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The bottles arranged along the glass shelves behind the bar, and the taps for the beers and sodas on the counter itself would have been familiar to people everywhere. If I were to turn the other way, though, the humans of the surface world would have been more surprised, even alarmed. Up there, we Goblins are the stuff of myths and legends - have been for many centuries - and generally we like to keep it that way. I casually inspected myself in the polished glass of the mirror. I guess I was not entirely atypical of my race. I am bigger and stronger than most, maybe, massing one-thirty pounds and standing four feet ten in stocking'd feet, even if I am a littled stooped. The lines around the eyes, which are more grey than green these days, are etched deeper after all these years, and the skin on my face and on the once-smooth dome of my head is gnarled and mottled in shades of brown and tan. My teeth are still very long and strong - not really fangs, despite what the storytellers and cartoonists of the surface world might think - but now a little yellowed with age and experience. As usual, I wore my trademark greatcoat over a nondescript suit and tie. The suit was just disguise - nobody takes a guy in a suit seriously these days - but the overcoat was part of the kit, providing essential storage and transport for cigarettes, small change, sunglasses - to protect my eyes from daylight brightness when on the surface - and a variety of small magics and glamours acquired - mostly legally - over the years and carefully husbanded against a pressing need. Besides, the coat effectively hid the bulge under my left armpit; I still carry a firearm, more often than not, and these days it's often more effective than a magical fireball or lightening bolt. Not that the traditional magics are useless, of course: a single well-chosen glamour can achieve things in moments which would take a thousand days and nights to accomplish by purely mundane means. But the art of manufacturing those powerful spells seems to be a dying one, or at least less commonplace, and the magics themselves have become increasingly difficult to find and sometimes eyewateringly expensive to acquire. There was a sudden commotion behind me, loud enough to be audible over the roar of conversation and the rumble of the music. I turned around slowly, still clutching my lo-ball of cheap whiskey. One of the middle-management types, his face flushed with the ruddy hues of bonus pay-checks and triple brandies, had apparently fallen over a bar stool, or at least the seat had collapsed suddenly, spreading splintered matchwood over a substantial part of the bar floor. Now, the punter, with tie loose and shirt-tails trailing, was sitting in the icy water, his face contorted into an "O" of surprise partially caused, if I was any judge, by the chilly dampness now invading his pants but mainly from the slap which could clearly be seen reddening on his cheek. Several bouncers were converging on the scene, all large and bulky Goblins dressed in suits which, although expensive-looking and well-cut, always seemed to give the impression that they were slightly too small for the owner. A waitress stood to one side, her hands on her hips and an affronted look on her face. She was one of a class recruited for her ability to stand for a certain amount of bottom-pinching and ribald comments in exchange for generous tips and effective protection from more serious assaults. At least, that was the deal; it looked like things had gone a little further than contracted, and she had been forced to slap this guy's face which, to her credit, she had evidently done with commendable force and to great effect, toppling the asshole from his perch and dumping him in the chilly rivulet. The trio of bouncers converged, picked up the rapidly sobering and shortly-to-be-ex customer by the armpits and frog-marched him towards the doors marked "Fire Exit" - or at least the equivalent in the angular runes which are universally employed down here. I guessed that he would indeed be making a very swift exit in the very near future - probably involving an impromptu interception with a garbage can. I grinned widely. It was all part of what one could consider as Local Colour in this kind of joint. I took another pull of inferior whiskey from my glass and contemplated my options.
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Part 1