Free Yowler Foul-Up by David Lee Stone

with activity. Chas Firebrand’s decision to sell the subterranean inn to a family of goblins from Phlegm had seemed a disastrous one on paper, but Frowd Fjin was certainly a greenskin with talent. In a little over five years, he’d turned the place from an oft-avoided fighting pit into a respected nightclub, complete with orc bouncers, elf waitresses, and even a troglodyte cabaret group.
    Jimmy was miserable; he’d been waiting at the inn for hours, and there was not even the merest hint of a sign of Grab Dafisful. Worse still, he knew that the barrowbird was waiting outside and, no matter how many ingenious ways he might invent to leave the Ferret, his feathered curse would eventually catch up with him.
    “So, let me get this straight,” he muttered to the gnome, who’d taken a seat beside him and promptly ordered a round. “You’re saying that you can smash the green bottle above the bar, third along on the right, without anyone knowing it was you? Get out.”
    Mixer waved him into silence. “A crown says I can, a drink says I can’t.” Done.
    The gnome then quickly produced a small but intricate-looking crossbow, then lowered his head and fired off a shot, thrusting the weapon under the table before the merest hint of breaking glass.
    “Oi!” bellowed the landlord, a swarthy half-ogre. “Who did that? We’ll have no such sport in ’ere!”
    Jimmy turned, mouth still agape, to stare at the gnome. “Drinks’re on me, then,” he said. “Incredible. Just incredible.”
    Mixer shrugged. “You think that’s impressive?” he started, drawing closer to the gravedigger and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can make the bells of Karuim’s toll without even touching them.”
    “Rubbish; now that is impossible.”
    “Ha! That’s what Grab said this morning. He’s laughing on the other side of his face now!”
    “Grab? Not Grab Dafisful, the thief?”
    “Yeah, the very same. Why, d’you know him?”
    “Know him? He … er … he owes me fifty crowns!”
    Mixer’s tiny eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s you he owes!” The gnome tapped at his shiny brass teeth. “He said as much; just between us, he’s hiding up on the roof of Karuim’s Church. I met him this morning when I was doing some routine maintenance work for the council. In fact, I’m due back there in a minute. D’you fancy joining me? You can have a word with Grab and then we can see who takes this incredibly fine piece of weaponry home. What d’you say?”
    Jimmy, ever the sucker for a gamble, took the proffered weapon in his hands and looked it over. It was made of Chakiwood, the poisoned bark of the Red Lime Tree. Rare; expensive. It had to be worth at least a hundred crowns.
    “You’re on,” Jimmy agreed, passing the crossbow back to the gnome with a nod.
    “We’ll call it a deal, then,” said Mixer, staring dispassionately at the barmaid as she delivered their long-awaited tankards of ale. “Unless you want to start small; I can’t imagine a fellow like you has too much gold.”
    Jimmy tried to keep a straight face, which was difficult with a mug like his. One thing everyone in the city knew about Jimmy, apart from the fact that he used to be a thief and was reasonably good with a shovel, was his marked annoyance at anyone suggesting that he was penniless.
    He raised one eyebrow and tried to focus on the Rotting Ferret’s rowdy clientele.
    “I’m doing okay, as a matter of fact,” he lied. “So let’s talk turkey; when do you want me to witness your terrible failure at the church? Now?”
    A silence settled over the table.
    “Well, there’s no time like the present. Isn’t that what they say?”
    “Sure, okay. Give me a minute to pay the piper; I’ll be right back.”
    “Awesome,” Mixer said, with an evil grin. “Hurry up, though. I can’t hang around all night.”
    Jimmy nodded, jumped out of his chair, and dashed through the bar. Once safely beyond the grimy door that led to the Ferret’s