to food with her was of far more consequence to the kobold than the real problem – that they somehow needed to get inside a heavily fortified city undetected.
As she sank deeper into despair Willow noticed a donkey cart piled high with clothing approach the entrance. It was driven by a portly man with an impressive handlebar moustache. He stopped a few feet in front of them, almost blocking their view.
The man was asked to show some form of identification, and she heard him say, ‘Laundry service. The duke likes to have his delicates sent to Lael … You know what they say about elves and washing …’
‘What?’ asked the guard.
‘Oh? Well, they’re good at it …’
‘I thought there was going to be a joke.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘See, when you said it like that, “You know what they say about elves and washing,” there’s usually about to be some kind of a joke.’
‘You calling elves funny or something?’
The two started to argue. The laundry man said something about elvish discrimination, and having a great-grandmother who was part elf.
Willow stopped listening as Oswin’s green paw came out of the bag and tapped her. ‘If yew really wants to get inside, mebbe we could jes climb inside that fing, and hide under that pile o’ rags? Jes saying.’
He seemed to be looking at the scene from a small hole in the bag, so all Willow could see was one luminous green eye.
Willow stared at him, her mouth falling open in amazed delight.
‘Wot?’
She peeked past the cart and inched closer. It was true – the guards were distracted by the laundry man, who was now having a hard time explaining why his papers had bite marks on them (from the donkey it seemed). So, while the men were occupied, Willow crept back behind the cart, and petted Oswin’s green head in thanks. This was followed by a small purring sound and then swiftly by a cleared throat when she asked, ‘Oswin, were you purring?’
There was a rather horrified hiss from inside the bag. ‘Kobolds don’ purr!’
‘But you just did.’
‘I is NOT a cat.’
Smoke started curling from the top of the bag, and Willow stifled a laugh. ‘Sorry, my mistake.’ Then she quickly picked up the bag, and slipped inside the cart, Oswin muttering darkly under his breath, ‘I is the monster from under the bed …’ while she pulled a pile of clothing on top of them.
‘Shhh,’ she whispered, hoping that no one had seen them.
Finally they heard the laundry man say, ‘Just so you know, the longer we stand here arguing, the more likely it is that the duke will think you were going through his unmentionables …’
Very shortly afterwards the cart’s wheels were trundling inside the forbidden city of Beady Hill. Willow watched through a small gap in the piles of laundry as they passed by the guards, her heart in her throat.
When the cart had come to a stop sometime later, and the coast appeared to clear, she slid out, hairy carpetbag in hand. As she began to sneak away she heard, ‘Oi, what you doing? You better not have taken any of the duke’s delicates!’ from the laundry man, and she broke into a run, snaking her way down a maze of cobbled streets.
When Willow’s heart had finally slowed down, and she was sure that they were safe, she stopped and took a proper look around. Hundreds of tall greyish houses, taller than they were wide, were hunched together as they snaked round the sloping hill, their glossy windows seeming to look down at her with a beady glint. And right at the top, surrounded by a dark, hazy cloud, she could just make out the grey stone ramparts where the archers were waiting.
She set the bag down as a group of people heading towards the market walked past. ‘I wish I had a robe or something – something to help me blend in better.’
‘I fink that would jes makes yew stands out worse,’ observed Oswin from the hole in the bag.
Willow had to admit that he had a point, as most of the townspeople who passed them were dressed similarly to her. Some even worse. Just then an old man with more liver spots than hair hurried past her. He was wearing a very old and tatty cloak, and was carrying a threadbare, bulging knapsack. He was accompanied by an ageing grey cat, who looked more than a little defeated himself. ‘Come on, Gurgle, we know when