Goblin Slayer - Volume 11 - Chapter 3.1

Interlude – The Great Game-Master’s Scene

“Yoo-hoo!” 

“Ugh…” 

The setting was the water town—specifically a dim drinking establishment, at a booth deep inside, in what seemed like the darkest part of the room. 

The people were a diminutive young lady with silver hair, who was waving gaily, and the fixer, a young man who frowned openly when she appeared. 

The restaurant was impeccably furnished, not the sort of place the average citizen would have found themselves. It was only natural he should be surprised to see her there in a maid’s uniform, but the girl blended in remarkably well. She was small enough to pass for a rhea—an illusion to which her arms, magically hidden, contributed. 

Guess the rumors of her being back from the Dungeon of the Dead weren’t just stories… Which makes her how old now, I wonder? the fixer thought insolently. As much as her appearance here surprised him, however, no good ever came of upsetting a johnson. 

“And how might I help you today?” he asked the girl, looking at her. “I already reported on our progress, as I recall.” 

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk about.” The girl plopped herself down on a stool and waved to the bartender, ordering a very expensive drink without a second thought. Or perhaps we should say a very strong drink. Dwarven fire wine wasn’t something the average human could handle. 

A harefolk waitress brought the drink with a speed and discretion befitting the quality of this establishment, and the girl drained it in a single gulp. “One more, if you don’t mind.” 

“I thought alcohol was strictly off-limits when one was talking about a run.” 

“If you can call this alcohol. More like water.” 

Water! If an elf drinks that stuff, it would make their head explode. The fixer gave a defeated shake of his head. 

“So tell me about this progress,” the girl said. 

“Oh, you know. Things are…complicated.” 

The harefolk waitress reappeared shortly, her tail twitching and her hips swaying, and the silver-haired maid accepted another drink. This time she sipped at it delicately, savoring it even as she gave an annoyed shrug. “And this after we used the princess’s demands as an excuse to request a scout.” 

“Your neighbor, eh?” the fixer pointed out, and the silver-haired maid nodded her agreement. 

But what excuse? The fixer laughed to himself. It had all been a convenient pretext to go charging in. “This princess seems nice and calm, and that’s what counts,” he said. “By the grace of the Earth Mother.” 

It might sound as if he was being rather too direct, but that wasn’t the problem. That was what this shop was for. This johnson had started it, after all. 

Guess it won’t do me any good, sweating the niceties… 

The fixer exhaled, defeated, then called out “Miss!” to the waitress and ordered a drink. He wasn’t sure how he felt about knocking back a drink while his party was out there working hard, but, well, he was in a battle of his own. 

Making connections, making preparations, gathering information, cleaning up after, providing emergency support, and so on, and so forth: When it came down to it, the running itself was just the last and most conspicuous step in a long process. But just because it was so obvious, you had to be careful. Be crude when they thought you would be technical, and technical when they thought you would be crude. That was the key to longevity here. 

The white animal at his feet pawed at his shoes, but he pushed it back gently with his toes. 

Sorry, I know she’s down with illness, but you’ve gotta let me off this time—I’ll go see her next time. 

A mage who could control several familiars was a stout ally, and thanks to her, they were able to maintain tight coordination. 

The spy, the elf wizard, the sprite-user driver, the cleric of the God of Knowledge, the wizard who served the familiar, and himself. These six made a good party, at least in the fixer’s opinion. He hoped everyone else would think so, too. That was exactly why it was his role to muster all his eloquence and volubility with every johnson, even the one in front of him now. 

“And what? We cleaned up the matter of the blasphemy surrounding the consecrated wine, didn’t we?” 

“You cleaned up goblins. They don’t count for much.” 

“Just send the army to the village, keep it safe that way,” the fixer said, both to divert the discussion and perhaps to get a rise out of the young woman. 

The silver-haired maid snorted. “If we had unlimited budget, resources, and personnel. And if every single man we had bled the royal colors,” she quipped before murmuring, “Actually, I guess that wouldn’t be so great.” Then she looked up at him with a threatening glare. “You know we hired you to do more than kill goblins, right?” 

“Naturally,” the fixer replied with a laugh. “And believe me, it’s been very profitable. More trouble means more business.” 

Cultists and vampires and demons, injustice and corruption, rebellious regional governors and pedigreed nobles. Nobody ever got rich prosecuting crimes—was it the elf who had said that? Nothing could have been truer of those who ran through the shadows cast by the great war between Chaos and Order. 

“The real question is who’s plumping for those goblins,” the silver-haired girl said, exhaling. 

Not how. Not to what end. But who. The fixer understood perfectly well what she meant by that. That understanding was what prompted the unpleasant feeling within him. He felt compelled to ask: “You’re not going to say we should send our beloved hero in, are you?” 

“Not even possible,” the girl snorted. “She’d be a stupid card to try to play in a dispute between private individuals.” Although there were many who thought they ought to—chiefly those with a modicum of power. The maid shrugged. 

“Hold on… Are you suggesting our gang should bring them down?” 

That would be dangerous. Immensely dangerous. But it could mean a lot of money. Some background investigation would be necessary. It was the role of a face to weigh risk and reward in the scales. Some fought with swords, some shot arrows, others fired spells; a face did battle with words. 

The fixer contemplated. Which would be easier: the “demon” captain or a fight here in the water town? The familiar at his feet, sensing how things were going, had assumed a ready position with respect to the young woman. If negotiations went south and things got hot, her spells would be his lifeline. It had been the right choice to have her here. 

But then the silver-haired young woman, perhaps registering the change in the fixer’s demeanor, waved her hand dismissively. “No, someone else is already on it. No need for you to go stirring up the hornet’s nest, too. It would be like the warrior right up front getting covered in slime.” 

“Oh?” 

“We’ve got a specialist taking care of the goblins. The Lady Archbishop and her young merchant friend are handling it.” 

The fixer hmmed with affected disinterest, even as he listened closely to what the young woman was saying. She referred respectfully to the “Lady Archbishop,” but the tone of her voice was as casual as if she were speaking of a friend of her sister’s. That woman was one of the Six Heroes. As for the merchant… She must mean the young noblewoman who had gone from adventuring into proper business. 

All of which means there’s likely to be more excitement with the next country over. 

He would have to make ready. In the world of the shadows, unrest always meant potential business opportunities. 

“Well, that’s karma for you,” the silver-haired girl said with a superficial laugh. “One good turn deserves another.” 

“Live by destiny, die by karma?” The fixer laughed, too. “Helpful words, if you’re a child clutching her allowance.” 

With that, the fixer glanced at the girl. “So what are you really here for?” 

“To complain.” With hardly a hint of emotion, the girl swigged the rest of her drink, then called to the waitress. “There are too many venomous bugs around here. Spiders and scorpions.” She sighed deeply, stretched out on the counter and let her hair splay on the bar top. The fixer wasn’t interested in her age, but at the moment she looked to him like an indignant child. “Too busy with exterminating lately.” 

“His Majesty is?” 

“The third son of an indigent noble and his little friends are.” In profile, the girl almost looked amused, and the slight flush and her pale cheeks seemed due to more than just the alcohol. 

What she means is, he can’t let adventuring go, the fixer thought and decided to order himself another drink. It was the best stuff, the most delicious, and the strongest; it had to be. It had to be if it was to cover his friends’ safe return, the prosperity of his business, the efforts of the red-haired cardinal, and a wonderful adventure besides. 

“Well, you’ll have to tell me all about that quest someday.” 

“Maybe; if there’s a chance.” The girl laughed, playing with the wine cup in her hand. The fixer saw just how like adventurers they were and how unlike. 

“So what exactly do you want us to do?” 

“Find someone and do a run, I suppose.” 

It was just them, their skills, the shadows, and the implacable imperative: Get the job done. 

That was who they were: runners.