A few moments later, the club's boss turned up at my elbow.

"Findo Gask?" he yelled at my face.

I nodded. This was the guy I had come to see. I wasn't just hanging around in this joint for the sake of my health, I'll have you know.

The Big Boss was the kind of Goblin that you wouldn't have glanced at twice, in the street or even across the floor of a club like this. Average height, average girth, clothes which would not have stood out anywhere, in a style which would not have been considered unusual at any time in the past hundred years. It was an act, I concluded, a deliberate attempt to fade into the background; he had cultivated the notion of "nondescript" to a high form of Art, a challenge even to those - like me - trained and experienced in the sciences of observation and interpretation.

The barkeeper turned up a few moments later, clutching a towel nervously and looking rather more attentive than he had when he was serving me earlier.

"What are you drinking?" the bossman shouted. He'd obviously been practicing making himself heard over the din characteristic of a place like this. His voice was both loud and commanding, quite at odds with his characterless appearance.

I glanced at the bartender, who pointed at a bottle with a familiar label near the front of the stacked shelves behind the bar. I raised my nearly empty glass to the manager, rattling the ice to indicate the lack of contents. The boss took the hint; he pointed firmly at another bottle, one placed on an obscure corner of one of the upper shelves and whose label - at least from this distance - I did not recognise.

To his credit, the barkeep didn't hesitate for a second. He yanked down the indicated bottle, pulled out a fresh glass from the stash he had been polishing moments before and poured a very generous measure. Even more impressively, he didn't even bother asking about ice, or even branchwater. I got a better look at the label on the bottle as the amber spirit glugged its way into the glass. A fine and ancient Scotch whisky; a sample of the real thing from the Surface world. Probably one of the kinds now completely unavailable up there; we Goblins do tend to take a long view on most things.

The bartender set the filled glass on the bar in front of me with a fair facsimile of reverence. I picked it up, swirled it delicately and sniffed cautiously. It seemed like the real deal. I sipped appreciatively, a blossom of smooth and complex sensations forming on my tongue.

"It'll do," I yelled, as politely as I could manage over the din.

The Boss nodded, then waved a hand to indicate a door set discretely at the back of the auditorium, marked by nothing more than a couple of potted palm fungi and a cigarette stand, where one of the blocky bouncers stood impassively. The Big Man set off towards the indicated entrance; I followed, managing to dodge the inebriated punters without spilling a drop of the precious liquid in my glass. We passed through a double set of padded doors; the thunder of the music and the punters was muted to a barely audible level as soon as the second door was closed. I could practically feel my ears relaxing after the battering they had been receiving.

Behind the doors was a wide corridor, dimly lit - at least by the standards of humans - with a series of green-painted doors on both sides. Several, I noticed, were decorated with gold stars - real gold leaf, intended to last forever - on them, and adorned with nameplates with a very much less permanent look about them. I caught the name "Machany Fordun" on one door before the Boss ushered me though a different one, one decorated with neither star nor nameplate, yet one which somehow stood out just because of its very innocuousness.

Inside, it was the kind of office one might very well aspire to, when one was in the money: an office which set out to project the old-school ambiance of a library in some grand mansion. Dark wood shelves were filled with old books, leather-bound and slightly worn on the covers. A fire of logs and coal burned steadily in a carved marble fireplace; in front of it was an elegant desk, its surfaces inlayed with woods so rare that the actual trees might be extinct in the surface world by now. Set about the space were numerous overstuffed leather chairs; again, slightly worn but giving the impression of having received much tender loving care over the last couple of centuries. All-in-all, an office to be proud of. It was, I had to admit, altogether really rather impressive.

The Boss turned on his heel as the door sighed shut behind us and strode back towards me with his hand held out. I took it and shook it firmly.

"Roman Broxden," he said, "Take a seat."

I threw myself into one of the leather chairs, being careful not to spill the scotch I was still holding. I tossed my hat on the table alongside, then put down the whisky glass with rather more care.

"Findo Gask," I replied in kind, "So, Mister Broxden, how come you need the services of a PI?"

He was silent for a moment, appearing to study the polished wooden floor. Then he stepped across the room and wedged his fundament on the edge of the desk.

"Well, that is the question, isn't it?" he said steadily.

Part 2

Part 4