A Fistful of Elven Gold

by Alex Stewart

  The woman shrugged. “Too late now, in any case,” she said, with a trace of regret. “If you went back and told him you’d changed your mind, he’d be bound to suspect something.”

  “I’m more worried about the Goblin faction,” Raegan said, belatedly adding “begging your pardon, ma’am,” as he remembered whom he was talking to. “They’ve got magic, and they’re not afraid to use it.”

  Vethik snorted derisively, reminding everyone of his presence. “Hedge wards and cantrips,” he said dismissively. “Nothing we don’t see on the streets every day. Even your regular arm-breakers can deal with that sort of thing without too much trouble.”

  “But we can’t be sure that’s all they’ve got,” Raegan said. “They’re clearly well resourced, and have some very capable people working for them.”

  “They don’t sound all that capable to me,” Selina said, casting a dubious eye in Drago’s direction, “if one gnome was enough to take out three of them.”

  “One very lucky gnome,” Drago corrected, “with two officers of the watch turning up in the nick of time.” True, the brawl had been over before they could get physically involved, but Raegan’s warning shout had probably distracted the markswoman with the crossbow at a critical moment, and it wouldn’t hurt to spread the credit around a bit.

  “Of course.” Selina’s voice was freighted with skepticism. “How very fortunate you both happened to be passing.” The two watchmen exchanged an uneasy glance, but she let the matter go, apparently content just to have made her point. She turned to Vethik. “Could they have anything more dangerous?”

  The goblin shrugged. “Of course they could, if they have the right contacts, or a mage of their own. And no, I’m not prepared to make any wild guesses as to what that might be without a shred of corroborating evidence. All I can tell you for certain is that they’ve used simple enchantments of concealment, which are widely available from any moderately disreputable sorcerer with scant regard for the city ordinances.”

  Waggoner muttered something which sounded suspiciously like “Most of them, then,” before subsiding at a glare from Raegan.

  “Would it be worth interviewing any of these disreputable mages?” Selina asked. “You must know who they are.”

  “I can think of a few names,” Raegan admitted, “but I doubt it would do much good. If they were involved they’d just lie about it, and probably tip off their clients into the bargain. But we can shake a few trees and see what drops out.”

  Waggoner nodded. “Chances are we’d get someone for something, even if it wasn’t what we were looking for,” he agreed. “I’ll get a few of the lads knocking on doors.”

  “Good.” Lady Selina stood, with sudden decisiveness, and began edging out of the room, her elbow glancing from Vethik’s forehead on the way. Just as she reached the door, it swung open, held by an astonishingly large man, looking more like a shaved troll than anything human, whose livery and well-worn scabbard positively screamed “high-priced bodyguard.” Selina nodded an affable farewell. “I’ll await further news with interest.” Her gaze rested on Drago an instant longer than any of the others. “If you do change your mind, Master Appleroot, you’ll find Greenleaf at the Clothiers’ Guildhall most afternoons, haggling over textiles.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Drago lied, pretending not to be surprised that she knew that. The aristocrat swept out of the room, her minder clearing a path for her through the crowded watch house like a polite but relentless avalanche, and disappeared into the street.

  Everyone in Raegan’s office suddenly relaxed.

  “Right.” Raegan stood too, projecting an air of decisiveness, and nodded at his subordinates. “George, round up a few of the lads and start kicking doors down. Take a spell chucker with you, in case any of the pointy hats decide to play silly buggers. Vethik, start checking the records. Anything recent that might smell of prohibited spell use, let me know.”

  The goblin scowled. “Get a clerk to do it. I didn’t spend six years studying for a doctorate in thaumaturgy to go rummaging about in filing cabinets.”

  “Which is why you’re the perfect choice,” Raegan said diplomatically, while Waggoner made disparaging hand gestures behind the mage’s oblivious back. “There’s no one else this side of the university who’d know what to look for, and precious few of those with the investigative skill to recognize it even if they saw it.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Vethik nodded, a trifle smugly, before the truculence returned to his voice. “But don’t expect me to make a habit of it.”

  “Perish the thought,” Raegan said, as the goblin mage disappeared through the still-open door into the swirl of activity beyond.

  “Tosser,” Waggoner opined, making the appropriate gesture again.

  “But at least you have the courage to admit it,” Vethik’s voice floated back, and Drago suppressed a grin.

  “And what about you?” Waggoner asked, turning to the gnome.

  “Me?” Drago hopped down from the stool. He’d answered all the questions anyone could think of asking, and received his fee. No reason at all to stick around so far as he could see. “I’m off to the Footpad. Have fun.”

  “You too.” Raegan waved a slightly distracted farewell. “But watch your back. At least until we’re sure the dust has settled.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “That ought to learn him.”

  A few hours of food and drink at The Dancing Footpad, followed by an almost honest dice game in the back room of The Strumpet in which he retained nearly all the money he went in with, went a long way toward restoring Drago’s good humor. He’d even found the time to complete his clothes shopping on the short walk between taverns, and had bought a new knapsack to carry his booty home in. His old boots he’d stuffed in the bottom, with the vague idea of getting them repaired in case they came in useful one day; the additional weight had been negligible, but the heels kept bumping uncomfortably against his spine as he made his way home.

  The streets were still crowded as he left The Strumpet, mostly with humans, but with a few goblins and gnomes visible among them; elves tended to stay in their own parts of the city after dark, the occasional exception drawing curious or hostile glances, which they ignored with their usual supercilious air. Unwilling to weave his way through a forest of obstructing legs, Drago took to the labyrinth of narrow spaces between buildings through which he’d pursued Fallowfield, making for Mrs. Cravatt’s lodging house as directly as the haphazard network allowed. Night was falling in earnest by this time, but his low light vision proved as reliable as ever, and he made good progress, unimpeded by the detritus which always seemed to settle in the unregarded corners of the city. The sounds of activity from the streets and buildings were muffled here, the close air a degree or two warmer than in the thoroughfares, and he began to feel a degree of peace and seclusion rare in a place like Fairhaven.

  Not that he was entirely alone. There was enough squeaking and rustling in the shadows and garbage drifts to turn his mind to thoughts of an early supper, and the occasional cat or dog seemed to have had the same idea. From time to time he caught a glimpse of another gnome, using the same network of shortcuts, or carrying a ratting net and basket, but never close enough to exchange greetings with. Most of the windows he passed were shuttered, leaking lantern or candlelight, the few exceptions too high to look into even if he’d been interested in doing so. The handful of doors here were gnome sized, and few of them appeared to be in use.

  As he approached the gap he’d been heading for, giving on to an alley leading to the street where he lived, he slowed a little. Raegan’s warning about Gorash’s minions not having got the message that he wasn’t interested in going after their leader yet was still fresh in his mind, and he reached into his pocket, fumbling for the bag the watchman had given him.

  It felt warm to the touch, and he closed his hand around it, a prickle of apprehension at the nape of his neck. Immediately he tightened his grip, a clump of sh
adow in a doorway opposite the passageway he was about to step out of dissipated like mist in the sun, and a goblin appeared, watchful eyes darting up and down the alley, and lingering a suspicious moment every time they passed the gap in the buildings down which Drago was lurking. He was dressed like the assassins last night, in dark clothing, and carried a sword, drawn and ready for use.

  Drago let go of the charm in his pocket, but the effect still lingered; his would-be ambusher remaining perfectly visible. He rested his hand on the hilt of his own sword, and stepped out into the alley with a friendly smile.

  “Aren’t you getting bored yet?” he asked. “I might not be home for hours.”

  The effect was immediate. The goblin charged at him, his sword raised ready to strike. Drago sighed, turned on his heel to duck under the swing, and elbowed him in the ribs. A second’s thought would have told his assailant that if Drago was confident enough to speak to him, and astute enough to have penetrated his magical concealment, it would have been far more prudent to listen to whatever he had to say. But then, in Drago’s experience, prudence wasn’t particularly high on the list of qualities required of hired muscle.

  Grabbing the hilt behind the goblin’s hand, Drago turned again, putting his other hand on the back of the blade and levering it upward, breaking his assailant’s grip. With the goblin’s sword securely in his possession, he snuggled the hilt more comfortably against his palm, and curled his fingers around it. The weapon was clumsy, the balance point too far forward, but then with weapons you tended to get what you paid for. His own had cost far more than he could afford at the time, but it had kept him alive, and in that regard alone had more than repaid his initial investment. As the goblin straightened up again, Drago rested the point against the fellow’s codpiece; if he’d been taller, or his assailant shorter, he’d probably have gone for the hollow of the throat, which tended to get people’s attention nicely, but when you were pushing two foot nine you often had to improvise, and threatening the family jewels was generally equally effective. In the rare cases it wasn’t, you weren’t far from the femoral artery either.

  “Two things,” Drago said reasonably. “I’m not interested in Greenleaf’s proposition, so you people can sod off back to the Barrens, or wherever it is you’re from, and stop making a mess of my shirts. My laundry bills are getting too high as it is.”

  “And the other thing?” The goblin glared down at him, but made no further move to attack. Something edged and pointy in the vicinity of the groin tends to have that effect.

  “Thank you,” Drago said, with a pleasant smile.

  The goblin’s brow furrowed. “Thanks for what?” he asked after a moment, curiosity winning out over truculence.

  “For all the extra work coming my way. You people have taken most of my competitors out of the market.”

  “Don’t expect to live long enough to get the benefit,” the goblin said, anger trumping common sense as it so often did. “There are plenty more where I came from.”

  Drago sighed. “And just what part of ‘I have no intention of accepting a contract on your boss’ is failing to get through?” he asked patiently.

  “The part where you’re lying through your teeth,” the goblin said. “We’ve seen you laying in supplies. We know you’re working for Stargleam’s thugs.”

  “This?” Drago indicated the knapsack on his shoulders. “I just bought some new shirts. People keep bleeding on the old ones.” He lowered the confiscated blade. “Now bugger off. I’ve got better things to do with my time than listen to people talking bollocks.”

  He took a step back, and pitched the sword down the gap between buildings behind him. The goblin might be able to retrieve it without getting his shoulders wedged, but it would take him a long time—long enough for Drago to get home and put his feet up, anyway. If the goblin wanted to hang around outside Mrs. Cravatt’s all night after that, good luck to him. Raegan had promised to send a couple of watchmen past on a regular basis, and if his landlady spotted the lurker first, he’d probably be glad to see them.

  “Then listen to this,” the goblin said, his tone changing to one of gleeful malice. He spat out something in a guttural tongue that seemed to consist entirely of consonants and glottal stops. Drago had only heard the like a few times before, from mages he’d been hired to apprehend, and it had never presaged anything good. The goblin held up a small stone which he’d taken from his pocket, and threw it at Drago.

  Drago drew his sword, and leapt aside, the speed of his gnomish reflexes taking him well clear of the object, which landed in the filth coating the alleyway with a faint squishing sound. For a second or two nothing seemed to happen, then the mud and ordure began to flow toward it, like a slow, viscid river. The goblin continued to chant, the same syllables repeating over and over, the harsh sounds raising the hairs on Drago’s neck. The air became thick, crackling like a summer heat haze before the thunder breaks.

  The filth reared up, forming a crude humanoid figure half again as tall as Drago, like something molded by a child from the riverside clay. Arms and legs extended, and a face, scowling in a parody of malice, grew from between the thing’s shoulders.

  It’s not alive, Drago told himself, it’s just a pile of crap with attitude. How dangerous can that be?

  The sort of question that always tempts fate. Uttering a gurgling ululation rank with the smell of a thousand cesspits, the shambling monstrosity lashed out at him with one of its arms. Drago dodged the attack, the thing’s still-forming fist pulverizing the bricks in the wall behind him, and smashing a new window in the rear of a tavern facing the main street beyond. Shrieks, shouts and curses echoed through the aperture, but no one seemed inclined to investigate, for which Drago could hardly blame them.

  Drawing his sword, he hacked at the thing’s arm as its next punch sailed past him, dodging out of the way with barely an inch to spare. It was hellish fast, almost as quick as he was, which was both unexpected and deeply worrying in a creature that size; although creature wasn’t quite the right word. It wasn’t alive in any real sense, just a construct for channeling magical energy and the malice of the goblin controlling it.

  The blade sheared through the mass of filth, meeting barely any resistance, and emerged from the other side with a faint glopping sound. The muck simply flowed together in the wake of the cut, showing no sign at all of its passage.

  This wasn’t good. The crap golem turned to follow Drago as he dived to the left, putting a rain barrel between him and it, and lashed out again. Its movements were fluid, unconstrained by the rigidity of muscle and bone, and it wouldn’t tire. Drago rolled in the nick of time, feeling the heels of his old boots dig painfully into his back as he landed on the rucksack, and swore, stagnant water and chips of sodden wood from the shattered barrel sousing him as he regained his feet.

  The goblin sneered, a spiteful grin on his face, but kept on chanting, still the same few syllables over and over again; something short and easy to memorize. It must be the constant repetition, maintaining the spell, which kept the construct animated.

  Fine, then, if he couldn’t take out the crap monster he’d just have to deal with the puppeteer instead, and hope that would get rid of the problem. Which was fine in theory, but with five feet of ambulatory excrement standing between him and the goblin, easier said than done. The alley was narrow, and the foul abomination almost filled it, walling him off from his prey.

  There was only one thing for it. He turned, as though making a dash for the other end of the alley, from which a faint glimmer of lantern light and the murmur of people going about their business drifted; the life of the city continuing unimpeded, oblivious to the life-or-death struggle occurring so close to hand.

  The bluff worked: the accretion of mud and filth half strode, half flowed toward him, reaching out with soft, thick fingers, which stretched and flexed in their eagerness. As the semi-liquescent hand closed on his knapsack, Drago slipped out of the shoulder straps and turned, ducking low to dive be
tween the thing’s legs, striking out at where a live opponent would have had a hamstring. His blade simply slithered through the muck, as it had before, and with the same lack of discernible effect: precisely what he’d been expecting, but it was worth a try. He rolled to his feet, cursing at the coating of slime beslubbering his newly laundered jacket, and charged at the goblin.

  The goblin’s eyes widened with shock, but he kept on chanting, the hard-edged syllables still falling from his lips, though in a somewhat higher register. He took a couple of steps backward, chanting even louder and more urgently than before.

  “You’d better have enough in your purse to pay for this mess!” Drago snarled, forgetting for a moment that none of his assailants the previous night had been carrying anything with them. But he never completed the strike. As his blade hissed toward the cowering goblin, something glutenous and foul-smelling wrapped itself around his chest, yanking him backward. He flailed wildly, trying to cut and stab behind him, but nothing connected, the animated filth simply closing seamlessly behind his sword as it had before.

  The muck around him grew thicker, entangling his limbs, constricting his chest, and climbing higher with every panicked heartbeat. Moist, sticky foulness began to trickle inside his shirt and britches, flooding his new boots, and with a thrill of horror he felt it begin to flow across his face. It was in his ears too, muffling the chanting of the goblin, but not enough to hide the vindictive note now suffusing the unending repetition.

  Drago took a last deep breath, almost gagging at the smell, and screwed his eyes closed as the spreading filth engulfed his nose and mouth, seeping into his nostrils. He felt a growing pressure against his eyelids, saw flashes of light and deeper darkness, and felt his chest begin to burn with the desperate need to inhale. Which would mean certain death, as the viscid slime enclosing him forced itself into his lungs, choking and drowning him in ordure.