Must Love Hellhounds

hands, and he squawked, but it was through Batanya’s fingers.
    The two Britlingens pressed their client up against the stone wall of the tunnel, their bodies between the opening and Crick. Crick was very quiet now, having grasped the situation, and Batanya thought it safe to remove her hand. She eased a throwing star out of its sheath and held it at the ready.
    Two demons walked past the mouth. They were perhaps five feet tall, red and bumpy, and though they had two arms and two legs, that was the end of their resemblance to humans. They did have cloven hooves and tails, and sharp pointed ears, but they were hairless and their genitals were barbed, whether they were male or female. Batanya saw Crick’s eyes lock onto the crucial area, and she shared his wince. No matter how many times you had seen the demons strut their stuff, it was awful to imagine that “stuff” in operation.
    The demons passed out of view without detecting their presence.
    All three of them exhaled with relief, and Batanya put the star away.
    “Let’s just stay here for a moment,” she whispered. “Tell us what your plan is.” When Batanya made a suggestion in that particular voice, even if she had to whisper it, wise people listened, and Crick was at least that wise.
    “All right,” Crick said, just as quietly. He extracted something from one of his pockets—his garment seemed to have a hundred of them—and pressed a button. It was a tiny lightsource, probably battery powered, and he turned so that his body was between the light and the mouth of their tunnel. He handed the map to Batanya. Clovache squatted right beside him to add her body to the screen, and they all peered down at the map.
    It was detailed, showing tunnel after tunnel, chamber after chamber. “How’d you get this?” Clovache said, her voice hushed and respectful. This was a valuable item.
    “You don’t want to know,” Crick said, his tenor voice cheerful. “You really don’t.” His long, thin finger moved over the markings on the map for a moment, and then he said, “Here we are.” There was a pulsing star at the spot he indicated.
    “Too bad the other critters don’t show up the way we do,” Batanya muttered. “But at least we have a frame of reference.”
    “I couldn’t afford the kind that shows all life-forms,” Crick said apologetically.
    “What, you actually paid for this?” Clovache’s eyebrows were raised skeptically. She clearly thought he’d stolen it.
    “Well, no. I mean I couldn’t afford the jail time. The better ones were locked up tighter, and I was in a hurry,” he said, without the slightest trace of shame.
    “What is this object of yours that you ‘left behind’ the last time you visited this place?” Batanya said.
    “It’s a conjuring ball.”
    “But those are everywhere, you can buy one in any shop.”
    “Not like this one. It’s for real.”
    The two Britlingens stared at their client. Conjuring balls, full of tiny machinery and spells and capable of performing very innocuous bits of magic like lighting candles or drying plates, were hugely popular gifts for children. Even a cheap one could entertain a child for hours until the magic ran down, and the more expensive models were almost as good as giving someone a pet. They might last two or three years, and could do quite a variety of tasks and tricks. But everyone knew that the balls were not permanent sources of magic. Sooner or later, they’d exhaust their power.
    “You’re telling us this conjuring ball is eternal?” Clovache said, her voice almost a growl.
    “Yes.” Crick looked rather proud.
    “Did you make it?”
    “No, of course not. I stole it on commission.”
    “You mean you stole it from the Lord of Hell because someone had asked you to get it?”
    Crick nodded, looking pleased with her acumen.
    “Who?” Batanya had a creeping feeling along her arms. This was getting worse and worse. “Who commissioned the theft?”
    “Belshazzar.”
    “And you went back to Pardua without the ball? Having taken his money?”
    “Taken it and spent it,” Crick said, his foolish face looking rather downcast.
    “We are so fucked,” Clovache said.
    There was a moment of silence while they all considered the truth of this. Belshazzar, a warlord of Pardua, was actually a glorified gangster. (Perhaps all warlords are.) Belshazzar was ruthless, drastic, and notoriously indirect in his punishments. He would enjoy amputating your hand if you stole from him,