Kuldahar

Whitcomb doesn't flinch in the least at Alalla's display of her weapon, though he does raise an eyebrow at her brief manifestation of wings. "You don't scare me, basher. The worst you can do to me is offer a quick trip back to the birdcage - and believe me, I wouldn't mind blowing this kip."

He peers at Zenithral for a long moment, locking eyes with the archer. This fiend, whatever he is, is clever. Zenithral somehow understands that whatever dealings are to be had with this creature, it will benefit more than the party. Still, Whitcomb surely wouldn't be here waiting for them unless it had some idea of what it wants.

Whitcomb gives a crooked smile and holds up his hands. "Jink. Money. I've got the dark on where those beautiful cambions are, but you'd best pay the music sooner rather than later. Belhifet's bound to get peery if I don't make a report soon, and I don't aim to be scragged - not without some proper garnish to smooth the way."

This fiend's loyalty appears to depend on how much he is being paid, much like a mercenary. It hardly seems the behavior of a lawful baatezu. He must be some other kind of fiend.

"Ah, a dwerf knows music, a bawdy tune is what the fiend asks for!"

Pulling out an odd looking harp, partially burnished and thoroughly scratched over years of practicing, the dwarf prepares his dulcimer for playing. Focusing his fogged mind on the most annoying tune he can, the dwarf hums to himself before settling on a ditty.

"Oh do y’know ol’ hairless Jo?
That crotchety, smelly ol’ fiend?

They say that ol’ Jo sold his smelly ol’ soul to the devil o’ bog’s in Minauros...."

"Money?" Alalla snaps as soon as she's sure she understood all Whitcomb's slang. "That seems..." she casts her mind back to conversations with Erevain and Zenithral to find a suitable word. "Trite."

She narrows her eyes. "Go on then. I'm assuming you have a figure in mind." She adjusts her grip on her glaive. "I won't promise to consider it."

Whitcomb's expression sours at Reòthad's display. "Clueless berk! This old one must be a barmy. Bar your bone-box, or I'll seek out a cutter with more sense and see if she's got more interest in the cambions."

The fiend folds his arms over his chest. "Peeling a tanar'ri is a bad idea; peeling a baatezu is nearly impossible. For the dark of a spiv like me, any cutter or blood would pay handsomely... at least six hundred."

Alalla cools herself to patience, but can't keep herself from rolling her eyes. "Six hundred what for what? Be specific if you can't be coherent."

Whitcomb rolls his eyes. "The clueless in this burg! I'm a professional. Six hundred jinx to pay for my services. That's gold. Ten times that for my loyalty."

He raises one hand and begins ticking off fingers. "I can get into very hard-to-reach cases, such as retrieve the cambions for you. Provide cutters to help you bob The Black Swan (I don't suppose you berks have a body that can block teleportation?), and access to magic items to give Belhifet the laugh. Not to mention the Chant on the happenings in the area, and of course I've got the dark on the baatezu plans."

He shrugs. "I'm also accounted a fair blood on arcane magic. My repertoire is enough to peel most any coney."

Alalla clenches her jaw, then lowers her weapon slowly. "A mercenary, huh? I've worked with mercenaries. Been one on and off my whole career. A mercenary is worth nothing if it can't be trusted." She arches an eyebrow at the fiend. "You say six thousand gold buys your loyalty, but the only testimonial we have for how much that can be trusted is you offering to sell out your current boss."

Whitcomb narrows his eyes, and a flicker of violet light appears within their depths. "Maybe I don't feel Belhifet compensates me well enough. If one high-up pays worse than another, they're just asking for their meat to turn stag." He grins. "Besides, baatezu make for terrible bosses. A little too rigid for this spiv."

The fiend stretches his hands up toward the ceiling and yawns, sending a ripple of cracklings pops through his arms and spine. "Well. What's it going to be? Either I'm a Knight of the Post and you'll get bobbed, or you'll finally get an edge over that archfiend. It seems like so far he's had you hitting the blinds every time."

"Yes..." Zenithral responds to Alalla's chastisement.
...

Peeling? Cutters? Bobbed? Got the dark? What is this, devil's speak or thieves' cant?
He glances at Alalla, knowing she has the most experience with this kind of character. Zenithral and Halla would want to get the twins back quickly, but a rash decision could mean dire consequences. Well, even a well-thought-out decision could, but he wasn't in a position to put their cause on the line after his recent misgivings.

Al exchanges a glance with her friends, then turns back to the fiend. The muscles in her jaw work for some time before she answers. "Six hundred gold for the twins, and their secret kept. Let's start with that."

Whitcomb offers another shrug. "You get what you pay for, basher." The violet eyes flash as he grins. "And there are precious few bloods better than me at what I do."

He stands and holds out an expectant hand. "Can't buy a drink if you ain't got the jink. Payment up front."

Al shares an irritated look with Zenithral as she unslings her pack and digs out a few of her coin purses from their hidden places. "Never heard of a tab, barkeep?" She counts out the coin, then drops a heavy pouch into his hand. "Half. You'll get the rest when we're sure we're getting what's promised."

Whitcomb takes the pouches, hefts them, then opens one and pours the contents into his hand. As the coins clink together in his palm, some of them silver, the fiend suddenly howls and throws the money to the floor, then grasps his hand with the other. The palm appears painfully blistered. Whitcomb's growl is deep and unpleasant as he turns his violet eyes on the party. "You pay me with stingers? Clueless or leatherheads, that's a good way to get your names written in the dead-book." A bestial snarl plays across his lips, and for a moment his face appears almost as a dog's. "A less forgiving cutter might give you the rope. Fortunately for you, I can be reasonable. But you've just doubled the price. Twelve hundred jinx - good gold, none of that filthy silver - and all up front or you'll never see those cambions again."

"Gold only, how could yeh make such a mistake Allala? A dwerf gives his word we won’t make that mistake twice."

Seeking to recover from a careless oversight, the sorcerer tries to salvage the situation and please the fiend with some honeyed words.

"No offense was intended, we deeply apologize for the slight. Honored we should be, to have the privilege of working with a fine blood such as yerself. Perhaps one could overlook the slight this one time. Should everything work for our best interests together, no doubt more gold will find its way into yer hands."

Whitcomb points a finger at Reòthad's bearded face. "Addle-coved berk. If you are so wise and careful as you say, learn from this and never make the same mistake again."

He turns to the whole party. "My first named price. Final chance."

Alalla counts out his requested sum, carefully pulling out each piece of silver and flashing it at him before handing him the gold-filled purse.

Whitcomb takes the pouch, tosses it once, then catches it. He smiles at the jingle of coin. "Good enough. As agreed, the cambions..."

He snaps his fingers and a door appears on the wall behind him. It appears much the same as the one that led to Malavon's demiplane. Whitcomb pulls the door open and steps to one side, revealing a room lit with the flicker of candlelight.

"Have a look."

Alalla gestures Zenithral and Halla forward, and keeps her own watch on Whitcomb. "So, does silver harm all fiends, or just whatever you are?"

Whitcomb's only response to Alalla's question is a wordless growl.