Chapter 52 - Mind-Boglin Inventions

They put me back in the cage next to the scrapper, not even bothering to latch it this time, for all King Ringo’s paranoia. I opened it and stepped outside, and took a second to unlatch the scrapper’s door, as well. My partner had spent the evening digging a hole in his cage, only to find that water quickly filled in anything he dug out.

“Not much of an escape tunnel,” he admitted, settling back against the bars of his cage. “Wot you reckon, boss?” he made a noise like a rocket taking off and clapped his hands. “Make like with the porkbellies? A little rocket-tree action for King Ringo?”

“No,” I said. “I’m going to escape. And then I’m going to help him.”

“Help him? You know wot he’s got us in, right now? A cage. We put night haunts in them. And you know what comes next.”

“It’s not even locked,” I said, swinging the door open and stepping inside with the scrapper. I look around at the rest of the island through the bars and sighed. “I don’t hate this tribe—or Ringo, for that matter. I pity them. And it’s true they need us more than we need them, but we can’t start wars with everyone we meet. Not every problem can be solved by launching a rocket at it.” I sat back, muttering. “Besides, we have no sulfur. You know how the icky-putty works.”

The scrapper grunted and went back to his hole. I wasn’t wrong, though. Ringo might be a half-mad swamp-brained buffoon, but we each stood more to gain as friends, and only stood to lose as enemies. I just had to somehow convince him of that. He wanted fire, ceramic, and ballooning. I could give him that, and more. I could give him boats. I could give him armor. I could let him walk.

I stepped out of the scrapper cage and approached a pair of nearby boglins.

“I want to make a gift for King Ringo,” I said. I gave them a list of supplies, and they looked at each other and departed. A few minutes later, the advisor goblin showed up at my cell. “What’s this about a grift for Ringo? Are you trying to scam the great king and steal his hard-earned resources?”

“A gift,” I said. “I want to make him something.”

“You want to take his something? Spoken like a true thief!”

Stolen novel; please report.

I smacked a fist into my palm. “That’s a reach and you know it.”

“Fine,” he said, crossing his arms and sniffing. “I heard you true. But I still don’t trust you! What are you planning?”

“First I want to give you a name. Ringo’s got one. An… interesting one, at that. You’re clearly important around here. Why don’t you have one?”

The advisor hesitated. “My king has not seen fit to give me one.”

“How about George?”

The advisor worked it around his mouth. “Gee-oor-jah”

“Close enough.”

Despite his best efforts to mask his emotions, I could see the excitement in the boglin’s tapping feet. “Very well. What do you want to give King Ringo?”

I lifted one of my legs. “I want to make him something like this.”

The advisor looked down at the mechanical joint that connected my lower leg remnant to the sloth-claw prosthetic. “Hmm…” he said. “I shall take the idea to my king.”

He left, and I turned to the scrapper. “See? They can be reasoned with.”

The scrapper shrugged and kept digging.

Several hours passed, well into the eclipse, before the advisor, George returned.

“He’s not interested.”

“What?” I asked.

George shrugged. “What need has a king of false legs? Being carried is the mark of true royalty, yet you are carried by no one. This is why you are a false king.”

“Did you even really speak to him?”

“I may have got distracted by official duties.”

I buried my face in my hands and screamed into my palms. Fugg me for wanting to walk and run and jump instead of getting carted around on a litter and thrown down cliffs, right? So un-kingly. The scrapper whistled and made an explosion sound behind me. I was beginning to agree. But it looked like I was stuck. Whatever I said, the boglins assumed I was lying—even if I expressly agreed with them! What frustrating people.

But they were still goblins. And it seemed like goblins in this world, above all else, needed to stick together. Even with what limited resources I had, I could probably kill Ringo and take his people. All I had to do was trick him into biting down on one of those poppers and poof, 30-40 boglins added to the tribe. But I didn’t want to hurt Ringo. I wanted more neighbors in Rava that I could trust—even if I could only trust them to think I was out to get them.

The advisor tossed a small sack down on the floor of the cave and stormed off, which looked to contain the cast-off bits of fish guts that even the other boglins didn’t want. My stomach growled, and fire or not, I fell upon the offal with relish, chomping down scale, bone, and meat. I stopped myself from finishing it all and passed half of it through the bars to the scrapper.

“Here. You’ll need your strength.”

“Aww, king,” he said, taking the sack. He shoveled the rest into his mouth and spat a bone in the direction of the fort. “He may have their loyalty, but you got our trust. You’re twice the king wot ‘e is.”

Closer to three times, numerically speaking. If only there was a way to get my tribe here, their true size alone might intimidate Ringo into submission. But they couldn’t penetrate the swamp. Yet, Ringo’s boys could. I looked at the boglin guards with their mottled skin and pronged spears. How had they managed to survive in the bog amongst the predators and the threats? What was their secret? It certainly wasn’t the competency of their monarch.

I felt the lethargy start to take me. It was a problem I’d have to sleep on.