Goblins by Philip Reeve

to help a young man of great skill. And you are the most skilful cheesewright in this patch of the world, and the most handsome, and the truest of heart. That is why we offer you this.”
    Henwyn looked down and saw a little brown glass bottle, teardrop shaped, lying on the sorcerer’s outstretched palm.
    “For ten gold pieces,” said Fentongoose, “it shall be yours. It is an elixir of great power, which I brewed myself. Three drops in the next cheese you make will give it such a flavour as no mortal man has ever tasted. It will make you famous the length of the Westlands; the name of Henbane. . .”
    “Henwyn.”
    “. . .Hen wyn will go down the coming years in song and legend.”
    “Gosh,” said Henwyn, taking the bottle, staring at it. He could see his own face reflected in the glass, distorted like a reflection in the back of a spoon. Inside the bottle some thick liquid swirled. The wind blew Henwyn’s golden curls around his head, and seemed to blow his thoughts around inside it too. It looked very magical, and magic led to trouble; all the old stories were agreed on that. But to hold real magic in his hand, in real life, was thrilling. It was as if he had stepped into a story of his own. He glanced round quickly, to make sure no one had noticed him accept the sorcerers’ gift. Surely his father would be pleased, when he came home from Nantivey to find that Henwyn had created the world’s best cheese while he was gone?
    “Ten gold pieces?” he said uncertainly.
    “We cannot possibly ask less than ten gold pieces,” said Fentongoose solemnly. “All right; eight.”
    Henwyn hesitated for just a moment longer, then untied the purse from his belt. It held eight gold pieces, a few steel and copper coins, and a spare button. He tipped them all into Prawl’s cupped hands, and looked down at the bottle again. Was it just the sun shining through the glass, or did the stuff inside glow with a golden light? “At what stage of the process do I add the three drops. . .?” he asked, looking up again at the members of the Sable Conclave.
    But the sorcerers, if sorcerers they were, had gone, and although Henwyn went looking for them all through the floating market he saw no sign of them again. He walked home thoughtful, one hand in his coat pocket, clutching the bottle of magic.
    Back at the cheesery, all was quiet. His mother and sisters had finished their cleaning and gone out to shop or see friends. Sunshine poured in through the windows and shone on the newly washed floors. It seemed hard to believe in magic in a light like that; hard to believe in dangerous magic, at least. Henwyn took out the bottle and held it up, and the sun shone through it, splashing his fingers with gold.
    In the big cheese vats the cheese milk which he and his sisters had prepared the day before was waiting, slowly setting into curds. Henwyn lifted the wooden lid off one of the vats and unstoppered the bottle. Drip, drip, drip: three drops, that’s what the sorcerer had said. He watched them fade into the pale curds. He waited to see if the mixture in the vat would change colour. Would it take on a strange and lovely aroma? Would there be unearthly music? There was always something of that sort in stories.
    But this was not a story, and nothing happened at all.
    Henwyn shrugged. He put the lid back on the vat and turned away, pocketing the little bottle. He was starting to regret those eight gold coins, not to mention the loose change and the button. Perhaps the so-called Sable Conclave had just been a gang of tricksters, or people playing a prank. The fact that they had known about Henwyn’s father going to Nantivey and leaving him to mind the cheesery was no proof of magic powers; Henwyn realized now that the self-styled sorcerers might have learned those things from half the other merchants in the market. This was just Adherak, after all. Magic didn’t happen here.
    Burrrrk , went the cheese vat behind him. A sort of deep, wet belch.