“It’s curious you should mention the Abyss,” growled the warlock, grimacing in pain as he shifted again. “The wretch who passes for a healer to this inn mentioned you might moonlight as something of a thief. Is this”-he paused to take a shuddering breath-“is this indeed the case?”

Gnarl cleared his throat. “I prefer the term ‘retrieval specialist.’ I have sometimes journeyed out and about to… cull special objects for guests of the inn-without the knowledge of our proprietor. I… re-appropriate. But never from anyone within these walls.”

“The proprietor-ah, Zemoar!” said the warlock, glancing toward the door. “I am especially concerned you do not tell Zemoar about this. I mistrust elves, and half-elves. If you wish to undertake this quest for me, say nothing to anyone about it-except to those who might accompany you.”

Gnarl bowed-slightly. He didn’t like the sound of the term “quest.” It implied long distances and unknown dangers. Truth be told, Gnarl was not half so good a thief as he supposed himself. But admitting failure was becoming painful to him. He had failed at being an apprentice to his uncle, a low-level wizard, though he’d gotten something of an education. He had earned only a pocketful of gold as a “retrieval specialist”-he could not afford to quit his day job. Still…

“Quests are risky,” Gnarl said. “That’s on one side of the scales. What enticement’s on the other? What balances my risk?”

“Wealth!” the tiefling hissed. “Wealth and land; shining castles and supple maidens to grace them. All can be yours, boy, if you undertake the task I set for you. The journey entails a trifling risk or two, but if you do as I say, you shall have your just desserts, and I shall have my own heart’s desire. You will no longer concern yourself with pouring pots of ale for belching merchants and-inevitably-emptying pots of piss!”