On the plains, straight-line winds whipped across the surface of the stone and drove the ever-heavier rain of blight straight into Twain’s face. He bent his head and raised an arm against it, desperately wishing for his heavy oiled-leather coat. I had to give it to Brittany for the disguise to work, he repeated over and over, but with every step, the longing grew stronger.

Life flickered at the peripheries of his vision. Lizards darted in and out of holes, testing the air with long, black-flecked tongues, only to disappear when he grew close, or vanish at the discovery of yet more blight. A snake rattled in the near distance. He diverted his steps away from it, pushing toward the huts.

They might recognize me, but I’ll never get anywhere without a horse, or some kind of transportation. He tapped the wig on his head and checked that his own hair remained tucked down the back of his jacket. Besides, I’ve got the disguise. I might be able to pass muster.

As he drew close to the huts, one of the flaps burst open. A tiny green form rushed out of it, galloping at him, occasionally using her arms to propel herself faster.

“Mouse!” Gawain shouted. She barreled into him and wrapped her arms around his thigh, as high as she could reach.

“Gawain! Good to see you.” He patted her back awkwardly, not sure how to return the hug without picking her up like a child. Oh well, there goes any hope of cover. He pulled the wig off and drew his hair out from under the jacket, giving it a good shake.

Gawain let go and grabbed his hand. She drew him along, bouncing and running ahead of him in her excitement. “This way, this way. I’ve got a secret to show you, a secret!”

“Alright, alright,” Twain agreed, following her. I really can’t afford to waste time on this, but… I don’t want to make a scene, either. More of a scene than we’re already making, anyways.

Green heads peeked out from the huts. Suspicious yellow eyes followed them. One of the goblins drew up close behind Twain, claws and teeth bared.

Gawain whipped around and growled at him. The goblin startled and fell over backward, then scurried away. She snarled at all the watching eyes, slowly rotating to face each of them personally. “He’s mine. No one touches.”

The other goblins retreated, vanishing back into their huts, though a few curious eyes still peeped out of holes in the leathery material of the walls or from behind door-flaps. Gawain ignored them, obviously used to it. “This way. It’s my best secret.”

Out beyond the huts, back into the bare stone. Gawain made a beeline for the gash in the ground. Although Twain had taken it for a narrow canyon, more a ravine, from a distance, as they grew closer, the depth of the space was revealed. The canyon gaped open, a raw wound in the earth dozens of feet across, widening to hundreds along the miles of its long axis.

At the edge of the canyon, Twain peered down. It descended into the earth, but where he expected bare stone walls and darkness, he instead found life. Lights winked from hundreds of houses carved into the walls. Smoke drifted up and dissipated, broken up by a wide-paddled, woven fan powered by a few goblins and some kind of scruffy, yellowish, wolfish creature, all running in a wheel. Long awnings protected stone-carved porches from blight, though in places, black stained the walls in long, ugly streaks. In the depths of the canyon, a river ran, its source unpolluted by blight, though the longer it ran, the darker the water became.

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“Wow,” Twain breathed. We think of the goblins as so primitive, but looking at this, isn’t this as impressive—no, more impressive—than any of the rest of our cities?

“This isn’t the secret,” Gawain said dismissively. She reached under a lip in the rock and pulled a strap, revealing a ladder down into the canyon. “This way.”

The ladder creaked under Twain’s weight. He took it three steps at a time. No part of it was built for creatures larger than goblins. The city, when he finally dismounted the ladder, was no different. He had to crawl to follow Gawain, and even then, his hands and knees pressed him up against the awnings overhead.

She glanced back and giggled at him. “Just a little further!”

Twain narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you sure?”

Gawain nodded emphatically.

“Will I fit?”

She hesitated a long moment, then nodded slowly.

Twain sucked in a deep breath, only to stop abruptly as that lifted his shoulders up into an awning. “Okay. Alright. Let’s see this secret.”

Gawain scurried ahead of him and turned, twisting sideways into a gap in the rock. Twain eyed it up, brows furrowing. Will I fit? That seems… awful small.

The gap proved wider than he expected when he arrived, easy for Gawain to pass through, but barely wide enough for him. He wedged his shoulders in and twisted deeper, kicking with his legs to push himself past the rocky outcroppings. Stone scraped at his chest, bursting buttons off the coat. Something tore, somewhere on his outfit. His hair snagged in a gap. He turned his head to free it and bumped into a snarl of stone. Blood trickled down from his forehead and stung in his eyes. He wanted to raise a hand to wipe it, but rock got in the way no matter how he turned it. Frustrated, he blinked the blood away. “Fucking hell.”

“Almost there!” Gawain assured him.

“Better fucking be,” Twain snarled back.

Gawain jumped, startled, then crawled back toward him. “No, don’t—” Twain sighed. Now I’ll never be able to get through with her in the way!

A small but surprisingly powerful hand maneuvered his head down, twisted his shoulder around, and stretched one of his arms out. “Kick!”

Twain kicked, and burst through the crack into a small space lit only by Gawain’s glowing eyes. He climbed to his feet. Though hunched, he could at least stand. He put his hands on the wall, grateful for the space.

She snapped her fingers, and a small ball of fire crackled in her hand. “Hurry. Smoke gets bad in here.”

With that, Gawain vanished around another corner, taking the fire with her.

Twain followed more hesitantly. One more squeeze, this time standing, and he popped out into a long, deep valley, barely lit by Gawain’s fire. A few feet ahead of him, the ground fell away, leaving only a void. A rope hung from the ceiling about halfway across, and on the far side, a strange, ornate door stood against the stone.

“What is this?” Twain whispered.

Gawain shrugged, then grinned mischievously. “Secret.”

She backed up to the wall, pitched back, and threw the flame across the void. Before it hit the wall, she ran to the edge and leaped. Arms and feet both curled around the rope. It creaked but held. She twisted her hips, swung it back, then leaped again at its apogee.

Twain lunged, helplessly, drawn short by the edge of the platform. She isn’t going to make it!

Gawain’s leap fell short of the platform. She reached out, arms windmilling, whole body leaning for the ledge.

The flame she’d cast hit the wall and winked out just as her hands passed by the ledge.

“Gawain!” Twain shouted.