“Whisky, please,” I said to the barman who looked oddly familiar. He put down the glass he’d been meticulously polishing and reached for a bottle of the cheap stuff on a shelf behind the bar.

  “So, how’s business?” I asked as he slid the glass over to me. I took a sip and put a single gold coin down on the bar. Greed-goblin began cursing me internally.

  “So so, sir. Longbottom is going through something of a renaissance, but little enough of it trickles down to the independent business owners.”

  “That is a renaissance?” I waved a hand towards the door and the borderline Victorian grimness that existed beyond the cosy atmosphere of the quiet bar.

  “Well, relatively. The cement industry is booming. Lots of walls are going up across the empire at the moment for some reason. My money is it’s the dwarves. We’re overdue for another dwarven Hammerbaan. It’s been a century or more.” He shrugged and resumed polishing his glass.

  I glanced around and took in the other patrons lurking in the smoky gloom of the establishment. Grimy, hard hats sat on their tables next to their beers. Of the dozen I could see, half had dusty smears on their faces and hands, and the rest had clean skin but equally dirty coveralls.

  “Isn’t there any other trade in the town? From above, it looks like a proper market town. Good road network.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at me, and the recognition hit me like a hammer.

  “You’re Beville’s cousin!” I blurted out.

  “Brother, actually. Creville de Sackville, sir. A pleasure. The light shines?”

  “Indeed. And the spankings are always top-notch.” I produced the coin Bulb had given me from my pocket dimension and slid it across the counter, keeping a finger on it as Creville bent down to stare at it in awe.

  “Brother Shining-Scales. Tex mentioned you’d been chosen.” The tension left him, and he leaned over the bar to whisper, “It’s bad here, sir. A humble barlord can scarcely make a living. The miners are paid in chits, not proper currency.”

  A company town? Interesting. My mind spun as possible plots unfolded.

  “What’s your honest opinion of the competition? Under the light or whatever,” I asked, taking another sip and finding I’d drained the glass. Creville refilled my cup without prompting.

  “Chaff. The Head is struggling, but the rest are dying. Location, sir. It all comes down to location. We’re closest to the bridge, so we get the shift change trade. Men don’t want to walk further than they have to for a beer after a hard day chipping stone, and the service here is a step above anything the other taverns can muster.”

  “I need to have a word with the mayor, but I’m mostly here to find a new location for my pub chain.”

  “Your what, sir?” Creville asked in confusion. I explained the concept, not being subtle when it came to the advantages offered by being part of my organisation.

  “I’d expect to keep my independence as a barlord,” Creville said firmly.

  “I still need to take a look at the other pubs, but I know your family, and I’m a big fan of your congenital attitude to enabling alcoholism. I’d bring in my own manager, but he would be very hands-off.” Indeed, Benton would probably spend most of his time asleep.

  “As long as it was understood that I had a final say on the ale selection, and a vote on hiring, I could live with that.”

  He was desperate, for all he made out that the other establishments were worse off; he was struggling as well. Greed-goblin rubbed his claws together. A de Sackville running my first expansion would be a coup, and would open up the possibility of easier acquisition for his brothers and cousins' taverns.

  “Agreed. Like I said, I’ll go take a look at the other bars, and I need to have a chat with the mayor on an unrelated matter, but I’ll be back later to discuss it further.”

  “Very good, sir. Your change.” He held out a hand with a few silver coins in it, and I took them, carefully restraining my urge to snatch them away. Creville very kindly gave me directions to the other pubs and the mayor's house. He was clearly confident that the Head was the best of the bunch, and he also needed some external investor to keep the place afloat.

  “Thanks, dude. Be seeing you soon, Creville.” I nodded to the man and headed back out into the gloomy streets.

  A barge, low in the water with bulging tarps covering its payload, began moving out into the river and turning south for the city. I made my way to the Bravado, the next pub on my list. I stuck my head in and immediately stepped back out. It stank. The unfortunately featured barmaid had clearly been cursed by whichever god was in charge of beauty on Helstat as well. That’s a nope.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Three more pubs went by as I made my way towards the mayor’s residence, and all of them were in bad shape. They would likely be cheaper to acquire than the Head, but Creville had been right about how important location was. Being situated on the waterfront, close to the bridge the workers used to get to the mines, was a huge boon. And when I got round to building my borderline illegal transport network, the Head would be a perfect site for a subnode.

  I approached the mayor’s home, and it became clear where all the money the town generated was being siphoned off to. The smog seemed to avoid it, leaving the gardens shining in the sunlight while streets ten feet away brooded in shadows. Low walls made of red bricks, topped with ornate wrought iron fencing, kept the hoi polloi at bay.

  I paused opposite the entrance to the grounds. More guards. And this pair wore shiny armour that was well maintained, and they glowered attentively at the peasantry as they passed by. The locals would keep studiously neutral expressions on their faces when the guards could see them, but the muttered curses and volley of spit sent at the walls as soon as they were out of sight of the soldiers told the true story.

  Longbottom was rumbling; something explosive was building. It might be preceded by a few wet farts, but the diarrhoea of revolution would soon sweep the streets and wash away the filth of the ancien regime if I had anything to do with it. It would likely be replaced by yet more filth, in all probability, but maybe I could ride that wave. I shuddered at my own imagery, resolving to avoid thinking about poop for the rest of the day and moved towards the guards with a smile on my face.

  “Halt. Business?” snapped one of the guards, moving to intercept me as I attempted to stroll past the pair.

  “Baronet Bob of Fidler’s Mill. I’m here to discuss the upcoming civil war and propose an alliance of sorts with Mayor Hollyberry.” I bowed gracefully.

  “Some no-name noble. And not a bright one at that. Baron Hateskale handles that kind of thing, rube. Mayor Hollyberry only handles internal matters,” said the other guard, rather rudely in my opinion. Wrath perked his fiery head up and began to build steam for an internal rampage.

  “I take it you work for the big guy then? I heard he’s in a spot of bother at the moment. Some kind of assassination,” I replied jovially.

  “Get lost, my lord. The mayor is busy.”

  I sighed dramatically and raised a hand to my mouth. “I’ve offended you. My deepest apologies, but I’m afraid I really must insist. I’ll be seeing the mayor now.” I stepped forward, and the closest guard pulled his dagger free and moved in closer.

  “I think not you–”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence. I executed a perfect example of the Breaking-Coconuts move, taking a head in each hand and slamming them together so hard that their helmets dented. I stepped over the unconscious and possibly brain-damaged guards, resuming my jaunty whistle.

  The drive curled slightly as it led to the front of the property, built of grey stone blocks and rising three storeys tall. The lower windows all had grates covering them, like the place was a prison.

  Mayor first, then the subteranean nest of slavers. That seemed the best option to take. I didn’t knock on the door but went straight for the handle. I twisted and shoved, but it didn’t budge. I firmly kicked next to the lock, broke it open, and walked inside to find a shocked-looking woman carrying a tray of fruit across the entrance hall. Her expression of surprise shifted into anger, and she hurled the tray, fruit and all, at me like it was Oddjob’s hat.

  The metal of the tray dented as it bounced off my shoulder, and the splatter of juicy plum-like fruit ruined my already messy jacket with purple stains. That was going on Hollyberry’s bill.

  “Una Somna!” I snapped, and the woman collapsed.

  The entrance hall ended in a grand staircase that curled up to the right, lined with a gilt balustrade. Figuring that no one of importance would lurk on the ground floor, I headed up and found a long corridor, the walls hung with tapestries. I paused at the first one and stared at it for a moment.

  It showed men and women bound in chains and being led towards a giant blue flower. Led is probably not the right word; their collars were linked to the tiny fists of smaller beings. The humans looked ugly and crude, dirty and disgusting, while their captors were small, flitting humanoids who were depicted in dazzling colours and made to look somehow beautiful.

  “Hollyberry!” I yelled out. The sound of doors slamming shut echoed back to me down the passage.

  I went door to door, kicking them open. Mostly, I found terrified servants. On a couple of occasions, one of them attacked me. I put them all to sleep and continued on. At the end of the hall, a pair of large double doors stood, carved with engravings of flowers and what I took to be pollen spraying from the petals.

  I grasped both handles and shoved the doors wide, stepping forward with a grin on my lips.

  A figure in a long black cloak was facing out of the window, looking down across the grounds.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Bob. Glitterbuns bit off more than he could chew. You could have simply sent a note ahead, and we could have talked without the melodrama of a home invasion.” The voice was high and lilting, reminding me of Halefire and his odd elvish accent.

  “I’m sure you’d have stayed right here waiting for me if I had,” I growled, checking the corners of the room for additional guards. Unless they were yet more bloody ninjas, we were alone.

  “Why would we need to do anything? You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, little dragon.” Hollyberry’s voice had dropped an octave, and now the accent sounded more like that of the dwarves with sharp, guttural tones.

  “You’ve come to feed the flower, and we welcome you.” This time, Hollyberry sounded distinctly feminine, but the elvish accent was back. Schizophrenia? Could a madman be running Longbottom? It might explain the general state of the place.

  The figure turned and I got a could look at him.

  “Your head’s really fucking small, mate. It’s barely going to be a mouthful,” I sneered.

  Hollyberry pushed back his hood, his arms strangely awkward and inarticulate. Pointy ears, tiny head, evil grin.

  I did the only sensible thing a dragon could do in this situation, remembering Halefire’s sage advice. I punched myself in the nose as hard as I could.