Bk3, Ch12 : The TAILOR of GOBLINTOWN

Book III

Chapter Twelve

The TAILOR of GOBLINTOWN

Rung’j’u gritted his fangs, striding impatiently toward work.

The goblin kept his head down as he passed some human guards. Though it was orcs that were responsible for the attack, the humans of Ne’jum had taken their anger out on anyone that wasn’t human. It always happened like this, whenever stories of orcish invasions made it back home, to the City of Storms.

But it had never happened on Ne’jum’esh soil before.

Rung’j’u was suddenly very aware of the weapons of the city guard. Their sashed swords, and the spiked clubs they cradled. Had they always been spiked? How had he not noticed it before?

Rung’j’u was twenty-three, and worked at the tailor’s shop. He’d worked there for almost a decade now, on account of the master tailor being a good friend of Rung’s uncle.

The pay was better than any job Rung’j’u had ever dreamed of having, because the tailor was the finest in all of Ne’jum. His main clients were actually the human nobles, that held apartments within the pyramid itself.

Of course, the job had drawbacks, as well.

The main one being that Rung was constantly exposed to humans, who thought of goblins as less than worthless. Things to be used. Resources to be exported. Animals, to be harvested, or else used for other harvesting.

In a city where the King has been dead for over four-hundred years, it shouldn’t have gotten to him so much. But it did. Rung’j’u simply couldn’t help it. The truths felt especially raw today.

He kept his head low, not out of fear or shame, but to hide his extreme anger from those that would kill him for flinging such a look.

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Rung’j’u got to the tailor’s shop, and saw a long glass bottle on the step. Inside the bottle was a scroll, with the name “To Tha’seng.” There was no return name on it, but there didn’t need to be.

Rung recognized the handwriting.

He picked up the bottle, and unlatched the door. The shop was so nice, even the way the door creaked said, “quality.” No screeching or squeaks, just the warm croak of wood.

“Hello,” said Rung’j’u, though no one was in the front room of the shop. He shut the door. “Feth’faj’j wrote you.”

“Leave it on the counter,” said the tailor from the other room.

Rung’j’u took his rain cloak off, but kept the jar in his hand.

“I’m curious what it says, master.”

“I know what it says,” the master muttered.

Rung’j’u took off his boots, and slipped into his inside slippers. The rain pounded outside, almost invisible to the goblin’s ears.

His skin was a greyish green. Rung’s slitted eyes were a muted yellow. Almost like Na’la’s eyes, but more subdued, with streaking specs that could stare and stare and always find more to see.

Like all goblins, Rung’j’u had very long ears, almost the width of his head. Growing up, he had always wanted to get earrings, a lot of earrings, all over his ears. But then, when he became the tailor’s apprentice, the dress code had been strict, and discipline had been a core tenant of this job.

Rung’j’u sighed on remembering this. Almost as a nervous habit, he rubbed the lowest part of his earlobe, imagining some kind of snaking triple ring that would lip into and out of his flesh, going up and up his ear.

Not in the cards, he thought, as he put on his apron and went to the back.

The master was much older, a goblin of fifty-four. His face was a map of lines. The master wore glasses, half-moons so that he could read when he looked down, but could look directly into your eyes when he looked up.

The master tailor had a beard, but it was closely trimmed, carefully groomed. His hands and thumbs were very large, but his fingers were long and thin.

As he worked on a garment of red silk, embroidering each hem with inlaid running runes in the Ne’jum’esh tongue, those fingers worked furiously. To that very day, Rung’j’u gaped and marveled at the speed of Master Tha’seng’s hands.

Rung’j’u set the jar down in front of the master, and Tha’seng’s hands stopped. His eyes darted up, staring at the jar from over the rim of his glasses.

“You said you know what it says?” said Rung’j’u, as he sat down at his own tailor’s table. They always worked while they talked. It was good work in that way, too.

Rung couldn’t tell if it was curiosity in his master’s eyes, or fear, or something else entirely. But Tha’seng stared at the bottle a long time, before finally uncorking the bottle, and using two of his long, quick fingers to pull out the scroll.

He moved quickly, but read slowly. Tha’seng mouthed, ever so slightly, as he read, until he got to the bottom.

He pursed his lips, huffed out through his nose, and held the paper out in the air.

“Here,” said Tha’seng. “Read it.”

Rung’j’u was surprised. Master never let him read the mail, especially when it was from the Shallowshore Dockmaster.

He got up, took the note, and began to read.

“Read it,” said Tha’seng, “then burn it. Then burn the ashes. Do you understand?”

Rung nodded. “Y-yes, master.”

He began to read, but then they both heard the door of the shop creak open.

“Customer?” asked Rung’j’u.

Tha’seng simply nodded toward the other room.

Rung’j’u understood, and (note still in hand) went to the front room to greet their visitors.

Tha’seng put down his needle, and listened, as Brun, Ul’druk, and Nal’kuth’ra entered the shop, and began to speak.

“Can I help you?” asked Rung’j’u.

“We’re, uh… we’re…”

“Is this the tailor’s shop?”

“Of course it is,” said Rung’j’u.

“We were, uh… we were told to… I’m so sorry, do you happen to have some water? I’m terribly thirsty.”

Orcish voices, thought Tha’seng. He buried his face in his hands, and scrubbed at his wrinkles. As he scrubbed, his glasses rode his knuckles, like a bucking warg. Orcs.

“It’s not going to get better, you know,” said a familiar voice.

Tha’seng looked up, to see Keeper.

The phantom of the half-orc was sitting on top of the apprentice’s desk. The phantom’s mouth loved to grin, and yet it stared at Tha’seng, heavy as a stone on the wraith’s face.

“No,” said Tha’seng simply. He took off his glasses, and tossed them onto the beautiful cloak. A small act of aggression, but it felt huge to the restrained master tailor. “Not tonight, Keeper. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not—”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about yet.”

“And I don’t want to.” Tha’seng folded his arms, and gave his best defiance face. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. It’s simply not possible. He… You… I don’t know how this works, how you… work, but— Did you see? Did you see that dragon? A dragon of flame. And even that could not kill the Lich.”

“Not true,” said Keeper. “It couldn’t kill the Death Knight.”

“No!” hissed Tha’seng.

The others kept speaking in the other room. Somehow, Brun had gotten the apprentice to tell him his whole life story. The sound of their words brought a smile back to the phantom’s face.

“There is no hope,” said Tha’seng, deflating. “The visions were wrong.”

“The visions are never wrong.”

“Dreams are visions, and how rare it is that those come true.”

“Dreams are dreams. Visions are different.”

“Not always.”

Keeper chuckled. “Well. The good news is, fate doesn’t care whether you believe in it or not.”

“And good luck on all of that.” Tha’seng made a gesture, then put his glasses back on, and began to work. “I’m done. Let Feth’faj’j throw his life away. Gods below.”

“Threaded lives,” muttered Keeper, appearing behind the tailor, and whispering into his ear. “The vastest tapestry. Six full moons from now, old friend. Six moons.”

“And how could you know that?” grumbled Tha’seng.

From the other room, Rung’j’u said, “I’m so sorry… What was your name again?”

“He didn’t give it,” said another orc’s gruff voice.

“It’s okay, Ul’druk,” said the thirsty orc. “My name is Brun.”

Tha’seng’s hands stopped again. He looked up.

“Brun of Gudd’rj. I was born in a little village, just outside of Kal’krj’el.”

“That’s not far from here,” said Rung’j’u.

“You’ve been?” said Brun.

Tha’seng got up, and padded slowly to the doorway, to get a glimpse of these strangers. Keeper watched with a smile, as the tailor padded over in his inside shoes.

“Noooo, no no,” laughed Rung’j’u. “I wish. I hear it’s beautiful. I’ve never been outside of Ne’jum.”

They were laughing, not just Brun and Rung’j’u, but Ul’druk and Nal’kuth’ra, too. And Keeper, of course.

Brun had been a name in one of Tha’seng’s first visions, as a very, very young child. He’d heard them chanting…

“King BRUN! King BRUN! King BRUN!”

And he looked much as he looked now. The red skin, the long black hair, the neon blue eyes…

Shield, and sword, and scraggly smiling beard.

“King Brun,” muttered Tha’seng.

Everyone looked, and Rung’j’u looked suddenly guilty.

“Master!” he said. “Sorry! I was just, uh… I’m… Sorry, what were you looking for again?”

“They were looking for trouble,” said Tha’seng. “And I’m afraid they’ve found it. Get them cowls.”

Rung’j’u made a face. “The…?”

Tha’seng nodded. “Yes. Those ones. And close the shop.”

Tha’seng began to put on his boots, and then his rain cloak, as his apprentice hurried to the back room.

“Good,” said the tailor, as he tightened his cloak. “Good. Rung, you take our friend Brun here to the Grand Chandler’s. He’s going to need a job, and the blacksmith will be looking for someone soon.”

Rung nodded. His master often knew bits of the future, and Rung’j’u had learned to simply trust the tailor, rather than question him.

“You two,” Tha’seng said. “You’re coming with me.”

* * * * / * * * *

Link to Orcish-English Dictionary

Wanna hear the music of NALA SAGA?

FANTASY GIFT SHOP

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