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It was much, much later that I saw Nether again; long after the events otherwise related in these notes had been forgotten by nearly everybody. It was in a sleazy bar, in the Lower Caverns. Of course there are any number of sleazy bars in the Lower Caverns; sometimes I think I have visited every single one of them in the course of business over the last three centuries or so. I was meeting a client - the kind of client for whom a sleazy bar in the Lower Caverns represents a significant step up in the world. Not that he was poor or down on his luck, particularly; it was just that his business ventures started at the bottom of the pile. Besides, I don't usually work for destitute clients, simply because I can't afford to. In any case, I was early for the meet, or maybe the client was late - I can't remember for sure - so I found myself sipping a beer and watching the clientele. They were roughnecks and working types to a Goblin, with the bent backs and callused hands of those who performed physical labour on a daily basis, and the furrowed brow and vacant expression that marked those for whom any kind of thinking was a chore best left to others. It was a gentle company with predictable responses, right the way down to the inevitable fist-fight before closing time. Still, it was easy enough to stay out of trouble if you knew what you were doing. In places like this, I tend to drink over-priced light beer from bottles, partially to remove the risk of exposure to badly-kept draft beer, but mainly in order to keep a clear head so as to be able to duck punches should the need arise. I was nursing my second bottle, still resolutely sober - mostly - and therefore I was more-or-less certain of my reaction when Nether turned up. Oh, I'll readily admit I didn't recognise him at first. He had spent a lot of his money - or somebody's money, anyway - on very good plastic surgery, which transformed him completely. The complexion of his face and nose had been roughened, and his ears had been lowered and notched in a fashion that suggested they had been bitten in more than one barroom brawl. His shoulders had become blocky with ropey muscles - whether that was because of surgery or hard labour was difficult to tell - and he had adopted the slightly knuckle-dragging appearance of the Goblin who labours long and hard during the day, and drinks long and hard during the night. All in all, it was a far cry from the sophisticated and educated brother I remembered. It was, I had to admit, an effective disguise. Nether recognised me at once, of course, although he did his best to hide that recognition from his drinking companions. But there was a sudden moment when I was sure it was him, when I caught his glance across the crowded and smoky room. And I knew he knew I was now sure it was him. I stood up and made a bee-line across the room, the drinkers parting before me like the bow-wave of some ship of retribution. Nether turned when he saw me, a sneering half-smile splitting his lips. I grabbed his shoulder and pulled his face towards mine. "This is for Trinity!" I yelled. I swung a vast punch at him. The swing caught him full on the jaw. He rocked, took a step back from the force of the blow but, astonishingly, I had failed to knock him down. I'm big for a Goblin and not entirely inexperienced when it comes to fist-fights, and I suppose I expected I would have felled him with one strike. Maybe I was going soft in my old age. In any case, Nether recovered quickly; before I realised it, he had straightened up and swung back at me. His blow caught me on the jaw with a tooth-rattling crack; my vision blackened, I felt myself swaying, toppling. Then I felt no more. I woke, sometime later – how long, I do not know – slumped against a wall in a noisome back alley-way some small distance from the bar. My jaw ached, my clothes were torn and dirty, and I smelled strongly of cheap liquor of the kind I had not been drinking. I took the hint. Nursing my face, I slinked off back home. I never saw my brother Nether Gask again after that evening.
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Part 102