Brody and Habbly stopped outside the door of what had to be the most disreputably bar in existence. The smell alone was enough to earn that dubious honor, a mix of stale beer, unwashed patrons, spoiled food and an indescribable foulness coming from the corners of the building, source unknown. Vermin of all stripes and colors scurried about, snapping up bits of food that had fallen or been thrown on the floor, and in some cases preying upon one another. Patrons of this vile establishment were a mixed bunch, some poor, others criminal, all so desperate that they tolerated the dim lighting, sticky floors and questionable company.

“Only Cronsword could have a place this disgusting and not get it shut down or burned down,” Brody said.

“Nolod is almost this bad,” Habbly said when a centipede crawled over his foot.

“You’re sure he’s in here?” Brody asked. The filth and smell didn’t bother him, especially when the rest of Cronsword was as messy as a pigsty, but this could be dangerous.

“Five goblins saw him go in yesterday and not come out,” Habbly replied.

“They might have been lying to get rid of us. That’s happened more than once this week.”

“We’ve run out of leads to check,” Habbly countered. “If he’s not here then I don’t know where else to look. Be honest, this is his kind of place.”

Brody peeked his head in the bar and saw a man get thrown across the room. “It’s got an ‘anarchy bordering on civil war’ feel to it he would appreciate, even add to. We’ll look, but if he’s not here I vote we torch the place on our way out.”

Habbly led the way as they went inside. “You’ve been spending too much time around Craton.”

Normally goblins visit bars like this to cause trouble, as the drunken and often angry men found in bars make for good victims of goblin pranks. Sometimes goblins visit bars to give gifts to men drinking away their sorrows, slipping coins and even jewelry into their pockets. Such gifts are inevitably stolen from rich men who have annoyed those goblins, but the sources are unimportant.

This time was different, for Brody and Habbly had come in search of help. For two weeks they’d searched high and low, mostly low, for the one person they were sure could help them. Julius, Officer Dalton and Kadid Lan were searching for the authors of strange papers causing so much trouble. Impressive as they were, there were places such men couldn’t go, people who wouldn’t talk to them. Goblins had their own limitations and weren’t welcome in polite company, but among the dregs of society a goblin could do much.

“What’s this?” a patron asked when Brody and Habbly walked by him. The man staggered to his feet and stepped in front of them. “More goblins. Is there a plague of goblins? A migration? An invasion?”

“A convention,” Habbly told him.

Brody glanced at the filthy man staggering under the effects of drink. “You’ve got goblins here?”

“Just one. One’s too many.” The man fell back into his chair.

“Where is he?” Habbly asked.

“Little guy is over, over there.” The man pointed near the bar. There was a small table and one chair in a poorly lit corner. Brody and Habbly couldn’t see who was sitting there, but the bartender walked up to the table and set down a plate of cheese.

Brody and Habbly slipped between tables and drunken customers, nearly slipping on a puddle of spilled beer until they reached the bar. The bartender nodded to them, a rare greeting from a human, and asked, “You’re friends of his?”

Brody peered into the shadows and recognized the table’s sole occupant. “We know him. I’m surprised you’re letting him stay here.”

“He did me a favor. There’s a lady artist living in the apartment next to mine. Three straight weeks of her complaining that I was disrupting her creative energies, whatever that means, and I was at wit’s end. The little guy drove her and her cats off in twelve hours. I figure that’s worth some cheese.” When Brody headed for the table, the bartender said, “You be careful. He’s been hitting the Gouda hard all day.”

Brody and Habbly took two spare chairs and approached the table. They sat down while the lone goblin wolfed down every speck of cheese on the plate. Brody wasn’t sure how to start and simply said, “Ibwibble.”

“Ibwibble the Terrifying,” Ibwibble corrected him. The green goblin sat with his back against the wall and his rucksack by his feet. Ibwibble wasn’t armed, but was dangerous all the same. “Wait a minute, I’ve seen you two before. You were at that mess with the Fallen King.”

“We helped defeat him,” Habbly said.

Ibwibble licked the plate clean and set it on the table. “That goon cost me my audience. Thousands and thousands of people knew and feared my name, until they were chased off. I’ve been trying to rebuild my reputation, get new fans, but it’s not working. I can’t find a tax collector to fight. People don’t like tax collectors, you know.”

“We’ve heard,” Brody said. “Ibwibble, we need—”

“I came here looking for tax collectors,” Ibwibble continued morosely. “I figured, hey, a city has to have zillions of tax collectors to milk the citizens dry. But not Cronsword, no, they have gangs to do that. Not one proper tax collector in the entire city.”

Brody drove off a small furry animals trying to climb up his leg. “It doesn’t look like they’re better off for the loss.”

“I don’t even have my friend Dawn Lantern anymore,” Ibwibble went on. “I didn’t lose him like losing a sock or a comb. I mean, it’s not like I could find him by checking under the couch cushions. We were walking down a road, checking rumors of a tax collector sighting, when all of a sudden men come running at us and drop to their knees. They need my friend’s help or terrible, dire, not at all good things are going to happen. They begged and pleaded and whined. It went on for minutes!”

“That’s tragic,” Habbly said in a deadpan voice.

“Me and Dawn Lantern were getting along really good.” Ibwibble pointed at Brody and said, “Sure, he could help those slobs, and I guess that’s important, but I miss him. I liked talking with him.”

“Do you have any idea what he’s going on about?” Habbly asked Brody.

“Not a clue.”

Ibwibble’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, how did you two find me?”

“It wasn’t hard when you left a fifty mile long trail of booby-trapped outhouses,” Habbly replied. “Thanks to you, hundreds of people have a crippling fear of toilets.”

Ibwibble chuckled. “Yeah, that was fun, but it was work, too. I need to stay in practice for the day I find where the tax collectors are hiding from me.”

Brody took a deep breath before saying, “Ibwibble, as crazy as this sounds, good people need you. Their lives are in danger because of some idiots telling everybody’s secrets, and that includes secrets that could get you killed. We’re trying to find who’s responsible and put a stop to it, but nobody we know has seen them, much less know who they are or where to find them. We need help. We need you.”

A drunk stumbled by and fell at their feet. No one paid attention when he didn’t get up, and when he started snoring the bartender said, “I’m adding a night’s stay to his tab.”

“Need me?” Ibwibble perked up.

“You were trained by Little Old Dude,” Brody said. “That name carries a lot of weight. You set a trap that drove off a lot of the Fallen King’s men, and you helped take out a hag in that battle. An impossible mission has come up, to find unfindable people, and that means we need the best.”

Brody nodded to Habbly, who took a wad of papers from inside his shirt and spread them out across the table. Some were the papers with blue ink telling secrets, while others were covered in names, tables and charts.

“We need to find who’s spreading this stuff,” Brody said. He pointed at the other papers and said, “We’ve got a marketing plan to make sure the world knows who you are and that you’re on the case. That’s the job, and that’s the reward.”

“I’m not a detective,” Ibwibble said, but his protest was halfhearted.

“You’re a hunter,” Habbly replied. “You hunt tax collectors, canny beasts supported by soldiers and kings. We need you to hunt the people who wrote this trash.”

Ibwibble picked up a paper and turned it over in his hands. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed as he studied the writing. “Flowery handwriting, good quality paper, blue ink, this smells like money. Parents with cash to spare raised the guy who wrote this, educated him in a fancy school where they teach long words nobody says, like haberdashery. He’s still got money to afford nice paper and so much of it, but he’s scared, hiding in shadows because he knows his victims will come after him. Scared means nobody is protecting him, not kings, not churches, not guilds or noble houses.”

“That fits with what we think,” Habbly said.

Ibwibble read the other papers. “The victims are all over the place. Most of them are humans, but I see names of elves, dwarfs and a few ogres. Mayors, merchants, nobles, gang leaders, wizards, heroes, priests, he’s going after anyone with money or authority. This guy has no friends in society. The victims are spread out over a couple kingdoms. How is he getting dirt on so many people so far from each other? How much of this is true?”

“Every word,” Brody told him.

That made Ibwibble drop the papers. “He hasn’t lied once? Why not? Look at this stuff, gambling debts, mistresses, undercover missions, diplomatic exchanges and smugglers selling goods. He can’t prove any of it and he doesn’t show evidence. If he can’t prove his truths, why doesn’t he tell lies people might believe?”

“That’s why we nee—” Brody began. His voice trailed off when foul liquid dripped off the ceiling onto their table. “What is that?”

“It’s just Gus,” Ibwibble told them. “Don’t worry, he’ll move on in a few minutes.”

Habbly wiped the table clean with his shirtsleeve. “Did goblins build this place? I can’t imagine anyone else being crazy enough to do it.”

Ibwibble pounded on the table. “That’s it! The guy behind this is a nutcase! He thinks he’s smart and trying to prove a point, but he’s a moron who hates everyone and thinks there’s no difference between his victims. Good, bad, that doesn’t matter to him. He’s after the truth like it’s a goal to reach, an absolute, and these people have secrets that hide the truth. Truth matters and consequences don’t, not to him.”

“Are you following this?” Habbly asked Brody.

“Sort of,” Brody admitted.

“Clue me in later.”

Ibwibble jabbed at the papers with his finger. “The guy won’t stop. He thinks he’s on a mission to tell all truths. The secrets he’s telling are pretty small, but it won’t last. He’ll want bigger ones, like treaties between kingdoms, the kind of secrets that might start wars if they get out.”

“A small secret getting out nearly got me and Julius Craton killed,” Brody said.

Habbly looked curious when he told Brody, “This is more than I expected from him.”

“He’s got to be good to cause trouble for decades without getting killed,” Brody explained. “It just doesn’t show most of the time.”

Ibwibble jammed the papers into his rucksack. “If I find this guy, I want the credit, all of it. No garbage about ‘unidentified sources’ or ‘anonymous heroes’. People say I did it, and no take backs.”

“Deal,” Habbly said. “But you’re on a time limit. Julius Craton and Officer Dalton are looking for witness who saw whoever put up these papers. Kadid Lan is trying to find out where the paper and ink is made, since you don’t find pricy stuff like this everywhere. If they find the guy then the credit goes to them.”

“There’s got to be a thousand angry people looking for the jerk behind this,” Ibwibble said. He thumped his chest and jumped off his chair. “I’m going to find him first, because I’ve got drive, I’ve got gumption, and I’m really, really desperate.”

Ibwibble led the trio to the door, stopping only when a garishly dressed man stepped into their way and drew a knife. “I don’t fancy having my favorite bar sullied with goblins.”

Brody grabbed a stool and swung it like a club into the man’s knees, sending him screaming to the ground. Two more hits to the arms forced the garish stranger to drop his knife, which Brody kicked into the nearest corner. The stranger was reaching for a second knife when Brody tipped a table onto him, spilling hot food and cold drinks onto the man.

Habbly spun around, looking for anyone coming to join the fight. To his surprise, no one seemed to notice or care about it except for a lone man who took the dropped knife. Habbly looked at Brody and said, “Julius is a bad influence on you.”

Ibwibble didn’t waste any time once they left the bar, leading them through the crowded streets and back alleys of Cronsword. The city was abuzz with activity as refugees came on foot and by boat. They were not alone, though, for a dizzying array of armed men, dwarfs, ogres, harpies, gnomes and still stranger things flooded into the city. In most cities such an influx of possibly criminal and definitely dangerous beings would be cause for alarm, but instead gangsters directed the crowd into lines leading to large tables covered with paperwork.

“Wizards, alchemists and mad scientists, please go to the line on the left,” a man with a brass gauntlet called out. “Thieves, bandits and blackguards, go to the center line. Fighters, warriors and toughs, go to the right line. Monsters, mystical beings and curse victims, go to the back line. Please have your credentials ready before reaching the sign up tables.”

A gnome riding what looked like a chest with spidery wooden legs approached the man. “What if you’re in more than one category?”

“Pick whichever category is most dangerous,” the man replied. He pointed at a monster and shouted, “No eating other people in line!”

“This is unusual,” Brody said as he followed Ibwibble.

Ibwibble waved his hand like he was fanning away a bad smell. “Some yahoo called Hatchwich is planning on taking over the world. Not my cup of tea, but I say more power to him. Maybe one day he’ll have tax collectors for me to hunt.”

Surprised, Habbly asked, “You’re not joining him?”

“Ha! I’m going to be the ringmaster of my own circus, not a clown in his.”

It took some time, but they eventually left the growing army of malcontents and entered a busy street filled with clothing shops. There they came upon an old blind man sitting on a corner. The man wore raggedy clothes and a blindfold, and he waved a tin cup at men walking down the street.

“Spare a copper coin for a blind man,” the old man said when a merchant walked by. It was not a request, and when the merchant didn’t drop a coin the blind man said, “Be a shame if your wife learned about the bachelor party you went to last week. Crying shame.”

The merchant grumbled and tossed in the required payment before leaving. The blind man chuckled and slipped the coin into a pouch. Ibwibble walked up to the man and stopped. The blind man frowned and set down his cup. “You’re going to drive off my customers, Ibwibble.”

“You have victims, Quaid, not customers.” Ibwibble waved for the other goblins to join him. “This is Quaid, blind fortune teller and a reliable source of information nobody wants to get out. I’ve hired him in the past to help me find tax collectors.”

“If he can learn secrets, how do we know he’s not behind this?” Brody asked.

Ibwibble laughed. “If he had done this, he would have charged big and told nastier secrets. Quaid, there’s a nutcase spreading ugly truths. I’m after him. You play ball and I’ll pay seventeen copper coins, half a silver piece, a shiny rock and a small green frog.”

The offer relaxed Quaid, and he tapped the street beside him. Once the goblins had sat down, Quaid said, “The money is appreciated. You can keep the frog.”

“The frog is part of the deal,” Ibwibble insisted.

Quaid shrugged. “Fine, I’ll take the frog. I know of the messages you refer to. I’ve looked into who posted them myself in case there was reward money for catching who’s doing it. I’ll tell you what I already know, that the ones responsible use masking spells to cover their identity from my blind eyes, an army of wizards, and countless rich men using crystal balls and magic mirrors to ask the same question you are. I don’t know who is responsible or where to find them. Pay up.”

Ibwibble didn’t hand over the cash. “I’m getting more for my money than I don’t know! This masking magic, how hard is it to cast?”

“Easy for someone with the proper training. Many merchants and nobles hire wizards to cast such spells on their property to keep out prying eyes. There must be a hundred wizards alive today who could do this, and more are trained every year.”

Brody watched Quaid ‘look’ left when a pretty lady went by, his head following her as she left. Quaid chuckled and turned his head to face Brody. “Surprised, little one?”

“Kind of. What happened to your eyes?”

Quaid shrugged. “My eyes worked fine before I learned how to be a seer. It was exciting, profitable, but I discovered too late that there are places it’s not safe to look. It’s a price most seers pay in their ignorance and arrogance. Still, I see after a fashion, better than before in some ways, worse in others.”

“Why haven’t the authorities come to you?” Habbly asked Quaid. “I figure your help must be useful to them and valuable to you.”

“Inside Cronsword there are no authorities, and outside this city I’ve made enough trouble for men in power that I’m not their favorite person.”

Ibwibble snapped his fingers to get Quaid’s attention. “You don’t know where they are now, but can you see where they’re going to be?”

“That’s a tricky one,” Quaid said. He sat in silence and then began to mumble before shaking his head. “The trail is clouded going forwards and backwards.”

Habbly frowned. “We need answers. People are getting hurt because of this.”

Quaid snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute, that might do it. The masking spells keep me from seeing who is responsible, but it covers only those using them. I might be able to follow the culprits by looking for the victims they will leave in their wake. Mind you, that’s complicated, possibly risky, and definitely costs more.”

The goblins went through their meager belongings, coming up with eight more copper coins, a brass candlestick holder and a life-sized wood carving of a muskrat. Quaid took the offered payment and began to mumble again. This went on for some time until he snapped his fingers.

“Got you!” he said triumphantly. “In eight days at the stroke of midnight, their paths will cross with Calista the nymph at her rented apartment in Nolod. The masking spell obscures who will be there besides her and if there will be danger, but that’s the where and when you need to find them.”

Ibwibble handed Quaid the rest of the promised payment, including the frog. “You’re as good as gold. Do me a favor and hold off selling this information to anyone else for one day. Come on, guys, let’s move. We have to hurry to reach Nolod in time.”

“I may be able to sell this information to many interested people, who will no doubt pay more than you did.” Quaid chuckled as the goblins left. “Ah, this is a profitable day indeed. Now then, frog, what am I to do with you?”

“Ribbit.”

Shocked, Quaid shouted, “Oh come now! Where am I supposed to find a princess?”