her shoulder and a soldier costume visible underneath. Her short hair was rain-wet and spiky.

A mask fell from the top of the costume pile as she went by. Rownie caught it before it hit the ground. The mask was feathered, and it sported a long, curved beak. It looked unsettling. Rownie held it so that the empty eyes weren’t looking up at him, and he followed the walking pile of costumes.

“You dropped this,” he started to say, but the goblin didn’t hear him. She was already shouting up at Thomas.

“Haven’t we put enough of our enemies into immortal verse already?” she asked. “Do we really need to humiliate a stupid alewife and her very stupid husband for the next thousand years? Really? We’ve already named villains after the players who stole Semele’s script book, and that farmer who set his dogs after us, and the alderman with the funny nose. I can’t remember what he did to deserve it. What did that alderman do to deserve an eternity of scorn?”

Thomas ignored her. He may not have heard her. “I will curse this place!” he shouted. “Your ale will turn! Your bread will be maggot-ridden! I will visit humiliations upon you in verse!”

The small goblin climbed the stairs at the back of the wagon, pushed open a door with her foot, and went inside. The door shut behind her.

Rownie knocked on the door. “You dropped this,” he said to the door, but it didn’t open.

“May the River take you!” Thomas raged above. “May the floods take your household and drown your bones! I will have our artificer build a pair of gearworked ravens, and they will croak your vile name outside your bedroom window, every night, at irregular intervals! You will never sleep again!” He lowered his voice then, but only a little. “Does anyone remember his name?”

“Cob,” said someone else. “My father’s name is Cob.”

It was a young-sounding voice. Rownie looked around the side of the wagon to see who it belonged to.

A dark-haired girl stood in one of the alehouse doorways. She carried a basket in front of her.

Thomas climbed down from the wagon roof and stood before the girl. The rain picked up, and water poured down all sides of his hat.