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Krogman was a wiry man with a thick mustache and thinning hair on top. He wore a heavy linin brown shirt with narrow red striping below the collar. It reminded Glenn of something a square dancer might don.
From the shop owner’s constant grin erupting beneath his mustache and the way he exchanged jibes with his workers, Glenn pegged the man as a practical joker. If this game world, and especially the stinky, oppressive town, had anyone who played practical jokes. Or ones that weren’t in some way sadistic or cruel.
The inside looked just like a barn, with a loft or second floor area, and the floor was made of thick boards, worn smooth from years of service. Two sweaty men wearing nothing more than trousers and boots were replacing split boards lining the bottom of a freight wagon. Another two or three men were on the shop’s upper floor, hammering and sawing. A third man, sweating more than anyone else, wearing a thick shirt and leather apron, labored at a small forge, hammering out nails and brackets.
While Glenn and Derek stood guard, Krogman had inspected the wagons, mainly the wheels, whistling and shaking his head. Kirby followed him, not saying a word. After Ron and Guard Captain Nickson got back, bringing along a potential buyer, the repair shop owner made himself scarce—until Ron, Derek, and Blizz, along with Nickson, Slarg, Yonn and their driver took the wagons to the buyer’s warehouse. That left Glenn, Kirby and Mardin to guard their pile of gear sitting inside, just to the right of the main door.
Stephi had retreated into her basket. It rested next to the pile. Petie took station in the rafters of the wagon repair shop.
After making sure all the workers were on task, Krogman signaled for Kirby to follow him into the shop’s office.
“Dude,” Kirby said to Mardin, “watch our gear.” Then he flicked his head, motioning for Glenn to accompany him.
Like any competent and reliable man-at-arms, Mardin took position between the doorway and the pile of satchels and packs.
Glenn hustled to keep up with the half-goblin thief. “What’s he want?” Glenn whispered to Kirby. The gnome was pretty sure Krogman couldn’t hear over the shop’s din.
The office was cramped with little more than a shelf with stacks of papers held down by ornamental wheel hubs and a desk beneath it. The desk was mostly clean except for a pair of pliers, a ballpeen hammer and small lock box that Krogman appeared to be in the middle of repairing.
The shop owner uncovered a sconce that held a small torch, revealing a Light Spell cast upon it. It wasn’t very strong, maybe equal to a twenty-five watt bulb. He pulled the wooden door closed.
“I’d offer this to one of you.” The shop owner pointed to the office’s sturdy red oak chair before his easy smile faded. “But I don’t think this’ll take long—or it better not.”
“What is it, dude?” Kirby asked.
“Nickson,” Krogman said, his voice monotone. “I remember him from about nine or ten years back. He worked as muscle for Villar’s guild here in Riven Rock.”
“The thieves’ guild in Riven Rock?” Glenn whispered.
“Yeah, dude,” Kirby said in a tone suggesting Glenn should zip it.
The gnome healer bit his lip and stepped back in front of the door. “Sorry.”
Higslaff was connected to the thieves’ guild in Three Hills City, a member of importance, Glenn realized. His pawnshop was attacked in the opening stages of a guild war. The Blue Bugle was second, and some low level guild operatives were killed.
And Higslaff sent them to Krogman, his contact in Riven Rock. Glenn wasn’t sure why he hadn’t grasped Higslaff’s importance. He had the pieces, just never put them together, until that moment.
Krogman reminded Glenn of an auto mechanic. He didn’t look like a thief. But Josiah the barber wasn’t a thief either. Or at least he didn’t live the life of one. Glenn stopped biting his lip. He really had no clue what Josiah did at night, or during his off hours. Non Player Characters apparently had more complex lives than he thought. Even if they wore the same clothes most of the time, and kept to the same routines.
Or at least some NPCs.
Even though there continued to be hammering and sawing and muffled banter on the other side of the door, Krogman kept his voice low. “Nickson may not know what your party’s up to, but he knows Higslaff sent you. He was pretty chummy with a lot of the...” The shop owner’s mouth pulled to one side and his eyebrows arched. “He might be loyal to Higslaff. But he might be more loyal to Villar and his gang.”
“And if it’s the latter,” Kirby said, face scrunched up, “we’re screwed.”
“If screwed means dead, then yeah.”
Kirby’s intense gaze met Glenn’s. The half-goblin thief’s off hand gripped the top of his scabbarded cutlass. “Damn. We’ve got to figure it out.”
“And fast,” Krogman said.
“Me and you should follow him, Jax. Find out if the guard captain intends to screw us.”
Glenn nodded. It was an unfamiliar city, but Kirby was an experienced player, and a good thief. And a good friend. He might need Glenn’s cudgel as backup. Or his healing.
Kirby returned his gaze to Krogman. The man leaned back against his desk, arms folded. “Give me and Jax directions to where they took the wagons. We’ll follow him from there.”
“What about us getting the rooms?” Glenn said. In an even lower voice, just above a whisper, he added, “And Marigold? We could use Petie.”
Krogman said, “I can send Voisard to the Sulfur Ash Inn to get your rooms. I don’t know anything about a Marigold and Petie.”
“Mardin can stay with our stuff. We can leave, saying we’re getting rooms, just going earlier. There ain’t a lot of blue jays here in Riven Rock, right Krogman?”
“No,” the shop owner said, “can’t say that there is.” He’d seen the blue jay fly in and land in the rafters. So had all his men, except the blacksmith.
“If Nickson’s up to something, and sees Petie, that’ll tip him off.” Kirby turned to Krogman. “Petie’s the bird.”
Krogman nodded. “A familiar?”
Kirby nodded affirmation to Krogman, then turned to Glenn with a wide-eyed sense of urgency. “Jax, go get Marigold and bring her in here. Krogman can explain things to her, and she can explain herself to him.” Absentmindedly running his left hand across his bandoleer of darts, he added, “We gotta get moving, ’cause I got a feeling we don’t got time to waste.”