Tommy breathed in the stale, musty air of the dingy, dark, cluttered room and smiled to himself – probably for the first time all day. From the moment he opened the door, stepped inside, and lit the low hanging lamps, the familiar office space in the Rangoon Casino felt as welcoming as his own basement flat near the West End Market. Tommy had always held a fondness for basements. They were typically cooler, more secluded and quieter than anything aboveground. He wasn’t a fan of any place that was too spacious, noisy, overly warm, or required more than two flights of stairs to get to. The casino office wasn’t officially his yet, but Ratcher suggested he make use of it while focusing on the all-important task at hand.

Despite the day’s disconcerting turn of events, Tommy was certainly no stranger to a chase-down, and he was pretty sure finding Ratcher’s gnome wouldn’t take him all that long to accomplish. In fact, locating and dealing with people Ratcher wanted found – or needed to never be found again – was one of Tommy’s specialties. However, it was the first time he had been in charge of any kind of operation, whatsoever . . . which was, undoubtedly, the reason his stomach was still rumbling and unpleasantly twisted into knots.

Although Ratcher had moved his own desk with him to the new complex, there were several others to choose from just sitting about in the outer room, collecting dust and taking up space. Tommy had dragged the largest, sturdiest one into Ratcher’s old office, along with an overstuffed love seat for himself, several good-sized mismatched chairs, and a heavy, round, somewhat stained, tea table. Tommy had never been much for appearances. He was far more concerned with functionality and, above all, comfort. So, this dreary, dusty basement office, which others might view as a cluttered mess of unsightly eyesores, suited Tommy’s unassuming tastes just fine.

Seated firmly upon the cushy loveseat at his desk, Tommy leaned forward, propping himself up on his large, meaty elbows. He then did a quick visual inspection of the entire office from a viewpoint previously enjoyed only by Selibus Ratcher himself. The bookshelves on either side wall were mostly empty now, but that was sure to change once Tommy moved in for good. Unlike Ratcher, who collected and displayed old tales, rare history books, and valuable journals, Tommy actually liked to read them. And while the big man appreciated the occasional tavern anecdote or bardic song as much as the next guy, he didn’t find them adequate substitutes for a well written historical narrative of faraway lands or ancient battles in days long gone by. Tommy made sure that, despite his demanding schedule, he almost always found time for a read, even if that meant consuming no more than a page or two before dropping off to sleep at the end of the day. And, given the choice between socializing with actual people, or immersing himself in one of his precious storybooks, the book was certain to win out every time.

Ahead, and nearly butted up against the corner, a pair of heavy double oaken doors Ratcher had installed six years back only reinforced Tommy’s sense of familiarity and fondness for the old place. He recalled the rusty metal one Ratcher had torn out before the entryway was widened, and the formidable wooden replacements were added in. It was Ratcher making a statement . . . a changing of the guard, if you will. The office and the casino had once belonged to a street boss named Artemis Grundy, but sat empty for a good couple of years after the kenja apparently went crazy and ended up dead, along with the rest of his crew. But Grundy’s tragic story was over well before Tommy got moved from Gripper’s crew, down at the docks, over to Ratcher’s, and he had never actually met the man.

As uninspiring as the place now appeared, it was still heads and shoulders above the condition Ratcher had found it in, all those years ago. As far as Tommy was concerned, the basement office was acceptable, just as it was, and as fixed up as it was going to get . . . at least until the job was completed and Ratcher gave him the go ahead to settle in for the duration.

Without bothering so much as a greeting, or even a knock to announce his arrival, Adhim Hakem Hadagir, all (nearly) five feet and ninety pounds of wrinkled brown skin and bad posture, slipped in through the doors, preceded by a roiling cloud of sour yellow smoke. On his head, he wore a faded blue, traditional Eastern Desert haboosh, which covered most of his fully bald head. In his hand, he held a grimy, decades-old hoqi – a miniature water pipe he carried with him everywhere he went. Clenched between the old man’s large yellow teeth was a discolored metal mouthpiece attached to a tightly curled up hose of undiscernible length. Tommy had no idea what the wizard stuffed into the hoqi bowl, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t tobacco. In Tommy’s experience, no plant leaf ever smelled as dreadful as whatever the hell it was that Dagger regularly sucked into his lungs. Tommy heard Gofzog once claim the wizard’s smoke pouch contained a mixture of rare, poisonous herbs, psychotropic mushrooms and the desiccated internal organs of small children. Considering the source, Tommy chalked the story up to pure bullshit. Gofzog would say anything if he thought it would get a rise out of someone. That was the kind of crap Gofzog was known for . . . was being the operative word.

“Well, this sad place hasn’t changed much, has it?” Despite Dagger’s diminutive size, and the fact that he practically spoke in a whisper, his voice was always quite loud . . . much louder, in fact, than a person normally spoke. Tommy considered the possibility that countless decades of sucking at the hoqi had irreparably damaged the old guy’s voice . . . and it certainly wasn’t beyond the scope of his arcane talents to make himself heard as loudly and clearly as a trawler’s running horn, if he wanted. “I stopped at the garrah wheel, before heading downstairs, and what do you know? I won seventy cories, on a single bet. White forty-seven. Today must be my lucky day.”

Tommy frowned. “If Bario finds out you’ve been playing the wheel, he’s gonna assume you cheated.”

Dagger plopped down into the chair closest to Tommy’s desk and chuckled. “Let him prove it.”

“He isn’t gonna prove shit. He’s just gonna waltz down here with three of Ratcher’s orcs and shove his boot so far up your ass, you’ll be tasting leather for a month.”

Dagger drew deeply from the hoqi, then, tilting his head back, he spouted another noxious plume of smoke up toward the ceiling. “He certainly can try. Besides . . . it was one lousy corie. I could have dropped a hundred.”

“If you did, he’d have already been down here. And then a boot up your ass would be the least of your worries. You know the rules. Not here. No wizards allowed. Period. No gambling.”

The wrinkled little man grinned through a wall of yellow teeth. “Trust me . . . it wasn’t gambling.”

“Well, it’s coming out of your payday when this is done. I’m not pissing Bario off just to cover your greedy ass.”

The wizard shrugged and slid down further into the padded folds of the chair. His toothy smile was quickly replaced by an equally unpleasant frown. “Fine. Have it your way. This is your venture, after all. I’m just the hired help.” Dagger did a quick look around the empty office. “So . . . where are the two goons?”

“Korag and Zulga are hitting up the pubs on Dockers Row for any sign of our gnome friend, before checking out the local hostels and sack houses. According to Handy and Jib, the gnome – Hisix is his name – wasn’t alone. He had a drow friend with him. Maybe an associate. Maybe hired muscle. A female. So we are looking for two people who should stand out in just about any crowd. I don’t think they were staying in the Belge, though. They only went to the Old Basement to make the deal because that’s where Ratcher set it up to happen. And Handy said they certainly didn’t look the type to dangle around in a dump like the Old Basement without good reason.”

“Pah! Who would? It’s a cockroach infested shithole. And who are Handy and Jib?”

“A couple of runners working for Ratcher. They saw the gnome and the dark elf hightail it out of the place . . . and it looked suspicious, so they went down to check. They found what was left of Gofzog, Kark, Griever and Dorty.”

“Dorty Bean? The barman who smells like old piss?”

Tommy considered tossing back a smart ass comment about the foul fragrance of death that Dagger and his filthy hoqi emitted, but let it slide for the time being. “Yeah. The very same.”

Dagger nodded thoughtfully. “Now there was a man with real issues. Lived in that wretched basement all by himself. Almost never left the place. Used to be a pretty decent earner, before something crawled under his skin. He was spooked good, that one was. Only talked with the man a couple times, but I could smell the fear on him . . . once I got past the odor of stale piss, that is. Whatever grabbed hold of him, he never recovered from it. Shame, really.” Dagger reached up under his faded haboosh with his free hand and scratched at the hairless noggin underneath. “Didn’t Ratcher say the Old Basement’s till was robbed and the place was sacked?”

“He did.”

“Why?”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Why did the gnome take the money? What kind of a question is that? It’s money.”

“How much?”

Tommy shrugged. “Ratcher didn’t say, exactly, but there had to be maybe a hundred. Maybe a little more. I don’t think anyone ever got to count it. Probably Dorty knew, but he’s dead. Slicer, Boots and Jinty all dropped their rounds off at the Old Basement. Kark usually gathered up the yield and handed it off to Gofzog or took it straight to Ratcher. Every couple days. Like clockwork.”

“But we were informed the gnome was there to buy a practically worthless book of common spells? For two lousy cories, mind you. If you are Ratcher, why even bother with such a meager deal? Ratcher picked the place. And he was the one who sent Gofzog to make the transaction, yes? Why Gofzog? Why not someone lowly like these two runners . . . Handy and Jib? And unless the gnome was desperate for coin, why would he take such a risk for only a hundred cories?”

Tommy huffed and leaned back in his love seat. His back was starting to throb again and stomach certainly wasn’t getting any better. “That’s an awful lot of questions. Ratcher probably sent Gofzog because they needed to clean out the till anyway. Kark was with him, remember? Make the exchange, empty the till, and take it all back to Ratcher. And, you may have forgotten this, but to some folks, a hundred cories is a pile of treasure.”

The wizard made a dismissive gesture with his empty hand and grunted. “So what happened then?”

Tommy shrugged. “The gnome got greedy? Gofzog tried to stop him?”

“And the gnome and his partner went on a killing spree? Took out two of Ratcher’s best fighters, along with another orc who we both know could clearly hold his own when he needed to. Then they killed the crazy barman, just for the hell of it . . . and finally, they ran off to who knows where, disappearing into the Thal Doren sunset? That sound right to you?”

Tommy screwed up his very wide face and sighed. It actually didn’t. And despite the fact that he hated agreeing with Dagger, none of it made much sense so far. From the little they knew, Hisix had no motivation to do any of the things he did. And why did Ratcher even bother sending anyone – much less Gofzog, to sell an old book of basic spells you could pick up at any local shop for less than what Ratcher was asking, without having to navigate through the Thal Doren slums. But even so, what did it matter? The job was the job, and Ratcher wanted Hisix brought to him tied up in a sack . . . alive was preferable, but certainly not required. The circumstances were irrelevant. Ratcher only cared about results. “Honestly, I don’t give a crap how its sounds. And neither should you. Ratcher wants this guy, so our job is to find him, wrap him up like a gift, and hand him over as soon as possible. Whatever the deal was between him and Ratcher is of no significance. Why Gofzog is dead and laid out on a slab is also irrelevant. Ratcher gave me an order. My job is to deliver. That’s all Ratcher cares about. That’s all we should care about too.”

“No . . . it isn’t.”

Tommy paused, and he felt the knots in his stomach clench a little tighter. “What do you mean? What isn’t?”

Dagger took a draw on his pipe, holding in the rancid smoke in until he started to sputter and cough. It took another half minute of coughing before Dagger finally regained his breath and responded to Tommy. “Ratcher wants the book returned to him. He told me so. Twice. Find the gnome, and get the journal back. Guess he figures if the gnome hid the book somewhere, I had the best chance of locating it for him.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed, clearly agitated by Dagger’s new piece of information, as well as the length of time it took him to spit it out. “He never mentioned it to me.”

“Because your job is hunting down Ratcher's gnome, not his book. And now, also a drow elf, apparently. We don’t get the book back, that’s on me. Not you. It’s secondary, anyway. Ratcher’s out for blood. You know how he is. This Hisix fellow has disrespected your kenja. Ratcher never lets anything slide. Never.”

“Except you aren’t convinced this thing went down the way we were told.”

“Pah. Like you said, what does it matter? I am being paid very well to work this with you and your crew. I can speculate, deduce and even infer until my balls shrivel up and drop off . . . but none of that pays the bills, does it? In the end, I don’t give a fasha why Ratcher wants the gnome any more than you do. I will do exactly what I am asked to do . . . which is help you find your quarry, and get Ratcher back his book.”

Tommy took a deep breath and paused in a moment of thought. Now that it had been brought up, the big man found his curiosity about the day’s events – and the book – had been sufficiently poked. “Let me ask you this. Why do you think Ratcher wants the book back, anyway? I mean, come on, it’s two lousy cories, right?”

Dagger let his free hand move up to the soft wrinkled skin of his shallow chin and then slowly stroke an imaginary beard . . . which Tommy thought was a bit strange because he had never seen the old man with any amount of actual facial hair other than the choppy, sparse patches of gray that grew above his bulbous, yellow eyeballs.

“Hmmm. Maybe the exchange itself was a ruse. Perhaps the book was more than just a minor spellbook, and it was meant to end up somewhere it did not, because the gnome is now desperately on the run. Maybe it wasn’t a book at all and it contained something very valuable . . . and the gnome was just a delivery man who got greedy. I certainly don’t have enough information to make any kind of practical guess. But, if you don’t mind a walk down to the docks, we can do a once-over in the Old Basement ourselves. I just might be able to find out something a little more solid on the matter, especially if the book left any residue or energy behind. But it’s up to you. Like you pointed out, finishing the job is what matters most. And in the end, who really gives a shit as long as we keep Ratcher happy, right?”

Tommy’s back ached, his feet still hurt, and his stomach remained a pile of knotted up knots. He couldn’t think of a single good reason to go poking around the Old Basement. Doing so was sure to be a waste of time and it probably wasn’t going to get him any closer to finding Hisix and the drow. The effort would likely prove to be a distraction, at best. No bloody point to it.

But as much as he hated to admit it, Tommy didn’t like unanswered questions. Unanswered questions made things complicated. And Tommy really, really hated complicated.

“You know what, Dagger? I think maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Maybe, the gnome or his friend left something behind that Ratcher and his boys overlooked. You never know. A looksee just might turn something up that could help us finish this job all the sooner.”

The little brown wizard grinned as he drew in from his hoqi and spewed a thick trail of foul, yellow smoke over Tommy’s head. “And that, Tommy boy, is just one of the many perks of being in charge. You get to make self-serving decisions, and the only one you have to justify them to . . . is yourself.”