Pete

  Approx. 17 hours later.

  Pete shoved his shoulder against the door, but it didn’t budge. Eventually, he had to kick it, and the passenger side door of the Winnebago eventually opened, two twisted Belch Bucks spilling from the interior of the door as it creaked on its hinges.

  He slid out onto the sand, a cool breeze drifting into the area as he surveyed the surrounding sand dunes that stretched off for miles ahead of him. The sounds of his companions exiting the RV came from the other side, while the only noise coming from the tent was the crackle of fires sitting in braziers out in front of the Pawn Broker’s establishment.

  The tent was exactly as he remembered it from the last time they’d visited, but there were subtle differences here and there that suggested that more time had passed in this pocket reality than on Earth. There were barrels of implements and wooden trinkets, baskets filled to bursting with bags of dried fruit and herbs, and various other goods for sale. It all looked familiar, but the items that were on sale were different from those he’d seen during their earlier visit.

  Pete was still considering this when a stout figure came strolling out from inside the tent, a half-moon axe in one hand, a heavy scowl marking his face. Orin Tithebreaker looked over at Pete with his good eye, the other covered by a patch. His expression softened a little as he turned and spotted Sam and Coop along with the goblins walking up behind her.

  The dwarf shook his head, lowering his axe and walking up to the battered RV.

  “I must say, in all my years trading with Dominion folk and beyond, this is the first time someone has driven a dubious prize such as this to my doorstep.”

  Pete rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out the crick as he walked up to the other man.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. We got caught in a storm, and this was our only option.”

  Orin nodded, moving to the side of the Winnebago and staring back at the portal, which was still open. The sound of the Coinflayer Storm could still be heard, but it sounded as though it was a long way away, like it was a recorded message played through a small speaker.

  The dwarf grunted. “Coinflayer, huh?” He nodded to himself, turning his attention back to the RV and placing a hand on its surface. “Been through a couple of those myself. Nasty, spiteful things. They’ll strip you to the bone in seconds, and the Storms have a will of their own, a drive to kill and devour.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Well, the damned thing was sure as hell trying to devour us. It started throwing Warpspawn at us too.”

  Orin nodded, his eyebrows lifting. “Truly? Well, there is another novelty I’d not thought to encounter this night. You are making a habit of bringing strange gifts each time you visit, Vault Breaker.”

  His lips curled at that last part, and Pete remembered that the Pawnbroker had access to the contest feeds. He wondered whether Orin had watched his appearance on Puke and Pay. The look in the dwarf’s eye suggested that he had.

  “I can’t guarantee a good price on the vehicle,” Orin said, “but if you have anything else to trade, the Copper Eye Emporium is always open.”

  “To be honest,” Pete replied, “it’s not so much cash we’re after as a place to wait out the storm.”

  The dwarf nodded. “Then you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

  “That won’t do us any good though, will it?” Coop said, walking up beside the pair. “Sitting here on our asses won’t help if we have to head back out into that storm afterwards anyway.”

  “Shit, you’re right,” Pete agreed, turning to Orin. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could change where the portal leads? Even if you could send us a few miles ahead of the storm, that would be enough.”

  Orin stroked his beard, looking past the RV toward the portal entrance. In the distance, Pete could still hear the tumult roaring.

  “It can be done, but it will take some time.” He nodded, turning around and motioning for the others to follow him as he started walking toward the tent. “Come. We will discuss trade, and I will have Che Che rustle up some food and drink. Then we will find a suitable location for you to exit the portal and resume the contest.”

  Pete felt the tightness in his shoulders ease a little. He hadn’t realized until that moment just how tense he’d been. A quick look at Sam confirmed that she was just as relieved by the news. She shot him a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she and Coop followed the dwarf into his tent.

  Craig motioned for Grizzle and Torgo to follow after and moved up beside Pete, a grin spreading across his goblin face.

  “A clever gambit, opening up this portal,” he said.

  “Yeah, it kind of just came to me out of desperation more than anything else. It’s one of my class abilities. Basically, I can sell all of my crap here for a pretty decent amount of money. Turns out it’s also a great place to hide from a storm.”

  Craig pointed toward the tent. “And this vendor. Can he be trusted?”

  Pete shrugged. “I’ve only met him once before, but he treated us well, and he didn’t try to kill us. He also hates the Corporation, so that’s a plus.”

  They walked together into the tent, at which point Craig’s eyes grew wide as he looked around at the vast range of items for sale. As before, there were thousands of different objects all hanging from the ceiling or stacked neatly on shelves, piled in baskets, or displayed in glass cases on pedestals. Grizzle and Torgo seemed similarly baffled by the display, the latter moving over to a basket of exotic-looking fruits and sniffing them with interest.

  Pete left the trio of goblins and joined Sam and Coop up at the main counter. Orin was standing nearby, delivering orders to the withered goblin Che Che, who was nodding profusely.

  “They’ll want to come out some distance from the storm and, judging by the racket coming from the portal, it looks like a big one.”

  Orin placed a hand on the goblin’s shoulder.

  “Food and drink for our guests first, if you don’t mind, Che Che, then we can set about relocating the tent.”

  The goblin grimaced, which wasn’t unusual given that his face was incapable of showing a different expression. The stocky goblin marked out various symbols using his hands, and Orin nodded his approval.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “Well and good,” the pawnbroker said, stepping behind the counter and speaking with Pete and Sam. “It will take a few hours to reorient the emporium, but we’ll be able to send you a safe distance from the storm at least.” He motioned toward the tent entrance. “That vehicle. Will it still function?”

  Sam shook her head. “I doubt it. The engine’s pretty much shot, and we’ve lost at least one tire. I haven’t had a chance to look at the damage yet, but my guess is a few of those falling coins got right through to the engine and, unless you’ve got a working garage and a bunch of spare parts out back, I doubt we’re gonna be able to fix it.”

  Orin grinned wolfishly.

  “But you know enough to fix it? If you were able to assess the damage and you were provided with the necessary parts, you might be able to mend the vehicle?”

  She blinked. “I mean…maybe. I know cars, and this is pretty much just a big van. But there’s no telling how bad the damage is, and I’ve never worked with something like this before. Never had to repair damage by falling metal coins before.”

  Pete turned to face her. “I never knew you were a mechanic?”

  “You never asked,” she retorted with a smile. “Besides, I’m not technically a mechanic. My dad was, and so were my brothers. I learned everything I know from them, and I’ve been looking after cars since I left home.”

  She turned back to Orin. “You seriously think you can help?”

  “I suggest we take a look at what items you can sell. If you are able to provide items of suitable worth, I am confident we can come to an arrangement. While I have a limited supply of spare parts that might be suitable for vehicle repairs, I am connected to several contraband markets that have tendrils spread throughout the Dominion and beyond. I’m confident we can find what you need.”

  Sam positively beamed. “Sweet! I’ll go and check out the damage. Make a list of stuff we’re gonna need.”

  “Would you like to sell any wares first?” Orin asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve already given all my trash items to Pete. Anything else I’ve already sold, or I’ll keep for a kiosk. You and Pete can deal with all the crap.”

  With that, she turned and walked toward the entrance of the tent, whistling and pointing a finger at Craig and the other goblins.

  “Need some help with the RV,” she said, not breaking her stride as Craig and the others fell in line beside her.

  “Mechanic, huh?” Coop said, standing beside Pete. “Makes sense, I guess. She certainly knows her way around a steering wheel.”

  The little ferret climbed up the side of Pete’s leg and moved onto the top of the counter as Pete started pulling items out of his inventory and laying them out for Orin to inspect. The dwarf pulled out his strange glasses and slipped down a magnifying lens as he rifled through the items, moving them into different piles.

  While Orin was assessing the various items, a list appeared on Pete’s display, categorizing each of the newly examined items in response to Orin’s various grunts and muttered words.

  “Buttons, buttons, buttons,” the dwarf muttered with a smile. “I don’t know why the goblin race is so enamored with the objects, but it is rare to find a group of more than three goblins without a stash of buttons.”

  He looked up as he slid the stack of different colored and shaped buttons to the side.

  “Have you ever seen a goblin wearing a button-up shirt?”

  Pete frowned, realizing that he hadn’t.

  “Ah…no.”

  “Because they don’t tend to wear button-up shirts,” Orin went on. “Which is what makes their obsession with buttons all the more intriguing. Buckles, zippers, studs, and the like are common enough, but it is very rare indeed to find a goblin dressed in buttons.”

  He moved on to several other objects while he continued.

  “My suspicion is that they are taken as a sign of wealth, given that Tongsly Belch and his ilk are often portrayed with button-up shirts and fancy coats. I’m unsure whether the preoccupation with buttons derives from this fact or whether Belch and his cousins simply adopted the practice of dressing in this manner to capitalize on an existing infatuation.”

  He picked up a brass key, turning it over in his hands and leaning in close with his magnified eye. After a brief inspection, he moved on to a small rock with eyes and a mouth painted on it and the name Mucky Muck written on its underside.

  Orin chuckled as he considered the curious pet.

  “There is a good market for these at the moment. Folks from all over the Dominion collect them as good luck charms. I believe in the bog marshes of Istyalen Five there is even a cast of fungal spourkin that has built a religion around the acquisition and veneration of pet rocks such as this.”

  “So, it’s worth some coin then?” Pete asked.

  “Eight hundred Belch Bucks for a specimen such as this. I’ll need to check the auction houses to confirm, but I’d be happy enough offering three hundred outright or four hundred in trade.”

  Pete shook his head. “I thought you said it was worth eight hundred Bucks?”

  The dwarf looked up from the rock and shifted the magnifying lens out of the way of his good eye. He grinned.

  “Eight hundred is what I will sell the item for, provided I can find a suitable buyer, and that may take several months to eventuate. This being the case, I will look to sell at a lower price in order to recoup my money quickly. In order to offset losses and fund this little enterprise of mine, it is necessary to make at least a hundred percent markup on all items I purchase. So, I offer you three hundred, will likely mark the stone up to six hundred in order to sell it quickly, and I will be forced to discount it to five hundred during the bartering process.”

  Pete ran through the numbers in his head.

  “That seems like a hell of a big markup.”

  “It does. But have you considered the cost of running this establishment? I must constantly order new stock, pay various fees and taxes in order to maintain access to the best auction sites and distribution services. I have to pay Che Che for his labor, make repairs, and of course the special shift device I employ to maintain my position within this pocket universe and move the tent regularly is prohibitively expensive. It requires a regular supply of chronoflux crystals, which are difficult to acquire and dangerous to store.”

  Pete held up his hands in surrender.

  “All good, man, I was just yanking your chain. Three hundred would be great.”

  Orin nodded. “Four hundred in trade if Sam identifies the items that need to be acquired to fix the vehicle.”

  He went through all of the other items that had been placed on the counter, lingering over a large, chipped tooth wrapped in cloth with the name Deadeye Frank written on it.

  “Now, this item tells a story,” Orin said, nodding to himself as he examined it close up with his magnifying glass. “There are details etched into the side of the tooth. So small you wouldn’t be able to read them with the naked eye. It seems that, at some point in the past, someone has recorded various exploits of this Deadeye Frank figure.”

  He pulled back the tooth, turning and pulling a small device from the side of the bench and sliding it in between them both. Coop watched with interest, sitting on her paws as Orin placed the tooth on the device and tapped a few buttons. A holographic display showed in orange light above the device, showing a zoomed-in image of one side of the tooth with angular writing etched into the enamel.

  Deadeye Frank, who killed his brother and ate his cousin’s big toe,

  Who sold his inheritance for a bowl of kitchy soup,

  Who broke the oath of coin-bound fealty,

  Who defiled the memory of his brood mother and burned her memory wreath to ash.

  Pete squinted at the strange writing. “Is this actually Frank’s tooth though? Also, what’s the deal with these goblin names? Craig? Frank? They all sound like insurance salesmen, but then you’ve got Grizzle and Tongo and those kinds of names. It’s just weird.”

  Orin chuckled at that. “It is weird as you say because you are simply unaccustomed to goblin culture and the wider plethora of races that exist within the Dominion. Be aware also that the System is translating native goblin names and words into your language. What you see as the name Frank merely sounds that way to your human ears.”

  He motioned to Pete’s wrist.

  “If you open up your Translation Matrix settings on the gauntlet, you can temporarily alter the settings to allow you to see the words as they actually appear.”

  Pete brought up his Translation Matrix menu and displayed it so that Orin could see. After a few taps of his finger, the dwarf altered the settings, and Pete took another look at the words inscribed on the tooth.

  They all looked like gibberish, and the name Frank was written as ‘fe&ral*kni’.

  “So, that’s native goblin for Frank?” Pete asked.

  “Frank is the closest sound to what you see here. In native goblinari, it tends to have more emphasis on what you perceive as the hard ‘k’ sound, and there is a tongue movement that precedes the name for which there is no equivalent in your language.”

  Pete turned the Translation Matrix settings back to what they had been before, and the holographic writing shifted to English once again.

  “As to your other question,” Orin went on, “yes, this tooth belongs to Frank. It is a vengeance marker, held by one who has sworn to avenge his many crimes. In all likelihood, Frank was once captured by goblin authorities but managed to escape. This is an ancient practice that is not frequently followed in the modern era.”

  Pete grinned at that. “So, it’s gotta be worth big bucks, right?”

  The dwarf returned his smile. “Indeed, it does, Pete.”