The Chimney: The Merc Papers

by G. T. Spoor

  “Why would someone chose to do that to themselves?”

  “Any number of reasons, but mostly… to forget. Now, come on. The Pit is over here. That’s where we’ll find Rip.”

  The orc led her away from the lost vir. When she looked back, the man was still staring off into space. She couldn’t help but think Tar was wrong. The vir wasn’t dead—because death would have been kinder.

  They took the next left and continued for another block before crossing the street. There, before them, was the Pit. A local bar, or a converted abandoned warehouse, depending on how one looked at it, it was two stories high with boarded-up windows. Half the second floor had already caved in on itself, and the debris littered the sidewalk out front. An ogre, dressed in a pair of dingy gray pants and sucking on a large cigar, stood outside the main entrance.

  “Wait here,” Tar told her.

  The ogre removed the cigar from his mouth and flicked the ashes onto the sidewalk when Tar approached. Stepping in front of the main entrance, he barred the orc’s way. The two exchanged a few words, but Emily was too far away to hear what they were saying. Whatever it was, it must have been funny since they both started laughing. The ogre looked over Tar’s head at Emily, said something that elicited another round of laughter, and just like that, the conversation was over. The ogre returned to his wall while Tar returned to where Emily was waiting.

  “All right, we’re allowed to go in,” he said, taking her by the hand.

  “What was all that about?”

  “I told him ya were a…” Tar suddenly looked away. “Ah… nothing, don’t worry about it.”

  Somehow, that only made her worry more.

  When they passed the ogre, he looked down at her with a creepy grin.

  The interior of the Pit was large, nearly four times the size of the Bird, but nowhere near as crowded—there were only a handful of drinkers. Mismatched sets of tables and chairs were scattered around the room, while the air entertained the smell of cheap ale and vomit. There were a few mana-powered lights but they did little to chase away the shadows. It didn’t matter; the patrons seemed to prefer it that way. They huddled around their tables and spoke softly to one another. It was a place of secrets.

  An orc waitress walked by in a short skirt and a tight-fitting blouse. It would appear the races weren’t all that different when it came to the uniforms of their females.

  Tar led Emily to an empty table in the corner.

  “Sit here, keep your head down, and don’t say anything.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Not far. I’m going to ask around at a few of the tables. See if anyone has seen Rip.”

  “I’ll help. I’ll try the table on this side of the room,” Emily said, but before she could take two steps, Tar grabbed her and pulled her back.

  “No.” He sounded nervous. “I’ll ask. You stay here. Keep your head down and—”

  “Don’t say anything,” she finished for him.

  It went against her nature to sit back and let someone else do the work, but this was Tar’s territory. He knew the field and he knew the players. She was an outsider. Sitting with her back against the wall, Emily watched the room. It wasn’t long before she started questioning Tar’s plan. It didn’t look as if he was having much luck with his inquiry. Most of the patrons dismissed him without so much as a word. A few seemed a bit agitated by whatever questions he was asking.

  As she watched him move from table to table, she failed to notice the three orcs heading in her direction.

  The largest one stepped in front of her, blocking her view. He was well over six feet tall with gray skin and long sinewy arms.

  “What do we got ’ere?” He said, leaning over the table. He tried to get a look at her face, but Emily pulled the hood of her jacket lower and turned away. His breath smelled like cleaning fluid.

  “Looks like one of those howne ginkets from the east side,” one of the orcs behind him remarked.

  “Na. She too ugly for a howne,” the second one added.

  The large orc laughed and leaned in closer. “Come on, love, let’s get a look at ya.”

  When he reached across the table, she heard Tar shout, “Hey! Leave her alone. She’s with me.”

  “Targhed?” the large orc exclaimed. “Is that you? It’s been a long time, slag. You must ’ave sank pretty fa if ya making time with a skelk.”

  “Leave her be, Wholug.”

  “We was just ’aving some fun.”

  “And I said leave her be. This ’as nothing to do with ya.”

  “Unorak ky skelk?”

  Whatever Wholug asked must have upset Tar since he answered with his fist.

  It was fast, well aimed, and completely unexpected. One punch that connected with Wholug’s jaw, knocking the orc back on his heels but not knocking him down. It was also the only punch Tar managed to throw. Before he could get in another one, two more of the Pit’s patrons grabbed the jitney driver from behind and held him back.

  Wholug wiped the blood from his lower lip.

  “And ’ere I was, trying to be nice,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Hold him still.”

  As Wholug approached Tar, Emily pushed her chair back from the table.

  It was during these situations that her instincts conflicted with her teachings. The two paths were diverging once again. On one hand, she should try speaking with Wholug and explain the situation and why they were there; however, he didn’t look as if he was the understanding type, which left her with what she had in the other hand.

  Her fingers closed around the tyng.

  There were five orcs in the immediate area. Two of them were holding Tar. They wouldn’t risk releasing him, not unless the battle turned against them. That meant she only had to deal with the original three. Wholug was her main target. If she went after him, the other two would hesitate before getting involved—or at least that’s the way it usually worked.

  “I thought we were going to have some fun,” she said.

  Wholug stopped and looked at her. He grinned, showing off his crooked yellow teeth. Emily pulled back the hood of her jacket and waited until he approached the table.

  “And ’ere I thought ya was Targhed’s girl,” he said.

  “I’m my own person, thank you very much.”

  The orc laughed. “Ya got sass, I’ll give ya that.”

  Placing his hands on the table, he leaned in toward her, which was the opening she needed.

  Jumping to her feet, Emily grabbed Wholug’s head with both hands and slammed his face into the table. When his head snapped back she drove the heel of her right hand into his already broken nose. Wholug stumbled backward and fell to the ground. He was shouting obscenities in his native tongue all the way down.

  As she figured, the two orcs holding Tar looked on in amazement, but they never released their captive. The other two orcs didn’t hesitate as long as she thought they would, but then she didn’t expect Wholug to go down that fast.

  When the first orc lunged over the table at her, she dove under and came out the other side. Thinking the tyng to a three-foot length, she connected with the back of his knee. Before he even hit the ground, she spun around and prepared for the second orc, but he quickly jumped back out of range.

  Emily took the opportunity to survey the situation. They were now surrounded. The patrons of the Pit had formed a circle around the group. Hopefully they only wanted to see a fight and not get involved in one.

  Wholug was back on his feet. He pushed past his companions to stand before her. She tightened her grip on the tyng. The spectators cheered. The orc advanced. Somebody shouted and everything stopped.

  “This isn’t any way to treat a guest.”

  As the crowd slowly parted, Emily saw two goblins standing at the bar. The first was dressed in a dark gray suit. He was cleaner than most of the goblins she had seen before and seemed to hold himself with an air of confidence. The other wore a dark brown jacket and work pants. He was a bit lar
ger than his companion and his skin was a lighter shade of gray, which showed off his many scars.

  Nobody was moving. All eyes were on the goblin in the gray suit as he pushed himself away from the bar and slowly crossed the floor.

  “What seems to be the problem here?”

  He didn’t sound like a goblin either. His voice was clear and his speech was eloquent. He spoke the language of the vir like a native.

  “They aren’t welcome ’ere,” Wholug said. He was clutching his nose to stem the flow of blood.

  “Everybody is welcome in the Pit. That is, if they really wish to be here.”

  “But she’s a vir.”

  “You’d be surprised, Wholug, but I managed to figure that out myself. Why don’t you and… your friends, go sit down and have a drink—it’s on me.”

  Wholug looked at Emily, then at the goblin in gray. As much as he likely wanted to exact revenge for his humiliation, his stooped posture told her he was more worried about upsetting the goblin. That alone seemed to challenge the hierarchy of New Doral. With a slight jerk of his head, he signaled to the other orcs to stand down and follow him to the bar.

  Once released, Tar straightened out his jacket and approached the goblin in the gray suit

  “’Ello, Rip. It’s nice to see ya again.”

  The goblin smiled. “I thought that was you, Targhed. It’s been a while. You still driving that old jitney of yours?”

  “Still trying to make a go of it.”

  “You know, your old job is still—”

  “Not interested.”

  “Suit yourself,” Rip said. He looked past Tar at Emily. “So, who is this who wages war on the dregs of society?”

  “Look, Rip. We need ya help. We’re looking for—”

  “No, no, no,” the goblin said, shaking his finger. “That’s not what I asked. Pleasantries. We must observe the pleasantries. I wouldn’t want our guest thinking we’re all savages.” He turned to Emily. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “Emily. Emily Doyle,” she answered.

  The goblin bowed his head in greeting.

  “Welcome, Miss Doyle. As you probably already figured out, my name is Rip, and this is my bother Cord.” He gestured to the pale goblin standing behind him. Cord said nothing and only stared at her with a not-too-friendly expression. “You must excuse my brother. He’s not one for words.”

  “Rip? Is that short for something?” Emily asked.

  “Oh my, no. That’s my full name. Most goblins don’t have very long names—not like the orcs. It’s probably because we’re smaller, and what with our shorter life expectancy, working in the mines, the vir don’t feel it necessary to give us long, complicated names. It also makes it easier on the undertakers when they carve the stones.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Not exactly the answer she was expecting, but her confusion seemed to amuse Rip.

  “Well, Miss. Doyle. What is it that I can do for you? I’m sure Targhed didn’t bring you to this barren oasis of beauty merely to inflict damage on a few orcs.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for someone who sells Henol.”

  “Henol?” He laughed. “You don’t strike me as someone who uses Pygmy Leaf. Maybe it’s because you’re still… alive.”

  “I’m not looking to buy any. I need to know who sells it.”

  “Well, that can be a problem. Do you know how many goblins make a living selling Leaf?”

  “If it helps, this one sold it to a vir, possibly by the named Brian Macias.”

  Rip thought for a moment. “That might narrow it down some,” he said. “Vir don’t usually partake of the Leaf. They prefer the Dust. May I ask why you’re looking for this seller? Did your Mr. Macias get a bad batch or something?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  “Well, that’s good. Customer satisfaction is always important.”

  The goblin paused for a moment and looked around the room. The crowd hadn’t quite dispersed. They may have moved back a bit, but they were still straining their ears to hear what was being said. Rip motioned for Emily to follow him. When Tar tried to join, the goblin held up his hand.

  “Sit, have a drink,” he told him. “She’ll be okay. This one can take care of herself.”

  They headed to the far side of the main room, where there were fewer people and even less light. In the darkness, Rip’s eyes seemed to glow. Goblins were renowned for their night vision. He studied her for a while before finally asking…

  “What’s your game?”

  The question caught her off guard. “My game?”

  “Yeah, what is it you’re really after—or should I ask who?”

  Rip was sharper than Emily first gave him credit for. She silently scolded herself for falling into the same mindset as the rest of the city dwellers—underestimating him simply because he was a goblin.

  “Have you ever heard of a howne by the name Alaric Galbassi?” she asked.

  “Galbassi. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. He used to run slaves out of the south side.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “No. That was years ago. Today the south side is off limits. Huge rikers outbreak there last year, so most people avoid it, besides, slavers don’t tend to stay in one place for very long anyway. It gets hunted out too quickly. People have a habit of avoiding places where other people disappear. So, who or what did Galbassi take from you?”

  “What makes you think he took something from me?”

  “Why else would you be looking for him?”

  “What he has of mine is unimportant. What is important is I want it back, and if I can stop him from harming anyone else, so much the better.”

  “I see. So you’re a crusader on a mission. I have to admit, there’s been very few of those in the Chimney lately. Most people prefer to keep to themselves and let the world rot around them. So what does Henol have to do with all this?”

  “His people are using a diluted form of Henol to subdue their victims.”

  “I see, and you want to find out where they get their supply from in the hopes of finding someone who will lead you to Galbassi.” Rip grinned. “Not a bad Idea. I think I’ll help you.”

  “You will?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “I was told you weren’t very fond of vir.”

  “Well, this is true. Cord and I have had our shares of bad experiences with the vir. You see, he made the mistake of mouthing off to a couple of… well, they like to call themselves Mercs, but goblins have another word for them, which I will not use in polite conversation.”

  “What happened?” Emily asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She had seen what happens when goblins cross paths with Mercs, and if the scars on Cord were any indication, the outcome was not pretty.

  “Oh, they were quite gentle with him,” Rip said. “At least that’s what they put in their report. In reality, they held him down and cut out his tongue, then proceeded to beat on him with metal rods. As you can imagine, we harbor a little animosity and a lot of suspicion when it comes to the vir, but in your case, I’m willing to make an exception.”

  “Thank you, although I’m not sure I understand why.”

  “I saw how you handled yourself with Wholug. Contrary to what vir like to believe, goblins can put two and two together. I recently heard a story of a silver-haired, young female vir who came to the aid of a couple of my kin, when they ran afoul of a few Blue Tigers. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that—would you?”

  “How did you—”

  “I keep my ear to the ground. Fyn isn’t the only commodity around here. Information is worth something too.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much of either.”

  “Well then, consider this payment for services rendered to the goblin community. Besides, given your height and your tenacity to beat the char out of Mercs, as well as orcs, you probably have a little goblin blood in you to begin with.”
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br />   “When you put it that way, I’m honored.”

  “So you should be.” Rip’s eyes twinkled. “But you still haven’t told me everything. There’s more to your story.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Oh, please. Two and two, remember. I haven’t heard about you before your run-in with the Blue Tigers, which means you’re probably new to the area. You’re also willing to come down here, which means you’re either very brave, or naive about how this fair city works. That leads me to believe this is your first visit to the Chimney—am I correct?”

  “So far.”

  “Very good. Now, the real question is—why are you here? Surely it is not for Galbassi. Since you are determined to find him and yet are unfamiliar with him, I can only assume your encounter with him was unintentional, and not the fundamental reason for your visit. Therefore, who is it you are really looking for?”

  Emily wasn’t sure why she felt comfortable talking to Rip, but before she could stop herself, she blurted out…

  “My sister.”

  “Interesting,” the goblin replied. “I can’t say I’ve heard of another one of your kind in the Chimney. Are you sure she’s here?”

  “I wasn’t at first, but then I found this.” Emily pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to Rip. It was a signet ring. The goblin held it up to what little light there was in the room; he didn’t seem to have trouble examining it.

  “I’m not familiar with this symbol,” he said after a while.

  “I am. It’s my sister’s.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “On the finger of a mystic. He wasn’t using it anymore.”

  “Mystics.” The goblin shuddered and handed the ring back to Emily. “I try to stay away from them, and if your sister is caught up with them, you’d be wise do the same.”

  Rip headed back to the table where Tar was waiting impatiently. The orc stumbled to his feet when the goblin approached.

  “See. I told you she’d be all right.” Rip slapped him on the back and turned to his brother. “Cord, do you know where Uit is dealing tonight?”

  The pale goblin thought for a moment, then nodded and made a few intricate gestures with his fingers.

  Rip smiled at Emily. “It would appear Uit is working out of the mill this evening. Should we give him a little visit?”