It was certainly not by chance or accident that Selibus Ratcher was the most feared and respected street kenja in Thal Doren. He had worked tirelessly for years to achieve that enviable station, fighting tooth, claw and nail for every scrap of territory along the way. Over the last decade, Ratcher had steadily moved up the golden pyramid, one violent, bloody step at a time, removing any obstacles and competition along the way . . . exactly in the manner such things had been accomplished in the Eastern Desert for over two thousand years. It was one undeniable reason Ratcher retained the Council’s ear and, more often than not, their favor. But far more importantly, Ratcher was their best earner; contributing nearly one of every three jurcoras amassed by the Thal Doren sect of the Geyaṁ Panja. And, despite their admiration for venerable desert traditions, in the end, it was most certainly the money that endeared Ratcher to the rich old men on the Council. It was also the reason he was still alive.

The infuriating events of the previous day had dropped a mountain of troll dung onto Ratcher’s unwavering path to his very own seat on the Council. Gofzog, Kark and Griever were dead. Bean was dead. Several days of collections were missing. The Old Basement was in shambles, and Hasharek’s precious desert relic had disappeared along with the gnome responsible for all this mess. Ratcher was in a tight spot and understood all too well, if he wasn’t very careful here, at this moment, failure to fulfill the lofty ambition of joining the Council would prove to be the least of his worries.

Hasharek He'Duin was a patient man. In his particular line of work, that bothersome, albeit necessary virtue was tested almost on a daily basis. When dealing with the unstable and often capricious elements that occupied the complex hierarchy of the Jurcoralan underworld, there were times one had to simply forgive the occasional blunder, in order to maintain a suitable level of profitability. According to the wisdom of the Council, decisions which bolstered or solidified profits were preferable to those that did not. Poor decisions cost the organization resources, territory or money. The ripple in the pond effect, if you will. People who made poor decisions did not retain their authority for long. Not in the Geyaṁ Panja.

But profit or no, had this disaster happened within his own majhima, upon the burning blue sands of Turuq Edari, Hasharek would not now be hosting a seemingly pleasant lunch for this underling who sat across from him and feigned impeccable manners while noisily slurping at a bowl of steaming najish. He would, instead, be displaying this man’s bloody, severed head on a very long and very sharp pike.

Hasharek raised a small, porcelain teacup to his lips and slowly let the honey-sweetened tea spill over his tongue and into the back of his throat. He took a second, silent sip, then placed the cup back upon the saucer. “Tell me again, Mr. Ratcher, how this haiwan . . . your best man . . . whose only contribution to this entire operation was to hand my priceless book over to a gnome and then follow that same gnome to whatever place or person the book was meant to be delivered to . . . tell me again how he wound up dead, and how the Baid Siyah . . . a volume so important to the Kul Dahim, they once sacrificed forty thousand of their own followers just to keep its existence secret . . . please, explain how it is that we have absolutely no idea where the book – my book – now resides. Somehow, the elusive details of this unfortunate episode remain lost to my overly . . . simple . . . brain.”

Ratcher wiped the dribble of soup from his chin with one of several napkins Hasharek’s servant had set before him at the start of the meal. He knew the request was rhetorical, so he had no intentions of further prodding the man’s ire by repeating bad news. Hasharek was simply making a point . . . that this failure sat squarely on Ratcher’s shoulders, and it was up to him to resolve it. Or else.

Ratcher never learned to fully accept this frustrating part of the job. As street kenja, he was the boss, and any screw up by anyone under his jurisdiction was ultimately his responsibility. That wasn’t the case for the Council, though. And everyone knew it. Their messes were selectively blamed on one of the bosses, or underbosses, who just had to take it on the chin, cover any gaps in expected revenue, and move along . . . if they were still among the living, that is. There were several points Ratcher wanted to make at that moment, but none of them were going to help his situation, and a couple might get him killed outright. For starters, when Hasharek had initially assigned him this undertaking, Ratcher had strongly recommended using a replica in place of the actual book, just in case anything went awry. Which it did. But Hasharek felt a duplicate would be too easily discovered by any wizard examining the false relic. Ratcher also suggested they forego the whole cloak and dagger routine and just snatch the gnome during the trade . . . then let someone like Dagger or Chameleon rip the information out of him. That proposal was waved off as well. If Hasharek had listened to him, the book wouldn’t be missing, regardless of what Gofzog did or didn’t do.

“My apologies, Rajufa, but I have no further news for you at this moment. Everyone in the Old Basement was slaughtered by the gnome and his drow partner. It’s even possible she was the instigator of all this. It is also plausible the two never intended to deliver the tome in the first place and just keep it for themselves. Which would suggest they know or suspect something of its true nature. But I can assure you, the book will be found and returned to you. I have competent, reliable people working on hunting down Hisix and his partner. There isn’t anywhere in this city they can hide from us . . . not for very long. Tommy is a bloodhound. He won’t let anything hinder him from completing his task. And Dagger is an expert at arcane location and tracking. I have no doubt they will find the pair, and your relic, in a matter of days. If the gnome already delivered the book to his benefactor, and we trace it . . . then we also have a direct line to the letter’s author . . . which is what you really wanted in the first place. If Hisix has kept the book and stowed it away someplace magic can’t locate it, we’ll just have to get the information the old-fashioned way, one body part at a time if necessary. Gnomes aren’t particularly known for their tolerance to pain.”

Hasharek picked a sweet biscuit from a small tray at the center of the table. He examined the sugar dusted wafer for a few seconds, frowned, and placed it back upon the tray. “And if one of your people kills the gnome during the hunt or the interrogation . . . do you have someone who can question him posthumously?”

Ratcher nodded. “I do. The Bone Man owes me a couple favors. Tommy knows I prefer a living gnome over a body. But if it becomes necessary, questioning the dead is a viable option. In fact, we often get better information that way. So, even if Hisix spills his guts, we’re still gonna have the Bone Man do a follow up to verify everything. The process is genuinely horrible to watch, and in the end, it usually destroys the soul . . . but the information is nearly always accurate.”

Hasharek picked up a different biscuit from the tray. This time he took a small bite, then placed it upon the edge of his own plate. “If you already have access to the Bone Man’s talents, why waste time and effort torturing the gnome for information that can be obtained quicker and more efficiently once he’s dead?”

It was Ratcher’s turn to frown. “Because that little sonofabitch played me. He killed my guys, stole my money, trashed my pub, and kept the book for himself. Nobody does that to me, or the Geyaṁ Panja, without living through the very shit storm they created.”

Hasharek lifted his cup and finished off the remaining tea. “Your concern for our reputation is admirable. But we both know your willingness to overlook personal slights has caused issues in the past. I have no intention of tying your hands or demanding how to proceed here, considering the swift resolution of this matter affects both your reputation and your future. But bear this in mind . . . if you place petty revenge before the success of the mission, not only will you never sit with us upon the Council, you will never sit anywhere . . . ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

Ratcher thought of several responses . . . but none of them would have been well received by Hasharek. So, Ratcher just nodded his head, smiled and replied, “Yes Rajufa. Clear as crystal.”