"I am sure he has been abducted, and the operation has the goblin stigma. We have search parties out, of course, but my concern is with the motive. It occurred to me that there might be some residual animosity because of the liaison of your parents and that this is an expression of it."

"I know nothing of this, Cheiron," she said. "But I will certainly find out! I will fly immediately to Glory's village and ask."

"Thank you. Do you need a guard?"

She considered. "Ordinarily, no. But if this is the start of something serious, perhaps it is better."

"Get on my back and I will take you there."

She nodded. She flew to his back and settled down, as light as a bird. Then he leaped up and spread his great wings, forging into the sky.

As dawn came, they reached the goblin village. Gloha flew off to consult with the chief, while Cheiron planted his feet and waited alertly, on guard against treachery. If the war were being resumed, his trip here could even be part of the plot: to lure him down so that he, too, could be captured. But he had no fear of goblins; he could handle his bow and spear as well as any centaur could, and that meant that fifty goblins would die before he had to retreat.

Soon Gloha returned with the goblin chief. The man was gnarled and ugly in the manner of his kind, but his approach was not menacing. Perhaps this was because of Gloha, who by the dawn's early light was as gorgeous a goblin as this village was likely to see. Her wings, folded, formed a feather cloak covering her backside, so that a stranger would have to look two and a half times to realize that she was a crossbreed instead of a rich gobliness. Even a goblin chief tended to behave halfway politely when in the company of a creature like this.

"We know nothing of this abduction, feather-snoot," the chief said halfway politely. "Gloha was at your mating ceremony six years ago, and joined the pledge to protect your offspring. We don't give a clod of dung for you, horse-foot, or your flighty mare, but we don't want the Simurgh down on us, so we're leaving all winged man-faced horse-rears alone."

"I appreciate your sincerity, clubfoot," Cheiron said in polite goblin protocol. "But what about other goblin tribes?"

The chief scowled. "I can count on the fingers of one hand how many of them you can trust to leave your foal alone, hoof-nose." He held up one dark fist.

"But Grandpa Gorbage," Gloha protested, "you can't count!"

"That's not so!" the chief retorted gruffly. "I can count none—and that's how many tribes."

"Agreed," Cheiron said. "But there is no goblinwide conspiracy, or you would know about it?"

"Right, tail-brain. It's probably the Goblinate of the Golden Horde. They're closest to you, and worst. Even we don't like them."