Deephouse: Further adventures involving the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. New to Deephouse? Start here.
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The black curse.
The word hung in the dim office like an unfulfilled promise.
The dusk gnome crossed his legs precisely, as though they were two gentlemen discussing the finer points of sailing, or cravat shopping, or however people who don’t work spend their lives.
Yeji was stalling, or steeling himself, maybe. Durgin let it happen. He didn’t really want to have this conversation.
Yeji sipped his wine. Set the glass aside carefully. “Let’s approach this logically. Of all the Underearth factions, the cartel alone has the resources and connections to commission a black curse. Sergeant Mountainfist was found dead shortly after their representative visited you. A strong coincidence.”
“You don’t think they did it.”
The gnome shook his head. “It’s not in their best interests, and they always act according to their best interests. It’s not their style, either. They wouldn’t come bearing gifts and vague threats, and immediately escalate after being rebuffed.”
Yeji studied the fire in the hearth. “They’d rather let time be their ally. Let misfortunes accrue. Drive you to them eventually out of desperation. They play the long game.” He shook his head, conclusively. “It wasn’t the cartel.”
A swell of relief washed over Durgin. He’d met with their representative only hours ago. If they’d sent the curse, it would’ve been personal. He would’ve been responsible. The facts remained—Sergeant Mountainfist dead—but if the cartel wasn’t involved, it reframed everything. “Who then? The Deep Ones just got what they’ve been after. You said the Spiderlings are pacifists—”
“No,” Yeji interrupted. “I said they’re primarily concerned with insect rights. They keep their mandibles sharp. They’re meat eaters, primarily. But escalating in such a matter doesn’t fit.”
Durgin shivered. “Right. The Cavebillies, then.” He could see the shape of it. An isolated fort, populated with non-humans. Seemed a prime target for a group of racists looking to stir up trouble.
“Possibly,” Yeji said in the tone of a teacher correcting an especially stupid student. “You’re thinking too myopically. Consider: who would benefit most from a weakened Deephouse?”
The chair groaned as Durgin leaned back. He ran through the list of factions in his head. He didn’t see the answer Yeji clearly already had in-hand. “Just tell me,” he grumbled.
“We aren’t being targeted by an Underearth faction.” Yeji smiled tightly. “We’re being led to believe we are. This is corporate espionage.”
Durgin frowned. “That’s…”
“Unfathomable?” Yeji shook his head. “Adventuring corporations send people into mortal danger to secure profits. That’s their business model, and it informs everything they do. The value of your life, and mine, resides in an actuary chart kept in a dusty filing cabinet. Is it so hard to believe their profit calculus might involve more… aggressive maneuvers?”
“Wait—you said we’re being led to believe the cartel was behind this.” Durgin sat forward. “That means the timing wasn’t a coincidence.” His fingers pinched the armrests. “Deephouse has a mole.”
Yeji nodded. “Which further suggests the perpetrator of this attack could be our own employer.”
Durgin found it hard to believe TEC would target its own operation, kill one of its own employees. That Yeji considered it a possibility suggested dark alleys he wasn't prepared to walk down.
“You knew all of this.” He slumped into his chair. “You begged me to stay anyway.”
The gnome showed his palms in an apologetic gesture. “What I said before is true, and perhaps balances the danger: Deephouse must be advantageously positioned near an opportunity of great value. What else would merit such attention?”
Shadows danced in the hearth. “Do we have any idea what that might be?”
“No.” Yeji picked up his wine glass. “We’re operating blindly.”
Durgin chuckled darkly. “Do you have any good news, or do you just enjoy kicking me in the balls?”
Yeji smiled; he did in fact appear to enjoy dispensing hard facts and ugly conjecture. “Only this—they don’t know that we see through the ruse. We have an opportunity to tip the scales. If not steal them outright.”
His fingers wormed into his beard. “We need to find the mole and put eyes on him.”
“Fortunately, we have just the cover for such an operation: A recently arrived foreman, conducting personnel interviews with his staff.”
“What? And just ask them straight out if they’re working angles? ‘Hello, I’m Durgin, the new foreman. Are you playing shadow games?’”
Yeji’s grin was that of a snake who’d come home to find a rodent sleeping in its nest. “Leave that to me.”
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