4

It was a dreary midmorning when Rufi’s carriage arrived at Halloway Market on the South side of the city, also known as Goblin Town. The Kith ruled everything from here to the RatHoles and down to the docks. Valderia had been carefully carved into quarters along criminal and species lines, and the whole South belonged to the Goblins. Goblin Town should have been alive with activity at this time of the morning. The market should have been in full swing, selling everything from hide leather from the mountains to Great Trout meat from the lakes of the Goblin homeland, but the pounding rain had kept all but the most hardy old matrons inside.

Rufi kept his head down and avoided eye contact with the Goblins on the street. They quickly made their way around the side of the Great Hall, a sumptuous white stone building, handmade by the Goblins themselves. It was a marvel of architecture and art, speaking to the innate craftsmanship the Goblins were famed for. Rufi headed for a small entrance out to the side of the building. He slipped in, and Pauli followed him up the stairs to the small living quarters kept aside for him.

The first thing that hit him was the musk of the place. It had the dank smell of a room that had been shut up for weeks. Rufi covered the entire length of his apartment in four long strides over to the far window, and it threw it open. Rufi looked around. Despite having lived here for years, there were no personal effects that showed the apartment was his, no furniture, no pictures, and it was kept so meticulously clean that it looked more like a showroom than a home. There were only four items of furniture: a chest of drawers, a closet, a chair, and a single bed. Rufi eyed his bed longingly, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave at the sight of his simple, well-made bed, the covers neatly tucked, and his pillow resting dead centre of the bed in typical military fashion. With a defeated sigh, the bloodied Goblin pulled off his sullied shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. Pauli dropped his bulk onto the plain wooden chair. They both sat silently, breathing heavily, the night’s mayhem etched across their bruised, swollen faces. A yawn broke from Rufi’s mouth and stretched his swollen jaw painfully.

“When was the last time you had a proper night's sleep?” Pauli asked. He already knew the answer, however, as Rufi’s sleeping habits, or lack thereof, had long been a point of contention between them.

Rufi shrugged and kneaded his dry, itching eyes with a swollen knuckle.

“Two… maybe three days…” he mumbled. “When did we meet Farah ‘bout that boat?”

“Three days ago.”

“Shit… four days then,” Rufi said, managing a small laugh. “I had a decent nap in the lockup.”

“You need to get some sleep,” Pauli said.

“When?” Rufi snapped irritably. “I’m already late to meet Uncle Sam, then we need to Yarvo the undertaker about that batch of spring onions, and then we got lunch with Parker…” Rufi trailed off. In his sleep deprived state, he could barely summon enough brain power to remember his cluttered and constantly growing schedule.

"Yeah, and about ten other things,” Pauli finished for him. He too was worn out by the endless action of their lives. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”

“Nope, and I must be the worst of ‘em,” Rufi said. He flashed a grin at Pauli, who snorted derisively.

At an unspoken signal, they both snapped back into action. Pauli hopped out of his chair and opened Rufi’s closet. He began cycling through Rufi’s lavish collection of suits, all made from the finest fabrics using the most time consuming techniques. Rufi heaved himself off the bed and filled up the basin with cold, clear water.

“Pull me out the navy one,” he said to Pauli before dunking his face in the icy water.

The effect was immediate, the cold shock drove the fatigue from him, waking him up with a sharp backhand. Rufi lifted his face and used a rag to scrub the blood from his face, and then methodically washed the rest of his body, stopping only to wince when he pressed on his wounded ribs.

“You wore the navy one to the last meeting,” Pauli said as he laid out a simple crisp black three-piece made of blind spider silk harvested from the deepest depths of the Forest, where the canopy was so dense no light could penetrate it. He then ambled over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a fresh white shirt. Then, from the drawer underneath, he pulled out another shirt, this one was slightly shabbier looking and much wider.

“You got any of my trousers here?” Pauli asked him.

Rufi snorted water from his nostrils and emptied the basin while rinsing the blood from the sides.

“Check the closet,” he replied while filling the basin again.

All nighters and regular violence meant Pauli always kept clothes at Rufi’s; over the months he had almost as many of Pauli’s clothes as his own. Although Pauli’s dress sense was far simpler than Rufi’s. He chose to forego the flashy suits for a sturdy waistcoat and thick coarse shirts. Rufi held an enchanted cold stone to his wounded eye while he dried himself off. Pauli busied himself with ironing a crisp white shirt for Rufi. Once he was moderately dry, Rufi pulled open the bottom drawer and popped out the false bottom.

Inside was Rufi’s lifeline: his stash. There were half a dozen wax paper wraps and drawstring bags tucked away amongst a few stacks of gold coins. He sifted through them carefully until he found the three he was after. He threw them on to the bed, carefully replaced the false bottom, and closed the drawer. Pauli finished his ironing and began to strip, ready for his own whore’s bath in the basin. Rufi, still shirtless, pulled the chair towards him and sat on the edge of the bed. He emptied the cotton bags into two neat little piles and unwrapped the wax paper, pouring its contents into a third separate pile. His expert claws nimbly separated the three piles into six equal amounts and began mixing them. He then carefully unfurled a thick dock leaf and smoothed it out next to the piles.

“Go easy on that Madra, I don’t wanna be twitchy,” said a freshly washed and dressed Pauli.

"Yeah, yeah, lightweight,” Rufi muttered, using his long pinky nail to layer the concoction on to the leaves, adding a little of each as he went.

“You got any sugar?” Pauli asked as he buttoned up his shirt and straightened his grey drivers cap.

“That shit will rot your teeth,” Rufi said.

“Yeah, but it tastes good,” Pauli said with a grin.

Rufi looked about his flat and reached into the bottom drawer, pulling out a small jar of sugar. He sprinkled a pinch of sugar over both parcels and cleaned his finger tips with a few surreptitious flicks of his long digits. Now came the part that separated the tadpoles from the Goblins. With a dexterity not suggested by his bulky frame, Rufi twirled the leaf and smoothed the parcel into a perfect cone. He squeezed the ripped edge of the leaf, beads of sticky sap appeared as he squeezed, and with a final twist, he used the sap to stick the parcel together. He handed it to Pauli, who deftly hooked the corner of his bulbous cheek and neatly slotted the parcel into a comfortable hollow like a hamster hoarding food. Rufi finished his own parcel and popped it between his upper teeth and cheek. He gave a satisfied smack of his lips as he felt the numbness spread through his mouth. He pulled on a clean vest, lifted the straps of his suspenders, and lit a smoke. Rufi sat back on his bed, back hunched against the wall with his eyes half closed. He let his saliva mix around the parcel but did not suck on it. Already he felt the familiar warm buzz as his battered body relaxed. After a few minutes, the rest of the concoction kicked in, and he felt a surge of energy rush through him. With a whoop of pure excitement, Rufi leapt off the bed, and the sparkle returned to his eyes. The cold stone had worked its magic, and his right eye opened for the first time that day. Pauli had begun bubbling himself, the incorrigible smile on Rufi’s face brought one to his.

“Let’s fucking do this, Paul!” Rufi cried, grabbing the HobGoblin by his thick shoulders and shaking him vigorously.

“Do what?” Pauli laughed, trying to fight out of Rufi’s grip.

“Take the world and fuck that bitch! Seize the day and rule it!” He yelled, grabbing Pauli in a loose headlock when he escaped his shoulder hold.

Pauli bucked against him, still laughing, as he grabbed Rufi around his tapered waist and plucked him from his feet with ease. Rufi cried out in surprise and knocked the chair over as he squirmed in the HobGoblin’s surprisingly strong grip. They tussled briefly and then fell apart, trying to get their breath back. The concoction pumped their blood hard, their hearts alive and jubilant like wild horses in their chests. They squared up, fists raised, panting lightly as they threw ridiculously theatrical jabs at one another. Rufi was aiming exclusively for Pauli’s jiggling stomach. Pauli shot out a jab and caught Rufi lightly square on the point of his chin, hard enough to rattle his whole head.

“Knock out! Gone! Sleep!” Pauli announced and then emphasised his point by closing his eyes and snoring.

“Shame you didn’t do that to the Troll,” Rufi chuckled, readjusting the parcel in his mouth. “C’mon, stop pissing around, Uncle Sam’s gonna roast me as it is.”

“I’m dressed and ready. You’re the one holding us up.” Pauli held out Rufi’s shirt for him to slip into.

Rufi’s dexterous fingers spidered their way up the buttons while Pauli picked him out a pair of ruby cufflinks and matching tie. Rufi haphazardly knotted the tie, then redid it with more care after a reproachful tut from Pauli. Next came his matching midnight black waistcoat. Three piece suits had made a comeback recently amongst younger Kith, and Rufi, as always, made sure he was ahead of the trend, buying a brand new wardrobe for the third time that year. He buttoned up the waistcoat and tutted at the sight of a loose thread. Pauli caught his eye.

“You’re not changing suits.”

“It’s frayed.”

“It’s not frayed. It’s brand new.”

“Look.”

“It’s a loose thread,” Pauli snapped, plucking the thread with his sharp claws.

“You can make a hole doing that,” Rufi muttered reproachfully.

He stood tall and tugged the waistcoat from the bottom, making sure the fit was snug but not tight. The waistcoat flattered his taught stomach and tapered waist while accentuating his broad, muscular shoulders. Next came his gold watch, ring, and a lighter. Pauli handed him a shoulder holster, elasticated on one side so it fit perfectly and unnoticeably against his ribs on the left. Rufi walked over to the big oak wardrobe, pushed aside the many hanging suits, and slipped a finger into the corner of the back panel of the wardrobe. The whole panel came away from the wardrobe revealing weapons for every occasion. There were throwing knives, thin stiletto blades, a three foot double headed axe, a two foot double bladed sword, a crossbow, a one-shot miniature crossbow, several different varieties of hammers and hatchets, a phial of acid, and the young Goblin Villain’s weapon of choice: the obsidian tomahawk. In pitched warfare, obsidian was too fragile and would never withstand an impact with steel. In the city, however, people didn’t tend to wear steel armour, and obsidian could deal vicious damage without causing fatal injuries, for the most part. It was more expensive due to them breaking or chipping, but that cost was better than doing time in Black Water for what should have just been a bit of every day violence.

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“Did you dump all your tools last night?” Rufi asked Pauli as he picked his weaponry as surreptitiously as he picked out his clothes.

“Course,” Pauli said.

Rufi threw a pile of weapons on the bed, and silently they began to load up their persons with weapons the same way people fill their pockets with loose change and house keys. First, he tucked a new twinkling tomahawk into the holster strapped under his arm, followed by a stiletto blade in an ankle holster, a switchblade in his pocket, and a cosh tucked into his belt. After a pause, he picked out a thick hunting knife with a knuckle duster built into the handle, tucking it into the back of his trousers.

“Really?” Pauli said.

“Too much?”

“Just a little.”

“Fine,” Rufi sighed petulantly.

He untucked the nine-inch blade and threw it back into the wardrobe. He gave a little shuffle to settle all his new arsenal more comfortably and slid on his crisp black suit jacket, loving how perfectly it had been tailored. He buttoned his jacket and walked over to the long, free standing mirror in the corner of the room.

There he was, Rufgar Chaw’drak, forty three years old and just coming into his long prime years. He admired his build—six and a half feet and three hundred and twelve pounds—a powerful, proud, red blooded Goblin warrior. He was the pinnacle of Kith genetics, an apex predator, and he knew it. Rufi slicked back the tuft of jet black hair between the two sharp ears high on his head and grinned at himself.

"Aww, he’s a handsome sod, ain’t he?” Pauli’s reflection mocked. He pinched Rufi’s cheek and made cooing noises at him.

“Piss off,” Rufi said, slapping away his thick hands. He turned to Pauli and held out his arms. “How do I look?”

Pauli kissed the tips of his digits and made a loud smacking noise.

“Top class. Why, people will stop in the streets in awe, only to scurry home and tell their families they saw a king… no, an emperor today!” He grinned at Rufi with a mischievous twinkle in his beady little eyes.

“You know Paul, one day you could just say fine, or yeah, Rufi, you’re looking good,” Rufi said, scowling as he smoothed out his jacket sullenly. “Ready?”

“Lead the way brother,” Pauli said, opening the door and standing to one side.

Rufi took a quick look around the room as he patted himself down, making sure he had everything. Who knew when he would next be back here? After a second of hesitation, he grabbed the rest of the grub on the chair and tossed the small packs to Pauli, who pocketed them without a word, then strode out of the flat, whistling to himself. Once Pauli had locked up, he met Rufi downstairs and plucked the smoke he had just lit from his long digits and began toking on it.

“Prick,” Rufi said as he pulled another smoke out.

Rufi leant forward and hooked his sallow cheek with a crooked finger and expelled the sodden green lump of grub that had been nesting in the hollow of his cheek. He spat a wad of green phlegm and shuddered as the final bitter wave washed over him.

The rain had finally slowed down to something that could be described as a drizzle. Pauli popped open an umbrella and had to stretch his arm to get Rufi under it. The market was rapidly coming back to life now that the rain had eased like a flower opening its petals after a storm. Awnings were being thrown up, and doors were being flung open. Rufi smiled and waved at the old matrons huddling in their cowls, still haggling viciously, and nodded at the Goblins working tirelessly in Goblin Town’s many workshops and artisan craft houses. Goblin Town had become almost a throwback compared to the city’s other economic centres. Trades were all kept within the clans, and their shops and market stalls were run entirely by Kith.

Despite the rain, the stall owners still hailed Rufi, asked after his uncle, and requested him to give him their greetings. Others would offer them their best stock or ask them to stop and have a drink or eat something. Rufi waved them all off politely, touching his hand to his heart every time he refused in a traditional gesture of heartfelt thanks.

They arrived at the main entrance to the Great Hall and nodded a greeting at the two hulking guards standing on either side of the doors. They were twins and stood just a shade over seven feet tall and well over three hundred and fifty pounds of brawny, granite hard, muscle. They had short squat tusks and ears almost like a HobGoblin and round eyes that betrayed the threat of their physical presence with their almost palpable simpleness and naivety. They were little more than a couple of mountain boys who found themselves in the big city with no skills or family. They had come to the hall in search of a meal and the comfort of the familiar. Uncle Sam had put them to work on the doors of the Hall as guards. Although there was no actual guard work to do, instead their job was to be servants of the community, to chat with the workers, hold the hand of lost children, and walk the elderly home when it was dark. It was work their cheery dispositions were made for, and their impressive gladiator like appearance added to the overall aesthetic of the Hall.

“Alright boys,” Rufi said, grinning at the two ‘guards’.

“Morning Shoya,” they replied in unison, using the Kith honorific for big brother. It was a title many of the younger Kith used for Rufi, who had status but not the years to be called uncle.

“You are healthy and strong, yes?” asked one, possibly Dan’jo. He spoke slowly in the way of someone unfamiliar with the language they spoke.

“Fighting fit,” Rufi laughed, poking one of the massive brothers in his solid stomach, making him squirm and cry out in a way that was most unbecoming for such a monolithic creature.

Rufi and Pauli entered the almost cavernous Hall, which was more of a large empty room in keeping with the style back on the mountains. The ground floor was open to any Kith in the community. They could come in and sleep, eat, relax, play board games, converse, or simply sit in silence and sip tea alone with their thoughts. The floor was covered in furs, with a few low tables lined against the walls. In the middle of the Hall was a huge firepit that was used for keeping the place warm in the winter and cooking industrial quantities of meat.

This early, the Hall was mostly empty. A few elders sat in one corner playing some sort of board game with little black and white pieces. An old matron slowly and methodically beat the dust and dirt from the furs. A class of younglings occupied another corner, all sat cross-legged and frowning in concentration as they were taught how to read and write in the Kith tongue by a stern old Goblin. Rufi quickly made his way around the main hall to a solid stone staircase. He took the stairs three at a time. At the top, he walked around the ring of the upper tier and through another set of heavy oak doors that led to the corridor outside his uncle’s office. The short hallway to the office was quiet and lined with young Kith sitting outside the nondescript wooden door. None of them spoke. Some shot hot glares or sullen looks at Rufi and Pauli but kept to themselves. These were the assorted young boys of the Goblin Heads, drivers, nephews, and bodyguards, none of them important enough to be on the other side of that door, and it burnt them that Rufi, who was their age or younger than some, was. Rufi swept past them. He had no smiles or jokes now, his face was hardened in an imperious mask. For their parts, the assembled young boys kept their jealous glares for Rufi’s back only. Each of them was perhaps only a few years younger than Rufi, some were older than him, but most would never get to see the inside of that room let alone attend a meeting.

Rufi took a breath, straightened his jacket, knocked once, and then entered the room. He stepped through the door into a large, sparsely furnished room that spiritually, if not geographically, had never left the mountains. Animal furs and heads that his uncle had hunted and stuffed himself hung from the walls and covered the floors. The only piece of modern furniture was a grand oak desk opposite the door, reserved purely for meetings with non-Kith. The left side of the room was a workshop where his uncle worked on his incredibly detailed white stone models. In the centre of the room was a dropped circle around a firepit. Six pairs of eyes swivelled to bore holes in Rufi. Arranged in a loose circle, so none sat at their head, were six of the most powerful creatures in the Free Cities, the Jung. Each of them represented one of the six separatist clans that had fought against the centralisation and unification of the hundreds of Goblin clans in the Northern Mountains. The six council members that sat before him had either fought in the civil war or distinguished themselves in the ensuing species war between humans and Kith that took place in Valderia after thousands of Kith were displaced by the violence in the mountains and forced to seek refuge in the unwelcoming Free Cities. There was: Jar’hax Darbba of the Hidea clan, Zoa the smuggler, Bali An’danana Valderia’s Chief Blacksmith, the HobGoblin and his Uncle’s financial advisor Aftor Oblin, Hali ‘Har the Mother of War, and finally Zafra Har’kad of the Kolak Clan, who, other than throwing around his weight and stirring shit wherever he could, did nothing of import as far as Rufi was concerned.

“Nephew” Sam’Sun growled, the word escaped his thick lips, narrowly avoiding his thick jurassic tusks as more breath than word.

“Sorry I’m late, Uncle,” Rufi said, his head only slightly bowed in penance as he skirted around the circle to his place, behind his Uncle and definitely not in the circle. “I was a little tied up.”

“So I heard,” Sam’Sun grunted, casting a surreptitious look over Rufi’s bruised face. With a grunt, he swung his powerful head back to the group.

“Rolled out of the wrong bed, Ruf’Gar?” Zoa said with a titter, and a slight ripple of amusement passed around the circle.

“Something like that, Shoya,” Rufi replied, a forced smile pulled across his bloodied lips.

“Ha!” Zafra cried, making a noise like a pelican clearing its throat. “When I was your age, we would fuck all night, fight all day, and we were never even a minute late for morning role call! Isn’t that right, Jar’Hax?”

“You speak true, Zafra, but these children today." The wizened old soldier sighed and shrugged her thick shoulders. “The city has softened their scales.”

Rufi’s jaw clenched so hard he heard the enamel pop as he fought back a response. He hung his head as if remorseful to hide the curl of anger on his face.

“Our business is concluded here,” Sam’Sun said. “Let the circle be broken, and may you be safe in your journeys.”

The occupants of the circle slowly rose and began filing out of the room, a few hushed conversations taking place as they left. Sam’Sun waited until the door shut before gesturing for his nephew to join him in the circle. Rufi reluctantly sat in front of his uncle.

“Brawling with Trolls in Gnommish Territory?" Sam’Sun said, his voice deep and devoid of any inflections.

“The situation… got out of hand,” Rufi said, picking his words carefully. “I apologise.”

“Apologise not for actions you do not regret.”

Rufi swallowed. Uncle Sam had a way of looking into a creature and seeing truth. He couldn’t be lied to.

“It was foolish. I understand that.”

“You could have been killed.”

“I’m not scared of Trolls.”

Silence stretched between them, Sam’Sun’s heavy breathing filling the air. Rufi kept his gaze carefully low.

“We have a meeting. The Kings will hold court.”

Rufi looked up in surprise.

“You will attend with me.”

“Yes Uncle.”

“Good. We leave immediately.”

“Yes Uncle.”

Rufi’s mind raced. The Four Kings of the criminal underworld meeting was rare, and it meant something was terribly wrong in Valderia. But why was he coming along? Rufi had a sinking feeling in his stomach. This wasn't good.