"Wuck, what...um, who are those...people?" Although the figures blocking the carriage's passage were clearly humanoid, George's hesitation stemmed from a certain otherness to their appearance—their dimensions, their posture and even their movements were all somehow just not quite...normal. The purple skin and the fangs were a touch weird, too.

"People?" The gnome had his eyes closed tight. "What people? I don't see no people. Particularly not any that I might have, you know...acquired a carriage off. Nope, no people. So, just you ignore 'em, and I expect they'll probably go away."

"Gnoblins!" From the driver's seat, Lob turned to glare at his younger brother. "What the hell were you thinking, nicking stuff off gnoblins?"

"Gnoblins?" queried George.  "What are gnoblins?"

Wuck leapt to his feet. "Nicking? Nicking? I don't nick stuff! I just...re-purpose it under new ownership. And I wouldn't normally requisition gnoblin assets, but you said you was in a hurry. So, I had to adjust my standards a bit." Realising he was now visible to the party blocking the road, he hurriedly slumped back down. "Anyways," he muttered, "they probably can't prove nothing."

Lob took in the assortment of spiked, bladed, studded and ridged weapons wielded by the dozen or so figures standing before the carriage. "Yeah, I think they might have skipped the 'prove' bit, mate. Looks to me like they've jumped right to the 'blood-soaked payback' bit. In my experience, gnoblins ain't that big on the whole judicial process thing."

Grandpa sighed. "I should have known better than to trust a gnome to do a simple job right. Bloody gnomes. And bloody gnoblins."

"But what is a gnoblin?" repeated George, who had been following the conversation like a dazed spectator at a three-way tennis match. "And what are we going to do about them?"

"Us?" queried Grandpa. "We're not going to do anything about them, because they're not our problem. I expect all they want is their carriage back, and a little chat with Mr Requisition there, and as far as I'm concerned, they're welcome to them both.  It means we'll have leg it from here, but you never know, we might be able to hitch a ride. C'mon, boy."

George was appalled. "But...but, we can't just let them have Wuck! What will they do to him?"

Grandpa gave the gnoblins an appraising look. "Oh, probably chuck him in the sewer, I should think."

George blinked. While the sewers didn't sound like a great option, he'd been expecting much worse. "Oh. Oh, well, that's not...so bad. I guess. Um."

"Course, they'll probably torture and kill him first," added Grandpa, getting to his feet. "Gnoblins are right bastards, that way. Anyway, after you, Georgie."

Wide-eyed, George remained firmly in his seat. "Kill him? Grandpa, we can't let that happen!"

"Why not?" asked Grandpa, with genuine puzzlement.

"Well, because...because...he's our friend."

"No, he's not. He's just some larcenous gnome you only met about an hour ago. Now, let's get moving."

"But...but..."—desperately, George searched for inspiration—"he's Lob's brother."

"Whose brother?"

"Lob!  You know, the Grand High-Keeper."

"Oh, that little sod.  So, let me get this straight—you're saying we should waste our time helping the kleptomaniac brother of a lying sock-thief, who's been freeloading in my trunk for thirty-seven years? I don't think so, Georgie—we've got bigger fish to fry.  Now, can you please move your arse?  Our friends outside are getting restless."

"I...but...we can't..."  The necessity to help Wuck was so self-evident to George that he couldn't understand why he was finding it so hard to explain.  Or even why he needed to explain.  "We have to help him."

"No, Georgie, we don't.  We have to help your mother.  These two can fend for themselves.  Now, for the last time, let's go."

Torn, George looked from one face to another—Grandpa's resolute, Wuck's stricken and Lob's strangely blank.  On one level, he knew Grandpa was right.  His mother had to be their priority, and he shouldn't even consider risking her safety for the sake of a couple of gnomes he hardly knew.  Particularly given that twenty-four hours ago he hadn't even known gnomes were a thing.  At least not of the non-garden variety.

But on another level, he didn't care.  He may not have known Wuck and Lob for very long but that simply didn't matter.  He couldn't leave them to the gnoblins.  He just couldn't.  Even if he still didn't actually know what one was.

"No, Granpda."  Resolutely, he crossed his arms.  "I'm not going anywhere.  At least, not without Wuck and Lob.  After all, if I'm the Blade now, aren't I supposed to help people?"

"People?"  Grandpa ran a hand through his meagre hair.  "Georgie, they're gnomes!  Bloody gnomes!  Kind of like if you shaved a moderately smart rat and taught it to walk on its hindlegs.  Lying, thieving little so-and-sos, every one.  Trust me, two more of 'em in the sewer just means two less to nick your socks.  So, shut your gob, get on your feet, and bloody well move!"

George swallowed, but otherwise didn't move.  "No."

"Aaaarrgghhh!"  Grandpa tugged despairingly at his hair.  "Bloody gnomes, bloody gnoblins and bloody teenagers.  Fine, have it your way.  But don't come crying to me when you're strung up on a rack with some gnoblin sticking a hot poker where the sun don't shine."

George grinned in relief.  "I won't.  So, what do we do?"

"What do we do?  We probably kiss our sorry arses goodbye, that's what," muttered Grandpa.  "But until then, we push our luck and hope for the best.  Oi, Mr Grand-Keeper?"

"Still here," replied Lob, staring fixedly at the largest of the group blocking their path, a particularly vicious-faced figure, who was now making his way towards the carriage.

Grandpa pointed at the gnoblin.  "Run that big bugger down."

"Now, there's a plan I can get behind."  With a savage grin, the gnome reached for the requisite lever—and then froze as the gnoblin raised a crossbow and pointed it directly at his face.  "Although, if you've got a plan B, I'd be pretty keen to hear it."

With a disgusted snort, Grandpa flopped back down into his seat.  "I dunno, it's never bloody easy, is it?  Stupid gnoblins."

"Yeah," agreed George, who, having gotten his way, felt a bit of moral support was probably in order.  "Stupid gnoblins.  Only, can somebody please, please tell me—what the hell is a gnoblin?"

The two gnomes exchanged awkward looks, but refrained from answering, while Grandpa grinned mirthlessly.

"Georgie, think about it.  If a labradoodle is what you get when you combine a labrador with a poodle, and a spork is what you get when you combine a spoon with a fork, then just what exactly do you think a gnoblin might be?  Hmm?"

George processed.  "Well, I guess, it's what you'd get if you combined a goblin with a..."  Trailing off, he looked from one diminutive gnome to the other, and then out to the more-or-less human-sized figures in the street.  "But they're...and you're...how the...?"

"Look, Volandan winters get pretty cold, alright?"  Lob shifted awkwardly in his seat, and gave George a defensive look.  "Particularly the nights.  Sometimes a gnome can't be too choosy about hows they keep warm.  Besides—"

He was interrupted by a heavy pounding on the carriage's door, followed by a guttural voice.  "Hello, in there.  Come on out, and we can get properly acquainted."

Grandpa got back to his feet.  "Never mind the mechanics of how gnoblins came to be, Georgie.  That's a rabbit-hole you don't want to go down, trust me.  But as you're so keen to find out about them, you can come with me while I try to dig us out this mess.  Introduction to Gnoblins, coming right up."

Pale, shaken, yet buoyed by having once again emerged more or less unscathed from the small room at the top of the tower, Vardun Ri approached his chambers.  His pace quickened as he thought of the simple bed that lay within; this day had tested even his impressive reserves of endurance.

"Are you all right, my lord?"

 Vardun stopped.  Slowly, he turned his gaze on the guard from whom the question had come, one of the pair flanking the doorway to his chambers.  "What did you say?"

The guard stiffened, the reflection of Vardun's reddening glare plainly visible in his eyes.  "I...I just wondered...I thought...y-you perhaps looked a little unwell, my lord."

The tyrant looked the pale-faced guard up and down.  "You're new here, aren't you?"

"Y-yes, my lord."

"I see.  Tell me, is assessing my well-being, or lack thereof, in any way your responsibility?"

"Er..., no, my lord.  I only—"

"And are you at all qualified to make any such assessment?"

"I...no, my lord."

"And do intend to vocalise any such facile, unwelcome and unqualified assessments in the future?"

The guard swallowed.  "No, my lord."

"I'm relieved to hear it."  As Vardun placed one hand on the door, the guard's shoulders visibly slumped in relief.  "Oh, just one more thing."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Tell me"—there was a flurry of movement—"could an unwell man sever your aorta before you even realised he'd drawn his knife?"

"I..."  The guard's eyes displayed a moment of incomprehension, before widening in shock and pain.  With an incoherent gargle, he collapsed.

Vardun pushed open the door, and as he swept into the room beyond, tossed the blood-slicked knife to the remaining guard.  "Have that cleaned for me.  And kindly ensure your next partner has a clearer sense of his responsibilities."

"Here, Wuckster.  Who is that big gnoblin tosser?  The one the old Blade is talkin' to?"

Perched side by side, the two gnomes were peering through the windscreen of the immobile carriage, only their eyes visible to any external observers.  Wuck turned and gave his brother a disbelieving look.

"Why, that's Muckflap Grup, o'course.  Only the head of the biggest, baddest gnoblin gang in Noho.  Everyone knows that."

"Oh, yeah?  Everyone who ain't been stuck in a box, in an attic, in another world for thirty-seven years, maybe.  And what's the name of this Muckflap's crew?"

Wuck sank a little lower down.  "The Nice Boys," he breathed.

Lob blinked.  "The what?"

"The Nice Boys," repeated Wuck, in even more hushed tones.  At the look of incredulity on Lob's face, he went on.  "He had to call them that, on account of the mums."

Lob's expression did not become any less incredulous.  "The mums?  What mums?"

"The gnoblin mums, o'course.  Everyone knows the one thing gnoblins is most afraid of is their mums.  So, when they wanna join a gang, they're not about to say, 'Righto Mum, I'm just off down the pub to hang out with Butthinge and Skinroll and all the rest o'the Head-Kickers or the Skull-Crushers or the Spleen-Mincers' are they?"

Lob considered this reasoning, and found it to be sound.  "Fair enough, I guess.  But if these Nice Boys are such a bad-arse lot, why did you choose them to ni...to acquire a carriage off?"

"Because they run the biggest carriage-repurposing ring in town, that's why.  They've got a secret yard not too far from my place, where they repaint 'em and hot 'em up and so on, before shipping 'em out.  There's always a stack o'carriages there, so I thought there'd be a good chance of me scoring a red one, just likes you wanted.  And I figured they probably wouldn't mind too much if just one went missing."

"Well, Wuckster, given the reception party out there, I think maybe they did mind.  And judging by the way old Muckflap is pointing his crossbow at young George's head, I'd say they minded quite a bit.  You stupid tosser."