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It is a bad habit of mine to want to tie up all the loose ends when a case is closed. Some of those loose ends are purely intellectual curiosity: to understand the motives of those found guilty, or those no longer living, to augment my limited physiological and sociological understanding of Goblin and human alike. Or sometimes it is to elicit a last piece of information, to tidy the files and tick all the boxes. It helps put the whole thing in perspective, even if it does waste a certain amount of time. Of course, the most likely reason for dealing with loose ends is to collect fees owed, plus expenses. Normally I would prepare an itemised bill of hours spent and necessities purchased. But, this time, I wasn't expecting any more cash out of Nether, and I wouldn't touch Trinity's estate even if she did have any money. But I did think the denizens of the Hells owed me something, even though I had not clue as to the form their payment might take. I wasn't even sure how to track down the Old One who had commissioned me to act on their behalf. But I was going to try. One morning before Trinity's funeral, sober, as rested as I could manage, and fortified by a good breakfast, two cigarettes and three cups of coffee, I set off for the one place from which I had known access to the Hells: the dingy alley where Rigg had shot at us. Not that it represented a permanent portal, of course, but if the Old Ones were still keeping track of my whereabouts, they might conceivably take the hint. Or they could just ignore me, ignore the implied promise of reward. They were reputed to be both capricious and honourable; anything could happen. I did not have long to wait. A red circle lit up as soon as I stood still and I sunk into the broken asphalt as smoothly as any elevator. This time, though, I was lowered directly into the lair of the same Old One - at least, I assume it was the same one, although it was probably impossible to be sure. All dragons look alike to me. The Old One was once again curled on his pedestal, watching me calmly as I walked across the floor to the extruded stone chair which awaited me. Without waiting for an invitation, I plonked myself in the seat and lit a cigarette. "Welcome again," the Old One intoned formally, "Findo Gask, Goblin Detective." "Hi," I said tersely, "I guess you know why I am here." He nodded serenely. "You have two reasons. You want to know what happened in Dulelm Hollows, and you want to know if we were serious about rewarding you." He blew smoke serenely, then continued. "Yes, we did interfere, much against our usual custom and practice, on that occasion. And I am afraid we used you – all three of you – to facilitate that interference. We marked you, attached – if you like – our eyes and ears to you, so we could follow you even inside the areas otherwise protected from our surveillance. We are sorry to have used you so, but we had no other option." "Huh," I grunted, "I guess I should have known you weren't telling me everything." The vast head nodded again. "So, we owe you. We would like to give you something, something very special, by way of payment for your services." The Old One gestured in the direction of a low table of the extruding red-tinged stone that they used for everything. The surface was cluttered with tiny cardboard boxes of the kind used for Goblin glamours. I was suddenly, irrationally angry. "My sister is already dead, and my brother is exposed as a spy," I snarled, jumping to my feet and tossing aside my cigarette, "What could you possibly give me that would in any way compensate?" The Old One brought his head down so that it was level with mine. One brief fiery exhale would put me out of my misery for good. At the time, I almost wished he had done so. "We are genuinely sorry for your loss," he said softly, almost tenderly, "It was as unexpected and unforeseen for us as it was for you. And, no, we do not expect to be able to offer you compensation." The vast head on the sinewy neck pulled away, again towering above me. "We want you to help us, again," he went on, almost absently, "We believe you are a force for order, for good, with the ability to act in ways we cannot ourselves. And we can give you something you most definitely want, even though you don't know it yet." I shook my head. I couldn't imagine anything I could want from them. The Old One snorted. "We know you well. We know you hate to fail, to be unable to close a case once you have taken it on," he said with careful emphasis, "We can give you the ability to succeed, to be lucky in your dealing with the world and its inhabitants. Not infallibly, of course. That would be inappropriate even if it was possible. But we can enhance an ability you already have; the gift of making the right decisions, of being in the right place at the right time." "Can you really do that?" I breathed, astonished. "We can. It won't make you rich. It won't make you anything more than very slightly famous. But you will succeed in your endeavours more often than not. And we'll give you some other unconventional and powerful glamours to assist you." The Old One paused again. He already knew I was going to accept his offer. "We can make you the luckiest detective in the world."
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Part 97