The most important thing for an Evil Overlord to remember in any negotiation is that negotiations are bullshit.

Negotiations are supposed to be carried out in good faith and, - surprise! – nobody is going to be dealing with you in good faith. They will expect you to be underhanded and conniving, and will proactively plan to fuck you over as hard as they can possibly manage to get away with. It just comes with the territory.

Honestly, they’ll do that whether you’re an Evil Overlord or their favorite brother-in-law, most folks, because anyone who does enter into negotiations in good faith is basically spreading their ass-cheeks wide while lamenting, ‘I feel so empty, if only there was something to fill the void.’

To reiterate: Negotiations are bullshit. If you absolutely must waste your time on one, the only advice I have is to do your best to turn it into a blackmail session instead. Anyone who’s been selected to lead the negotiations with you will not be a saint, trust me.

~ ~ ~

Probably the most useful thing I learned in my time being a wastrel back in the capital (admittedly by accident rather than any sort of desire) was that people love to talk, generally speaking, and if you just shut up and listen, you can learn lots of things. Of course you need to be able to sort the wheat from the chaff; people also love to lie, and make shit up for shits and giggles, and quite often they’re just wrong, because they’re stupid or ignorant (no, they aren’t the same thing; you can’t fix stupid.) But if you listen long enough, to enough people, you can usually get a good picture of whatever it is you’re trying to find out. Sometimes you might need to ask a leading question or two, but even if you’re a mute you can get a good feel about what the latest news is, or what people are most concerned about.

(This is nontrivial: at some point in your career you’re going to want to conquer a place that is incredibly well defended, and one of the best ways to soften up a target is to sow chaos beforehand. Ideally, you want them shitting their pants in the streets before they even suspect you have your eye on their territory, and to do that you need to understand what it is the people on the street want, and what it is they fear. Once you know that, the script basically writes itself, I tell you.)

Anyway, you need to listed to everything. A lot of what you hear is drivel, or maybe it’s interesting but not immediately useful.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s something that’ll tell you where to find the person responsible for you being lost in the wilds for months, living like an animal, fighting to survive, wearing rotting skins and eating anything that won’t break your teeth. If you’re patient and pay attention and are able to put two and two together, anyway.

Mudhelm, I soon learned from listening in on conversations on the street and in markets and booze shops, had recently come to something of a crossroads in regards to its governance. For a long time it had been controlled, more or less, by the strongman that Catapult said she worked for. But while I had been walking around in the wilderness playing Hide and Seek and Chop and Stab with goblins, something had happened.

What’s-His-Name, the dumbass who didn’t hire people with ovaries, had had some sort of fall from power. Not completely; it turned out he still controlled the fortress at the far end of the valley. But his goons no longer had their boots on the neck of the town, and an uneasy coalition of the important people of Mudhelm had formed themselves into a council to keep it that way. A militia had also been formed (made up of the unimportant people, it went without saying; people with wealth and power rarely put themselves in situations where they might get stabbed. At least not on purpose.)

That much I learned from half a day of wandering aimlessly and passively listening to the conversations going on around me. I wanted to just ask everyone I met if they’d seen Catapult – give ‘em a description and such – but that was just impatience talking.

I wasn’t impatient or stupid enough to announce my arrival or my intentions in such a fashion. Word would probably get back to her that someone was asking around after her, and then she’d either disappear or, far more likely, she’d lay out an ambush for me.

I did not underestimate Catapult, oh, no. Fool me once, etc.

Oh, I was fully prepared to walk into a trap if I couldn’t find her quietly, but I had all the time in the world, and nothing better to do with it than hunt her down. Obsession is not what you’d call an understanding boss, but it is very good at supplying the tools you need to do the job.

Eventually my hangover dissipated, and the morning’s free mush in my stomach seemed to evaporate along with it. I found a street with an open-air market that seemed to specialize in meat on a stick and beer. I ordered a half dozen skewers of what the gentleman preparing them assured me were ‘nearly all chicken’ and a mug, and sat down at a tiny wooden table on a stool that was sized for toddlers, and had lunch.

The meat was indeed chicken, from what I could tell; but most of it was gristle. While I chewed (and chewed, and chewed) I thought.

There was just no telling whether Catapult still worked for her misogynistic boss, not with the scant information I had, but really that was the only place I had to start. Even if she wasn’t there anymore, at least people would know her there. You don’t forget somebody who wears a mask as a daily thing. I figured my best course was to chat up somebody who was connected to Catapult’s sadly unenlightened organization, and just see where that took me.

I also considered get hired on there. I would eventually have to do something to earn money anyway; my looted goblin treasure wasn’t exactly a dragon’s hoard. And while I disapproved of their prohibition against women, it wasn’t like it applied to me. Having principles was a) something that I wasn’t burdened with and b) is generally for people who can afford them. I could settle for tsking as I took my pay, if it came to that.

The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. If Catapult was still with that group of thugs, it would make my life and my revenge that much easier. If she wasn’t, then I could get a lead on her whereabouts and then fuck off after her.

Assuming she was still alive, came the thought.

I didn’t like that thought at all, to be honest. If she was going to kark it, I wanted to be the one who made it happen. But I had seen enough of the world to know, as I’ve mentioned previously, that people die all the time, often when they least expect it. Catapult was tough, violent and smart, but she still might be worm food. It had been half a year or so since I’d seen her, after all.

I resolved not to dwell on such unpleasant thoughts.

The rest of the day was spent learning the layout of the town better and listening to more gossip. I asked a few innocuous questions and learned that the giant columns that poked up here and there were hundreds, if not thousands of years old, and nobody had the least clue who’d made them or what they’d been for. If pressed, people just shrugged and said ‘the Old Ones’ as if that made anything clearer.

More usefully, I learned lots of little tidbits about Mudhelm, such as the fact that there was a charity hospital on the edge of town run by a centaur – yes, an actual centaur. I resolved to go there at some point just to see what I would have bet good money was just a myth. I also learned that the dickhead elves had an embassy in Mudhelm. Why they would set up an embassy in a shithole like Mudhelm and not, say, in the capital of the largest human kingdom was a mystery to me, but who the fuck knows why elves do anything?

One other thing I found out, by accidentally wandering into it, was where Goblintown was. Apparently, they liked to stick together even when they had houses instead of caves. They all gave me the side-eye as I strolled down the street, but it was just a general mistrust thing. They certainly didn’t know who I was without my necklace, and an ax is just an ax.

For my part, I didn’t feel any homicidal urge at the sight of dozens of goblins. It certainly helped that they weren’t throwing spears at me or rushing me with cleavers. They were just… people. Doing peoply things, like repairing the thatch on their rooves and smacking their kids for being assholes.

Anyway, by the time evening came around I was much more familiar with the town and its citizenry, I had a hazy beginning of a plan to find Catapult, and I felt about as human as I had in months. I turned my wandering feet back towards the Dripping Bucket, ready for dinner, a drink that wouldn’t eat away my stomach, and then an actual bed.

* * *

Old Torg was torturing the fiddle again when I got back, and the owner’s son was behind the bar once more. He glanced up from painting his nails black as I sat down in front of him and said “Dinner?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. I could smell it, something roasted this time, and my stomach was already making impatient noises.

“Drink?” he asked, his eyes giving me a ‘you know you want to’ message.

“Just small beer,” I said, pulling out coins. “Your mother warned me off the harsh.”

“Pfft. Did you die?”

“No, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

The half orc – Modie, if I remembered correctly, shrugged and scooped up the coins with the hand that wasn’t drying, then went into the back to get my order. When he returned, he set it down in front of me and said “You’re the goblin killer, right?”

I gave him a suspicious squint. “Why?”

“Somebody came looking for you. Or for the goblin killer anyway. A troll.” He started back in on the rest of his nails, which were more like talons, really.

I shrugged. I’d only had a passing conversation with one troll, Terces, so I had a good guess who it might be. But I had no idea how he’d tracked me down or what he wanted.

“Any idea what he wanted?” I asked.

Modie shrugged, his attention on his nails. “Didn’t say. Just asked me to let the goblin killer know that the council wanted a word, and that sooner would be healthier than later.” Modie put his tiny paintbrush down and blew on his nails, giving me a long look while he did it.

“What makes you think it might be me?”

“Trolls are the best trackers there are, and you’re the only new face around. I mean, you obviously don’t look like much, but a prickle star doesn’t either, and it’ll still ruin your fucking day.”

“What’s a prickle star? Never mind, I don’t actually want to know. I’m not saying I am the goblin killer, but if I was, I’m retired now. I’ve got other fish to fry.”

“It’s not my business and on top of that I don’t really care. Besides, orcs have only two uses for goblins – slaves or soup. But you probably don’t want to ignore the council. They’ve given you a cordial invitation, but the cordial part has an expiration date, it sounds like.”

I sighed and cut a piece off the hunk of roast meat on my plate. Chewed. Swallowed. Sighed again.

“So where do I find those assholes?” I asked.

* * *

I found those assholes the next morning at the brewery. It was one of the few really big stone structures in Mudhelm, and one of the even fewer buildings that had a wall around it, and it turned out one of the councilors owned it, so the seat of government, such as it was, was housed there.

It was easy enough to find; Modie told me to go to the bazar and then follow my nose, and he was not wrong. The process of brewing large quantities of beer created a strong, piquant, not entirely unpleasant odor. It wasn’t flowers, mind you, but it sort of grew on you. Or it did me.

Anyway, I found the place and walked through the open gate, and was halfway across a busy courtyard before anybody said anything.

“Oi, who the fuck’re you?” a man who was doing something with a wooden barrel called out.

“I’m here to see the council,” I replied.

“Then go around t’back. We do actual fuckin’ work up here.”

“Fair enough.” I made my way around to the back, where a stubby two-story wing had been added to the brewery at some point, using brick instead of stone. I knew I was in the right place when I saw two fellows, both human as it happened, lounging in front of the door wearing swords and doing absolutely nothing useful.

“I’m here to see the council,” I told them.

“And who’re you, exactly?” the one on my right asked.

“I’m the goblin killer.”

The one on the left snorted. “Pull the other one.”

I’d kind of expected something like that, so I’d brought along my necklace of Fuck You. I pulled it out of my pocket and tossed it at Leg Pull. He caught it reflexively, looked at it. Then the smell hit him and he gagged and flung it back at me.

“That’s foul, that is,” he said, wiping his hand on his shirt.

“Yeah, well, survival’s rarely pretty. Or perfumed, for that matter. Look, the council asked to see me, not the other way around, and I’ve got things to do, so if we could sort of move things along?”

They were happy enough to oblige. Leg Pull went inside and came back out less than a minute later.

“Orson’ll see you,” he said. “Give your ax to Quan there and follow me.”

I handed my ax over to the other guard and let Leg Pull take me inside and up a set of stairs. The entire second story was one big room, with a table in the middle. An older, bearded human as big around as one of the barrels I’d seen in the front of the place sat at the head of the table, papers spread out before him. He was going over them and mumbling to himself.

Leg Pull took up station by the door. I walked over to the man and pulled out a chair and sat.

“You’re him, eh?” the man said, not looking up from his papers, which I could now see were accounts of some sort.

“I was told the council wanted to see the goblin killer. Here I am.”

He looked up from his paperwork. “You been here a couple days now. You haven’t been chopping up goblins. Which tells me you’re not a maniac.”

I gave a slight shrug. “Fellow named Terces suggested it would be a bad idea. As long as I’m left alone, I’m happy to return the favor. Is that all?”

“It is not.” He dug through a stack of papers until he found the page he wanted, then pulled it out and scanned over it.

“It seems you got more than just an ax with which to ply your trade. Accounts say you have some sort of fire magic.”

“Accounts from who, exactly?”

“Ah, you know how it is.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“Rumors make it in from the wilds. A few city goblins do a little trade with their, uh, less civilized cousins and such. We encourage it, within limits. We need to keep an ear to the ground where we can. Information is a valuable commodity, you understand.”

“Alright, but why am I here?”

“We want to hire you.”

“Eh?”

“Look – what’s your name, by the way? Can’t be calling you goblin killer all the time, can I?”

“Gar.”

“Look Gar, a lot of blood got spilt to get out from under Titus’s thumb. You know who Titus is?”

I’d forgotten his name, but I knew who he was talking about. I nodded.

“We did get out from under his fat, bloody thumb, but we didn’t manage to chop it off, if you take my meaning. He’s still sitting there in the bastion, with enough swords to make things very messy indeed whenever he decides to – and he will, sooner rather than later.”

“What’s stopping him exactly?”

“Titus always had one thing going for him that nobody could ever counter – magic. Somebody in the kingdom was supporting him with it, sending scrolls and other trinkets that he did not hesitate to use on the general populace to remind them whose dick was biggest.”

“And then the capital burned down,” I said.

“Oh, you know about that.”

“I’m aware.”

“Anyway, long story short, he lost that advantage, and folks were sick enough of his depredations to band together for once. Lot of people died, but Titus was forced to retreat to the bastion. It’s been a sort of standoff for the last two months. We can’t go in and finish him off, and he can’t come out and take back control. Only he’s going to have to try, and soon.”

“Because?”

“Because he has to be running out of food.” Orson spread his hands, then rested them on his very wide belly. “He’s sent out a few sorties and raids, but he hasn’t been able to grab much. At first he kept control of the neighborhood around the bastion, but we managed to burn it down two weeks ago. He’ll be getting desperate.”

“So you want me to what? Hang around his front door, and if he pokes his head out, burn it off?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“And what are you offering?”

“What do you want?”

What did I want, exactly? I mean, money obviously, as much as I could extort from them. That was a given. But what I really wanted, the only thing I wanted at that point in my life, was to get hold of Catapult.

If she was holed up in the fortress,

“I’m looking for somebody,” I told him. “Somebody that works for Titus, as it happens, or at least they used to. Maybe you can tell me if they’re still around, or alive.”

“I’d be delighted to find out anything and everything about this person in exchange for your service. Is that all?”

“Don’t be insulting. I also want ten gold a day, and a hundred if I turn Titus into charcoal. And I’m only available during daylight hours unless he actually does something.” I wasn’t sitting around with my thumb up my ass day and night in some tent just out of bowshot of a group of killers.

“You want to get paid for doing nothing, and you’ll only do that nothing half the time?”

I pointed a thumb back at Leg Pull who was ‘guarding’ the door. “Does he work for free, or every hour of the day?”

“No, but he’s also paid considerably less than ten gold a day.”

“Sadly,” I heard Leg Pull mutter.

“Yeah, well, he can’t shoot fire out of his fingers either. You get what you pay for.”

“The council will not pay for you to scratch your balls in front of the bastion. That’s just a fact.”

“Alright then, good talking to you.” I stood. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me, apparently.”

“How much for an assault on the bastion, out of curiosity?”

I laughed. “Ten thousand gold.”

“What if I told you Titus had at least that much in his strong room, and lots of other valuables beside? And what if I said the council would happily cede any claim to you for those spoils if you managed to take the bastion?”

“I’d say you wanted me to commit suicide, apparently, even though I’ve done nothing I’m aware of to get on your bad side. I’d also say you’re really good at giving away other people’s money.”

“Well, think on it. We’re fairly sure he hasn’t got any magic left, and his men must be having second thoughts about his leadership skills by now. It might be easier than you think.”

“Yeah, I’ll give making a suicidal assault on a fortress a good long think. Cheers.”

I left the brewery, writing the whole morning off as a waste of time. Then I did a little day drinking, found a card game and played a few hands for small stakes just for old time’s sake, then had dinner at the Dripping Bucket with a bottle of indecently priced wine – wine was hard to come by in the Debatable Lands, understandably enough.

I went to bed early-ish and slept soundly and well.

Then I woke up in the dead of night with an idea burning in my brain so fiercely that it wouldn’t let me sleep.