46

  Rufi curled into his long coat, hiding behind his collars, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, as the relentless wind kicked up. The abandoned industrial block wasn’t exactly the best place to escape the weather, and Rufi was already beginning to feel the cold. His body still ached from the battle with the Carrambus. His cuts had healed well, but the burns on his back were so tender it made even wearing clothes painful. Rufi hooked his cheek and spat out a thick wad of Charram and blinked lethargically. He had been overindulging in the leaf to dull the pain, and it was beginning to make him slow and sloppy. The weak morning light did little to dispel the chill of the night as dew formed on the cracked brickwork of the factory he was waiting in. He checked his watch again and tutted.

  After another five minutes, a carriage finally pulled up, and Tiko jumped out, looking conspicuous with his hood pulled up over his head. He threw a furtive glance up and down the road before flitting across the desolate street and into the factory.

  “About time,” Rufi said as he lit another smoke.

  “Forgive me, it hasn’t been easy to get away,” Tiko said, pulling down his hood and looking around the factory.

  “I’m alone,” Rufi said. “And I’ve already checked the place out, there’s no one here.”

  Tiko nodded and sighed heavily. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

  “What happened, Rufi? This was supposed to be over, there’s no more Bad Batch on the streets.”

  “There isn’t,” Rufi said, sounding more defensive than he intended. “There can’t be.”

  “Then why are there more bodies?” Tiko snapped.

  “I don’t know,” Rufi growled. “Unless there was someone else bringing it in. I took Haney’s last stock and the coppers got the fresh package.”

  “And that was also the Bad Batch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know?”

  Rufi twirled his smoke around the tips of his fingers as he thought.

  “Because… I found this.” Rufi held up the red string.

  “String?” Tiko said, nonplussed.

  “This red string has been everywhere,” Rufi said. “On all the packages, even the one the Yano showed the Kings, and it was tied around those dead Dwarves.”

  Tiko blanched at the memory of the butchery.

  “I found this in Haney’s second warehouse after the coppers raided.”

  Tiko took the red string and inspected it.

  “Does it mean anything to you?” Rufi asked.

  “Perhaps…” Tiko said as he looked at the string curiously.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Tiko?”

  Tiko looked up and arched his brows.

  “Nothing.”

  Rufi glared at the little Gnome.

  “Are you sure?”

  “What are you accusing me of, Rufi?”

  A moment of tension crackled between them.

  “So you ain’t found out anything about who these Gnomes selling this shit might be?”

  “No. I can’t exactly go around asking too many questions.”

  "No, you just leave that shit to me, right?”

  Again, they glared at each other.

  “You know how delicate my situation is,” Tiko said, picking his words carefully.

  “You know what Tiko? I’m sick to the tips of my fucking tusks hearing about your delicate situation. This whole move was your idea and your fuck up, yet I’m the one having to clean the mess. I’m the one getting dragged in front of the Kings. I’m the one having to lie to my own uncle to protect your ass.”

  Tiko pursed his lips and clenched his jaw.

  “We’re in this together…” he began.

  “Then start pulling your fucking weight,” Rufi growled, standing up and flicking his smoke. “Find out who these Gnomes are and why they’re so hellbent on selling this Bad Batch in Valderia. Start with that string. Next time we speak, you better have answers for me.”

  Rufi pulled up his collars and stalked out of the factory. Tiko looked at the red string in his hand and then at Rufi’s back before spitting and muttering something in Gnommish.

  *

  Rufi stomped back into the pool hall, cold, tired, and ravenously hungry. His burns itched and the wounds in his side had started radiating pain all throughout his torso. He had spent the day chasing up every loose end and late payer in his book. He had taken his eyes off the game for too long, chasing the Bad Batch around the streets. It was time to get back to doing what he did best.

  Shaking off his coat, Rufi flung it on the stand by the door and stalked through the pool hall. It was busy tonight. The rain and wind had driven the prey from the street, so the predators had slunk away to find somewhere warm and dry. The place was full of Faces. Hardnose Ron was in the corner nursing a pint. Gak’tar the Cleaver was throwing darts with Ombob Bentlegs. The Redturn Lane boys had two tables and were squabbling over some bet on a game of pool. Happy the Gnome scowled from under his hood in a booth completely alone. Even the Shoreham mob had stopped in to discuss business with Ten Legs.

  Every Face in the place nodded, extended hands, or shouted greetings across the hall to Rufi. He returned it all with small nods and polite smiles, but he wasn’t much in the mood to stop and chat. He had a thunderous headache brewing from the Charaam, and his mouth tasted like ash and mud. All he wanted to do was lay down in a dark room and die quietly for at least a few hours.

  “Shoya!” a voice called from his left.

  Rufi groaned inwardly and turned to see who was calling him. It was one of the young boys, Tom’Tom, a round-faced Goblin with short tusks and mottled green scales. He waved Rufi over. With a sigh, Rufi dragged his feet to the booth where the young Goblin, two of his companions, and a thick set Human were hunched over.

  “Wot you gone adn called Rufi into this for?” the Human snapped at Tom’Tom.

  “Shoya will straighten this out,” Tom’Tom said before turning to Rufi. “Shoya we need you in the middle of this situation.”

  Rufi tried not to groan. One of the more serious responsibilities on an elder’s shoulders was to mediate disputes. In most circles, Rufi would never be considered an elder, but Tom’Tom was barely out of his twenties, little more than a child, and he was dealing with notorious crook Halfhanded Henry, so called because he always did business with half his hand in your pocket.

  “What’s the trouble?” Rufi asked, pulling up a seat.

  “No trouble Rufi,” Henry said.

  He was a boorishly ugly man, with a bent nose and golden teeth at odd intervals. He was always scruffy, but today he looked particularly dishevelled, his beard overgrown and his grey, thinning hair lank across his greasy forehead.

  “Henry’s tryna chisel us out of a square deal,” Tom’Tom said hotly.

  “Oi, be careful who you call a chisler,” Henry warned, pointing a finger at Tom’Tom.

  “We agreed thirty five gold for three boxes of broccoli,” Tom’Tom retorted.

  “Those broccoli’s were brown by the time I got ‘em!” Henry said. “Who am I gonna sell brown broccoli’s at near twelve coins a box?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “You put us on the score!” one of Tom’Tom’s partner said. “If they was brown that’s your fault! We did the job!”

  Rufi held up a hand before they could continue. The bickering parties fell silent and turned to Rufi expectantly.

  “Henry, what did you pay the boys to do?” Rufi asked. “To boost the goods or to sell you the goods?”

  “Well… I said if they nicked the veg then I would buy it off them,” Henry said, picking his way cautiously through his explanation.

  Rufi turned to Tom’Tom.

  “What did you think you were doing?”

  “He said he would give us thirty five gold if we boosted the shipment,” Tom’Tom said.

  Rufi scratched his ear.

  “And the goods are no good?” Rufi asked Henry.

  “Brown and limp as my cock,” Henry replied. "Here have a look."

  Henry pushed a small wooden box towards him. Rufi popped the lid open and saw. asad assortment of mashapen heads of broccoli. Rufi frowned at the box and poked his finger around. They weren't quite rotten yet but they were well on their way.

  “And how long did the boys have possession of the goods?” Rufi asked.

  “We boosted it last night,” Tom’Tom said quickly.

  Rufi tutted and rolled his tongue around his cheek as he thought.

  “Alright, here’s how it’s gonna lay down,” Rufi said, massaging the jolting pain above his eyebrow. “Henry, you're gonna give the boys twenty four gold for the three boxes.” Rufi raised his hand as both parties opened their mouths to protest. “You know as well as I do, you’ll get those boxes off for thirty five still out East. Eleven gold ain’t a bad profit for doing nothing. And as for you lot.” Rufi turned to the three young Goblins. “That’s what you get for not getting at least half up front. They don’t call him Halfhanded for nothing. Take this as a lesson. Plus, I don’t remember you running this by any of us. Your tax is fifteen percent. We’ll round that up to an even four gold. I’m assuming you got the gold on you, Henry?”

  Henry looked at Rufi sheepishly before digging into his jacket and producing a tinkling bag. After surreptitiously counting out twenty four coins, he handed them to the crestfallen Goblins, who then placed four coins in front of Rufi.

  “Pleasure as always, Henry.” Rufi said.

  Henry popped his hat back on his head and scarpered as quick as he could out of the hall with his pilfered broccoli. Tom’Tom pouted at Rufi with his meagre stack of coins in his pocket.

  “Why so glum?” Rufi asked him.

  “We was supposed to get paid out proper from that one, Shoya.” Tom’Tom said.

  “Not that we don’t appreciate your council,” one of his partner’s said.

  "But we had to put in proper work for that," Tom'Tom said.

  Rufi sighed and stood up, pocketing the coins and rolling the knuckle of his index finger across his eyebrow.

  “Well lucky you, I know a fella who’s running around with three boxes of broccoli you can lift.”

  The three Goblins looked up eagerly.

  “Can we?” Tom’Tom asked and Rufi shrugged.

  “He ain’t one of us. Do as you please. But make sure you pay your tribute this time, don’t make me come looking for it.”

  The Goblins nodded and zipped out of the booth on the hunt for Halfhanded Henry and his brown broccoli. Rufi shook his head and nodded to the barkeep before stumbling into his office. He left the light off. Feeling about by touch only, he found the sagging sofa. He yanked his tie loose, unbuttoned his top button, kicked off his shoes, pulled off his jacket, and collapsed face first into the sofa, where blissful oblivion swallowed him.

  *

  “Is he dead?”

  “Give him a poke and find out.”

  “Wave that kebab in front of his snorter, if he don’t stir he must be dead.”

  The smell of meat and grease wafted through the darkness of oblivion. The voices were just faint murmurs, but the scent was all encompassing. Greasy, thick cut meat with an aftertaste of strong spices and a sharp tang of onion invading Rufi’s nostrils. He was already sitting up before his eyes had fully opened. He groaned as the aches and pains in his back and side flared up. Blinking heavily, Rufi looked around the office. Pauli, Pug, Mikkle, and Chuch were all sitting around an upturned crate with a small mountain of thick cut kebab meat heaped on it. There were flat breads, crunchy salads, and tubs of sauces arrayed around it like petals on a flower. Rufi’s mouth flooded with saliva. Still barely conscious, Rufi reached out and grabbed a long sliver of meat. He draped the whole thing into his mouth and chewed slowly.

  “There he is!” Pug laughed, thrusting a bottle of beer at Rufi.

  "Oof, you’re looking rough Shoya,” Chuch growled as he tore a flat bread in half and chucked it across to Rufi’s side of the meat mountain.

  “Headache,” Rufi mumbled around a mouthful of meat and bread.

  He grabbed a pickled spice from the pile of salad, bit the end, and dripped the juice all over the pile of meat.

  “Too much of the leaf,” Pauli said, disapprovingly.

  Rufi shrugged, swallowed, and washed it down with half the bottle of beer. He belched and finally felt halfway awake.

  “Where’d you get this from?” Rufi asked, pulling another long cut of meat and biting into it.

  “No Tongue Abu,” Mikkle said as he tucked a paper towel into his collar like a bib.

  “I thought he got run out of the city after that thing with the tainted lamb?” Rufi said.

  “Naa… he smoothed that over. Come back with a kilos of butchered goat meat this time. He’s back to slinging kebabs out by the Docks.” Chuch said.

  “Expensive?” Rufi asked.

  “Done our nut getting this lot,” Mikkle said.

  “He’s making a lot of coin right now,” Chuch said with that wicked glint in his eye.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Rufi warned him. “You know Abu goes way back with my uncle.”

  Chuch shrugged innocently and then gave Rufi a wicked grin. They continued to devour the mountain of meat, drowning it as much of Abu’s flaming chilli sauce as they could stomach. Before long they were sweating and belching enough to cause condensation on the walls.

  Rufi sighed and sat back, lighting a smoke and patting his stomach.

  “I needed that,” Rufi said, chucking his pack of smokes to Chuch.

  “A smoke, a drink, and a blowjob, and I’ll die a happy Goblin,” Mikkle laughed, pilfering one of Rufi’s smokes.

  “I saw Hairy faced Harry out front, want me to give him a call?” Pug cackled.

  “You dirty bastard,” Mikkle said, clipping Pug around his ear.

  A knock at the door interrupted them.

  “Yeah?” Chuch called out.

  “Message for Shoya,” the call came back.

  Pauli hopped off his stall, cleaned his hands the best he could, and opened the door. He took the letter and offered it to Rufi, who waved his hand for Pauli to open it. Pauli slit the wax seal open with his thumb claw and scanned the note. He looked up at Rufi and handed it to him without a word. Rufi took the letter and sat up as he read:

  Got something for you. Meet at the other place at midnight.

  T

  Rufi frowned at the letter and looked at Pauli.

  “What?” Chuch said. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Rufi said, crumpling up the letter. “Just some business I gotta take care of. What time is it?”

  “11:30,” Mikkle said, checking his wristwatch.

  “Shit. I gotta get moving,” Rufi said, brushing himself down and standing up creakily.

  “You think this is okay?” Pauli asked.

  Rufi looked at him curiously.

  “You don’t?”

  “He doesn’t usually send it like that,” Pauli replied, picking his words carefully.

  “Who? Send what?” Chuch growled.

  “I told him to dig something up and shout me when he did, that’s all.” Rufi said as he straightened his tie and tried to smooth out his crumpled shirt before giving up and pulling it off. “Grab the purple one out of the closet.”

  “What business, Ruf?” Chuch said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Nothing major,” Rufi said offhandedly as he slipped into a fresh shirt and buttoned it up. He caught the concern in Pauli’s eyes. "Listen, just.. stay local tonight alright. Could be something… could be nothing.”

  “You walking into something?” Chuch asked.

  “No. It’s just Pauli being an old fishwife.”

  “You ain’t going anywhere with just him as backup,” Chuch growled, jabbing a finger at Pauli.

  “I ain’t going anywhere with him. Paul, you stay here. Relax boys, it’s just a bit of business. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Before they could protest anymore, Rufi pulled on his jacket, secured his tomahawk and switchblade, before walking out of the room. He was glad to get out of there and get some fresh air. He walked through the pool hall and grabbed his long coat on the way out. He stepped into the cold, damp night air and took a deep breath. His carriage pulled up in front of him and he hopped in. He might finally be getting some answers about what the hell was going on in Valderia.

  *

  Rufi stepped out of his carriage thirty minutes later. He alighted from his cab on Vickers Ave, a disused strip of businesses and houses he and Tiko had originally used to house the Bad Batch when it had first come in. It was a strange place to meet, but then Tiko was always paranoid. He refused to ever meet Rufi in the same place twice in a row. Rufi pulled up his collars against the steady rain and buried his hands in his pockets. Then on second thought, he untucked his switchblade and stuffed it into his pocket. His fist curled around the cool metal as he walked into the abandoned row of three story houses. He stepped through the broken down door and into the building. There was just enough light peeling through the badly boarded up windows for him to see in. Goblins had naturally good night vision, and Rufi gave himself a second for his eyes to adjust. He walked through the first house and through a hole in the wall into the second. He looked around.

  Where was Tiko?

  He stepped carefully through the debris ladened former living room, expecting to see the diminutive Gnome posted up, ready to berate Rufi for being late. But the house was still. Rufi’s eyes continued to adjust, and he saw a flicker of movement to his left. He turned his head and saw a small figure in a long cloak with the hood drawn up.

  “Tiko?” Rufi said.

  The figure half turned, and it looked like a Gnome… but it wasn’t Tiko. The figure spun and fled back the way Rufi had come.

  “What the…?” Rufi’s survival instinct suddenly went into overdrive.

  He tore down the passage and through the hole just in time to see the door slam shut. He heard the heavy thunk of something locking in place. Then he felt the floorboards tremble from behind him. Rufi turned. A hulking mass in the darkness lumbered towards him, so big it had to hunch and squeeze to fit through the doorways. Rufi’s eyes widened as the thing passed through a beam of light from outside. Rufi was looking at a Troll. But not a city Troll. This one was a monster from the mountainsides. It was over seven feet tall and four feet wide. Its arms were so long and muscled, its knuckles dragged across the floor. It stepped out of the shadows and looked at Rufi with dull eyes. Then it roared like some territorial animals spotting a challenger. Spittle flew from a mouth full of blunt, stone crushing teeth. The sound of its battle cry rattled the plaster work on the dilapidated walls.

  “Fuck!” Rufi breathed.

  And then it charged.