Poldo rapped his knuckles on the table three times and sighed. “Yes, and I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, miss.”
“I do,” said the assassin. “I like it that way.”
“I presume you also like to keep things ‘nice and neat,’” Poldo said.
The assassin’s brow furrowed. “Uh…”
“Discreet as well, I presume? Clean kills, no witnesses, just a body in a ditch and a stack of unmarked bank notes,” said Poldo. “That sort of thing. Your lot seems to prefer it that way.”
“Yes,” said the assassin slowly, though clearly nonplussed at the infringement upon her monologue. She pressed on. “Now, why don’t you—”
“I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider? Or tell me who sent you?”
“No,” hissed the killer. “One more word out of you and I’ll bolt you to that chair.”
Poldo shrugged and leaned back in his seat. Had it been novel, such an assassination attempt would have shaken him. But oily assassins with ample precautions and scarce humanity were becoming rote.
“Now, I do like to keep things clean, as you said, and there’s all these witnesses around—” The assassin flicked her crossbow to point back at the tavern’s other patrons, inadvertently giving Poldo his chance.
As soon as the crossbow wasn’t trained on him, he gave the table a fourth knock—the signal knock—and dove to the floor. The assassin swung the crossbow back around just as an arm like a hairy tree trunk punched through the window, grabbed her by the head, and yanked her into the gloom outside.
Poldo picked himself up and dusted himself off. “Gods help us if we ever meet an assassin who prefers things be a messy spectacle,” he muttered as he began to pack up his briefcase.
Screams of “Monster!” and the thunder of footsteps leaving the tavern were almost loud enough to drown out the shrieks and grim sounds from outside.
The Gnome ignored the cacophony and made his way to the front of The Wandering Monster, where the tavern’s proprietress and her husband cowered behind the bar. “Sir!” whispered the tavern keeper, a Human short and stout enough to be a Dwerrow. “Sir! There’s a Troll, sir! Get to cover!”
“Yes. Oof. He’s with me,” grunted Poldo as he scrambled up a bar stool. Once perched on the seat, he took out his wallet and began leafing through the bank notes. “I’m afraid that, in the course of stopping an attempt on my life, my bodyguard was forced to break one of your windows. I’ll gladly pay for it.”
The blood drained from the woman’s face until it was as pale and pasty as a lump of bread. “You brought the Troll upon us?”
“I’ve hired him, if that’s what you mean,” said Poldo. “Now, a window such as that must be at least forty giltin—”
“You can’t stay here!” snapped the woman, clambering to her feet. “You’ll have to leave.”
“And take the beast with ye!” said her portly husband, standing beside her. The man’s face was two beady black eyes peeking out over a bristling yellow beard; he looked like he was most of the way through swallowing a sheaf of wheat.
Poldo snorted. “What? Why? Thane’s done no harm.”
Behind him, another window shattered as the killer crashed through it and into the front room. The tavern keeper’s husband shrieked and dove for cover.
“To the innocent,” Poldo added.
Thane’s face, apologetic and spattered with crimson, loomed in the broken window. “Sorry!” he said. “I was swinging her by a leg and I think her boot must have slipped off.”
“It’s fine,” Poldo called, trying to avoid the tavern keeper’s eye.
“Let me get that.” The Troll reached in and began tugging at the remains of the assassin. “I can get carried away when… well, you see.”
“It’s really fine!” Poldo called. “He’s just very protective of his friends, is all,” he added to the proprietress.
“Oh, it wasn’t just her boot! Her foot came off at the knee.” Thane held up the offending appendage. “I knew I had a good grip.”
“Extremely protective,” said Poldo, rubbing his temples.
“He’s a Troll,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide for emphasis, but otherwise she let the argument stand on its own merits.
“Now listen, I would be dead many times over if it weren’t for that Troll,” Poldo said. “He’s as good and loyal as—”
“Oh, stuff it with that nonsense,” the tavern keeper hissed. “All you city-folk are always tellin’ us that Orcs are friendly, and Gnolls are sweet as puppies, and Goblins don’t stink. Well, I’d like to think thirty years runnin’ a tavern on the edge of the woods may have taught me sommat about them Shadowkin, and I know they’re thieves and bloodthirsty killers to a one!” Her voice rose in volume until she was cut off by the hollow thud of a body hitting the oak floor.
Poldo turned to where Thane had dropped the ex-assassin. “Sorry, I… I forget sometimes that… I’ll just—” The Troll disappeared from the window.
“Thane, no,” Poldo began, but the Troll was gone. Fury boiled up within the Gnome, so much so that he shook until his stool wobbled. “Well, I can see my gold is no good here,” he hissed. “I shall take my leave, madam.”
The tavern keeper nodded in satisfaction as Poldo climbed down off the stool. The action must have dislodged a thought, because she demanded, “Oi! What about my windows!”
“I suggest you fix them, lest more vermin creep in to tend the bar!” snapped Poldo, pausing at the door. “Good day, madam!”
Outside, the Scribkin followed the nickering of nervous horses to find Thane sitting by the inn’s stables. “I think we’ll be better off making some more progress and camping on the road tonight,” Poldo offered with forced cheer.
The Troll sighed and started to put his desk-pack on. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “If I hadn’t been there—”
“If you hadn’t been there, I’d be rotting in the woods.” Poldo took a deep breath and tried to calm himself by staring at the last of the season’s foliage. The Green Span was gray and brown now, and those sparse leaves that remained were gilded by the amber light of the setting sun. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“I…” Some memory struck Thane, and he shook his head. “I just wish things were different.”
“If by ‘things,’ you mean those witless bumpkins running the inn, then I do as well.” Poldo strapped himself into the desk. “I’d change a lot about them.”
