A Cunning Plan

The space was dark, damp and confined, just the way Muridae liked it. Well, maybe not the damp. But dark and confined were certainly up there on his list of desirable qualities in an environment.

The gnome crept along the tight tunnel, navigating the irregular surfaces by a comination of feel and excellent sight in the dark, developed over many years of skulking around in such places. This was his world, one travelled by no other sentient being, and he cherished it dearly.

Muridae’s internal navigation guided him along the labyrinthine passageways that ran beneath the city of Machburg until at last he emerged in a cellar crammed with crates and sacks. He straightened, suppressing a groan, and batted some dirt off the giant rat pelt that served him as both hood and cloak, its tail trailing along the ground behind him. He might not have been the cleanest of gnomes, nor the most hygenic, or the sweetest smelling, but he wasn’t about to allow his cloak to be sullied any more than necessary. Those things didn’t grow on trees, after all!

He paused as he heard voices, muffled by the walls, and crept forward. Soft feet padded up the staircase, which didn’t so much as creak upon his passing. Careful hands eased open the door at their summit, its hinges gliding as it swung wide to reveal the scene beyond.

He had emerged into a workshop. A carpenter’s, if he was any judge. Mallets, saws and chisels were the identifiable tools amongst the array of implements arrayed neatly across one wall. Half-finished projects lay in stasis upon benches that lined the walls, suspended in the moment of last interaction with their creator. And, in the centre of the room, a vast workbench dominated the space, currently clear of works in progress but doing an admirable job of propping up the two goblins who leaned against it.

Though of the same race, the two could not have been more dissimilar. The first was stocky, his frame further bulked by the heavy, hard-wearing clothing that covered it. His face was grim, his mouth a thin line beneath a hooked and bulbous nose, above which two hard eyes glared.

The second goblin was short and slight, clad in a motley collection of brightly coloured clothes that were enveloped by a huge, fur-lined overcoat. A fat, gold chain rested about his neck and a flat cap sat atop his head, beneath which his eyes glinted with mischief.

It was the latter who spotted Muridae first, pushing himself away from the workbench and gesturing in the gnome’s direction.

“There he is!” the goblin said, grinning broadly. “My favourite sneak thief. Still not using the streets like regular people?”

“Hi, Jobie,” said Muridae, ignoring the jibe. He nodded at the other goblin. “Who’s your friend?”

Jobie looked to the side, seemingly surprised to find the second goblin beside him. He slapped his companion on the back, a gesture that did not seem to be well received, though the goblin voiced no objection.

“This is Mortician,” Jobie announced.

Muridae frowned. “You didn’t tell me we were using new people.” He looked Mortician up and down. He did not have the look of a thief. “He any good?”

“Oh, he’s not here to steal,” said Jobie, laughing.

Muridae’s frown deepened. “So his purpose is?”

“Insurance!”

Muridae hid his frustration at Jobie’s vague answers well. “Let’s hope we don’t need it.”

Jobie shrugged. “We’ve hit some snags in the past. I’d rather have a plan B if things go sour.”

“Alright, I’ll bite; what’s plan B?”

“A preventative,” said Jobie mysteriously, “against unwanted outcomes.”

“Such as?”

Jobie’s eyes widenend. “Death!”

Muridae shook his head. “I didn’t sign up for involvement in necromancy.”

“Not necromancy!” said Jobie hurriedly, waving his hands. “Look, just trust me, ok? Have I ever led you astray before?”

Muridae gave this some thought. “Well, there was that time you tried to sell pond water as “natural spring” water and people got sick because the pond was polluted.”

“Yes, well,” said Jobie, waving his hand dismissively, “apart from that.”

“There was the time the man you tried to swindle had a heart attack that led to accusations of murder,” Muridae continued.

“Well, two little mistakes,” said Jobie. “Hardly worth mentioning in the grand scheme of things.”

“Then there was the time you tried to pass off those coins as real, thinking they were counterfeit, only to discover that they were rare, ancient currency. We really lost out on that one.”

“Look,” said Jobie, some of the joviality shorn from his voice, “no-one’s perfect.” He took a deep breath and forced the smile back onto his face. “The point is,” he said, in a voice that had quickly resumed its old charismatic charm, “this isn’t necromancy and this will work.”

Muridae shrugged. “If you say so. It’s not like I have much else I’m working on at the moment. What’s the plan?”

Jobie’s grin widened and he seized several sections of wood from behind him, spreading them across the workbench.

“We’re here,” said the surly goblin, pointing to one of the blocks, “in a joiner’s workshop that forms part of a row of such premises all along one straight road, on the opposite side of which is the local graveyard.”

”The graveyard,” Muridae echoed, his voice deadpan.

“That’s what I said,” said Jobie. “The mark will be making his way down the street, between the buildings and the graveyard-”

“I do wish you’d stop mentioning the graveyard,” Muridae interrupted.

“Why?” asked Jobie, radiating innocence. “Perfectly normal to find them in a city this size.”

“Not quite so normal to keep mentioning them.”

“It is when it’s in the locale of where this operation is taking place.”

“A locale you selected,” Muridae pointed out.

“So?”

“So,” Muridae said, “the choice of location, coupled with the repeated mention of the graveyard, combined with references to insurance against death, topped off by an absolute denial that this has anything to do with necromancy, leads me to believe that this has everything to do with necromancy!”

There were several moments of silence as Jobie seemed to process all that had been said.

“Look,” he said eventually, “I’ll level with you; there is a slight element of returning from the dead about it-”

“I knew it!”

“-but it’s not what you think!”

“What is it, then?” Muridae asked. “And make it good or I’m out of here and you can find some other mug to play undead with.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

Jobie looked awkward. “I can, sort of, kind of, voluntarily, that is, go to the Deadlands.”

Muridae frowned as he turned over the sentence in his mind. “Can’t we all do that?”

“No!” said Jobie. “It’s not like that! I don’t die!”

“You don’t die?”

“No!”

“But you’re in the Deadlands?”

“Yes!”

“That makes no sense.”

Jobie threw up his hands, grasping for explanations. “Think of it as visiting another place,” he said, “but one where only you can go and where you need help getting back from.”

Muridae shifted his gaze to Mortician. “Let me guess, that’s where he comes in.”

“Exactly!”

“Me and my associate,” said Mortician in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Your associate?”

“Viktor Petty,” said Mortician.

“And where’s he?”

Mortician looked to Jobie, who squirmed.

“Let me guess,” said Muridae, “he’s in the graveyard.”

“Well, in his defence he is a grave robber,” Jobie explained. “Look, it might not even come to this. Mortician has a way to bring me back. With Viktor around, for whatever reason, I have a second point to exit the Deadlands. Like I said, they’re just for insurance.”

”You haven’t needed insurance before,” Muridae pointed out.

“The mark’s a bit tougher than our usual targets,” Jobie admitted. “Could squash me like that.” He brought his closed fist down on the workbench in demonstration.

“Why are we targetting him, then?” Muridae asked. “Surely there are easier marks, especially in a city this big?”

“He’s said to have a massive moonstone,” said Jobie. “We get that and we’re set for the big leagues.”

“The big leagues,” said Muridae, his voice flat.

“Is there an echo in here?” asked Jobie. “Yes, the big leagues. With a score like this we could finance some truly great schemes.”

Muridae was frowning. “Just who is it who’s told you about this moonstone?”

“Friend of a friend,” said Jobie, waving away the question. “What, you don’t trust me? When have I ever-?” His voice trailed off as Muridae opened his mouth. “Never mind,” he finished. “Look, I’m taking all the risks here. I’ll keep his attention, you grab the stone. It’ll be easy.”

“If it was easy,” said Muridae, “someone else would have taken the stone before now.”

“Easy for us,” Jobie clarified, regaining some of his easygoing swagger. “Easy for us.”

The ringing of a doleful bell from beyond the door stalled further conversation.

“That’s Viktor,” said Jobie. “The mark’s on their way. Just follow my lead and we’ll have the stone in no time.”

“And if things don’t go to plan?” Muridae asked.

Jobie pulled his coat to one side to reveal the old, second hand pistol at his hip. “That’s where plan B comes in.”

The street outside was shrouded in darkness. The row of artificers’ workshops would have been busy at most times of the day but it was past closing. The street was deserted by everything but the mist that coiled around the buildings and, Muridae was unsurprised to note, about the bars that marked the boundary to the graveyard opposite. The street lamps leant the scene a further eerie presence, their guttering light muted and warped in the thick air.

A thrill ran the length of Muridae’s body. Though it was not a cold night, there was something about the feeling in the air that was unsettling. Jobie’s plan, which had felt so positive back in the workshop, suddenly seemed as insubstantial as the air about them.

Heavy footfalls approached, muted by the dense fog, making their exact distance difficult to ascertain. Then the mists flexed, coiled and parted to reveal the huge figure of a troll, striding down the street. He, for Muridae was relatively confident that it was a he, walked with a carefree manner. And why wouldn’t he? When you are that big, what is really going to give you trouble even on a dark night on an abandoned street? Already secreted in the shadows, Muridae found himself backing further away until he met the building line, continuing to observe and assess the newcomer.

The troll’s only nod to traditional attire were a pair of loose-fitting slacks, held up by a length of rope, and worn sandals. His torso and arms were bare, though the skin was broken at intervals by clusters of growths that Muridae took to be some sort of rock. Another such growth sprouted atop the brute’s head, either side of which a solitary horn sprouted.

The expression that rested on the features set below the combination of natural armour and weaponry was, to Muridae’s surprise, one of peace. The troll looked, if anything, simple. The expression in general sagged slightly, the upturned corners of his mouth making him seem gormless. Was this their target? Muridae’s searching eyes picked out a bundle clutched under one muscular arm. Even in the darkness and the limited light afforded by the street lamps, Muridae could see the thing glitter.

Jobie was right; a moonstone that size would be worth a fortune. They would have to find the right buyer to take it off their hands, of course. Or maybe, for something so grand, direct trade with the Elrich themselves could be negotiated. But he was getting carried away with himself; they had to get the stone first.

“Good evening to you, squire!”

Muridae felt himself tense at Jobie’s address and watched as the goblin swaggered into the street, almost dancing across the cobbles as he sank into his performance. Muridae had seen it many a time before. Jobie was a master at this part. It was getting the result that always seemed to evade him.

The troll’s only indication that he had acknowledged Jobie’s presence was to step around him as he continued on his seemingly predetermined path, from which nothing would cause him to stray. A slight scowl briefly betrayed Jobie’s irritation and then the goblin's standard joviality was back and he was scuttling after the troll.

Muridae kept pace along the building line, taking comfort in the shadows and refraining from entering pools of light cast by the street lamps. He barely contained a squeak of dismay as Jobie, unable to get the troll to halt by standard means, ran ahead of the lumbering giant and stood his ground, arms outstretched, giving the troll little choice but to stop or tread Jobie into the cobbles. Thankfully the troll chose the former.

“Good sir!” said Jobie, and Muridae was amazed at how even the goblin managed to keep his voice after placing himself in mortal peril. “A moment of your time, please!”

The troll peered down at Jobie, tilting his head one way and then the other, as if regarding him primarily through either eye would give him varying results as to what he was witnessing.

“What do you want?” The troll’s voice was a distant thunder in a clear sky, deep and rumbling yet strangely not threatening.

“Why, kind sir!” said Jobie, beaming broadly. “Only to offer you the oppotunity of a lifetime!”

The troll regarded Jobie for a moment and then made to step around him, but Jobie stepped with him, matching the movement.

“What is your name, good troll?” he enquired.

Another pause, though whether because the troll was deciding whether to answer or what the answer was, Muridae couldn’t tell.

“Boulder,” the troll said eventually. “That’s my name.”

“Boulder,” said Jobie. “What a suitably…rocky name. Well, Boulder, today is your lucky day as I have been searching the city for someone worthy of my wares with no luck…until now.”

The troll’s expression didn’t change. “Huh?”

Jobie ignored the query and pressed on, throwing wide his coat to reveal the gleaming treasures it was lined with. “Behold!” he said. “Jewellery fit for only the finest of consumers!” Without waiting for a response, Jobie selected an item seemingly at random and held it out towards the troll. The unmistakable lustre of gold gleamed in the light of the street lamps. “If I could borrow your wrist, good sir?”

Jobie held out his own arm in demonstration and, to Muridae’s amazement, the troll did as he was bidden. Jobie held the bracelet against it, turning his head this way and that as if considering the effect.

“No,” he concluded, “it’s not quite right. Can I try it on the other one?”

The troll made to transfer the stone he was holding over to the opposite arm so he could do as Jobie had asked and the goblin hurriedly waved his hands.

“Why don’t you put it down?” he said.

“It’s my rock,” said the troll.

“And I’m not disputing that,” said Jobie, radiating reassurance, “but I think it would be infinitely better to fit you for this fine piece of high craftsmanship if I could have, yes, both of your wrists at the same time, so if you could just…”

He tried to intercept the stone as it was passed from one arm to the other. Boulder pulled back, dragging Jobie, who had managed to get two hands on the craggy surface, along in its wake. The goblin’s strength was no match for that of the troll. With one final tug from Boulder, Jobie was dislodged and fell to the cobbles.

The goblin didn’t stay down for long. Immediately he was back to his feet and his hand reached once more below his coat. This time, however, it was not the gleam of gold that emerged but the dull sheen of the barrel of his pistol, which was soon aimed unerringly in Boulder’s direction.

Muridae sucked in air sharply between his teeth. “Looks like it’s time for plan B.”

The tableau laid out before the gnome was most dramatic. The dulled street lamps shining through the mist, casting their light on the troll and the goblin, almost comical in their size disparity.

“Time for a trip,” said Jobie, breaking the stalemate as he pulled the trigger.

Muridae had been expecting a bang as the pistol fired. He had expected a projectile covering the space between the pair and some sort of reaction as it struck the big troll. What he hadn’t expected was the intense flash of bright light that momentarily blinded him and then left after-images dancing across his vision.

Boulder seemed to have been similarly affected. He had roared in surprise at the unexpected flash and was now clawing at his eyes. Of Jobie there was no sign.

“Off to the Deadlands?” said Muridae to himself. “Or some other trick?”

It was then that he noticed the stone. In his confusion, he had failed to see the troll drop it as he reached for his abused eyes. It was lying unattended on the cobbles, right next to the lumbering troll, well within striking range should Boulder recover before Muridae could escape with it. Still, it wasn’t as if he had been asked to do much up until this point. Jobie had given him the opportunity; it was up to Muridae to take it.

Steeling himself, the gnome took several deep breaths before sprinting from his shelter amongst the shadows. He hadn’t even crossed half the distance when the troll seemed to recover slightly from his distress and began casting about for his lost stone with eyes that clearly had still not entirely returned to normal.

Muridae’s feet faltered, suddenly torn between getting to their prize and ensuring their owner did not get crushed into the cobbles by an angry troll. A clash of metal and an almighty creak snatched at his attention and he glanced to his left where the entrance gate to the graveyard stood ajar and there was Jobie, boots pounding across the cobbles, back to join the fray.

No trick, then, Muridae thought. He started again towards the troll, eager to not let his friend meet his fate alone. But no sooner had he come to that decision than Jobie threw out a hand, palm outward, to halt him in his tracks. Muridae did as Jobie instructed and held his position, watching as the goblin closed in on the stone, which Boulder had finally managed to focus on.

The troll’s massive hand reached down for the stone, all his attention upon it. His fingers were mere inches from its glittering surface when Jobie arrived, scooping the stone up. But he had come too close to Boulder and the big troll raised both fists high, ready to come crashing down. Jobie merely grinned and, as the fists began their descent, heaved the stone with a grunt. It shimmered in the dull light as it tumbled through the air and then hit the cobbles and skittered away into the shadows.

Muridae ignored it, his attention fully on Jobie as the little goblin fell backwards, his rate of progress towards the cobbles matching that of the dropping fists. Jobie didn’t even put out a hand to break his fall. It was as if his body was already devoid of life and, when he struck the cobbles, he disappeared entirely, only a moment before the troll’s blow smashed into the floor.

This time Muridae did not hesitate, did not gaze in wonder at Jobie’s disappearance into the Deadlands, and instead scuttled into the shadows after the stone. It wasn’t hard to locate. Its weight was considerable and it hadn’t managed to bounce far. He picked it up with two hands and darted for the nearest doorway, glancing over his shoulder to see Boulder lifting his fists and examining the ground underneath, as if amazed by the lack of pulverised goblin.

Muridae didn’t hang around to see the resolution of the troll’s confusion but slunk through a gap between the buildings, dropped through an access hatch into a basement, and once more entered the subterranean world he knew so well. Only then did he relax and found that he could take his time getting back to the carpenter’s workshop.

And that was well because the stone was cumbersome but eventually he emerged once more into the carpenter’s cellar and climbed, breathing hard, up to the workshop, where Mortician and a seemingly uninjured Jobie were waiting for him. Though Jobie had insisted he could come and go from the Deadlands, with the assistance of Mortician, Muridae hadn’t really been able to fully believe it up until that moment.

“There he is!” said Jobie, striding towards Muridae. “I told you he wouldn’t let us down!”

“Jobie,” Muridae said, disbelief radiating from his every word, “you’re alive!”

Jobie laughed. “I told you I had some tricks,” he said, taking the stone from the gnome’s unresisting hands and passing it over to Mortician, who began examining it critically.

Muridae couldn’t stop staring at Jobie. “So?” he said. “What’s it like?”

Jobie took his eyes form Mortician to regard the gnome. “What’s what like?”

“The Deadlands.”

Jobie smiled and seemed to consider the question for several moments, as if struggling to put the answer into words that Muridae would understand. “Colourful,” he said eventually.

Mortician cleared his throat to get their attention. “Gentleman,” he said. “I’m afraid-”

“Don’t be scared,” Jobie said. “We know it’s a big number.”

“-it’s not a moonstone.”

Jobie frowned. “What?”

“This,” said Mortician, indicating the glittering stone before him, “is a rock. A pretty rock. But just a rock.”

“But that troll was protecting it like it was worth a fortune!” Jobie said.

“Maybe it is,” said Mortician, “to him. To us? Not so much.”

Jobie visibly slumped, his usually positive demeanour abandoning him in the face of his failure.

Muridae placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up,” he said. “There’s always next time.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Jobie. “It’s not you who’s died twice in order to steal some troll’s pet rock!”