Like many of the centuries-old wood and stone structures crammed together along the clutter of wharf-side businesses known as Dockers Row, the Old Basement Public House was a regular haunt for sailors and workers who frequented the downtrodden area of Thal Doren known as the Belge. Dockers Row was not what one might consider a good area, and it certainly wasn't a safe one either. During the day, the number of people who plied their trade along the waterfront was considerable, and their willingness to choose convenience over quality practically guaranteed the various local establishments and street vendors a steady stream of coin. At night, however, most of these places closed down and barred their doors . . . for once the sun abandoned the city, the streets and alleyways of the Belge became a haven for muggers, thieves and undesirables of every sort. In recent years, crime had become so rampant that between the hours of sunset and sunrise, even the city guard avoided the area, almost without exception.
The Old Basement, the Blue Kraken, Parla's, the Moaning Siren and Aunt Hattie's all sat within a stone's throw from each other. Of these, only the Old Basement – being an actual basement – wasn't readily visible from the street. At one time, it had been a fairly exclusive venue, attracting well-to-do patrons with its novel, subterranean hideaway mystique. Now, it was one of the seediest establishments in the bleakest area of the city. During the day it was an inexpensive place to fill one's stomach and toss back a few watered-down pints. At night, the tavern became a den for underworld vermin who met to arrange details and collect payments for any number of unlawful endeavors. Ironically, now more than ever, the Old Basement actually lived up to its name . . . which really wasn't anything to boast about.
The small, dank, musty, dark tavern was cold, unkempt and infused with an odor best described as a mixture of sea salt, rotting fish, old urine and feet. The smell was fairly awful, but it certainly wasn't the only evidence supporting the fact that the place hadn't been thoroughly cleaned in years.
At one time, the smooth stone walls had been stained a bright blue and adorned with the latest masterpieces by burgeoning local artists. But now, decades later, the paintings had all been purchased or stolen or destroyed, and all that remained of the original wall color was infrequent patches of faded gray, bordered by amorphous smatters of brown and yellow mold. The floor was stone as well and mostly covered in a random assortment of worn, tattered rugs, sawdust, and several badly stained squares of old burlap. Overhead, a good number of lengthy cobwebs clung to rotting wooden beams. Like miniature, gaunt, dust-covered ghosts, they slowly swayed and danced in response to the slightest air currents generated by the oblivious patrons, below.
The pub was situated solidly underground, so there were no windows to deliver fresh air or any amount of natural lighting. Instead, meager illumination was stingily provided by a few small stubs of crooked candle blobs that had been placed, willy-nilly, throughout the room. Given the Old Basement's unsavory clientele, however, the negligible radiance the candles afforded was probably more than adequate. For many, a lack of light added to the comfort and security required to discuss dark deeds or conclude transactions better relegated to the shadows.
As a gnome, Hisix's vision was far superior to humans, and the smallest amount of light was enough for him to discern even the most repulsive of details at the farthest corners in the room. At the moment, that meant being well aware of many more rapidly scurrying, six-legged, creepy-crawlies than he could ever be comfortable with.
Hisix closed his eyes and sucked in a deep, calming breath in a futile attempt to mitigate the anxiety caused by firsthand knowledge that roaches here outnumbered the patrons by at least a hundred to one. He had once been told that for every roach you saw, there were a couple hundred more you didn't. That lovely little piece of remembered trivia, factual or not, was enough to cause his already heightened angst to jump up another three or four notches. Hisix wasn't naturally prone to panic, but there was something about roaches that pierced the perennial layers of logic and calm that surrounded his typically stalwart mind.
Hisix took another deep breath and did his best to push away any lingering thoughts of the nasty little creatures. He then reached into the lining of his cloak and withdrew an elegant ivory envelope that had been neatly folded into perfect quarters. Undoing the envelope, he slid out a matching sheet of stationery which he placed on the table. Using the palm of his hand he pushed down and smoothed out the sharp creases, allowing the paper to sit significantly flatter against the table top. Hisix then began skimming over the extensive composition for the umpteenth time. The letter was well-written, beautifully penned and just cryptic enough to not be ignored. It was, in fact, the reason Hisix had traveled by ship all the way to Thal Doren. Whoever authored the note seemingly understood the exact level of intrigue required to pique Hisix's curiosity and motivate him to endure seven weeks of turbulent storms and the abject misery of seas-sickness. Included with the letter was a booking receipt for one-way passage to Thal Doren, a small pouch of silver to cover expenses, and a polished silver lapel pin in the shape of a rose. Disappointingly, there was nothing to suggest who had sent it. At the bottom of the letter, no signature could be found . . . just a well-executed doodle of a rose that closely resembled the pin. For whatever reason, the author wished to remain anonymous . . . which, naturally, added to the mysteriousness of the letter and tickled Hisix's curiosity even more.
Of course, after the initial reading, nearly two months back, Hisix had already memorized the entire letter, word for word. But the simple act of "re-reading" helped to pass the time as he waited for the seller to arrive. It also gave any gawkers the impression that he was otherwise engaged. In reality, the paper was but a prop and his brilliant, clockwork mind was busy taking in and analyzing every little scrap of conversation and movement happening in the roach-infested room around him. After feigning interest in the letter for an adequate amount of time, Hisix refolded the parchment and tucked it back into the envelope. He then scanned the front of the envelope once more, still mildly impressed that the author knew him well enough to write out his entire name.
Hisix Odafi Mepucamp Frinzwillen IV.
To many humans, the gnome's name was more than a mouthful, and usually ended up being a point of contention from the very moment of introductions . . . a traditional Jurcoralan social ritual where strangers shook hands, revealed the clever moniker their parents had slapped on them at birth, and then offered insincere pleasantries . . . which, thankfully, was quite unnecessary and definitely frowned upon for the dodgy kind of business he intended take part in this day.
Hisix discovered long ago, that, for some reason, even the politest request to address him by his entire name tended to annoy other races. Especially humans. And dwarves, of course. Dwarves were born annoyed . . . so irritating them was pretty much a given. Customarily, to avoid problems, he answered to anything from Hisix, to Shorty, to Hey You . . . That is, unless his motivation was, in fact, to intentionally aggravate the piss out of someone.
The gnome tucked the envelope away and stole another glance around the room. Of the eleven other tables in the tavern, only three were currently occupied. Two tables away sat four middle-aged men, grumbling about the increase in tariffs, while nursing their pints of absurd piss-water the Old Basement's proprietor somehow passed off as ale. By their dress, Hisix concluded they were local street vendors, taking an afternoon retreat from the day-to-day grind of hawking their wares. Closer to the stairs, a very pudgy man and an even pudgier woman sat side by side, holding hands and smiling stupidly at one another, giggling and exchanging flirtatious banter. At this distance, Hisix could not make out very much of their conversation, but the two were obviously in love. Or, at the very least, in lust. At the third occupied table sat a lone, slender figure dressed in dark clothes. Nearly all of the person was adequately enveloped beneath an over-sized hooded cloak the color of midnight. Combined with the deep shadows in that very spot, anyone would be hard pressed to even notice the person, much less determine any particulars about them. Hisix surmised that the lack of light in that confined area of the tavern was the very reason the figure had opted to sit there.
If it had been up to Hisix, he wouldn't have chosen this place for the meeting, and he certainly wouldn't have settled on the farthest table from the exit. Although extremely small by comparison to other establishments along the docks (a feature which usually worked in the gnome's favor), the Old Basement had just the one way in or out; an old narrow door which sat way up at street level as part of a shallow alcove attached to the Moaning Siren brothel. From here, that one doorway was accessible only by the single, very steep, very rickety circular, wooden staircase all the way on the other side of the room.
Fleetness of feet was not one of Hisix's strong suits, and he absolutely despised stairs. Although he was considered tall for a gnome, he was still much smaller and far less resilient than just about everyone else in the place. If he needed to reach the stairway in a hurry, he certainly had no intention of relying on his natural athletic prowess to save his own neck. And, with that thought in mind, Hisix double checked his front vest pockets for the various bits of spell components he usually kept on him - green twigs, wax, gypsum and other useful items he might need - on the off chance the deal turned sour.
It was mere moments later when Hisix spotted the first of Ratcher's thugs begin a slow, deliberate descent down the spiral case. Even at this distance Hisix could tell the huge brute of a man was actually not a man at all. It was an orc, complete with jagged teeth, an overly large protruding forehead, and beady black eyes. On his very wide, leather-armored back, the goon carried a pair of nasty-looking scimitars which, doubtless, were not there just for the sake of intimidation. Following directly behind the first orc were two others, similarly armored and equipped, but not quite as large or scary as the one in the lead.
Hisix had heard that Ratcher's gang was made up of more orcs than humans. There had even been a few rumors that Ratcher himself was an orc. But of course, Hisix knew such claims to be unfounded. Hisix had never met the man but knew enough about the Geyaṁ Panja to be certain they would never allow an orc rise to the level of street kenja. Orcs were too unpredictable, temperamental and hot headed. Kenjai were expected to be smart, savvy, cool-headed and keep the streets in order so there was no interruption to the business of business. In the Thal Doren Underworld, silver and gold was the ultimate law of the streets. Run your territory well and pay the Geyaṁ Panja their due and you might eventually find yourself at the top of the golden pyramid. Fall behind on your quotas and you'd likely end up as food for the crustaceans living along the bottom of Thal Doren Harbor. Rumor had it that only a single orc ever attained the position of kenja. But in just the first week, the newly appointed orc boss had already stepped on enough toes and instigated enough bloodshed to cost the Geyaṁ Panja more than eleven thousand jurcoras . . . which, of course, warranted the orc's immediate consideration for a permanent sea voyage. Less than a fortnight after achieving the unprecedented level of kenja, the orc disappeared and was never seen again in Thal Doren . . . or anywhere else, for that matter. It is said the crabs feasted well for days.
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Even as the giant of an orc took his first clumping steps downward, his dark eyes locked evilly upon Hisix. The gnome couldn't be certain, but the orc appeared startled by who, or what, he found sitting there. Hisix remained calm, expressionless, quiet and unmoving, well aware that all eyes in the tavern had now turned to Ratcher's goons. He was also quite cognizant of the fact that, once the orcs were close enough, they could probably end him before he ever got a single spell off.
Ratcher's thugs continued their leisurely descent, making their way down the stairs and across the filthy tavern floor, until they stood, like giants, directly before the seated gnome. The larger orc, a full head taller than his companions, positioned himself between the other two. Crossing his heavily muscled arms, he cocked his head like a dog and narrowed his gaze, while at the same time offering a menacing grin that treated Hisix to a rather unsettling view of the orc's mouthful of very pointed yellow teeth. The other two followed suit, also folding their arms as they directed their well-rehearsed stares at Hisix.
"My oh my. Look wha' we got 'ere boys," said the larger orc in the gruffest, deepest voice Hisix had ever heard. "It's a bleedin' malnourished 'obbit!" All three orcs laughed heartily at the remark and continued to do so, making the comment and the ridiculously lengthy response seem contrived.
The orc on Hisix's right then added, "Maybe it's a pixie . . . or a midget elf."
The larger orc continued grinning and nodded his head. "Is 'at what you are? A midget elf?"
Hisix remained silent, knowing fully well that no matter his response, the orcs would continue with this childish intimidation routine. They had likely made exchanges for Ratcher dozens, even hundreds of times, and had probably performed this very bullying tactic during most of them. In the end though, Hisix knew the orcs would do nothing to mess up the deal. Ratcher wanted the money and Hisix wanted the tome. Plain and simple. And since Hisix was paying quite a bit more than fair market value for a what should have been considered basic arcane contraband, Ratcher probably wanted the sale to happen before Hisix found another, less expensive source. Truth be told, this specific book was far more valuable than Ratcher realized. But if the man hadn't figured that out on his own, Hisix certainly wasn't going to tell him.
The orc on the left took a half step closer and bent forward at the waist, until his wide face was only inches from Hisix's. At this range, Hisix could clearly make out every hair, nook and cranny of the orc's ugly mug and had no way to escape his appalling, sour breath. But his attention was mostly drawn to a long, impressive scar which started above the brute's left eye and ran the length of his entire face, ending just below the jawline. For a scant moment, Hisix wondered how the orc had received such a wound without losing the use of his eye but thought it better not to ask.
With his face still hovering before Hisix's, the orc then drew a long-bladed knife from his belt and angled it forward until the tip of the jagged blade was nearly against Hisix's left eye. "I believe Gofzog asked you a question, runt. Don't you bleedin' make 'im ask again."
In less than the space of a breath, Hisix had played out seven possible outcomes to the situation he now found himself in. Most of them ended well and almost all of those concluded without bloodshed. Hoping for the best, Hisix chose the most favorable of the seven and responded accordingly.
"I am a gnome, my good man. Not an elf. Not a pixie. And certainly not a halfling. As you well know, I was directed to this place by the person you work for, to engage in a mutually agreed upon business transaction. Once this transaction has concluded, I intend to exit this repulsive establishment and be on my way. Does this sufficiently answer your inquiry?"
In one fluid movement, the mountain of an orc called Gofzog knocked the other out of the way and grabbed the collar at the front of Hisix's vest, violently yanking the gnome to his feet without the slightest of effort. Still holding the collar, the monster then squeezed his fist, causing the fabric to bunch together, placing pressure at the base of Hisix's slender throat. In his other hand, the orc held a very small, very old, leather-bound book. By the looks of it, the entire tome couldn't have been more than thirty pages, in total.
"You know . . . we was suppose' ta sell you this here journal. But seein' as how you just called my fav'rite watering hole repulsive . . . and since me and th' boys just can't stand uppity gnomes, I am now inclined to not let you have it."
Gofzog paused for a moment, probably for dramatic effect. Then, he lifted Hisix so that both of the gnome's feet were barely off the ground.
"But since I am th' forgiving sort . . . and an upstanding member o' the merchant community," he continued, "I am still gonna allow you to purchase this book . . . but its gonna bleedin' cost you ten cories instead o' just the two. Savvy?"
Being held aloft by his collar, Hisix found it difficult, but not impossible, to respond. In a small, raspy voice, the gnome asked, "And w-w. . . what if I don't w-w-w . . . want the book for that p-p-p . . . price?"
"Don't matter," responded Gofzog, shooting the gnome yet another evil grin and dropping him back in his chair. "One way or another, I'm getting me ten cories, even if I have t' sell yer bleedin' gnome ears to get it."
At this point, the orc called Gofzog most assuredly expected the impish gnome to quake in fear, or bargain for his life, or break down and beg and plead for mercy. He also fully expected to complete the transaction required of him, and walk out of the Old Basement eight jurcoras wealthier.
But sadly . . . he was about to be disappointed.
Hisix straightened himself in his chair and raised his head, so that his eyes and Gofzog's were locked together, and he had the orc's full attention. Then, without a stutter, a beg or a plea of any kind, he craned his neck just a bit closer to the orc and said, "Seven possible outcomes. Seven. Of those, five ended in you and I and your two oafish friends here all walking out of this place happy as dwarves in a gold mine. Now we are down to just two . . . And I'm afraid you're not gonna like either one."
The brutes on either side of Gofzog were clearly puzzled by Hisix's response. Gofzog, on the other hand, was more angry than startled, and he was getting visibly angrier by the second.
Keeping his eyes locked with Gofzog's, Hisix continued talking, ignoring the fact that the short-tempered orc was about to reach his melting point. "Two possible outcomes. The first, is that the three of you apologize for your unforgivably brutish manners, hand over the book, turn around, and high-tail it up the stairs, letting bygones be bygones".
Gofzog was now livid. His eyes had narrowed into slits of savage fury, and the razor sharp teeth that made up his petulant grin had suddenly become a terrorizing scowl. But, even in that state, Gofzog managed to ask the question . . . "What . . . is . . . the . . . other . . . one?"
The answer, however, was never verbalized. Instead, it came with the point of a blade as black as the orc's beady eyes and rotten soul, spewing blood as it tore through the back of his armor and exited the front of his chest, piercing his liver and lungs in the process. In a flash, Gofzog fell to the ground, nearly dropping on top of Hisix. The gnome sidestepped the brute just in time to witness a second orc's head fly free from its muscled neck and land nearly upright on the bar top, sending the barman screaming and running for the stairs.
The remaining orc now stood between Hisix and a slender, cloaked figure, his dark eyes wide with confusion and possibly even fear. Trying hard to keep from being flanked, he had both of his scimitars drawn and at the ready, but it was obvious the orc knew his life was in real peril.
Taking a step backwards, Hisix mimicked the orc's previous bravado, crossing his arms and grinning right at him. Then, keeping his eye on the orc, he bent down retrieved the book, now laying very close to the edge of a growing puddle of dark orc blood. "Well," said Hisix, "there remains the small matter of our prearranged transaction. I believe the deal was I take this book and you give me ten gold for my inconvenience. Not Ratcher's gold, mind you. Yours. Or your dead friends'. It matters not, I just want your boss to know that I had no intention of cheating him and that this cluster of a travesty is on you. You and poor, dead Gofzog over there. Once I receive my payment, you are free to go. Do we have an understanding?"
Hisix could tell the orc was weighing his options. The dark clad figure, stood without moving, and somehow, still managed to remain mostly in the shadows . . . bloody sword in hand, waiting on the orc to decide. But, being an orc, the brute was almost predictable. When the charge came, the cloaked warrior merely side-stepped and cut his leg out from under him, then spun and delivered the killing blow. The orc, seemingly, never had a chance.
With a frown, Hisix scrambled the several steps needed to stand before his cloaked ally. Then with more than a hint of exasperation he said. "Did you really need to wait that long, Shiretha? That orc could have choked me to death or split me in two."
The dark clad figure pulled back the hood and a thick mane of silvery white hair spilled out, framing the visage of an enchantingly beautiful, ebony skinned face. "The teaching of Ilxurra states that an enemy is most vulnerable before and after the crux of his rage."
Hisix shook his head and sighed. "Meaning?"
Shiretha Tzylxariette, Shadowdancer of Ilxurra, let a hint of a smile grow at the corners of her near-perfect mouth. "Meaning . . . I acted precisely when I should have."
"I think you do this kind of thing on purpose . . . I think you want to see how close I can come to pissing my trousers."
Shiretha raised a gossamer eyebrow in response to the coarse comment. "Trust me. That really isn't something I care to witness. Ever."
Hisix let the words roll over a few times in his brain. "Can I?"
Shiretha looked confused. "Can you what?"
"Trust you."
The Drow smiled a mischievous smile that could have melted the heart of an ice lich. Then, with all the fluid grace of the fragile cobwebs overhead, she practically floated her way across the length of the room. Stopping briefly at the foot of the steps, Shiretha turned her head so both of her lovely crimson eyes met his. "Coming?" she asked, throwing him an insinuating glance filled with promises of the evening ahead.
Hisix gave up a sigh and chuckled to himself, knowing all too well that, despite his best efforts, he was already a goner.
In all his years among the other races, Hisix had never met such an enchanting or frustrating or mysterious being as Shiretha Tzylxariette. He felt that one day, she might very well be the death of him . . . but he was also pretty sure the trip would be worth it, no matter how the curtain eventually fell. At present, Hisix was delighted just to find himself in this marvelously wicked city filled with endless opportunities for adventure, and grateful for the curious letter that led him here. And, he was quite content to share every moment of it with his beautiful and very, very deadly companion. So, at least for the time being, he had no desire to dwell on the future or what it might hold. Because, if he was truly being honest with himself . . . for all his intelligence, logic and common sense, when it came right down to it, Hisix was a sucker for a pretty face and a really good mystery. And currently, he was lucky enough to have both.
The gnome turned back around and did a quick scan of the carnage in the room. Retrieving a pouch filled with money from the deceased Gofzog, Hisix then scurried over and tossed three of the coins on the table where the street merchants still sat, frozen in terror.
"Make sure Selibus Ratcher gets two of those and that he knows we only took enough to make up for the poor customer service. The extra coin you can keep."
He then began making his way toward the stairs but thought better of it, stopped, and added, "And if you take any coins off the other two, or don't give Ratcher his money, I'll make sure he knows who stole from him . . . or . . . I might just let my friend come back and collect it from you. And you certainly wouldn't want that, I assure you."
With another chuckle Hisix started again toward the stairs. Shiretha, as expected, had already reached the top and exited out to the street.