Page 7 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

“Perhaps I’ll have to go there, then.”

“After you’ve stayed for a bit, right?” Moerrven asked, eyes going wide.

“I don’t know. I mean, I do have to find my friend. What if he’s in danger?” I said, leaning forward on my elbows. “I owe you. Seriously. You cut me loose, you carried me here, you got me this pendant thingy. I don’t know how I’d even begin to repay you, but I want to. Anything. Whatever you need. I can cook, I can clean. I can organize. I have an excellent eye for interior design, and I can dance. Seriously, Moerrven — anything. But I want to make sure my friend is safe first.”

I was babbling. I babbled when I was nervous.

He glanced at the flower cart. The two troll women were now both peering around the side of it with the subtlety of a freight train.

“There is… a tradition among trolls,” he said.

“A tradition?”

He nodded, picking at the last of his hand pie. “An honored tradition. When a troll performs a service for a stranger, the stranger may repay the debt by… residing in the troll’s home. As a guest. For a period of time.”

I tilted my head, trying to decide if this was some sort of ploy. And if so, why? I snuck a glance at his crotch, wondering if he was motivated by sex and too shy to ask outright. I strongly suspected that Moerrven was proportionate in all areas, and I very much wanted to find out.

Still, he was being weird, and I couldn’t stop myself from teasing him. “Isn’t that another favor for the stranger, though?”

“Perhaps. But a troll loves nothing more than to sit by his hearth and listen to stories of a faraway land.”

“Like a cultural exchange?”

“Precisely.” He nodded, a little too eagerly. “A cultural exchange. Very old. Very respected. My people would consider it rude if you were to merely pass through without stopping to stay and share stories they might not otherwise get to hear.”

“Because you’re an author?” I asked.

“Yes. The material you give me fuels my creativity as I’m writing my novels, and they enjoy my novels. I am quite well known in Qoksmere.”

I choked a little. “I’m sorry, what… was that last word you said? I don’t think it translated right.” I was ninety-nine percent sure he’d just said cocksmear.

“Qoksmere. It’s the name of our country. Proper nouns won’t translate, so you get the name as it is.”

He darted another look at the flower cart. The big one had emerged from behind it entirely and was watching us with an expression of naked delight. The smaller one was knitting and crying.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“She cries about everything. It’s not relevant.” He straightened up.

“Because she loves your books?”

He blinked, then rubbed his forehead. “Because she is my sister.”

I laughed. “Ah. Really invested in you getting laid, isn’t she?”

He frowned, looking a little confused. “It’s mid-afternoon; I don’t need to lie down for quite a while. Anyway, the point is, you have nowhere to stay. I have a cottage. It has a guest room.” He paused. “And it would be culturally appropriate for you to stay with me. Expected. Demanded, even, by the ancient customs of my people.”

“Demanded by the ancient customs of your people,” I repeated, trying to hide my smile. This was a whole new level of rationalization if he was trying to get laid, and I was here for it.

“Yes.”

“So I’d be, what, rude if I said no?”

“Deeply rude. Offensively rude. A slight upon my honor and the honor of my ancestors and the entire Mossren line going back—” He stopped, and I wondered if he’d noticed he was getting carried away, or if he simply ran out of ideas. “It would be bad.”

He was sweating, a faint sheen across his forehead, and the blue blush had crept up past his collar. Man, I was gonna get fucked so good. Once he figured out how to actually ask for it without making bizarre excuses.

“Okay,” I said.