“He’s a mighty god, Desh, and he doesn’t care what us insignificant nits think. We can’t hurt the fussy little moose-crotch’s feelings. Can we, Harik?”
“No.” Harik ground his teeth and whispered, “You foul insect.”
Fingit whispered, “Right, you don’t care. He’s just a hammer and no more.”
The Murderer looked around and smiled, even though he was incapable of seeing anything. “So where have you boys been all these years? Big hangover? Misplace your thunderbolts?”
Fingit bit his lip. What do we say? We can’t say we’ve been sitting around getting fat and going crazy.
Sakaj whispered, “Let’s just pretend we didn’t hear the question.” Fingit and Harik nodded.
After a little more silence, the Murderer shrugged. “That’s all right, I don’t really give a shit. Just making conversation. Besides, I didn’t call for you, Harik. I called Gorlana, so why the hell are you here?”
Fingit whispered, “Harik, can’t you get him under control? He’s teaching the Nub bad habits.”
Harik sighed and whispered, “I invite you to make the attempt yourself if you wish. I have never dealt with any sorcerer more willful and profane than this one.” Harik spoke out to the humans. “I own you, Murderer. Nothing happens involving you unless I sanction it. I must approve any exceptions, and until you fulfill my debt—”
The Murderer rolled his eyes, even if they did lack substance. “Oh, shut that festering gash in your face, you long-winded fart!”
The Nub said, “Just to be clear… should you be talking that way to the God of Death? I mean when I’m… I mean on the other side, things are…”
Sakaj whispered, “Harik, you should not forget that all this talk of sanctions and exceptions arises from nothing more than convention. From polite agreements between us, that is. Fingit could trade with the Murderer if he chose, regardless of your talk about sanctions.”
Harik whispered, “You leave the Murderer alone! He is mine!”
Fingit whispered, “This sorcerer seems to despise you, Harik. To an embarrassing degree. Almost as much as your wife does, if that’s possible.”
Harik bounded over and stood nose to nose with Fingit. “No one will trade with the Murderer but me, upon pain of my displeasure,” he whispered.
Sakaj whispered, “Then hurry and wring something good from him!”
“Fine!” Harik said it out loud where the sorcerers could hear him. His eyes popped wide open. He had allowed sorcerers to hear something he had meant to say only to other gods. It was an embarrassing lack of discipline that could earn him several thousand years of mockery. He glanced to each side like a little boy caught stealing a pie. Then, with eyes still wide, he said out loud, “We’re not fools. I know what you want. No one can help you, Murderer, because you cannot pay. I hold a lien on everything you have.”
Sakaj whispered, “Harik, would you wish me to speak aloud to the Murderer and tell him what your wife says to everyone about your deficiencies?”
Harik hung his head and whispered, “Damn it to Krak’s rod!”
Fingit and Sakaj were laughing silently into their hands.
The Murderer said, “I’m not here to make an offer. I’m just here to advise Desh on his first deal. To make sure he doesn’t get completely violated in a bad place by you jackals.”
Harik paused. “You may not negotiate for the other one. Go away.”
“No.”
“I command you to leave!” Harik boomed.
As calm if he were talking about pie recipes, the Murderer said, “I command you to screw yourself, your sister, and your pet goat. See how far that command goes.”
Harik whispered to Fingit, “I cannot force him to leave unless I terminate negotiations. Is that what you wish?”
“No, keep going!”
Harik said out loud, “Fine. You’ve always been a difficult case. I’ll allow you to remain, if you promise to be respectful and quiet.”
“Thank you.” The Murderer smiled. “So, will you make Desh an offer? Please, O great Harik, who can topple mountains with one quiver of one hair on your masculine, hirsute backside?”
Harik smiled too. “No. I cannot deal with him.”
“Do you mean you’re wasting our time with all this prancing around? I was nice to you for no reason at all? Come on, Desh, let’s go.” The two sorcerers began to fade.
Fingit spoke up. “I can trade with the young fellow. Happy to do so.”
The Murderer beamed. “Why, that sounds like Fingit! How have you been, Your Worship? Built any good chariots lately?”
I want to destroy this sorcerer so much. Why was I ever nice to him? Fingit forced himself to laugh. “Murderer, I own the exclusive option on the Nub here. All of his trades must go through me.”
The Nub scowled. “What? The Nub?”
“Yes, that’s our name for you,” Fingit said. “We have to call you something evocative. Who can remember all these sorcerers by their sad little human names?”
“Bib gets the Murderer, and I get the Nub? Why the Nub? Why not the Crafter or the Falcon or something like that? No one’s going to respect a sorcerer called the Nub.”
“We could just call you the Corpse.” Harik purred, something he did when he wanted to sound terrifying. The other gods compared it to the many horrible sounds produced by human digestion.
The Murderer said, “None of this matters a damn if we can’t make a bargain. Let’s get on with it!”
“Quite so!” Fingit pursed his lips. All right. Come on, we’re waiting, Nub. We only have so much time before the end of existence.
The Murderer cleared his throat. “Desh, they’re waiting for you to tell them what you want.”
“Oh!” the Nub yelped. After a long pause, he said, “I want to be healed, and I want my leg back.”
Fingit whispered, “Let’s get them just as confused as a bat in a barrel. Multisided deals, restrictions on possession, options, and whatever else we can think of.”
Harik grinned.
Fingit put on a pitying expression so that the sorcerers would hear it in his voice. “Ah, I’m