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Holding the copper bowl with both hands, Josiah turned to square up with the mustached man. Josiah’s eyebrows rose. “Is this a robbery?”
“Of a sort,” Mustache Man said. He drew his short sword. At the same time Stocky Guy, sword in hand, began disarming the half-goblin, Gurk.
Not completely surprising Josiah, Stosh climbed out of the barber chair. He pulled off the bloodstained bib, tossed it aside, and strode toward the door. He slid the locking bolts in place. The Light Spell provided more than sufficient illumination to show the big man’s swollen jaw looked better. A small vial, with cork removed and apparently empty, sat on the arm of his barber chair. A Potion of Minor Healing, Josiah thought. Helga’s comment about “thirsty—not thirsty” made sense.
Stocky Guy took the half-goblin’s cutlass and bandoleer of darts before looking toward Mustache Man for guidance. All he got was an aggravated stare.
Stocky Guy shrugged and dropped the half-goblin’s weapons in the trash crate near the front door. The two men near the door each moved to a window.
The half-goblin, sitting with his hands resting on the top of his head, observed with wide eyes. He wasn’t part of the robbery...no, it wasn’t a robbery. But, whatever it was, three on one wasn’t good odds for Josiah, even with his magical dagger.
“I’ll comply,” Josiah said. He hurriedly added, “If you could, pull the pins and drop the screens in their slots before closing the shutters?”
The big man, Stosh, turned. “What—why?” His unhindered movement and clear voice emphasized his rotten tooth was no longer a concern.
“It’ll damage the screens,” Josiah said. “Repairing them is expensive.” He gestured, with the bowl, still in both hands. “The round pegs. Just pull them and lower it, if you would?”
Josiah didn’t know if he would live through whatever was going to happen, but sounding cooperative, and like he expected to live, might give him an edge—when it came to the fight. He didn’t need to consult a seer to accurately predict impending violence.
“Cooperate by dropping the dagger,” Mustache Man said, impatience echoing in his voice.
Josiah shifted the bowl to his right hand and lifted the dagger out of its sheath with his left hand’s thumb and little finger. Instead of dropping it directly next to himself, he tossed it a little behind him, toward the back doorway. If Mustache Man knew it was magical, he’d go pick it up, and maybe show his back—and an opening.
Right, Josiah thought. He had the stiletto in his boot, and two straight razors. Not exactly formidable armament, and these guys weren’t amateurs. Well, maybe Stocky Guy was. Nevertheless, if they thought it was just a mundane dagger, they wouldn’t bother with it.
While the two men dropped the screens, and closed and barred the shutters, Mustache Man said to the half-goblin, “Like my associate indicated, don’t cause trouble and you’ll live.”
The disarmed thief nodded. “No problems from me, dude.” He slowly removed his hands from the top of his head and lowered them to his lap.
“Careful that you don’t give any reason or distraction,” Mustache Man said. “Or both you and the barber here will suffer sword tips doing nasty things to your vital parts.”
“Been almost two weeks since I seen a man bleed out,” Stosh commented, fishing around again in his pocket.
That disheartened Josiah. He’d experienced more than a few dreams about bleeding out on this world. Even so, he kept a straight face. These guys had some ranks. The leader, he guessed, at least fifth rank. The other two, not as smooth or confident in their actions. Definitely not rookies, but not more than second or third rank. Stosh was probably some sort of warrior. It’d take more than initiative and a good Luck Roll to survive combat against two thieves and a warrior.
The mustached man gestured with his sword. “The straight razor in your hip pocket too.”
Josiah feigned surprise. “Oh, of course.” With the same thumb and little finger, he pulled the razor from his back pocket and tossed it on the bloodstained bib, which lay wadded up on the floor next to his barber chair.
Stosh strode over to Mustache Man. The leader pulled the flanged mace from his belt and handed it to the big man.
While Stosh adjusted his grip on the mace, a cruel grin spread across his face.
Mustache Man pointed his short sword’s tip toward the closet door situated to the left of the big mirror. “Now,” he said, “there’s a few things in the Drop Room I want. You’re going to let us in there to get them.”
Josiah realized they weren’t going to frisk him for other weapons. That was good. Probably due more to overconfidence than inexperience. Either way, it left him with a weapon in his boot and in his belt. Not great ones, but better than nothing.
“You gentlemen being new to town? That’d be a mistake,” Josiah warned. No sense denying the hidden room’s existence. “The folks that drop stuff there for others to pick up. Putting yourself on their bad side...”
“Hey, it’s you that’s going to unlock the door,” Stosh said, running his left hand up and down the shaft of his mace. “Guess we’ll all be on their bad side.” He took a few steps back toward the front door. “Them keys on your belt ring. Save me some time busting it down if you unlock it.”
Josiah looked from Stosh to Mustache Man. “I’ll do that for you. But I won’t get anything for you.” He shook his head with wide eyes. “I won’t betray such trust, even if it means a sword in the gut.”
“How’s about a mace to the skull?” Stosh asked.
“I’ve heard the barber is funny like that,” Mustache Man interjected. “Words have meaning. Probably tied to a verbal contract.” He grinned menacingly. “Won’t make a difference.”
Josiah stood up straight and jutted his chin out. “It will to me.”
“Whatever you say,” Mustache Man said. “Just unlock it.”
Josiah walked past his barber chair, depositing the bowl on the nearest armrest as he passed. When he got to the closet door, he looked back at the big man, meeting his eyes. Josiah worked the belt clip with his finger and thumb, detaching the key ring, and selected the proper skeleton key. He lifted it to eye level, showing it to Stosh and then to Mustache Man. Stocky Guy stood silently, observing, a wide-eyed look of anticipation on his face.
“This is for the door.” Josiah’s fingers held the key needed to unlock the closet door. He jingled the ring holding three additional keys. “None of the keys unlock anything else in my shop.” That was true, if one didn’t consider the Drop Room part of his shop. In truth, Josiah didn’t.
“You’ll be given’m to me anyway,” Stosh growled, apparently growing impatient.
Stocky Guy, while paying some attention to the discussion, kept an eye on the half-goblin. That they hadn’t simply killed Gurk meant they wanted him alive for something, even if it was only to keep Josiah hopeful of getting through the situation alive. Unharmed, even.
Killing an innocent customer—well, innocent by being in the shop, the wrong place at the wrong time—would be a major disincentive to cooperate. After killing a customer, one didn’t have to be a genius to figure who’d be next on the list. Maybe they planned to force the Gurk fellow to be an unwilling trap detector? Images of the old Polish Mine Detector joke Josiah’s bigoted German great uncle told, way back when Josiah was a kid, came to mind.
Josiah refrained from shaking his head while trying to figure what sparked that particular memory. Whatever dredged up the memory didn’t matter. What did matter was that the three men probably didn’t know fully what to expect, what the closet held.
Good.
All three intruders stood wary. Mustache Man stepped back, giving more space between himself and Josiah. The barber turned and faced the locked door set in the wall three feet to the left of the shop’s big mirror.
“No tricks,” Stosh warned. He hefted his mace to emphasize the point.
“No tricks,” Josiah lied. He inserted the key and turned it clockwise one full turn, plus a quarter turn past the unlocking distance. That levered a metallic pin into the doorframe, depressing a latch, temporarily deactivating the trap. If he could get back to his chair, he would reactivate the trap. He turned the key counterclockwise ninety degrees.
“Come on,” Stosh said, stepping closer. “Nothing funny.”
Josiah withdrew the key and moved away from the door. “It’s unlocked.”
Stosh stepped forward, but Mustache Man signaled to his big partner. With a crooked grin he said to Josiah, “You open it.”
Josiah nodded and, without hesitation, stepped back to the closet’s wooden door, turned the knob and pushed it open.
Like always, the door’s hinges creaked.
Turning, Josiah slowly stepped toward Mustache Man, holding out the ring of keys, offering them to him.
Mustache Man observed the barber, as if to detect some sign of deceit. Seeing none, he took the keys and then gestured with his sword. “Take a seat in your barber chair. Recline it, and be sure you’re facing the wall opposite your fancy mirror.”
Josiah complied. Gurk, the young thief, continued to sit wide-eyed. Wide-eyed but observant. He appeared tense and frightened. An act, the barber realized. Gurk kept his hands on his thighs during the unlocking procedure. His booted feet were placed so that he could move left or right in an instant.
Mustache Man said to Josiah, “Cork and toss the vial to him.” He pointed his sword at Stosh. Josiah lifted the small, expensive-looking vial from the chair’s arm and complied.
Mustache Man again gestured with his sword. “Do your thing,” he said to Stocky Guy.
The shorter man grinned and pulled a steel box from his hip pocket. It was the size of a cigarette pack, easily fitting in the palm of the man’s calloused hand. He untied a leather cord securing the box to his pocket. Then he flicked the box’s latch, opened the lid and lifted a monocle from the padded interior.
A thin, braided cord dangled from the circular silver eyepiece. A delicate silver chain would’ve been more appropriate, Josiah thought, until he noted the polished crystal lens. Packed in a padded box, even the most finely crafted silver chain might mar the lens formed from pale crystal.
A variation on a Gem of Detection, Josiah guessed. Not only did he recall them from the Monsters, Maces and Magic Player’s Manual, he’d witnessed several of the magical devices in action over the years.
Stosh moved to stand near the entrance, where he could keep an eye on both Gurk and Josiah. Creaking floorboards told the barber that Mustache Man was next to the counter in front of the mirror.
With a deliberate step, practiced and steady, monocle placed in front of his left eye, Stocky Guy approached the closet. The monocle’s faint green glow identified its magic had been activated.
Josiah knew the closet’s interior and contents suggested it was nothing more than a mundane storage area. Shelves with folded towels, tins and jars of ointment, and flasks of oil to refill his lamp. A broom, dustpan, mop and bucket maintained the appearance of use, and not that of mere decorations. The broom held customer hair in its straw bristles, the mop, sitting in the bucket, was kept damp. Everything in the closet was dusted and switched out in rotation to maintain the illusion of regular use.
In truth, Josiah hated going in the room, never fully confident that he’d deactivated the trap. He always double and triple-checked. Except today. He couldn’t afford to suggest a hint of concern that the small room might contain even a wisp of danger. If Mustache Man or either of his other two accomplices would’ve gone to the back room where the stove and door to his apartment were, they’d find the broom and mop regularly used, leaning in a corner.
“There is some sort of mechanical trap,” Stocky Guy said. His words were slow and measured, as if he were reading from an unfamiliar script. “Seems to be deactivated...not direct...umm indirect magical connection incorporated. The magic’s currently dormant.”
Josiah kept a straight face as he considered. Stocky Guy’s evaluation made sense. The closet floor held a pressure plate. When depressed, the action would unstop several magical vials built into the ceiling and walls, releasing scalding jets of steam. Bad news for anyone in the closet. A secondary magical effect, by far the more deadly, would also be triggered by anyone attempting to cross the closet entrance’s threshold after the pressure plate had been depressed. A jolt of electricity from a Minor Lightning Spell would arc from the hinge plates to the striker plate. The intent was to ruin an intruder’s day. Ruined, defined as ending his life.
Josiah witnessed a trial run on a zombie sent in to trigger the trap shortly after installation a dozen years ago. Four steam jets, he estimated at 2d6 of damage each, save for half. And the Minor Lightning Spell? Based on his knowledge of the caster, he estimated it to be 4d6 damage, save for half.
Josiah had ventured to ask the enchanter working with the master thief on the trap, why steam instead of fire, or more arcs of electricity. Josiah figured it was to help preserve from destruction anything a thief might procure from the Drop Room.
The enchanter had replied, “Many employ magical protections against fire. Steam isn’t something most thieves and their ilk ward against. Plus, being damp will increase the effectiveness of the Minor Lightning Spell’s discharge.”
Josiah interpreted that as a minus 1 or 2 on a saving throw.
Long ago, Josiah had calculated the trap’s 12d6 damage. Average roll per D6 being 3.5, that meant, even if the individual saved on all five rolls, he’d suffer 21 points of damage. Stocky Guy might survive that, barely. But, Josiah didn’t think the monocle-wearing thief had the kind of rank or Coordination or Luck to make every saving throw.
Josiah himself, being a 2nd rank thief and 5th rank lay healer, only had eighteen hits. Lay healers, normally a non-adventurer class, only earned 1d4 of hits per level. At the moment, a career choice he was beginning to rue. He knew a fight was brewing. His next action, detected or not, was certain to spark it.
One of the ways to reactivate the closet’s trap lay within the left armrest of his barber chair. Josiah cautiously maneuvered his left hand to the underside of the chair’s armrest until his fingertips located the recessed wingnut.
He didn’t understand the reset mechanism. As a 2nd rank thief, the complexity was far beyond his comprehension. But, he knew enough.
“There’s a concealed door on the back wall.”
Stocky Guy’s slightly muffled voice told Josiah the man was in the closet. Expecting Mustache Man and Stosh to be focused on their partner’s words and actions, Josiah worked to unscrew the wingnut that held the hinged metal plate in place.
Gurk noticed Josiah doing something. The half-goblin thief’s yellow eyes met Josiah’s brown eyes. The half-goblin winked. For that fraction of a second, a look of confidence—no, determination—crossed the thief’s muddy brown-colored face.
Josiah could interpret the wink in one of two ways. The young thief knew things were soon to go down, and he was with the barber. Or, the young thief knew things were soon to go down, and he wanted the barber to think he was with him. Goblins weren’t known for bold actions when the odds were against them. Half-goblins had a reputation for favoring that portion of their heritage.
In the end, Josiah didn’t have a choice. The wingnut dropped into his hand. All he had to do was let the plate swing down so he could pull the lever which, in theory, would reactivate the closet’s pressure plate. It’d prime the trap to go off, hopefully eliminating Stocky Guy from the survival equation.