“Fucking, stupid fucking arse, bloody fucking wanker!” Zach muttered to himself furiously as he plunged his hands back into the sink filled with near scalding sudsy water. “Not good enough,” He continued in an affected tone. “I can still see those soap spots! Just won’t do now will it?... Fuck!”

The Halfling continued to witter away to himself under his breath as he scrubbed at the fine silver cutlery for what felt like, and probably in fact was, the fifth time that evening. One fork has a soap spot? Hells, best do the whole bang-shoot again!

Standing at the back of, what was admittedly, a splendid kitchen, Zach had his sleeves rolled up. He was wearing a simple white lined tunic and matching apron just like the rest of the serfs on the payroll. He looked like a git but his serving uniform was even worse. The ballroom was a million degrees and he wasn’t relishing shoving the jacket with its stupid matching waistcoat back on. It was hanging over the back of a nearby chair, almost as if it was mocking him.

It wouldn’t be long before the ball preceding the auction started and he would be forced to prance about with a ridiculous smile on his face serving stupidly over-priced food and wine to ‘his betters’. He had no idea how the average scurrying servant handled the shame of this work. He was already feeling the urge to poison people’s drinks and he hadn’t even seen any of the guests yet.

Winifred owed him big for this one. Really fucking big.

When she’d told him that she had the perfect way of getting him into the Casey estate, this isn’t what he’d had in mind. But, as it turned out, Lord Casey was still using the same catering firm that he’d used for years. This had been exactly the kind of thing that Winifred had been hoping for. So she’d sent the message and, the next thing he knew, Zach was being offered the ‘prestigious role’ of becoming part of the serving team for the evening.

Which meant, of course, the plan was now fully set in motion. Winifred herself would shortly be arriving and would play the part of a lonely well-to-do young woman looking for a good time. The grapevine had told them that the wealthiest person in attendance, and therefore the most likely to bid on and win the Purene Ruby, would be the sickeningly affluent Count from Saint Aphastro.

Rumour had it that he was a lonely single man with an insatiable appetite for the fairer sex. It was going to be a piece of piss for Winnie to turn on the charm and get herself into his chambers for the night. Most of the guests were due to stay over at the Mansion having traveled from all over the place to attend the auction. Once the Count had drunk himself into a stupor, Winnie would take the Purene Ruby and drop it off at the edge of the ceremonial gardens where Squeakers and the runt would be waiting to pick it up. Job done. Simple.

Now that Zach was on the inside, it would be his job to create a distraction if one was needed by dropping a tray of glasses or whatever. If Winnie got into trouble in the chambers then he would show up with a fake room service order and stop things from going tits up.

The only problem was that, in order for him to seamlessly fit into the wait staff without raising any eyebrows, it meant that he’d actually have to do some work.

Scrubbing a silver knife until it gleamed, Zach once again had to resist the strong urge to go and find Jormir and sink it into the fat Halfling’s eye. Most of the other workers in the kitchen had taken one look at Zach’s handsome mug and made themselves scarce, obviously overwhelmed by his presence.

Jormir however? The portly prick hadn’t seemed intimidated in the least. Gods Below it would be satisfying to jam the knife straight into one of those fat jowls! He could almost hear the satisfying squelch now. The easiest way to take a smug smirk off a pompous arsehole’s face was to cut it off.

He took a deep breath. A bit of hard work wouldn’t kill him, Zach repeated to himself like a mantra. It was little respite to him of course. After all, he was the Zacharias. Rogue genius extraordinaire. He wasn’t cut out to be somebody’s serf. It was apparent to all who knew him that he was made for far greater things, like amassing riches and bedding women. Not fucking washing up. Tossing the wet washcloth to one side, Zach steeled himself to get dressed up in his fucking penguin suit. He’d just grabbed the ridiculous tailcoat from the back of the chair when Jormir suddenly appeared as if from nowhere.

Ginger-haired like the rest of the Halfling race, the head chef looked like a more rotund version of Zach. Half the size of your average human, but blessed with a youthful face, the half-man strutted over to the sink like he owned the place. He plucked a few pieces of cutlery from the drying rack and examined each one far longer than he actually fucking needed to. He even wiped a couple of pieces on his filthy chef’s jacket. The fucking prick expected his team to be as clean as a whistle while he got away with being the grimiest Halfling that Zach had ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes on.

“Sloppy work I’m afraid, normally you’d need to redo most of them,” He drawled, over-enunciating each syllable. “Thankfully we had a more experienced worker doing the actual cleaning so you’re fine to start serving.”

“Hold on a fucking minute mate…this isn’t even the silverware you’re gonna be using? Then why the fuck have I been doing this for the past few hours?” Zach demanded, pointing towards the full drying rack. He stepped into the overseer’s personal space as he spoke. Usually, that was more than enough to put the shits up someone but, annoyingly, the stupid git didn’t even back up, just smirked at him instead.

“You’re here to experience the average worker’s life are you not?” Jormir chortled. “That’s what my team does, Zacharias. They do the same task over and over until I deem it’s good enough. Now go clean yourself up and get ready. It’s bad enough that I’m sticking my neck out letting some thug be part of my exclusive team much less letting such an ugly bastard out there on the ball floor.”

A quick twist of Zach's wrist dropped a small throwing knife into his palm, the sole weapon he’d managed to smuggle into the mansion, and a tempered thrust had Zach placing the point of the blade against Jormir’s throat. “Call me that again, you worthless prick, and I’ll gut you like the fat hog you are.” The Halfling rogue spat out, trembling with rage.

Looking at Zach with an unimpressed look on his face, Jormir scoffed loudly. “Just try and knife me, and see how that goes! I imagine the Lord’s already famously tight security will tighten up considerably when they hear a murderer is on the loose and they’ll run you down in minutes. And let’s be honest, You and I both know that Halflings don’t get fair trials, not when we mess up our “betters” swanky parties.”

Locking eyes for a moment, the two Halflings glared at each other, before Zach lowered his blade with obvious reluctance. It was hard to bury the sudden surge of rage he felt but, as much as he would never admit it to anyone unless he was about to kill them, Jormir the Dickhead had a valid point. If he lost his cool and sliced the thick-necked fool’s jugular, the plan would be well and truly scuppered.

Abruptly sheathing his blade, he let out a few muttered curses and turned on his heel, stalking over to where the server’s trays were set up with flutes of champagne.

“And do smile Zacharias!” Jormir called out after him. Sanctimonious prick. The bastard knew he had him over a barrel, but at least the generous donation they’d given him would keep him quiet.

Zach waited for him to go and hassle another one of the staff before helping himself to a couple of flutes of champagne. It was way too fizzy and tasted like horse piss but if he was going to keep his cool all evening, he’d need a bit of liquid courage to see him through.

“Blend in, and don’t make a fuss. I know how to keep myself out of the limelight mate.” Zach muttered to himself, picking up his tray and balancing it with ease. Kicking open the door to the ball, Zach plastered a smile across his face and glided forward. Who knows, maybe he’d cheer himself up by lightening a few pockets while he worked.