The first thing Malagach did when he woke up was paint an addition onto his business sign.  It read “GOBLIN BROTHERS WORKSHOP.” He added “We Fix Any Problem” to the bottom.

“Any problem?” His brother Gortok asked.  “Is that smart?  I’m good, but even I can’t fix any problem.”

Malagach had no idea how long Gortok had been awake, but it had been long enough to make a huge mess.  He must have visited a junkyard–or a dumpster–in the middle of the night.  Scattered around him were pieces of scrap metal, moldy twists of twine, stretches of rawhide, shards of wood, and scads of nuts, bolts, and screws.

“It’s bad enough we’re living in a homeless camp under a bridge,” Malagach said.  “Is it necessary it look like a drunken dancing ogre stomped through our stuff?”

“Your going to sweep, aren’t you?”  Gortok asked without looking up.

Malagach, who had been reaching for a broom he’d fashioned out of a stick and twigs, stuck his hand behind his back.  “No.”

“Just don’t bother my workspace.”

Malagach eyed the clutter.  “Right, if it looks like it belongs in a junkyard, I won’t touch it.”

“Junk?” Gortok protested.  “These are future treasures!”

Before Malagach could retort, a blonde, human girl of seven or eight came running up to the goblins.  She had a large dead cat in her arms.  She laid it at Malagach’s feet.  Tears streamed from her eyes.

“Uhm?”  Malagach said.

The girl thrust a moist and grimy silver coin into his hand.  She pointed at the sign.  Apparently she was old enough to read the “we fix any problem” part. 

“I need you to bring Mee Mee back,” she said in a reedy voice, her words barely distinguishable around the lump in her throat.

“Uhm,” Malagach said again.

“Hurry, please.  I’ll be back later!” She ran off.

Gortok scratched his unruly mop of white hair with the end of a screwdriver.  “If someone had been watching that, they never would have guessed you’d taken all those language classes in school.”

Malagach glared at his brother.  “What was I supposed to say?”

“We can’t fix dead cats would have worked.”

“That would have devastated her.”

“More than when you tell her we can’t fix her cat?”

Malagach nudged the stiff creature with his toe.  It had been dead for a while.  A fast-moving wagon had run over the creature, utterly mangling it.  Even if a necromancer could bring it back to life, it would never walk or do other feline activities again.  Besides, Malagach could scarcely buy the services of a necromancer with a single silver coin.

“Well, we’ve got dinner at least,” Gortok said.

Malagach scowled.  While it was true mountain goblins were hunters and gatherers–and tended to hunt and gather just about anything–he and his brother were living in the city now, a city full of humans.  It was time to act–and eat–civilized.

“You are not going to eat some girl’s pet cat.” Malagach picked up the deceased creature.  “I’m going to take it with me to find a match.”

“A what?”

“I’ll find a stray cat that looks like this one, catch it, give it to her, and tell her we brought hers back to life.”

“That’s not going to work.  Humans are smarter than that.”  Gortok picked up a piece of metal and squinted along its length. 

“She’s what? Seven?  She’ll never know the difference.”

Gortok looked up from his work and raised his fluffy white eyebrows.  “Are you sure lying to the customers is a good way to start a business?”

“No,” Malagach said.  “But what else can I do?”

“Enh.”  Gortok bent back over his scrap pile.  He picked up a pair of pliers and started fiddling with the  rusty metal scrap.

“Yes,” Malagach said dryly.  “That brilliant insight is the reason I implored you to help me start my business.”

“Hunh?”  Gortok muttered without looking up.

“Never mind.”

#

It took a full day of scouting the city before Malagach gave in to the inevitable truth: cats were like snowflakes.  No two were exactly alike.  The closest match he found hissed, yowled, and slashed him with its claws when he tried to catch it.  Creatures that drew blood were probably not a good choice for children’s pets. 

When he returned to their camp under the bridge, dejection slumped his shoulders.  He rounded a corner and felt a jolt of alarm.  The girl had already returned and was standing next to Gortok.

What was Malagach supposed to say?  How would he tell her the truth? 

Neither the girl nor Gortok looked Malagach’s direction as he approached.  Something was clanking on the damp gravel in front of them.

A small mechanical construct ambled over.  It had a head, tail, and four legs.  A patchwork of multi-hued metal made up its long body. 

Gortok picked up the construct, and startled Malagach by tossing it in the air.  Certain it would crash and break apart, Malagach could only gawk as it flipped in the air and landed on the ground.  Springy legs absorbed the impact.

The girl squealed and clapped.

“I weighted it so it’ll always land on its feet,” Gortok said.

“So that’s supposed to be…” Malagach started.

“A cat,” Gortok said, as if mechanical cats strolled through the city every day.

“No, it’s better than a cat.”  The girl darted over and picked it up.  She wound the tail like a crank and set it down.  The legs immediately started moving and it headed off across the camp.  “Everybody has a cat, but nobody has one of these.  My brothers are going to be so jealous.  Thank you!”

She gave Gortok a kiss on his green cheek–no trouble since they were the same height–and ran off after the cat.

Malagach shook his head.  “Sometimes I think you’re a miracle, Gor.”

“Oh, I am,” Gortok said.  “Ma told me so.”

“When?”

“Remember that self-rotating spit I made for the cook fire in our hut when I was little?  Ma said that was a miracle.”

Malagach tapped his chin thoughtfully as he sought to remember the moment.  “Right, I was there.  I do recall that.  Although, didn’t you burn Ma’s favorite buckskin dress into ashes in the process?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I do.  In fact, what Ma said was it was a miracle you didn’t burn the hut down.”

“Enh.” Gortok shrugged and returned to his future treasures.  “Close enough.”