A Good End in Badside - Part I
My name is Placidus Treibonus, and no, don't bother with the cracks I've heard them all. It's a perfectly good name, I got it from my father, he got it from his and my grandfather bought it from a penniless Dara Happan for 100 lunars and a mule. Like I said, a perfectly good name. I live in a town called Pavis. I used to live in the city of Glamour where I was an informer. An informer? Those are people who do the sort of work the authorities can't be bothered with or wouldn't touch with a 3 meter pole. I'd investigate crimes and spy on unfaithful spouses or business partners and occassionally when times were real tough I'd lean on people. Despite the presence of the Blue Army and the city guard and all the other spooks working for the Emperor or his people there was usually lots of work to be had in Glamour. Unfortunately I got on the wrong side of the wrong people so I decided a stint in the army was called for. Hundreds of keymiles and a dozen odd years later here I am in Pavis. Minus my left leg AND my pension land allotment.
Stupid Praxians. The leg I lost in a tossup with some bloody bison riders.
One of their damn Storm Bulls chopped it off. Unfortunately for me my
unit was in the middle of bloody nowhere and by the time we got back to
Pavis I was delirious and this close to seeing the Red Goddess in her
knickers. The medics managed to save my life, for which I am endlessly
grateful, the bastards, but they couldn't grow me a new leg. Something
about me not having the proper attitude. I got their attitude right here.
So I finally got out of the army and right where I wanted to be too, ha, ha.
After I learned how to walk with a crutch I was pensioned off with a land
allotment in Duke Raus' domain.
How'd I lose it? What good is a one legged farmer I ask you, if I was even slightly interested in farming in the first place. Not me, city boy born and bred so I sold my land to fuckin' Duke Raus of fuckin' Rone, like he'll ever see Rone again, for a small, very small, pile of wheels. Since the pension allotments are all in his demense he's the only one who can buy one, cheating bastard. The pathetic wheels I got I figured would let me set myself up here in Pavis as an informer. Funny place, Pavis, a festering boil on the backside of nowhere but I swear there are as many bloody factions here as there are in Glamour. At least it seems that way. Turns out that most people had never heard of an informer and for some reason no one was interested in hiring a one legged one, if they even knew what they were good for. So I sat there at my table in a hole called Gimpy's where I was living, yes, yes very ironic I agree, ha ha, waiting for business and watching my pile of wheels get smaller and smaller.
I'd probably still be sitting there cadging for drinks and begging for handouts except for Morty. That's not his real name of course, I can't remember what his real name is. Morty's one of those sawed off little runts you see sometimes around Pavis, you know dwarves, Mostali. Well Morty got himself in a real bind once and amazingly enough a one legged man was able to help him. Morty got his problem solved and I got this new leg. It's made out of some kind of wood and bronze and with a little, okay a lot of practise I learned how to walk again with it. Morty built some nifty Mostali gizmos into it that make it particularily useful. Morty assured me that I wouldn't get into trouble with his people over the gizmos, something about how even shaved apes like us could have made it. But the best thing about helping Morty was that my name got known around town as an informer.
To be continued
Oliver
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