Nikym's Predicament

"So the tangle in the other room is your way of coping with the situation?"

Ethan laughed. "No. Nazha decided she needed to curry favor with me and had sent a few fresh bodies for my entertainment. I swear, if the Dragon Bitch keeps this up, I won't ever get married. If you fancy a bit of a romp, go ahead. I need to deliver this." He motioned for the parcel.

"Now? It's pretty late already."

"I most certainly will not leave such a dangerous artifact under my roof, not with so many young, easily formed minds around. I can highly recommend Rejka, the half-orc. She's a particularly feisty one."

"I feel honored, but sloppy seconds aren't quite my taste. Besides, I've had quite enough excitement. For the next few weeks, it will be horribly expensive Dream Wine and filthy novels for me."

"To each man his vice. I can respect that," Ethan said, grinning. "Come." He picked up the sack. Dressed but barefoot, he left the room and led me up another, much narrower flight of stairs. One of the rings he wore unlocked a certain wall panel and we entered a spacious chamber. The walls were hung with all manner of weapons and armor pieces, from slender rapiers to unwieldy Zweihanders, padded vests to a full suit of plate armor. Several cabinets had been crammed into the corners, along with an old, scuffed desk and some chairs. The whole room looked more lived-in and used than most of the mansion.

Ethan gathered a pair of knee-high boots and put them on, adding a slender dagger to the left one. He then took a sword belt off the back of a chair and girded his loins. A simple sword hilt protruded from the scabbard but I could feel some potent magic radiate from it.

"You seem to prepare for a minor battle at least," I observed.

Ethan chuckled. "A man needs to keep up appearances, my friend. Everyone knows that Ethan Wildthorne is a renowned adventurer who spectacularly fell from grace when Lord Justice decided that my drinking and whoring were giving his faith a bad reputation. But I have learned by now that revenge doesn't require sharp blades or instruments of blunt force. Giving someone the means to his own undoing though... that's a strategy befitting of a legendary hero."

He took a few steps across the room, checking the fit of his garments and boots before returning to one of the cabinets. "Remind me, what did we agree on?"

"Twenty thousand gold in a currency of my choice."

"Can the item be traced back to me in any way?" Ethan asked.

I shook my head. "The chance is negligible. The only one able to discern where this thing is at any given moment should be Desire herself. At least that's what the High Priestess has told me. I've alarmed a few servants, but in the end, the hand-off went smoothly."

"So you didn't kill the previous owner?" Ethan rummaged in the cabinet. I could hear the clinking of coins and trinkets. My hand went for a dagger. The tzenari had a certain reputation and some of my acquaintances - not those praising my tongue - had mysteriously vanished after dealing with him.

"No. He was more than happy to part with the item. He practically threw it at me." I winced. It would take a few bottles and even more time to erase the image of the bloated monstrosity Gilo Kurvas had become. I already pitied the dwarven patriarch Ethan had chosen as the mirror's next owner and thanked the Lifegiver from the bottom of my heart that I got off that lightly after the enforced experiment.

"Fantastic. So, how do you want your payment?" Ethan asked. "I have around fifty thousand here, mostly gems and small trade chits. Will that do?"

"Easily portable if at all possible," I said.

"Of course." He returned to his desk, carrying a large, padded tablet. There were small bars of platinum, silver and gold along with some beautifully cut gemstones, plus a decent pile of coin. "This is yours," Ethan said, placing the tablet on the desk. "About thirty thousand. I feel rather generous tonight."

"And I thank you most kindly." I distributed the valuables all over my person, into half a dozen different pouches. No matter how careful one becomes, there were always pickpockets out there waiting for a moment's distraction and Storm Harbor, along with El-Abessin, had the most notorious street rats anywhere. No wonder with Nazha, the Black Dragon Bitch, training them. Those unfortunate thieves who got caught were punished harshly. By her, mind you. Some even whisper that the ancient half-dragon ate those she was especially displeased with. Thankfully my dealings with her had been limited thus far, even though Storm Harbor was quickly becoming my new base of operations. First, Urs The Sailor had tasked me with establishing connections with the underworld of The Luminous City three years ago, then Ethan Wildthorne had demanded my presence. Who was I to refuse the fabled Storm Lords?

"Before you go, I have something else I want to give you. Do with it as you please," Ethan said, opening a desk drawer. My hand quickly returned to my dagger.

The silver-haired half-elf shook his head, a sad smile twisting his lips. "No, not that kind of parting gift. And no sex slave either - unless you want one. Plenty to go around." He held out his hand. A small mirror rested atop his palm, framed with a heavy golden band. I looked closer. The gold band was intricately etched to resemble numerous small sword and axe blades, intertwined.

I couldn't help but chuckle. "A shaving mirror?"

"Even elves have to shave," Ethan said with a smirk, his open hand brushing my crotch. "Even if you don't grow beards. And the man who this was made for won't need it after tonight."

"I thank you for you gracious gift," I said, bowing. Granted, it was a fine piece, but utterly useless to me. Even at three-hundred and eight, I had yet to grow a single beard hair. And the state of my crotch was no one's business but my own. I looked into the mirror. My tanned face scowled back at me, the storm-gray eyes narrow slits somewhere between amusement and anger. A deathly white braid dangled from my hood, held together by a colorless strip of cloth. I forced to relax and even managed a smile. The scar along my left cheek was a poignant reminder of what happened to those who let down their guard even for a moment. I tucked the mirror into another of my numerous pockets and straightened up again.

"Let's not waste any more time then. I have to see a man about a box and you shouldn't have to spend more time around me than necessary," Ethan said. He clapped my shoulder and steered me from the room.

The tzenari was right. I would feel much less agitated the moment I was away from him.

* * * *

After the hot and drug-laced air at Ser Ethan's, the cold Storm Harbor night was like a slap in the face. I checked my pouches and pockets, just to make sure Ethan hadn't pulled a fast one on me. Everything was in order - I was indeed flush with more money than most humans knew what to do with and could walk away with it.

Being rid of that blasted artifact was a relief, as if a heavy load had been taken not only off my shoulders, but my mind and soul as well. Another perilous job done and all I earned in return was a minor curse which shouldn't impact me in any meaningful way. It's not like I wanted to waltz into Lucky Thirteen's gambling house any time soon. After a few weeks of meditation and introspection I would be ready for another long-term mission. But finding out who my next client would be could wait until after a few bottles of Azure Sky Dream Wine and whatever written debauchery my favorite dark elven wordsmith has cooked up.

My steps took me out of Old Town and down Keep Road. I had a small safehouse in Scholar's Rack, the local community of spellcasters and knowledge-seekers. No one would look for someone of my talents amongst the book-hoarders and curio-collectors. Also, the property was dirt cheap. No wonder, considering the volatile neighborhood.

Usually, the Old Kingdom and Borderlands were my preferred haunting grounds, but when Urs the Sailor made the irresistible offer of visiting the Radiant Empire under diplomatic protection, I decided to expand my operation into the northern realms as well. And from Storm Harbor it was only a few weeks of sea travel to reach The Luminous City and yet another realm full of lucrative offers. The yakuza oyabun - crime bosses - of that exotic realm were more than receptive to Urs' offers and the squabbling noble families probably would offer enough jobs to keep me busy for centuries if I ever grew bored of the Western Continent.

My steps took me down the broad avenue. Keep Road was one of Storm Harbor's most important thoroughfares, allowing soldiers stationed in the massive fortress at the city's southern tip quick access to every quarter. But at night, the usually clogged road was almost deserted apart from a few revelers making the rounds or pious souls heading for Temple Run.

I reached the main crossroads where Keep Road was intersected by Land Road. Most buildings in this area were old municipal offices and town houses of lesser nobles who didn't get to pick a spot in Old Town when Storm Harbor was initially founded. It should have been dead quiet and dark, but it wasn't. The north-eastern corner was an explosion of lights, music and the mutterings of dozens of voices. Lucky Thirteen's gambling house fit into this part of town like a pink feather boa on a hill giant. Most structures around it were built from the same dark granite used to construct most of Old Town, but the gambling den had been made to look like an ancient temple, all white marble, grandiose arches and impressive statues depicting all manner of gambling amusements. As if that wasn't enough, the building was aglow with magical illumination and a gaudy sign made from color-shifting crystal lamps announcing that this was indeed "Lucky Thirteen's Gambling House." The whole thing looked like it had been attacked by an especially delirious goblin prankster. Shaking my head, I turned into Land Road, heading east towards the harbor. Just a few more minutes and I could finally get some well-deserved rest.

Suddenly, a strong, clawed hand closed around my arm. The fact the hand's owner had managed to sneak up on me without me even noticing them was disconcerting. I whirled to face my assailant, dagger at the ready.

"Is that the way to greet a lady?" Nazha, the Black Dragon Bitch, asked me. I groaned and lowered my weapon. In turn, the burly half-dragon released my arm and bared her fangs in what I presumed was a grin. Rows of glinting, razor-sharp teeth reflected the numerous lights around us.

"You were lost in thought," Nazha said, crossing her arms in front of her breasts. "Even calling your name didn't work. The famed elven focus at work?"

"My apologies," I said, bowing slightly. "It's been a long few weeks." My jaw nearly dropped when my brain caught up with my eyes. Today, Nazha wore a snow-white gown with a deep V-cut along her back which showed much of her scaled rear and allowed her muscular tail to move freely. Her scales were of a dull black and she was easily a head taller than me, with shoulders wider than most men I knew. Her head sat on a long, flexible neck. It was a weird mixture of human and draconic features, with a pronounced, blunt snout, several pointy growths jutting from her jaw and chin and long, curved horns which were an odd contrast to her humanoid eyes full of dark amusement and cunning. Strangest of all was a shock of gray hair which she wore in a long braid. To call her "attractive" would be a stretch, especially considering several ghastly scars she had received in her tenure as Storm Harbor's crime lord - or rather lady.

"That kind of negligence could get you killed one of those days, dear Nikym," Nazha purred. Her gown was high-necked in front but did precious little to distract from the swell of her breasts or hips. "Say, how long has it been?"

"Since when?" I asked. "Since you last offered me a place in your organization? That would have been... sixty years, give or take." I winced as my cheek scar began to itch. The last time we had that particular discussion was shortly after I had stolen Orran's Gloves, a matching set of plated gauntlets said to be part of Orran I's legendary armor set, from a collector here in town. On my way out, I had stumbled into her, much like tonight. As it happened, said collector had struck a protection deal with her guild and she came personally to apprehend the out-of-towner who dared disrespect her authority. We fought to a standstill, I managed to pay her off - and she offered me a place at her side once I was free again. Thus far, I had avoided giving her an answer.

"And going by Urs' gushing, you've been busy," Nazha said. "Say, how about a drink or two? Let's catch up, see where it takes us?"

I shook my head. "Pardon me, but I really need a few hours of rest. Like I said, it has been quite the trial lately."

"Aw, come on. What's a stiff drink and a few rounds of dice between friends?" Her claw closed around my wrist. She wore gloves matching her dress, but I could feel her talons through them. A bit more pressure and she'd shred my wrist. Denying Nazha was a dangerous proposition even if she was in a good mood. Stories of her cruelty and grisly punishments were legendary and I didn't fancy becoming the newest chapter of "Eviscerated body dumped into the harbor," so I resigned myself to being her entertainment, at least until I could find a convenient moment to excuse myself. Trees bending in the face of overwhelming force and all that.

With brisk steps, she ascended the wide stairs leading to the gambling house's entrance, dragging me along in her wake. A broad-shouldered catfolk greeter came to meet us, resplendent to look at in a long-tailed jacket made from a glittery purple material. It went perfectly with his grey-and-black tiger striped fur. His eyes were of an intriguing orange and they widened in surprise as Nazha bore down on him. But like every well-trained henchman, he overcame his surprise. The feline greeter bowed deeply, a sonorous purr kicked up, and he afforded us a sharp-toothed, yet friendly grin.

"Welcome to Lucky Thirteen's. What's your pleasure to-," he began, only to be stopped by Nazha with a gloved fingertip to his lips.

"A back room for me and my guest and a couple of luck fairies to keep things interesting," the black half-dragon amicably growled. "And I know the way." Still clutching my wrist in a velvety vise, she breezed past him. The first room beyond the gaudy entrance was almost shockingly mundane, a reception area where more purple-gowned staff flitted this way and that, handing out complimentary drinks and taking cloaks and, more importantly, weapons off their customers. Nazha ignored both staff and customers, going straight for the curtain which led into the gambling hall proper.

One pleasant benefit of being dragged by the most notorious woman in all of Storm Harbor was me not having to pay the stiff five hundred gold pieces entrance fee. I matched Nazha's long, expansive steps as she breezed through the main hall of the gambling house, heading straight for the curtained rear wall.

The inside of Lucky Thirteen's delivered what the entrance promised - and then some. The whole room was an eight-sided space much larger than the already impressive outside let on. The walls and floor were carpeted in garish purple and edges were trimmed in gold and silver while the ceiling was a crystal dome, allowing everyone to marvel at the pitch-black November night sky overhead. Chandeliers and an abundance of those magical lanterns provided daylight levels of illumination. On a raised pedestal, a small ensemble performed airy string music which was nearly drowned out by the murmuring of players, the rattling of dice or the dealers' announcements. Elaborate pillars and partitions divided the space into sections, each devoted to a particular game of chance or skill. On her way to the back wall, Nazha dragged me past card and dice games, but I could see darts targets, horseshoe boxes or even a damn archery range.

My fingers itched and my mind was awhirl with odds and payout ratios, something which I never even considered relevant. Was this another manifestation of Desire's curse? Thankfully, there were more than enough distractions to get my mind off any strange ideas.

The side walls converging on the room's rear were taken up by monstrous cabinets adorned with the same enchanted glowing crystals as the gambling hall's exterior and they groaned and creaked with the sound of gears and levers performing some arcane functions. One of them was gaping wide open and I saw the casino's proprietor, Lucky Thirteen himself, bent into the cabinet's innards where he was busy adjusting or repairing something with a smattering of delicate tools. A sour-faced dwarf tapped his foot next to him and going by where his gaze lingered, he was probably pondering how well a spanner would fit between Lucky's vertebrae.

Nazha obviously knew her way around this place. Past a well-hidden wall panel we went, into a dimly lit hallway padded with purple and trimmed in silver. Again, the dimensions were off, somehow magically altered and impossible. The corridor bent away from the main room and I doubted that the adjacent townhouse of the Elderbrook family had suddenly moved almost a hundred feet from its ancestral foundations. A row of leather-padded doors lined the left-hand side.

Before my hostess could ruin someone's evening by rudely barging into one of the rooms, Lucky Thirteen appeared besides us. The masked wizard bowed deeply, then claimed Nazha's free hand for an implied kiss.

Lucky Thirteen was a curious fellow, even in his own realm of eye-watering debauchery. He wore a stereotypical wizard's robe, only his was stitched with all kinds of currency symbols and luck signs while his face was hidden behind an ever-present mask. No one even knew which race or gender Lucky Thirteen was because the mask scrubbed any discernible characteristics from his voice, leaving it androgynous and flat. And since wizards or sorcerers can alter their apparent shape, anything from a halfling to a giant could be hiding under these robes.

"As always, a pleasure to have you under my roof," Lucky said. "Greeting you myself allows me a bit of respite from that angry dwarven gentleman."

Nazha bared her fangs. "Your mechanical monstrosities will one day be your death," she said, reclaiming her hand. "What's wrong with good, old-fashioned sleight of hand?"

"Taking out the human element will allow primal chaos to determine the chances," Lucky said. "And my machine worked just fine until said gentleman kicked it. About a dozen times."

A strange thought flitted through my head, something I would have never thought about otherwise. "But... the gears and mechanisms... they are man-made as well. Won't they impact performance?"

"Ah, that's where you are off the rails, my good sir," Lucky said, his hand moving in a flourish which left a trail of tinkling silver particles. "The design may be man-made, but every component has been created through magic! Every gear is perfectly round, every tooth on said gears exactly the same as the ones next to it. Unless there's a flaw in the design, the machines should generate absolutely random results!"

I shot him a vicious grin. "One obvious flaw may be their fragility."

That remark took him down a notch. Lucky Thirteen harrumphed and adjusted his mask. His voice sounded much less enthusiastic as well. "True. I need to invent some form of damage protection which won't make the slot machines any bigger."

"And you shouldn't leave your angry customers waiting," Nazha suggested.

"Also true," Lucky conceded. "What will be your pleasure tonight, madam?"