The Disappearing Dwarf by James P. Blaylock

three travelers who had, in truth, been eating some fairly sorry jerked beef and hard rolls most of the time along the trail. Aside from the roast, there was a great steaming pudding and heaps of fried potatoes. Bowls of spring fruit lay everywhere.
    The three travelers had just enough time to shake hands all around before being hustled into chairs and handed glasses of wine. There were nine of them there at the table, which was so long that it could have easily sat another nine without anyone being cramped for elbow room. At the head of the table stood an immense chair supported by heavy carved legs – a chair clearly intended for someone of great bulk. On the backrest was the Myrkle coat of arms – a roast goose rampant on a ground of heaped grapes and the back view of a fleeing goblin with his pants afire. It was the strangest such device Jonathan could remember, but it fit the Squire admirably, as did the chair. But alas, there it sat, empty, while the rest of them gobbled the Squire’s food.
    ‘So, Bufo,’ Miles began once the meal had gotten underway. ‘What ho? How stands the investigation?’
    ‘Yes,’ urged Twickenham, who, along with Thrimp, had just recently arrived. ‘This gentleman’s story sounds like stuff to me, begging your pardon, my man. It sounds crazy.’ Next to Twickenham’s chair sat his own pointed, astronomical cap – a cap not unlike the wizard’s but without the ivory head on top and not nearly so tall. The cap, Jonathan decided, was a badge of rank of some nature. The other elves he’d known, including Thrimp, wore pointed hats of varying hues, but without the complex design of stars and moons and planets. It was perhaps an indication of the seriousness of the mysterious doings that both Twickenham and Miles had been sent for.
    ‘We’re not sure,’ Bufo said, waving a hand at the poor footman who, along with the rest of them, was tieing into the roast beef and pudding. ‘This man’s story is peculiar – too peculiar to be a lie, if you ask me. This is the Dwarf’s doing, or I’m a blind man.’
    ‘When was the Dwarf seen?’ Twickenham asked.
    ‘About a week and a half ago,’ Bufo answered, scooping up a handful of fried potatoes. ‘He was served at the inn at Glimby Village. He had his hat and cloak and staff. There was no doubt it was him. And he was asking about the Squire.’
    ‘Why, do you suppose?’ Jonathan asked. ‘What possible gain could there be in harming the Squire?’
    ‘Or kidnapping him,’ Bufo added.
    ‘Ransom?’ suggested the Professor.
    ‘Selznak doesn’t need money,’ Twickenham said. ‘Revenge is more in his line. Revenge or …’ But he didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he thrust a forkful of pudding into his mouth as if to plug it up.
    ‘Or what?’ Stick-a-bush was horrified.
    ‘Nothing,’ Twickenham said.
    ‘Let it go,’ the Professor agreed. ‘There’s no use getting worked up over something like that. What could he do with the Squire anyway?’
    ‘Do
with him!’ Stick-a-bush gasped.
    ‘What the devil is that!’ Gump shouted, pointing at the window. Everyone leaped to his feet, and Bufo rushed to the window. There was nothing there, however, but one of the Squire’s truffle pigs, rooting in the flower beds.
    They sat down again. ‘Hey!’ Stick-a-bush exclaimed. ‘Where’s my roast beef? I had an end cut and now I don’t. Now I have this!’ He held up a grisly piece of rare beef that looked as if someone had been at it with a pair of hedge clippers and a set of false teeth.
    ‘Devil’s work,’ Gump said. ‘That must be who I saw at the window. First he got the Squire; then he got your roast beef.’
    ‘You’ve
got my roast beef!’ Stick-a-bush hollered, pointing at Gump’s plate.
    ‘And you’ve got mine!’ Gump returned. ‘Fair’s fair.’
    ‘Fair!’ Stick-a-bush cried. ‘I’ll show you
fair!
’ And he hacked Gump’s pudding to bits with his fork.
    ‘Gentlemen!’ Twickenham shouted. ‘Come