Chapter Eight
Talya Jacobson had found her newfound fame difficult to deal with since helping Ressling, Ko and Mano overcome the forces of Pel Droma. Prior to throwing in with the charming young swordsman to defend the village of Bronze Pot, she had roamed from town to town, territory to territory, plying her trade as a pickpocket and all-around taker of things not previously belonging to her. It had been a good run, too, a successful career stretching back eight years to her sixteenth birthday. Sure, she'd been caught a couple of times, but each of those had been minor snags, earning her only a few days' lockup. The first time had been in Vershak, a protectorate town of the Desanadron city-state. The second time had been in Palen, in the far northeast.
As a public figure now, though, she couldn't rely as readily on her anonymity to get away with anything. She'd thought it might be a mistake to have her image on the dust jacket of her book, but pride and vanity had, to her later chagrin, overtaken her good sense in the moment. If she wanted to return to her previous trade, she would have to disguise herself.
Instead, she had begun trading on her sudden celebrity status, reaching out to a more sophisticated, white-collar criminal set, men and women who worked in high-value frauds and smuggling operations around the realms, the kind of folks who authorities knew were up to no good, but couldn't quite do anything about. She even managed to make herself an acquaintance of the Catella Family, the syndicate presently in dominion of the city of Arcade. While she was now a known element to many, she would simply have to practice more subtle elements of the criminal craft.
As such, she had secured a loose network of informants, keeping one or two sets of eyes in a few of the major cities all over the eastern realms of Tamalaria. These individuals served numerous organizations and private entities such as herself, and as such, they tended to be 'replaced' every couple of years or so, when they invariably tried to use their knowledge of the underworld's machinations against one of their clients. In the last year alone, Talya had been forced to acquaint herself with four newcomers, thanks to folks from Arcade needing such gossips to 'disappear'.
When the knock came at her door, Talya had been expecting another of the fawning locals of the town of Nertissa to be standing on her doorstep, eagerly clutching a copy of her adventurous tell-all. At the sight of the gnome in dark red leathers, however, she sighed and relaxed into a grin, cinching up the sash on her blue terrycloth bathrobe. "Norris, a pleasure to see you this morning. Do come in," she said, taking a step back and holding the door open for him. The gnome nodded and ushered himself inside, a thin yellow folder tucked under his left arm. She closed the door behind him and headed over to one of the luxurious leather loveseats in her spacious living room, her contact standing beside the coffee table a foot away from her. "What brings you?"
"Someone sent a letter requesting a copy of your speaking engagement schedule to the publisher," Norris replied, setting the folder down and flipping it open. Talya leaned forward to look at the top sheet, which had a citizenship info chart paperclipped to a photograph of a dark-skinned human in a constable's uniform. "Bruce Swinton, a recently retired constable out of Bronze Pot." Talya took up the top sheet and quickly scanned the information on it, flinching when she saw the man's listed point of origin.
"Originally an officer out of Harip, where he was born and raised," she read, shaking her head. "This can't be good."
"The publisher sent a bird with a reply an hour ago. Second page there's a copy of the message, along with a copy of the all-access pass they sent along to this Swinton character. He can use it to get into any of your talks he wants." Talya looked over the publisher's response, smirking at the flowery and solicitous tone of the missive.
"Norris, what do you know about the Battle of Harip," she asked, setting the printout back on the coffee table. She propped her left elbow on the arm of the love seat, chin in her hand, and considered the gnome. Norris was a man of indeterminate age, his frizzy hair gray but not quite whitening, as his race was prone to when they passed into true middle age. Yet his skin tone bore the deeper yellow hue that was a trademark of gnomes in their mid-to-late third century of age, not long removed from the end of their natural lifespan. He was swift of movement as well, normally attributed to gnomes in the prime of their youth. He defied easy categorization, and she enjoyed that about him.
She also liked that he seemed to think over his responses before answering, as he did now, not looking at her, but directly ahead as he spoke. "I know manys-a hobgoblin what says it was a true blunder for you and those boys, a complete botch job that somehow went down as a heroic stand against the forces of Pel Droma," he said. "I also know most folks believe it were one of Droma's subordinate mages what set the town ablaze, and that such is what you wrote in that book of yours."
"And what do you believe of the matter, Norris," she asked, her left hand sliding unseen to the hilt of a dagger she kept tucked out of view along the back of the seat cushions. The gnome grunted, shook his head.
"I believe I'm a whisperer, and what I believe on the matter makes no difference and is nobody's business," he replied. Talya withdrew her left hand and ran it quickly through her hair. Good, she thought. He's reliable. "Any ro', I've done my duty, mistress. I've other clients to listen out for, and should on with it." The gnome inclined his head slightly and saw himself out then, leaving the rogue woman to her own council. She looked through the other pages in the file the whisperer had put together on Swinton. The man's life appeared to be a simple one, boring in comparison to the sort of folks she'd come to know. There was only one brief paragraph which she took note of; apparently the constable had married young, but his wife and child had died in the birthing bed.
"Poor bastard," she muttered to herself. Sympathetic or no, Talya wanted to risk no trouble. She would disseminate his picture among the security staff at her next few engagements, ensure that the man caused her no trouble. It was hard enough to maintain her new station; she didn't need a survivor from Harip causing her a headache.
**
"Thank you," Bruce said to the messenger, easing his front door shut on the young lizardman. He started to open the envelope, pausing for a moment as his finger neared the final inch of the seal. "Re-sealed?" It took only a moment for the paranoid thought to climb into and then right back out of his head, but for that one moment, he wondered who would be intercepting this missive from Jacobson's publisher, and why they would bother. Rather than dismiss the notion altogether, though, he opted to open the envelope the other way, pulling out a folded letter and what appeared to be a ticket of some sort. A brief examination revealed this to be an open event pass, usable at any of the rogue-turned-memoirist's speaking engagements.
The letter was brief but very polite, an invitation to attend one of Jacobson's events and request to spread the word about the book. There didn't seem to be much more to it, though the back side had been printed with adverts for other titles published through the company. Bruce wondered how bad the market had to be to stoop to such advertising tactics.
Still, an in was an in, and he wanted to confer with the others. He rummaged in his writing desk, which dominated one corner of his little living room, locating the little pocket notebook in which he'd written down Melissa's address. He remembered the way to Azira's condo well enough, and hadn't needed to jot his down. With the letter and ticket tucked in a sling satchel, he headed out to gather the others.
**
"We're idiots," Azira finally said, slapping his own forehead. He snickered to himself, recognizing that he had been blind all along. "The answer had been right in that last paragraph all along, and we read right past it all day!" He leaped up out of his seat and began pacing back and forth, trying to figure out a scenario to put into play. The rat just stared up at him, unblinking.
"What're you talking about," Steve asked.
"The guild headmaster who wrote up the report summary, he said that Ko's people don't carry any kind of badge or documentation, they just rely on word of mouth, right?"
"Yeah, and?"
"And what's to stop any of us from claiming to be working for Ko Protection Professionals," Azira asked gleefully, an imp's smile spreading across his face. "It's brilliant! We just need to find someone who looks like they need help, say we're with Ko, and then botch the job!" Azira smiled down at Steve, his happy expression slowly fading as the rat sat there with a sardonic look, saying nothing. "What?"
"Can you think of anyone around Bronze Pot who would need that kind of outfit," Steve finally asked. "There hasn't been any kind of real threat to this town since Pel Droma came through." Azira folded his arms over his chest, one hand coming up, fingers tugging at his pointed chin thoughtfully. This time, his imagination clicked almost right away.
"We can stage that bit too," the goblin skirmisher said. "We just need one extra set of hands, and some witnesses, and I think we could pull this off." Azira went on to explain the basic premise of his scheme. They would have Bruce pose as a member of Ko's outfit, which would make sense; despite his age, the retired constable was still in excellent physical condition, wore armor and weapon like a natural, and had the movement patterns of an experienced fighter. Melissa would ostensibly pretend to be a client in need of escort from one town to another, possibly Denkirit, a couple of days' foot travel east of Bronze Pot. Azira would wait near the edge of Denkirit to spring an 'ambush', and whoever they could get to help them with their little stage play would hoot and holler for locals to come witness the 'fight' between the goblin and hired hand.
"Bruce takes a dive, I 'rob' Melissa, and run like all hells, and everyone comes to check on them," the goblin concluded, sitting down with a sigh. "It works out wonderfully, and nobody really gets hurt. Of course, I'll have to sub out my knives for combat sticks or truncheons, make sure I don't really hurt the guy."
"Might better be sure he doesn't hurt you instead," Steve cautioned. "Bruce is a big guy, and no telling how good he is with an issued blade. This town is peaceful, but that don't mean he ain't had practice swingin'." Azira was about to reply with a clever sally when a rapid knocking came at his door. He sprang from his chair and headed to the front, opening the door to find the constable in question before him.
"Speak of the devil," said Azira with a grin.
**
Melissa pecked at her mashed slowly, considering the goblin's scenario. "Who's going to go along with this little scheme of yours, then," she asked, giving voice to the fundamental flaw in Azira's plot. "It'd have to be someone people will listen to, and if we're doing this in another town, it'd have to be someone who can command a crowd of strangers."
"Or possibly a local from Denkirit itself," Bruce offered after swallowing a bite of his own meal. "People are more apt to pay attention to someone they know." Azira nodded, idly running his hand over Steve's slick black fur, the rat seated on his lap like a cat.
"That would work best, likely. Okay, I'll start off to Denkirit in the morning, and send a bird from their library to ours here once I've got someone to agree to terms. I'll even cause a little trouble, get some suspicious eyes thrown my way."
"Shouldn't be hard for a goblin," Melissa quipped.
"Sad but true," said Bruce. "Just don't get thrown in stoney, Az. We want this thing to run just right, we can't afford to be bailing you out of lockup. As for me, I can put a blunting oil on my sword edges to make sure you don't take a stinger or gash when we tumble."
"No real need for that," Azira replied. "Besides, if someone inspects your weapon close after our dust up, a blunting oil will raise eyebrows. I'll be off and away, and I'll be using impact batons, so there won't be as much suspicion with you taking a whacking and coming up alive." Melissa caught the brief glower that washed across Bruce's face, knew it for what it was. She'd seen that look working the Rusty Tankard a thousand times; it was the look of a man who didn't truck with having his toughness or fighting ability questioned. Unlike those drunks, however, constable Swinton removed the look from his face almost immediately. He won't betray his duty, even retired, she thought. And duty dictates he pretend to be bested by a puny little goblin. She admired the man's dedication and reserve.
"You may have to pay this town crier of ours," Steve pointed out from his post on Azira's lap.
"I've got that covered," Azira responded. He swiftly crammed the last of his chicken in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and got to his feet. "I should go get packed up for the trip. I'll send word to you, Bruce, when all is ready." The constable nodded, sipping his ale, and Azira headed out, Steve riding his shoulder.
When he'd been gone a few minutes, Melissa asked, "You're going to clang him a solid one for that little insult, aren't you?"
"With the gods as my witness, yes."
**
The guards practically leaped up out of their chairs at the sight of him, putting on their best standing salutes for the Savior of Graneck. The senior of the three of them, his uniform drape bearing the three yellow stripes of a sergeant, snapped off a smart salute. "My Lord Ressling, sir! We had no idea you were coming, we could have given you a proper greeting if-"
"Please, no need for formalities, sergeant," said the dashing young swordsman with a wave of one hand as the other ran through his well-coifed hair. "What sort of mood is he in today," he asked, peering past the trio of guards, down the narrow passageway. There were several cells down the stone hewn corridor, but only one was occupied; only one had been since the end of Pel Droma's brief war on the kingdom.
"Quiet," said the sergeant. "Finally got a response from High Chief Morkan about a week ago. Great big ogre denied his request for aid, says he don't want to risk an international incident over one hobgoblin's lawful incarceration. He's been pretty much silent since he got the letter." Jack understood the decision. Morkan was the current ruler of the Greenskin Nation, a fair-sized country sandwiched between the Kingdom of Graneck on the west and the Ja-Wen city-state to the east. Populated and governed entirely by goblins, hobgoblins, kobolds, orcs, ogres and trolls, it was a savage, militaristic territory, its standing army one of the fiercest in the realms. But for all of that ferocity, their numbers were low; even though they could easily handle the men and women of Graneck's militia, King Trayech would need only call on Ja-Wen for help, and the mighty High Chief's sovereignty and country would be stamped out.
"Tell him Jack Ressling would speak with him," said the young swordsman. The sergeant nodded and scurried back through the corridor, relaying the message before returning.
"He will see you." Jack headed halfway down the corridor, then paused to address the guards. He pulled a small red cube from one of his pouches and held it up so they could see it.
"I'm going to employ a shroud," he said to them. The sergeant gave him a thumb's up, then turned back to the card game he and his comrades were engaged in. Jack pinched the cube and dropped it; when it struck the floor, a wall of translucent crimson force expanded up and outward from it, effectively cutting off all sound from passing through it.
"Handy trinket," rumbled a low, gravelly voice at Jack's back. He slowly turned and stepped forward four paces, now facing the tall, broad hobgoblin in the wide, largely vacant cell. "Wouldn't want people overhearing our confessionals," the green-fleshed man added, his broad, thickly muscled chest and abdomen exposed to the dingy overhead lights in the corridor. A lone lamp stood lit behind him as well on a nightstand beside his prison bunk, chained to the concrete wall. Like many of his race, the prisoner kept his pate shaved bald, his lower tusk-like canines glinting in the light.
"True enough, Oblat," Jack replied. He reached behind himself, snagging one of the few visitors' stools, and dragged it over, taking a seat as he considered the many scars on Oblat K'To. He could identify three as having come from the very sword he wore on his right hip. "The sergeant tells me the High Chief won't try to help you out of here."
"That is so," said Oblat with a sigh. "He says that the Kingdom of Graneck has declared me a war criminal, and as such, he will not negotiate for my release. King Trayech himself would have to pardon me for my crimes." The hobgoblin shrugged, then sauntered into his personal space, fetching the lone folding chair from the corner and bringing it to the bars. He sat down, and Jack brought one of his pouches up from his back, undoing the snap. He reached in, producing a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, handing them to the greenskin warrior. "My thanks, Jack." He lit one, inhaled deeply, and let put a plume like dragon's breath. "You don't indulge, do you?"
"Nope. So, what do you think will come of it, then," the young human swordsman asked.
"Life imprisonment, most likely," said Oblat. "They won't execute me, not now. Maybe in those first few weeks I worried about it, but it's been clear since then that I'm a kind of object lesson for any other would-be usurpers."
"You were just his war chief, not a usurper yourself," Jack pointed out. "You held to the oath you'd taken, to serve Pel Droma. Sure, I could question your judgment in that decision, but you were honoring your commitments." Oblat quirked an eyebrow at Jack then, grinning wickedly.
"Queer, hearing that from a human," said the hobgoblin. "It has been my experience that your race knows precious little about honor. Tell me, how many women have you bedded since your victory over us, Jack?"
"Not this again," Jack groaned with a roll of the eyes.
"How many, Jack? Does the question make you uncomfortable? Or does the answer?" Oblat dragged on his smoke, waiting for a reply.
"A little of both, actually. And the answer is, I don't know," Jack said, rolling one hand as he tried to estimate. "Thirty-something, around there."
"Yes, thirty-something. Meanwhile, I am forced to please myself only, locked away in this cell, receiving letters from my wife, begging me to end myself so that she may finally take a mate again. She does not hate me, Jack Ressling, no," snarled the hobgoblin. "And I do not begrudge her her natural desires. But you see how it is; we swore a binding oath before our gods, she and I, and before our clans. We are true to one another only, and until one of us is dead, we are trapped." The young swordsman shook his head, trying to make sense of Oblat's ways.
"People break promises all the time," he said. "Is it like, a, uh, magical kind if thing," he asked, snapping his fingers. "Would it, like, literally kill you to break an oath?" Oblat snorted, shook his head.
"No, human, it would not drop us dead to do so," he said after a moment. "But it does mark us. Have you ever met a hobgoblin whose eyes are different colors?" Jack thought about this, and though he could not think of a single memorable instance, he nodded. "Those are oathbreakers, damned among my people. Every clan deals with oathbreakers in the same manner; they are shunned, outcast."
"Seems a bit drastic," Jack remarked. "Besides, couldn't they use magic or something to conceal the color change, maybe change it back?"
"Some few have tried," Oblat replied with a nod, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it. "They do not succeed. No matter what obfuscation they attempt, it always washes away in the presence of other hobgoblins." Oblat pointed the fingers clutching his smoke through the bars at Jack. "And before you even think to ask, yes, the sciences of dwarves, gnomes and our kobold cousins have been attempted as well. It is why we do not make promises or swear oaths lightly."
Jack shrugged, rising up off the stool and setting it aside. "Is that why you never said you would promise," he asked. Oblat didn't look up, letting his eyes remain locked on the spot where Jack's eyes had been when he was still seated. "Because you know none of us would let it slip; it'd ruin us, taint the whole story."
"It would do more than that, Jack Ressling," Oblat said. "It would render meaningless the sacrifices and efforts of everyone who served Pel Droma. Those who survived, who have not been jailed," he said, trailing off slightly. "There are hundreds of them, you know."
"I do."
"If they discovered the truth of it, what do you think would happen?" Oblat craned his head up, and for a moment, Jack saw sorrow in those matching yellow eyes.
"It would break them," Jack said quietly.
"Precisely," said Oblat, looking away again. "I failed them once, o Savior of Graneck," he said, growling a little on the word 'Savior'. "I won't fail them again."
**
Azira cinched down the last strap on his cuirass, giving the boiled red leather a slap on the chest. The thin layer of iron chain links between the leather and his peasant tunic shirt clattered at the impact, and he shook his head roughly. He had already swung over to Bilton's Armory to purchase a pair of ironwood batons, which ran him a solid twenty coin each, and purchased a brand new chain shirt and reinforced boots. His travel bag came up next, resting comfortably over his shoulders, and he used the connecting buckles to secure it in front around his chest as well.
His hook knives and various pouches hung from two belts round his waist, each of these bolstered by suspender loops wrapped up around the back of his neck. He looked a proper skirmisher once more in the floor-length mirror on the back of his bedroom door. Only one thing remained to do, a tradition of clan Batang. He let out a primal shout and kicked the mirror, shattering it into dozens of shards on the floor.
"What the shit was that all about," Steve yelped from his perch on the dresser top nearby.
"Tradition," was Azira's only response. "My father tried to explain it to me once, though I never really understood it. Something about banishing vanity in the heart, remembering that like our reflections, we too can become broken." He tried to remember the lessons, but they had faded over time; his father had been dead almost fifty years, and Azira had suffered enough concussions and battle traumas to do the damage that time alone hadn't to his recollection.
"You, uh, gonna clean it up there, chief?"
"When we get back, it will be my first duty."
"Let me guess- tradition?"
"Just so." Steve jumped down from the dresser and scampered up Azira's leathers, settling in atop his travel bag. Or rather, he tried to, his little claws failing to find good purchase. Azira reached back and unbuckled a top-mounted pocket, into which Steve nested. "Sorry, I forgot to mention that. My travel bag is treated with veil toad mucus, makes it nearly impossible to grab hold anywhere but the straps."
"Useful for you in battle, I imagine," Steve commented.
"It has been. It helped me once avoid being snatched and pummeled mercilessly by a jaft tradesman in Etioch, in the Fiefdom of Lemago."
"Why was he trying to grab you?"
"Because I'd paid him with play coins from a board game," said Azira with a grin, heading out of his condo.