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I stopped at what I considered a prudent distance, but neither Bragrum nor Doonira took the hint. Instead they both walked right up to the plinth, the height of which put the Old One's powerful claws about at the level of their noses. I shrugged and joined them. If the Old One really did want to cause us harm, a few extra feet of separation wasn't going to make much difference. "Welcome," the voice repeated, more quietly this time, "Welcome to three seekers after truths, each in their own way." It is considered very hard to hide things from the Old Ones and definitely best not to try. The standard advice is to listen carefully to any wise words cast in your direction, and to think carefully and speak politely when asking a question. Somehow I find that advice extremely difficult to stick to. The vast head swivelled and two large eyes each reflecting the fiery red from the cavern walls focussed on Doonira. "Doctor Quaig, the academic, her nose long since stuck in books and papers, now unexpectedly travelling the worlds again seeking an experience beyond her own library, if not her own imagination." Doonira seemed taken aback by the perspicacious characterisations. She hung her head sadly. The penetrating gaze turned to the wizened little Goblin at my side. "Bragrum, the vagrant, always travelling the highways and byways above, and the tunnels and transits below, on a quest for evidence, proof for his radical views and arcane opinions. But somehow never quite finding it." Bragrum was unmoved. His own eyes glowed with an inner conviction, or maybe barely-restrained madness. "And now my constant companion and trusted assistant," it added. Bragrum's fervour burned, if possible, even more strongly at this accolade. Finally, the Old One's attention rested on me. "And Findo Gask, the reluctant detective," it said with a snort accompanied with a puff of smoke from its nostrils, "A cynical observer detached from the world below and unrecognised in the one above, and once again charged with a mission he does not fully understand." All too accurate, I considered. The Old Ones were reputed to be good at this kind of thing. Then again, I almost always fail to understand exactly what is required when I am first engaged, my clients being invariably duplicitous in one way or another. "And do you have a name?" Doonira demanded, suddenly leaning forward and showing just a little of her normal spikiness. In my few fleeting acquaintance with the Old Ones, I had never asked this question. Everything I had heard suggested that their names were not be shared with mere Goblins, and were likely to be angered by the enquiry. I stiffened instinctively. But I needn't have woried. The Old One's mouth bent into an expression that I was forced to think of as a smile, for all that it appeared on the face of a fifty-foot winged fire-breathing monster. "My name is..." the Old One said, looking suddenly desperately sad. Then followed ten seconds of soft susurrations, half-felt, half-heard echoes and fleeting sensations, pressures on nerve endings somehow not entirely connected to any one of the conventional senses. And with it came an aching sense of age, and power, and loss - and hope. "But you can call me Madonna," the Old One added in the Goblin tongue. The clockwork in my head started ticking furiously at that remark. Bragrum just nodded wisely. Doonira didn't seem to have noticed anything. "And what is it you seek?" I asked brusquely, adding with a flash of insight, "You are a seeker too, are you not?" Again, the Old One snorted, the sad eyes rolled and the face twisted. The Old One was laughing. "Oh, I am a criminal, an outcast, or at least in self-imposed exile," it replied, "And what I seek is a quiet place to hatch my eggs and bring up my children."
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Part 29