It was late. The sun had set several hours ago and Herbedin Flek, who had been up since well before dawn, was keenly aware of the physical exhaustion that a combination of long summer days and old age could muster in one's joints. Especially in the knees. In truth, Flek couldn't remember a time when his knees didn't ache by the end of the day, no matter the weather or season.

Flek was a halfling living in a city-state ruled by humans; a situation that, historically, proved less than optimal for the people of his race. Ordinarily, humans took advantage of halflings and generally disrespected, bullied and belittled them. Perhaps it was the height difference, or the fact that adult halflings physically resembled human children – and so were treated as such . . . or maybe it was the undeniable dichotomy in how each of their races lived their lives and defined happiness and success. Or it could just be that humans, as a whole, treated every other race as a second-class citizens. Perhaps this wasn't the case throughout all of Artha, but it definitely was accurate within the Jurcoralan Realms. Which is why, for the most part, halflings stuck to themselves, preferring communities comprised of their own kind, far away from human cities.

But in all fairness, Thal Doren wasn't a typical Jurcoralan city. Because of its access by sea and its proximity to a fair number of wealthy countries, it was the epicenter of trade and commerce in the West. On any given day, its expansive harbor bustled with fleets of merchant ships and trade vessels from countries and kingdoms as far away as Atronia and Carpulena. The people of countless nations and races entered and departed its gates on a daily basis. Some took up permanent residence, while others remained for a season or two, in order to sell their wares or services, before eventually returning from whence they came. So, what once was a primarily human city, populated almost exclusively by Jurcoralan Imperial citizens, was now a thriving cosmopolitan community, comprised of numerous races, nations and cultures.

Thal Doren's extensive list of unofficial monikers was both impressive and alarming. It had been labeled the Jewel of the West; the wealthiest city in all the world. But it was also considered one of the most dangerous places to live. At somewhere around thirty-five thousand inhabitants, Thal Doren boasted the highest population of all the Verdanti controlled city-states. But, despite the efforts of the current Overseer, those barely eking out a miserable existence in the extensive slums of Thal Doren made up nearly a fourth of its population.

Unsurprisingly, criminal activity was commonplace here . . . and murder happened on a near-daily basis. It was, perhaps fitting that, in the Siltharin tongue, the name Thal Doren literally meant night gloom, a plant once favored by elven healers for its many medicinal properties, but now more commonly utilized by assassins to concoct a highly toxic, nearly undetectable poison. Properly prepared, two to three drops of ingested night gloom extract were enough to kill the average human in a matter of seconds.

Long before the Verdanti uprising, several underworld organizations established tenuous, and often temporary, footholds in the city's profitable shipping trade. But at that time, the Imperial Commerce Authority spared no expense in rooting out and dispersing those who sponsored or committed illegal interruptions to legal Imperial trade. And so, these criminal groups were forced to prosper primarily via theft, extortion and the sale of prohibited goods and services through a black market of their own creation. Under the watchful eyes of the Jurcoralan Empire, underworld organizations never grew very big or powerful . . . and the ones who gained any significant ground soon found themselves a target of the merciless Imperial justice system. As a result of the cunning machinations of Imperial authority, these petty would-be crime lords and their minions wasted enormous resources and countless lives competing against each other for scraps of territories in which to ply their unlawful vocations.

Today, there remained but two noteworthy criminal entities; the Geyaṁ Panja (GĪ-əm PON-jā) and the Ul Gasuente (əl gəs-WAHN-tay) – or Assembly of Ash, in the common tongue. Both organizations were prosperous, powerful and well connected within all levels of city authority. And, while they still competed against one another for territory, wealth and resources, they each had, over time, established their own unique niches within the complex, underworld hierarchical system. Both organizations solidly maintained their involvement in almost every aspect of Thal Doren business, trade or commerce. Since the Verdanti Uprising, concerted efforts had been made to rid the city of these powerful criminals. Unfortunately, their influence now reached the highest levels of the Verdanti government. In fact, it was widely believed that Themerak Ventrith himself – the city's Overseer – was little more than a pawn of one, or both, of these dastardly underworld enterprises.

While Flek had no opinion regarding the Overseer's involvement in organized crime, he was certain that in any other city in the Realms, a brilliant enterprising halfling, like himself, wouldn't have been offered half as many delicious opportunities as the ones Thal Doren had tossed his way. And Flek, being an overly competent opportunist with little to no morality to boast of, had done very well for himself in taking advantage of every single one. Very well, indeed.

Kicking off his boots and socks, Flek sat and allowed himself to sink into his favorite oversized, overstuffed chair. His stubby legs, now free of any constraints, were outstretched so that his heels were resting comfortably against the pillow top of a mid-sized barstool he used as a dedicated footrest. Because of its perfect height, Flek's small, furry toes sat nearly at the same level as the summit of his protruding, rounded lump of a belly . . . the optimal position to relax and imbibe to his heart's content, and not worry about a damned thing. And if . . . or rather, when . . . when he passed out, he would remain reasonably comfortable throughout the night, without the added bother of heading upstairs, where his fifth wife, Wilhenna, had been asleep for some time already; a result of her daily abuse of opiates and alchemical antidepressants. And the satisfying thought of not having to suffer her wretched, nagging voice for the remainder of his waking hours only made him that much more determined to stay right where he was.

Without considering other options, Flek used his teeth to wrench open the cork from the last remaining bottle of wine from a case he had purchased on his wedding night, exactly two decades ago. The marriage, which had been rocky from the get-go, had lasted less than a year before Eloise (who made a habit of overstepping her boundaries, issuing too many demands, and asking far too many of the wrong questions) met with a sudden, tragic end, somewhere at the bottom of Thal Doren Harbor, as she fought to free herself from a number of iron chains tied to sacks filled with slag and old horseshoes.

"To horseshoes and chains," said Fleck throwing a thoughtful glance toward the stairs as he poured more than half the bottle into a ridiculously oversized mug he had picked up that very afternoon at the North Ogden Market. "And to wives. May they ever lack buoyancy."

Placing the partially empty bottle to the side, Flek concentrated on the enormous mug, chugging its entire contents without pausing even a moment to actually enjoy what his third bride, Daniella (rest her soul) had claimed was an excellent vintage, despite the reasonable price. Once the cup had been drained, the halfling wasted no time in pouring the remaining contents of the bottle into his new mug.

"I don't know why you ever bother with a cup."

Startled, Flek turned to look and was met by the cold, unsettling gaze of Kashek Marlat, notorious street boss and enforcer for the Geyaṁ Panja. And, as it so happened, the silent partner in over half of Herbedin Flek's financial undertakings as well; legal and otherwise.

Given Marlat's elevated station within that criminal organization, there was no debating the fact he was a very dangerous man. But, unlike most of his peers, Marlat didn't believe in keeping a low profile. In fact, he seemingly wanted everyone who saw him to understand, straightaway, who it was they were dealing with, whether they already knew of his reputation or not. And, while practically every bit of the hard-handed confrontations and leg-breaking necessary to convince his clients of their fiscal responsibilities could be passed off to any number of underlings, the veteran enforcer insisted on taking an active role in collections . . . especially when there was a better than even chance the client wasn't going to meet their mutually agreed upon obligations.

While most people in the business of hurting others – as a means to ensure financial gain – performed their duties without a second thought or pause, surprisingly few actually garnered any real pleasure from it. This certainly wasn't the case with Kashek Marlat. Flek had seen the man turn hard, mean, soulless bastards into weeping babies as a result of the devastating injuries he inflicted. And, once he started in on someone, any consideration of whether such a brutal level of violence was even necessary never seemed to be part of Marlat's agenda. When Marlat hurt people, he went about it in a way that ensured no one in Thal Doren ever forgot exactly how it was he had achieved his current status within the hierarchy of the most prosperous and feared criminal organization in the Jurcoralan Realms. And, while it's true that some people softened with age, Kashek Marlat certainly hadn't. If anything, the man had grown meaner and more sadistic with each passing year. And, despite pushing nearly fifty, Flek correctly believed Marlat was just as quick and just as deadly as he had ever been.

To promote this persona, Marlat made a point of appearing in public in one of three sets of exquisitely tooled leather armor, each one dyed as black as night and adorned with bits and pieces of the bones of virtually every person he had ever killed. According to Flek's sources, the street boss' macabre accoutrements were not just for show. Each armor set had been enchanted with necromantic wards; magic designed to turn even the truest of strikes from a sword, knife, axe or speeding arrow. And the bones of the unfortunates Marlat had killed were essential components for those dark enchantments. The fact that they boosted the man's intimidation factor tenfold was just pure, unadulterated, serendipity.

As far as weaponry, Marlat carried enough cutlery to adequately supply a butcher shop or a small rebellion. On his back he wore a sword and, by its side, a unique hand crossbow – designed according to his own specifications – that he could quickly retrieve and fire three poisoned bolts in rapid succession, before having to reload. On each side of his belt, he wore a hefty, serrated knife that was nearly the size of a short sword. Along the front of the belt were a dozen small throwing daggers arranged in crisscross patterns. He carried additional blades of various sizes in sheaths here and there, securely fastened at his chest and along the length of his trousers. Flek also knew for certain that Marlat kept several other small, envenomed blades squirreled away beneath his belt and hidden within the cuffs of his boots.

Not for the first time that day, the halfling issued Kashek Marlat one of his sourest, leave me the hell alone, frowns. "Funny . . . thinking back to our extensive conversation only hours ago, I don't recall any mention of you appearing uninvited in my home this evening. And, given the fact I didn't let you in, and the other fact that my lovely drug-addled wife is upstairs, dead to the world, I can only assume you chose to ignore the time-honored tradition where a double-locked door means visitors are neither wanted nor welcome." Flek sighed. "My dear Kenja, has our relationship reached such an absurd level of familiarity that established common courtesies and boundaries are no longer respected?"

Kashek Marlat grinned. "Relationship? That's rich, toad. The only reason we have any association whatsoever is the heavy bag of gold you are obligated to hand me every week. If that situation ever changes for the worse . . . well . . . let's just say that our relationship would become a more . . . decorative affair." To emphasize his last words, Marlat tapped one of the larger bits of bleached bone affixed to the front of his armor.

"So am I to assume you are not going to leave my house and let me drink in peace, then?"

"Marlat walked over and stood next to the chair, towering over the seated halfling. Half a head taller than most humans and nearly half again as wide, the kenja would certainly appear daunting to most people, even without his vicious collection of cutlery. Reaching down, he snatched the empty wine bottle from Flek's grasp and held it before his own face, skimming through the scribbled words on the handwritten label. "We still have work to do. Besides, cheap wine like this will be the death of you, soon enough."

Flek feigned the most surprised look he could muster. "Why Kashek . . . if I didn't know better, I might think you actually cared about what happens to me."

Marlat dropped the empty container into Flek's lap. "Seriously. You can afford better. And maybe I just don't want you dying off and cheating me of the pleasure of sending you on your way to the Undervoid myself."

Flek, who had stopped being intimidated by Marlat's offhanded threats years ago, grunted, and chugged down the entire second mug of wine. It's not that he didn't believe Marlat would follow through on them. On the contrary, he understood all too well that Marlat wouldn't hesitate to slice his throat if there was something – anything – to gain by it. Which is the primary reason Flek had cut Marlat in on the profit of so many of his most lucrative opportunities. Marlat had no idea where half of Flek's money came from. But the kenja had come to depend on the sizeable cash flow he took from the halfling each week – to the point where he now relied on that sum, in order to operate and expand his own prospects and territories. If the halfling somehow just up and died, a considerable chunk of Marlat's weekly capital would instantly disappear, and it would spell disaster for Marlat. Sure, it was expensive, but it was solid insurance against treachery or assassination from the very people he had to deal with every day. Flek had worked very hard to keep everyone in the Geyaṁ Panja from knowing the true ins and outs of his business dealings. He was smarter than any of them thought and he was quite content allowing them to continue believing he was little more than a mid-level slumlord. Marlat knew better, of course, but he wasn't going to let anyone else in on a good thing. Marlat wasn't the kind of person who liked to share.

Feeling the alcohol just beginning its desired effects, Flek offered Marlat an overly sweet smile and added, "Well then . . . I'm pretty sure whichever one of us gets there first, the other certainly won't be far behind. Now, tell me . . . why are you here?"

Kashek Marlat grabbed and yanked the foot stool out from beneath the halfling's legs, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor. But Flek, flailing and holding onto the chair, successfully kept his butt in place. Sliding the stool around behind himself, Marlat backed a half step and sat down facing the chair. Awkwardly perched on a stool sized for a human child, Marlat looked ridiculous. But Flek knew better than to point that out.

Marlat grinned, enjoying the momentary chaos he had caused the intoxicated halfling. Unfortunately, this was the kind of thing Flek had to put up with from the kenja on a regular basis. Marlat remained the kid who pulled wings off of flies or stole the ball from children playing Bounty in the schoolyard. He was the street bully who never outgrew his fascination for causing others grief.

"You know how Ratcher and me always seems to be . . . well . . . at odds?"

Flek was still rearranging himself in the chair, jostling about to regain some modicum of real comfort, now that his foot stool had been so rudely appropriated. "Don't you mean how you loathe each other?"

The kenja's smile grew visibly wider, which was as much an affirmation as Flek was going to get. Leaning slightly forward, Marlat continued, but the volume in his voice dropped noticeably. "What if I told you that, by this time next week, you could be earning twice what you make now? With very little risk on your part?"

The halfling stopped squirming long enough to hone in on Marlat's words. "Twice? And this somehow involves Ratcher?"

The grinning continued. "Not by next week, it won't."

Flek sat completely still for a moment and rolled Marlat's statement around in his head. He felt himself cringe as the realization of what the kenja was suggesting became all too clear.

Marlat was going to make a move on Ratcher.

Despite the wine attempting to stomp out his cognitive facilities, Flek's anxiety seemed to be working just fine. The halfling started squirming again, but this time it had nothing to do with his chair.

"If you are saying what I think you are saying, I don't want . . ."

"Didn't I just use the words little and risk together in a sentence? Are you even listening, toad?"

"Oh . . . I'm listening, but I already don't like what I'm hearing. But please, continue. I'm sure this is going to be a perfectly sensible conversation that won't get both of us killed any time soon."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Selibus Ratcher was the only person Flek knew who was scarier than Kashek Marlat. And that was mostly because he was crazy; the psychotic murdering kind of crazy. A decade or so back, Flek had considered going into business with the man. At the time, neither Ratcher nor Marlat were kenjai, but both were rising stars in the Geyaṁ Panja. Flek knew he needed to hitch his wagon to someone he could count on, to keep him alive, through thick and thin . . . or at least be fiscally manipulated to do so. This was about the same time Ratcher developed his bizarre fascination with orcs. While criminal organizations like the Geyaṁ Panja and Ul Gasuente like to toss around words such as loyalty, honor and brotherhood, the truth of the matter is, when it came right down to it, everyone was out for themselves. Bosses in either organization wouldn't hesitate slaughtering everyone down their chain of command if it kept them from going to prison or significantly increased their profits. So, when word hit the street that Ratcher set a handful of orcs on his own crew as a test of their usefulness in combat, and that Ratcher's entire crew was slaughtered as a result, Flek knew he had to look elsewhere for a benefactor. And Marlat was the obvious second choice.

Marlat leaned forward and rocked the stool back a bit on its two rear legs. Flek thought for a moment about kicking the stool out from under him, for payback, but knew that probably wouldn't go over well. Marlat only had a sense of humor when he was the one dishing it out. "Something unexpected and very fortuitous for you happened at the Old Basement earlier today." Marlat paused and waited for Flek to interject, but when he didn't, the kenja mentally shrugged and continued.

"Gofzog, Kark and Griever went there on a simple delivery for Ratcher this afternoon, and, as it so happens, met their untimely and unexpected demise. They are now very . . . much . . . dead."

Herbedin Flek stopped moving about, suddenly not caring a whit about how comfortable the seat was. "Dead? Gofzog is . . . dead?"

Marlat chuckled. "I knew that would grab your attention. Who'd have thought that butt-ugly, tough as iron, son of a basilisk would be cut down in some crappy pub. Or anywhere for that matter?"

"So he's really dead . . . which means . . . "

"Which means," interjected Marlat, rocking his stool forward, grounding it back on all four legs. " . . . you no longer have to worry about him ratting you out to Ratcher concerning that little stunt you pulled for Carvera Gillum. Let's see now . . . that saves you, what . . . a thousand a week?"

Flek shook his head. "Gods no. Five hundred. But it's substantial, nonetheless," The amount was actually fifteen hundred, but Flek knew better than to share real numbers with anyone . . . especially someone like Marlat who was always looking to take advantage of a situation for his own personal gain. Needless to say, Flek wasn't disappointed.

Marlat's expression went from grinning to all business in a blink of an eye. "Which means, toad, you can afford to pay me three hundred extra every week, and still come out ahead."

"What? Why?"

"Call it a bearer of good news fee. You can start next week cuz I'm generous and cuz I know you already shelled out for Gofzog two days ago. Just lump it in with the rest of my payment." Marlat paused a few seconds, pretending to wait for Flek's reaction, but not really caring what it was. "Or . . . "

Flek looked up and narrowed his eyes. "Or? Or what . . .?"

"Or . . . you can help me get rid of Ratcher and keep the three hundred a week all for yourself. In fact, I'll go so far as letting you retain another three on top of that. Just for good measure. And . . . I'll owe you one." Marlat began to study the halfling carefully, knowing fully well that whatever Flek responded with might just be an answer given to appease him. What Marlat planned on doing was going to be dangerous and there was no room for equivocating. He wasn't lying when he said Flek would assume very little of the risk. But the same couldn't be said for Marlat's own part in all this. One street boss eliminating another was strictly forbidden in the eyes of the people who ran the Geyaṁ Panja . . . meaning it was suicide if they ever found out. Marlat was practically taking all the risk, but he needed the wily halfling to act as his middleman. Despite their coarse banter and strained interactions, Marlat knew he could trust Flek to do his part and never tell a soul. Flek wouldn't dare try to hold this over him on some later date, either. Extortion wasn't really his thing and, despite his bravado, the halfling was far too afraid of what Marlat would do to him if he tried. It's true, they had a complicated, weird relationship based primarily on greed, fear and loathing. But it worked. And when it came down to brass tacks, Flek wasn't one to miss out on the rare opportunity of having Marlat owe him a favor. But, considering the dire consequences if this failed, Marlat needed to know that Flek was either all in or all out. There wasn't any middle ground. Not with this.

Flek grimaced, already overthinking the situation. But he knew Marlat wasn't stupid enough to try something so rash unless he had a really good plan with a very, very high probability of success. "I'm not saying I will or won't, but before I commit to anything, I need to know more about my part in all this. What exactly will I have to do? I can't just take your word for it that I am not gonna be jumping into a huge vat of rancid troll shit."

"Fair enough." Marlat nodded and stood, placing the stool back in front of the halfling. "There is this gnome. Not from Thal Doren, mind you. Newcomer, in fact. Maybe a tourist. Probably hasn't been in the city more than a week, tops. "

"A gnome . . . ."

"He was the client. Ratcher's customer. He wanted some old book Ratcher had squirreled away for years. Worthless really. Or so Ratcher thought – cuz he agreed to sell it to the gnome for 2 cories. Well, you know how Gofzog is . . . or was . . . he figured to grab whatever else he could bleed off the gnome, on top of the set price. And that's when it all went sour for poor, greedy Gofzog."

"A gnome. You're telling me a gnome killed Gofzog, Kark and Griever?"

"Nope."

"Nope?"

"Nope. A drow killed them. When they threatened the gnome. She came out of nowhere and killed all of them in space of a couple seconds. Like the bleedin' wind of death . . . apparently."

"She? Wait? Like a mage or a cleric or something?"

Marlat grunted. "No. No magic. Well . . . nothing obvious. She had a sword. Helluva sword, too. Took off Kark's noggin with one swing. One. And considering that hacking at the neck bone of an orc is like chopping a rock, that's not a simple thing to do. In fact, it's damned impressive."

By this time the wine had fully gone to Flek's head, and he was doing his best to swim through the unavoidable fog of inebriation. He worried that, given his current state, he wouldn't ask enough questions – or even the right ones – to guarantee he didn't bite off more than he could chew. But, knowing Marlat like he did, this was the one and only time the kenja would discuss this sensitive opportunity with him . . . if opportunity was even the right word for it. If he didn't agree to whatever Marlat wanted, he probably wouldn't hear another word about it . . . not until either Ratcher or Marlat showed up dead somewhere . . . or, possibly, didn't show up anywhere ever again. But the worst part of sitting this out and not helping Marlat become the number one street boss in Thal Doren was all the lucrative opportunities he would get passed up for as Ratcher's territories came open for grabs. Marlat was certain to take the lion's share. And if Flek wanted to reap the rewards as well, he was going to have to be part of the plan. That's what Marlat meant by 'doubling his income'. "So now I'm confused," said Flek. "What do the gnome and the elf have to do with killing Ratcher?"

"Simple. They were supposed to be making a purchase from Ratcher. They got greedy and killed three of Ratcher's crew, including his right-hand guy, Gofzog. They took all the coin off the corpses, killed Dorty Bean the bartender, and snatched all the cories out of the till before making their getaway . . . coin that rightfully belonged to Ratcher, mind you. Knowing Ratcher, he's gonna waste no time in going after those two, straight away. Make an example. And, considering what Dorty told me, if Ratcher doesn't send someone really good, they're gonna end up just like Gofzog's crew."

Flek realized he was pretty drunk – but he knew that something about that story didn't quite connect with what Marlat had already said. "Wait. So that's what actually happened or is that just a ruse? Now I'm completely lost."

Marlat shot Flek an annoyed look, then shook his head. "This is what happens when you toss back a whole bottle of crappy wine in the space of a minute. Follow along, toad. What I just told you is what Ratcher is gonna hear, because that is what he is gonna be told. Dorty's a bleedin' idiot and I couldn't trust him to hold to the story, so he became a casualty. Apparently, the gnome stuck a dagger in his eye just before he robbed the place. Terrible tragedy, really. And I went ahead and made sure everyone who was in the Basement at the time won't be seen in Thal Doren ever again. So, there won't be anyone to contradict what Ratcher's been told."

"Except for the gnome and the elf."

"Yeah, but who's gonna believe them? I paid three guys to swear on their mothers' eyeballs that what I just told you is the dirt's honest truth. Ratcher will unquestionably believe what they say. Why wouldn't he? They're his own guys."

"Okay. Fine. But none of that tells me how Ratcher is gonna end up dead without it coming back on you . . . or, more importantly, me. And you still haven't explained my part in any of this, either." Flek realized his lips were now partially numb, so he smacked them together a couple of times to get the blood flowing . . . which, of course, did absolutely nothing at all.

Marlat sighed and reached into a pocket, pulling out a platinum ring, which he handed over to Fleck. "Recognize that? That's the one Sib took off the hedge mage causing all that ruckus in the Siren some weeks back. Almost killed one of the girls. Anyway, that was his ring. I threw the finger away."

"Of course you did." Flek examined the ring, holding it close to his left eye. It was fairly extravagant, as rings go. The platinum alone would fetch quite a price, but he suspected there was more to its value than just precious metal. The amber colored stone didn't seem all that remarkable or valuable until Flek slipped the ring on and the stone suddenly shifted, visually, to resemble a moving reptilian eye of sorts. "So it's enchanted, then. Is that a snake eye?"

Marlat shrugged. "The stone? Yeah. Maybe. Something snake-ish, I guess. Maybe a dragon. Who cares. The point is, it's a ring any wizard worth his salt would love to get their hands on. I had it checked out. Sib swore Galta offered him seven hundred for it. I gave him three hundred and let him keep all his teeth."

Flek rolled his eyes. Kashek Marlat. Ever the humanitarian. "Sounds like a deal to me."

"Not as good as the deal you are gonna offer that very gnome when he shows up here in an hour for the ring. The terms have already been struck and he's been told he can have it for two hundred. It's a bargain no wizard could pass up, right? But I'm pretty sure you could haggle him back up to three, if you try hard enough."

Flek grimaced. "He's coming here? To my home? Why in the world would he come here?"

"So you can sell him the bloody ring, of course. Look. We don't have time for you to sober up, so listen carefully. When he shows, asking for the ring . . . or rather, when they show, you are gonna explain how Selibus Ratcher wants them dead for killing his crew, and the only way they're gonna survive for more than a couple days is to take Ratcher out first. You are gonna have to convince them of this . . . . but it won't be as difficult as you might think."

"Hold up. This is your brilliant plan to remove Ratcher? Send two people you don't even know – one of them a gnome . . . possibly a wizard . . . "

"He is a wizard."

"Okay . . . a gnome wizard and a dark elf – who are somehow gonna sneak by, or better yet, wade through Ratcher's small army of cutthroats, assassins and orc thugs, and kill him? Just like that? Just kill him. Are you insane?!" Flek heaved himself out of the chair and began pacing back and forth in front of Marlat.

"First off," Flek continued, "they are never going to agree to do this. I certainly wouldn't. If I thought the Geyaṁ Panja was after me, I'd be on the first available ship back home . . . wherever home is for them. Secondly, even if either of them somehow believe – even for a second – that their only way out of this is to off Selibus Ratcher, you can't possibly know they are even remotely capable of it. I mean . . . a gnome for goodness sake! Maybe if both of them were dark elves and they had another dozen or more dark elves hidden away somewhere . . . but this . . . this is not a plan! And it isn't anything close to a good idea. So I'm out. All the way out! So far out that I am not even gonna bat an eye at the three hundred."

Flek glared at Marlat, whose evil grin remained unchanged. The kenja didn't seem the least bit fazed that he had concocted a crap plan with absolutely no chance of success. If Flek agreed to help him, they – not Ratcher – would be dead by next week. But that couldn't be right. This couldn't be all there was. Something was missing – something important – and Marlat was holding back.

"What?" asked Flek. "What haven't you told me?"

Kashek Marlat snickered like a kid who told a joke that nobody else got. "You know that statement you previously made . . . about sending in two people I don't even know. It was wrong."

"What was wrong?"

"I don't know the gnome. So it's just the one person . . . "

Flek scratched his head. "What? Wait . . . you know the dark elf?"

"Well not exactly. I don't know her. But I definitely know of her. And so do you."

"Marlat . . . drunk or sober, I still have no idea what the hell you are getting at. What about the elf?"

"Dark elf."

"Yeah. Whatever. The dark elf. The drow. What about her?"

"Turns out, she isn't much of a newcomer to Thal Doren, after all. Turns out, Dorty recognized her. Which is the main reason he had to go. He would have told bleedin' everyone."

"Told everyone what? Who is she?"

"Toad. In a little while you are gonna meet with our guests and tell them about Ratcher and how he is going after them. The story – my story – about what happened in the bar? That story only has one purpose. To light a fire under Ratcher. To piss him off and make him see red and go after the gnome and the dark elf. But what you are gonna do – the thing that's gonna gain me Ratcher's nuts in a ditty bag – you are gonna show them this . . . well . . . show her this."

Ratcher reached into his belt pouch and brought out a wad of tattered parchment, all rolled up and bound together with a knotted ribbon.

Flek looked dubiously at the lumpy mound of faded paper. "What is that?"

"That, my little toad, is all the proof in the world tying Ratcher to that massacre in Aleah's eight years back. Proof that he was behind the slaughter of all those hard-working women as payback for a what he perceived as a refusal to pay him his rightful cut. That's back when he was grabbing every bit of territory he could find . . . trying to make a name for himself. In a way, it worked. But a lot of people died in the process. It was bad for business – for a while – but in the end, Ratcher got what he wanted. And now he's a street boss. But we all eventually reap what we sow . . . now don't we?"

Flek shook his head. "That can't be right. Grundy and his crew did that job. And he had help, too. Three freelancers, if I recall. All the women, brutalized and killed. It was horrible. The place was burned to the ground. Aleah survived – barely – but she was cut up and burned so severely even the clerics couldn't fix all the scarring. She eventually took her own life. Sad, really. She was a beautiful woman with an outstanding head for business."

"But she was never right in the head after that, and certainly wasn't much to look at anymore. She drank a vial of poison and ended it all. But not before she sold every whore house and liquidated every scrap of property she owned. And all of that money. Thousands. Tens of thousands. All of it . . . went to one person. An assassin. One of those you can't even talk to without first plopping down a king's ransom. Remember?"

"Yes." Flek remembered, alright. It was well beyond tens of thousands. No one knew for certain, but he suspected that, given the value of Aleah's very high-end businesses, and all the wealth she had accumulated from Thal Doren's elite over a decade, it was probably more coin than any one person had gathered together since the Verdanti uprising. And every copper of it went to pay for revenge. A single assassin was hired to take out every person involved in that horrible annihilation. Within days, bodies started dropping. No matter how deadly or dangerous . . . each and every thug, leg breaker and hireling who took part in the carnage that night ended up a corpse. Like lambs to the slaughter. Even Grundy . . . which hardly anyone could fathom, considering his reputation with a blade. It took months, but eventually he found his way to a slab as well. The man had been sliced up so viciously, even his mistresses could barely recognize him.

"And remember how Grundy did everything he could to find that assassin . . . kill or be killed he would say. Over and over. He spent every corie he had buying information, hiring wizards and oracles . . . he let his routes die out and his businesses fall into the shitter. In the end he was destitute and he died a bloody pauper. When death came, there was nothing he could do to stop it. And in all that time, with all that death, one lone assassin made good on Aleah's entire fucking contract and got very rich in the process."

"I still don't get it. What does . . ."

"Dorty Bean. He worked for Grundy back then. He watched from the shadows as the assassin faced off against that bastard and cut him up like he was a toddler with a dull twig. Dorty went to work for Ratcher after that . . . and has lived in the Old Basement ever since. Stayed there, worked there, and slept there. Hardly ever came up into the streets. He lost the stomach for our kind of life after Grundy, and was seemingly content to work in a crappy underground pub serving piss water to malcontents and winos."

"Until you killed him."

Marlat frowned. "I didn't have a choice. He came to me in a panic after Gofzog and his boys got slaughtered this afternoon. He was shouting and screaming. I calmed him down. But what he told me . . . well . . . I couldn't allow anything to get back to Ratcher. Not with the opportunity that just fell into my lap. Dorty – like I said, I couldn't trust him to hold to the story. He'd have gone straight to Ratcher, for certain. Today, poor Dorty came face to face with the devil he's been hiding from for eight years. The dark elf in the pub. She's the very assassin who killed Grundy and every bleedin last one of those sonofabitches. I don't know why she's in Thal Doren, and I don't care. But this . . . this beautiful pile of correspondences I've been hanging onto for eight long years, just trying to figure out how to put 'em to good use . . . You show her those, toad. You let her read the notes. If she is what I believe her to be, she won't have any choice but to finish the job. There's still a contact, you see. And until Ratcher is dead, the contract remains unfulfilled. Ratcher ordered that slaughter, not Grundy. And now, eight years later, he's gonna get what's coming to him. But, on the odd chance Dorty was wrong about this – and I am highly doubtful of that – our two tourists probably won't make it more than a couple days before they are feeding crabs in the harbor along with several of your ex-wives."

Flek listened to Marlat as he pulled on the ribbon, untying the knotted bow and freeing the papers. Skimming over the letters, he quickly came to the realization that Marlat wasn't making any of this up. Ratcher did order the attack on Aleah and her girls. The proof was sitting there in his hands. Without realizing it, Flek had dropped the ring which bounced and rolled, coming to a stop under his overstuffed chair. Flek continued to read, practically oblivious to that or anything else.

"Well?" asked Marlat. "Are you in or what?"

Herbedin Flek wasn't a gambler. He only ever bet his money, his reputation, or his life, on a sure thing. Marlat may have been a sadistic fiend, but he was a smart one. He certainly wouldn't take a risk like this unless he was as convinced as he claimed. And that was saying a lot. So, Herbedin Flek began to smile a genuine, joyful smile. It had really turned out to be a good day, after all. Gofzog was dead and, by this time next week, Ratcher would be as well. And Flek was going to be much, much richer than he had ever dreamed. "Kashek, my friend, I am so far in, it's beginning to murder my buzz."