"Boodop, boodop!"

Pudgy features breaking into a child-like grin, Lord Hirschnopple spun his custom-made executive dragonhide chair away from his penthouse's expansive view of Quollo's skyline, snatched up the just-installed, state-of-the-art speaking tube from his massive marble and gold desk, and snapped an eager, "Yes?"

"Boodop, bood-...erm, it's Lubkin here, my lord. You know, your valet. In the front parlour."

"Yes, I know it's you, Lubkin." Grin fading, Hirschnopple sighed. "Given this tube has two ends, I'm at one end of it and you're at the other, there's weally nobody else it could be. And for the thousandth time, man, you're no longer my valet. You're now my executive assistant. And like I keep telling you, it's not the fwont parlour anymore, either—it's the weception woom."

The young lord was a great believer in the merits of modernisation—in doing away with the archaic and inefficient habits and customs of yesteryear. And as far as he was concerned, habits and customs of yesteryear didn't come much more archaic and inefficient than the monarchy. Which meant, of course, it was nothing less than his civic duty to do everything in his power to put an end to the whole wretched institution. And, naturally, if it happened that in doing so the kingdom was left in need of a dynamic, dashing and, most of all, modern new leader, well then, that was a burden he would just have to bear.

"Also," he added, "it's 'boodoop, boodoop'."

"My lord?"

"The incoming message sound we decided on for the tube. It's boodoop, not boodop."

"Boodoop, my lord?"

"Boodoop, Lubkin. I know we flirted with 'oi, oi' and 'hey, you!' but I think this is much more cultured and contempowawy. Don't you?"

"Er, yes, my lord. Boodoop, it is."

"Good show, man. Now, what were you calling about?"

"My lord?"

Hirschnopple rolled his eyes. He was beginning to suspect the ability to fold an immaculate cravat or polish shoes to a mirror finish did not necessarily correlate with higher-order administrative skills.

"Why did you boodoop me, you dolt?"

"Oh, yes. There's a goblin here to see you, my lord, by the name of Wonda Wraithclaw. Says she has an appointment."

"Ah, excellent." Hirschnopple's grin returned in full force. "Send her thwough."

"Yes, my lord, right away. And what shall I do about the ogre?"

"Ogre? What ogre?"

"The one taking up half the front par-...er, that is to say, half the reception room, my lord. He says he's from CR."

"C what?"

"CR, my lord."

"And what in the name of Olifat's bum-hole is CR?"

 "I believe it stands for Creature Resources, my lord."

"Cweature Wes-...? Wait, this isn't that nonsense Duchess Feluka's been cawwying on about, is it? All that widiculous palaver about wecognising servants' wights and having to wowwy about their...their...feelings, and so on?"

"I'm afraid so, my lord."

The lady in question, a fellow member of the High Council, had recently discovered a heretofore deeply buried and completely unsuspected—both by herself and anybody who'd ever had the slightest dealings with her—streak of compassion and empathy for her fellow Irmish. This had manifested as a determined campaign for improved staff conditions, the ostensible trigger for which was the recent, widely circulated tale of the page-boy forced to spend a week as a toilet-roll holder for Baron Womp (yet another member of the High Council) while the aristocrat's bathroom was being re-tiled.

Personally, Hirschnopple hadn't seen what all the fuss was about—the lad was provided with a clothes peg and relieved occasionally by the gardener, after all—however a little digging had revealed the page-boy was in fact the nephew of Duchess Feluka's pool-boy. And, perhaps more to the point, said pool-boy—a strapping young former lumberjack fresh from the lushly forested foothills of Mt Whoa—was withholding any and all extra-curricular, non-aquatic services until his mistress (in more than one sense of the word) got off her highly manicured arse and did something to improve the lot of downtrodden and nasally traumatised people such as little Binko.

Whatever its genesis, as far as Hirschnopple was concerned the whole thing was nothing more than a steaming pile of roc-droppings. He was damned if he'd let the sexual frustrations of some middle-aged duchess, who really should know better than to let rogering get in the way of ruling, make him say please and thank-you to every grubby-faced potboy and...and...pig-slapper who crossed his path.

This was no time for weakness, particularly from a strong and commanding figure of authority such as himself. This was a time for clear and decisive action.

"Tell him he can bugger wight off."

"Very well, my lord. Just a moment."

Muffled voices emerged from the tube, followed by the sounds of a scuffle, a faint but quite distinct, "Ooh, me nadgers!" and then a brief silence.

"Boodoop"—there came several seconds of hoarse panting—"boodoop."

"Yes?" demanded Hirschnopple.

"Uh, he declined to bugger off, my lord." The voice, although still unmistakably Lubkin's, was about an octave higher in tone. "He insists upon seeing you, I'm afraid. It's apparently in relation to some staff complaints."

Hirschnopple blinked. "Staff complaints? About me?" He was genuinely nonplussed. It had been positively days since he'd punched an underling. Well, any of the less-worthless ones, at any rate. And he couldn't even remember how long it was since he'd last fired up his father's patented reverse-barbed, double-pronged enthusiasm-inducer. Clearly too long, by the sound of things.

"Er, yes, my lord. Apparently the complaints in question concern the alleged cruel and unusual psychological abuse of a butler and also the casting of aspersions on the aesthetic qualities of one of your soldiers. He claims his self-esteem has been irreparably compromised."

"Self-esteem? Self-esteem? But it's my self they're bloody well supposed to be esteeming, not their own. I don't know, what's this kingdom coming to when boot-licking, waste-of-space, utterly worthless and thowoughly butt-ugly lowlife peasants can go awound accusing their supewiors of completely justified yet totally untwue offences? Where's the gwatitude? Where's the wespect? Where's the appweciation for a fwank and honest assessment of their welative worth? It makes my blood boil, Lubkin."

"Quite, my lord. Er, and the ogre?"

"The what? Oh, yes." Hirschnopple considered. Those turncoats Smark and Felubble were clearly off somewhere snitching and/or reassuring each other how attractive they were, while the remainder of his personal guard hadn't yet returned from their conspirator-hunt, leaving him a little light on in ogre-handling resources. It seemed a strategic approach was called for.

"Oh, vewy well. Tell him I'll see him. But he'll jolly well have to wait his turn. Kindly send in Ms Waithclaw."

"Yes, my lord. Right away."

Monochrome. That was Hirschnopple's overriding first impression of the goblin as she entered the room. Grey skin, slate-coloured eyes, black leather—even the hilt of her long, curved sword was dark as midnight. Without invitation—and without a sound—she slid into one of the seats arrayed before the young lord's monstrosity of a desk and rested her unblinking gaze on him. And then, utterly still, she waited.

"Uh, yes." Hirschnopple cleared his throat. "May I say how pleased I am to have the opportunity to wetain your services, Ms Waithclaw? Your weputation pwecedes you."

The goblin acknowledged the remark with the barest tilt of her head.

"Now"—he retrieved a piece of parchment from his desk and held it up—"as it stands, the contwact I have dwawn up cuwwently lists a dwagon, a dwarf and an elf. However, I couldn't help but wonder, if I were to perhaps add another zewo to your wemuneration"—giving her his most charming smile, he picked up a pen with his other hand"—whether you'd mind tewwibly if I popped an ogre onto the list?"

Perched atop a pile of cushions on the human-sized chair behind her human-sized desk, Bex smiled at the three guests seated before her.

"Sorry about all the secrecy shenanigans. As I'm sure you can appreciate, our products and services are rather specialised and not really for the everyday passer-by or creature-in-the-street. We don't want any old idiot wandering in and blowing themselves up or turning themselves into a newt or some exciting combination of the two, do we? Although, of course"—she gave her visitors a broad wink—"depending on the idiot, we're quite prepared to make an exception. Now, can I get any of you a drink?"

Having just traversed the little gnome's workshop and experienced at first-hand the sinus-clearing, ear-popping and vertigo-inducing range of substances bubbling in flasks, steaming in beakers and glooping in test tubes, Slash's instant response was a very definitive "No, thankyou," and he was not at all surprised when Hobe and Carri likewise declined.

"Oh, good." With a look of genuine relief, Bex glanced down at the little ladder leaning against her chair, which she'd used to attain her current lofty (by gnome standards) position. "We've not long leased the place and I haven't gotten around to, ah...downsizing my office, if you get my drift. All this climbing's no doubt good for my cardio, but there's only so much a girl can take."

"I hear you, lady." Casting a rueful look at his feet dangling well clear of the ground, Hobe shook his head. "Bloody human-bias."

 "I know, right?" agreed Bex. "Don't get me started on the bathroom situation. But hey, no point moaning. It's not like they seem to hear us much up there anyway. So, to business. What can I do for you folks?"

"We need to find someone," said Carri. "And, the thing is, we'd prefer not to have to deal with all that bothersome looking for them first."

"Ah." Bex arched an eyebrow. "A tracking orb, eh? Find and capture, is it? Or maybe seek and destroy?"

"That," replied the elf, "is none of your concern. We just need to know if can you help us or not."

"Oh, I can help you. The question is, can you afford my help? Do you have any idea how much that kind of magic costs?"

"Oh, yes. I know exactly how much it costs. Or at least, I know how much it's going to cost me." Carri fixed the gnome with her piercing blue eyes. "It's going to cost exactly one favour—the one you promised me after that last job I did for you, back when you said you were experiencing a few cashflow problems and couldn't pay up in gold."

"What? Oh, come on." Bex appeared genuinely indignant. "You can't be serious. Since when is catching a no-good, philandering, waste-of-space husband in the act worth anything like as much as the provision of a top-of-the-range, custom-made, class one, quality-assured magical device? I mean, it's not like he's even much of a husband."

"Hey! I'm right here, you know."

With a start, Slash realised the voice came from what he'd assumed were a collection of empty jars on a shelf behind Bex's desk. Looking more closely, he could now see—at least in the case of one jar—he'd been mistaken. About the empty part, anyway.

"Shut it, you." Bex scowled up at the little gnome man, pressing a plaintive face against the glass wall of his prison. "The grown-ups are talking."

Carri was unmoved. "Balancing the ledger—and what you do with your husband—is your business. I'm just here to collect on my favour. Now, make with the tracking thingy, please."

The gnome glared at her. "Oh, fine. But just so we're clear, if I do this, we're all square. Evens stevens. Done and dusted. Agreed?"

Carri reached out shook the gnome's hand. "Agreed."

"Er,"—there was a discreet tapping from the jar on the shelf—"does that mean I can get out now?"

For a moment Bex gave no indication of having heard, but then turned to face her office's open door.

"Hey, Wod!" she shouted.

"What?" came back the exasperated reply.

"You emptied out that delivery of gryphon-dung?"

"Yeah."

"Washed out the bags?"

"Nah, not yet."

"Good." The gnome smiled a wicked smile. "Bring one of 'em in here."

"What? Um..."—the little voice from the jar was now barely audible—"you know what? I reckon I'm actually good in here. Quite comfy, in fact. No need to go to any fuss."