The Only Certainties in Life

The streets of Machburg bustled in the midmorning sun. The city, neutral heart of Tauber, teemed with a multitude of races. Humans and trolls. Gnomes and goblins. A giant or two. Even the odd faerie, tempted from the shelter of the Twilight Glades. All present and united, regardless of race, by one thing; trade.

Individuals of all races jostled for space along the crowded thoroughfares. The early risers, already deep into their morning routine, mingled with those who favoured a more leisurely start. Errand boys and girls wove between them. Pickpockets worked in teams to take advantage of the chaos, stealing what they desired or what they could reasonably achieve depending on their level of experience.

Tythe Fungible made her way through the crowds largely unhindered by the seething masses, despite her miniature proportions. A large part of that was due to her companion. The soldier who strode beside her was large, for a goblin, clad in ramshackle armour that clanked loudly, announcing his presence, and wielding a lengthy halberd that wobbled precariously over the heads of those who surrounded them. A smaller part of it could be attributed to those who knew what she was.

Tythe kept her eyes on the building line, mentally counting off the numbers before stopping outside a two-storey building, which was separated from its almost identical neighbour by a narrow alleyway.

“We’re here,” she said.

Her bodyguard squinted up at the second level. “He’s up there?”

Tythe nodded. “If he’s home, that’s where he’ll be.”

“How did you find him?”

Tythe’s lips rose slightly into a tight smile. “I have my sources. You stay down here on the corner and keep watch.”

The soldier looked surprised. “You’re going up there alone?”

“Thank you for your concern,” said Tythe, reaching out a hand to pat her bodyguard before thinking better of it, “but I’ll be fine. He’s not the sort to resort to physical violence unless absolutely necessary.”

***

“Eighty, ninety, ninety five…let’s see…yeah, that makes a hundred.”

Jobie concluded his final stack with a flourish and admired the view. On the chipped and stained table that was the apartment’s only flat surface stood twenty towers of coins. Not bad for a dishonest night’s work.

The goblin knew he wouldn’t stay long. It didn’t pay to remain in one place for any length of time. Once you’d scammed a good number of people, sooner or later you were bound to be recognised, and not for the right reasons.

The coins tinkled in a most satisfactory manner as one hand scraped them off the edge of the table into a twinkling waterfall that culminated in the open bag he had positioned to catch them. Once the last coin had dropped in, he tossed the bag on the table and examined himself critically in the tarnished shard of mirror affixed to the wall. A couple of tugs at his clothing raised the collar of the tattered, fur-lined coat he wore and lowered the peak of his flat cap to minimise the visibility of his roguish features. Maybe he had enough for one last scam, providing he was ready to move immediately after. This area of the city had been lucrative and it made sense to eke out as much profit as he could.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his reverie and Jobie frowned. He wasn’t expecting any of his accomplices. Then again, only they knew where he was residing. Even so, he mistrusted them as much as anyone else and so he scooped up the moneybag and secreted it in an inside pocket of his coat before answering the door.

It was not one of his associates. The slight figure at his door looked like a legal clerk from the various court houses he occasionally had the misfortune of being dragged into. From the curled wig, to the conservative suit of clothes, to the shiny, buckled shoes, everything was familiar except the stern, bespectacled face, which was entirely goblin.

“Mister Jobie,” said the newcomer. The voice was curt and clipped and uttered the phrase as a statement, rather than a question.

“Do I know you, Miss…?”

“Ms,” said the woman. “Ms. Tythe Fungible. And we don’t know one another, though I have sent you much correspondence.”

Jobie riffled through the slush pile of his mind. He found the unusual name, coupled it with the legal affectations, and a memory forced its way to the surface. His eyes darted to the table, on which a scrumpled pile of paperwork was strewn.

“Yes, Mister Jobie,” said Tythe, “that correspondence. May I come in?”

She stepped across the threshold without invitation and closed the door behind her. Everything she did was neat and precise, an observation that seemed all the more obvious in the chaotic environment. Jobie backed away from the smaller goblin as if she was brandishing a weapon, though he could see no such item about her person.

Jobie suddenly found his throat dry and coughed to clear it. “So you’re here for…?”

“Taxes, Mister Jobie, as you well know. Quite a vast sum, at the last count.”

Jobie struggled for something to say. He was so used to being in control of a situation, for having witty repartee to suit any topic, that the feeling of being speechless was quite unnerving.

But what could he say? His normal go-to when put on the spot would be to reach for a plausible untruth, yet there was nothing remotely believable in denying Tythe’s assertions. He did owe taxes. Lots of them. Whether proceeds were gained via legitimate or more underhand means mattered not in the Goblin King’s eyes. He would have his due and it was Tythe’s duty to collect them.

He cast about for a lie that at least strove for being somewhat reasonable. “I was going to pay them.”

“That is good to hear.”

“Soon.”

”How fortuitous that my arrival has saved you a trip.”

Jobie’s next words died in his throat. “What?” he managed.

“Well, it stands to reason,” said Tythe, “that if you were going to pay what was owed then you must have most, if not all, of the funds here.”

“Errr…”

“And of course, anything you’re able to pay off today will prevent further interest being applied to that amount.”

“Errr…”

“Which means that the total owed will be less than would otherwise be the case.”

Jobie began to panic. He’d had no intention of paying any of the money back, despite his assertions. His plan to keep down his repayments was to not make any.

“And so,” Tythe continued, “if you’d just like to hand over whatever you have managed to accumulate, I’ll update your records accordingly.”

Jobie spotted a way out and seized upon it. “Of course!” he said, breaking into a broad grin. “Just wait here one moment and I shall get it for you!”

Jobie darted through the nearest door, into a tight space that contained a low pallet which served as a bed. His held breath felt necessary, though in reality it made no difference as he eased the window up and slipped through the gap. The sill, crossbeams and even the texture of the wall itself provided ample handholds to enable Jobie’s descent. This was not the first time he’d found it necessary to make such an escape and it was with a grin that he arrived at ground level in the alleyway that separated his accommodation from the next building over. This alleyway was a dead end but Jobie didn’t mind; the teeming masses of the main thoroughfare would serve nicely to quickly lose himself from the tax collector.

“Oh, Peter!”

Jobie glanced upwards at Tythe’s call. The tax collector was stood at the window out of which he had so recently fled, looking down at him with features devoid of emotion. But who was Peter?

A clanking answered Jobie’s query and his heart sank as the armoured, halberd-wielding goblin emerged from the press of people and advanced towards him.

“Portly Pete!” said Jobie, trying to keep his tone jovial. “Good to see you!”

“And you, Jobie,” said Pete, in a deep, rumbling voice, “though I was surprised to hear you were still alive, let alone up to your old tricks.”

Jobie grinned. Keep smiling. Keep it friendly. We’re all friends here, right? On the same side, surely! No bad feelings whatsoever!

“Set in my ways,” said Jobie, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance, “both in terms of my old tricks and staying alive.”

“Hur hur hur.” Pete laughed in a strange sort of way that would cause a listener to query if it was genuine or mocking. “Good one, Jobie.”

He was almost upon Jobie now and the trickster knew he would have one chance to get this right.

“Well, good to see you, Pete,” he said, stepping to one side. “Until next time.”

It should have worked. Portly Pete was not renowned for being the sharpest weapon in the armoury. It often took him a while to get up to speed. Setting the tone by telling the person you were tricking how it was going to be should have worked on a smarter person. On Pete it should have been a certainty. It was, therefore, a nasty shock when the soldier sidestepped with Jobie and, not only that, levelled his halberd at the thief’s skinny chest in a most menacing manner.

“Can’t let you go, Jobie,” Pete said. “Got orders.”

Orders. This was no chance encounter, then. The soldier and the tax collector were working together on this one. He glanced up to the window, which was now notably devoid of any sign of Tythe. She would be coming down, then, to gloat over her victory. To finalise the trap she had set. To take - yes, indeed - her tithe.

With Pete before him, a dead end behind him, and a relentlessly scrupulous tax collector heading his way, Jobie had only one option left open to him.

***

Tythe’s neat shoes clacked methodically as she descended from Jobie’s apartment. Their metronomic beat was patient, unhurried. And why did she need to rush when her guard had everything under control?

Her footfalls took her out into the street and around the corner to find an alleyway full of Pete but utterly devoid of Jobie.

“I don’t know what happened,” said Pete, casting about the vacant space before him. “One minute he was there and the next…”

“He just disappeared?”

“Yes!” said the soldier. “I’m so sorry, miss.”

“Ms.”

“I really don’t know what happened.”

“I do.”

“I mean, how can someone just vanish like that?” Pete said, continuing as if he had not heard her. “There’s no way out. No secret door. Nothing. I checked!”

“I know where he went.”

Pete stalled mid-confusion. “You do?”

“I do,” said Tythe.

“Let’s get after him, then!”

Tythe shook her head. “We cannot follow.”

“Why not?”

“He’s gone to the Deadlands.” She could tell that this statement meant nothing to Pete. “To the land of the dead.” Still Pete looked nonplussed. “Where Araun presides over the spirits of the departed.”

Finally Pete’s expression changed. His slack face hardened. His eyebrows drew down in concentration. “He’s dead?”

“No.”

“But he’s in the Deadlands.”

“Yes.”

Pete shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

Tythe made to pat the soldier in reassurance but relented when she could find no place on which she was happy to rest her hand. “Do not worry about it. Fortunately I planned for this eventuality. Follow me.”

She had gone several paces before Pete gathered himself and caught up and they joined the sea of people going about their business once more.

“You know where to find him, then?” the soldier asked.

“I do.”

“Want me to push us a way through to get us there quicker? We don’t want him to get away again.”

Tythe shook her head and the corners of her mouth twitched upwards. “There’s no rush,” she said. “In fact, I think it will serve us well to give Jobie time to reflect on his life choices.”

***

The Deadlands were not the dreary place some people believed them to be. There were those who thought of death as a sombre affair. Whilst Jobie could appreciate the sadness that came with grief, the realm that Araun ruled over was anything but drab.

Colour was everywhere. Not like the bursts of brightness that the faeries were fond of but more akin to a surrealist painting. These were colours that clashed and swirled, that sprang up in unexpected places and that were absent where the eyes sought them out.

Unlike the majority of the living, Jobie could enter the Deadlands at will. The skill had been key to some of his most successful heists and he had become accustomed to the bizarre environment to the point where the impact of first arrival no longer shocked him. But whenever he had been running a scheme, there had always been a plan. And, naturally, a big part of that plan had featured someone who could pull him out.

Now there was no plan; no-one to pull him out. He was trapped and he had no idea how he could escape. His usual partner in such ventures was a goblin he knew only as Mortician, for he refused to let anyone know his true name. Would Mortician eventually notice his absence and try and find him here? Would he even know where to look? Or would Jobie be doomed to walk the Deadlands as one of the living, gradually fading without the necessary ingredients to sustain life?

He shivered and wrapped his arms protectively about himself. With no point of reference and with his racing mind occupied seeking a solution to his predicament, time lost all meaning. The environment did strange things to the eyes, constantly shifting and warping as if in a state of permanent change. So much so that he only felt respite when he closed his eyes, yet he could not do that for long for fear of what might approach him.

The denizens of this strange land were many and varied; a bizarre combination of recognisable parts from both animals and sentient races from across Tauber. And yet, despite their terrifying aspects, their role appeared to be a beneficent one, guiding clusters of departed spirits across the vast, undulating land.

Jobie couldn’t reside here. He wouldn’t. He didn’t belong. What had once seemed like such a desirable gift was now revealed to be a source of terror. By relying on others to retrieve him, he had left himself vulnerable. It was a position he was not at all comfortable with.

Fear gnawed at his gut. Where was he supposed to get food? How could he risk sleep when he didn’t know what might come for him? What if they thought he was dead and started shepherding him across the plains to whatever fate awaited those currently on the move? Worse, what if they realised he wasn’t dead? That he didn’t belong? What would happen to him then?

Panic gripped him. He was so used to being in control. Using his environment to his advantage to get one over on his mark. Always ensuring the cards were stacked in his favour. What a shock to find out that not only did he not have a good hand but that there wasn’t even a deck! He always had a plan. Always had a backup plan, for that matter. Until now.

Eyes unseeing. Heart pumping. Breath catching in his throat. Jobie felt himself spiralling. Abandoned. Stranded. Alone.

He groaned at a tugging in his gut. On top of everything else, was he going to vomit? His gut lurched again and he clutched at his stomach, as if holding it externally would somehow safeguard its contents. A third time his gut was wrenched and he felt as if he was falling, yet it was not gravity that had him in its grasp but some other force. The world, already twisted and surreal, warped further around him, contorting until all of the colours of which it was comprised melded into blackness.

With nothing to see to anchor him, Jobie’s sense of falling intensified and he closed his eyes, for what little good it would do. Falling not down, but across, and finally through the chaos that consumed his mind he recognised what was so familiar about the sensation.

“Ah, there we are.”

The falling stopped and the voice that greeted him was one he knew well. Jobie opened his eyes. Even his own mother wouldn’t have described Mortician as attractive - the craggy features, bulbous nose and beady eyes were anything but classically handsome - but in that moment there was no-one more beautiful in Jobie’s eyes. He threw himself forward and embraced the stocky goblin in a hug that was not reciprocated. Jobie didn’t care. He had thought himself lost to the Deadlands, perhaps forever, and somehow his old accomplice had found him and brought him back.

“How touching.”

Jobie released Mortician and whirled about at the voice. He was in a basement of some sort, the latest such place that the nomadic Mortician had employed as both home and workshop. There, blocking the stairs that climbed to street level, Tythe stood, with Portly Pete at her back.

Tythe nodded to Mortician. “Good work. Your reputation is well-deserved.”

Jobie turned back to Mortician, disbelief writ large across his features. “You’re working for them?”

“Did you think he just happened to be searching the Deadlands for you not long after you went there?” Tythe asked. “How illogical.”

Jobie still only had eyes for Mortician. “You could have said that you couldn’t find me and then pulled me out later!”

Mortician shrugged. “It doesn’t do to get on the wrong side of a tax collector. Besides, they said they’d pay.”

“More specifically, you’ll pay,” said Tythe.

Now Jobie did turn to face her. “Excuse me?”

“I think I spoke clearly enough,” said Tythe. “You will be paying for Mortician’s services. If you try to flee to the Deadlands again, we will leave you for longer than we did this time - yes, we specifically told Mortician to delay bringing you back to teach you a lesson - and we will bring you back and add the cost of a second reanimation to your tally. And we will continue to do this until you pay what is due. Have you heard the phrase, “there are only two certainties in life”?”

Jobie nodded. He knew the phrase well and took her meaning. He was being offered a very binary choice between death and taxes. He thought back to the feeling of despair he experienced when he was abandoned in the Deadlands and realised there was no real choice at all.

His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ll pay.”

The tax collector’s thin lips twisted into a humourless smile. “The Goblin King thanks you in advance for fulfilling your fiscal responsibilities.”