I backed carefully into the curtained privy alcove as a guard's footsteps approached, pulling the fabric across in front of me. Ignoring the pong wafting from the hole in the floor, I straddled it and pressed myself against the back wall. There was a chance the guard wasn't coming this way but I didn't want to take the risk. If I got caught this far inside the target's hideout, I'd be deader than a hobbit fighting a dragon with a marshmallow boomerang.

I breathed in as quietly as possible but realised my chest armour was still touching the privy curtain, and breathing made it worse. It stuck out in front of me like two melons in a net, which would be great if I had two melon-sized appendages to fill it. This is what happens when you let a randy teenage blacksmith's apprentice make breast plates for female mercenaries. Anyone passing by, no matter how dim they might be, was going to notice a toilet with tits. The footsteps drew closer and I wiggled back as far as I could, squashing my carry-pack against the wall behind.

"Ow!" said a voice from inside, accompanied by a wriggle.

"Shut up!" I hissed, squashing it again for emphasis.

"Please, just move your elbow. It's jabbing me right where the sun don't shine."

I turned my head to whisper from one side of my mouth. "If you don't pipe down, I'll tear you a new one for the sun to shine on."

"That don't make much anatomical sen-"

I cut off the pack's complaints with an elbow jab answered with a conciliatory whimper. The footsteps were right outside now and I thought I could discern the shadow of a metal suit clomping past. It was then I noticed the design sewn into the back of the curtain. A naked, elderly man with a crown was pooping a screeching old hag from his bum into the privy hole he squatted over. Beneath - in rounded letters presumably meant to be 'quirky' - was written 'dump out all your troubles.' I admired the detail - especially the way the hag's breasts hung down from the image to form the 'll' in all. Toilet humour - alive and well in the homes of the rich.

I'm Rozlyn, by the way, and you've wandered into my life story - hopefully not right at the end. While we wait for the metal guy to squeeze past my boobs in the hallway, let's get you caught up. Once upon a time, I was a respected criminal - that's to say I was a bank robber. Unfortunately, my last good score was a few years back and I blew everything afterwards on bad card games and worse ponies. Back in the day, I had a good crew. Well, I say good. What I mean is, we got the job done without any of us dying or getting caught. We scattered after the last score because we pissed off someone used to pissing on other people and new lives seemed like a good idea.

But all good ideas turn into bad ones when your luck's out. Anyway, more on that later. For now, all you need to know is how desperate I am. I owe money to all the wrong people. The good mercenaries won't work with me and the bad ones think I'm a joke because they won all my money from me at cards. There's just no decent criminal work for a gal any more. Unfortunately, that just leaves me with the jobs where your life expectancy is lower than a slug on a salt plain... Like stealing a prized possession from a local crime lord.

Oh, and there's a gobbit in my carry-pack. That's not a metaphor - I'll explain later.

The guard seemed to be gone - at least, the metal reports of his footsteps were receding. I breathed a sigh of relief and let my pack drop to the floor next to the privy hole.

"Argh!" it said. "Me back!"

I snorted, rolling my shoulders to a chorus of cracks. "I thought it was your gonads that hurt."

"Me back and me nads!"

Shaking my head to clear the frustration, I dug a boot in just for good measure.

"Argh! Me nose and me back and me nads!"

"Shut up, Elljay."

Little-John was short and cute, even by the standards of ... let's call them smaller persons, which automatically ranked him eleven out of ten in annoyance value. He stood about two feet tall in a humanoid shape - save for the pointed ears. I didn't know his personal history, other than that he was half hobbit and half gnome. Fortunately for him (and his nads), he was also a master locksmith and hence moderately useful. Fitting in my pack meant I could smuggle him places with the additional benefit of not having to look at his nauseatingly sweet face.

I tweaked the 'humorous' curtain aside to check the corridor beyond. Emptier than a tavern wench's head - excellent. Constructed of large stone blocks, the space was lit by occasional torches and decorated with an assortment of violent tapestries. Realised in reds and blacks, every image depicted torture, depravity and the kind of energetic dismemberment usually reserved for the hopelessly insane. I smiled inwardly - who would live in a house like this?

Heaving the carry-pack onto my shoulders, I continued on my way, grimacing at the shifting weight. "How does someone so small weigh so much?"

"It's the cake, Miss Rozzy - I can't not eat the cake."

"I was being rhetorical." The corridor ended at a shadowy corner, marked by an intricate tapestry of a horned lady doing things to a dragon neither species should enjoy. A faint thrumming crept through the air like an audible wave, vibrating in my mind. As I approached the corner, the sensation intensified, but there was no obvious source for it. When I poked my head around, though, I forgot all about weird vibrations.

There it was - the reason I'd come here with a head full of hope and a bag of gobbit.

"Argh! Me noggin!" said my carry-pack.

"Is there any part of you that doesn't hurt?"

"That's a trick question. If I answer with any body part, you'll threaten to make it hurt so I'm evened out."

I felt the smile crawling across my face. "Two jobs together and already you know me so well. Come on, get out of there. It's time for your part of the job."

I put him down and Elljay clambered from the pack. Dressed in soft black clothes to minimise sound and visibility, he looked like a child wearing pyjamas. A mop of messy brown hair and giant blue-gray eyes didn't help matters. In fact, the only thing spoiling the childish impression was the way he stared straight forward at me. When you're groin-height to a human, that can be a little unsettling.

"Would you mind awfully not staring at my crotch?" I said.

He grinned and there was little innocence about it. "Just wondering why they still gave you a codpiece, even though you're a girl. I mean, unless you got a secret you ain't telling me."

I resisted the urge to hip-thrust him in the face. Instead, I turned him round to the room so he could see what I could.

An office spread out before us. Wood panelling clad the walls like a protective coat, and a giant deep red rug dominated the floor. To one side was a counting table, grooves worn into the surface where countless coins had passed. To the other, a display cabinet with tools of torture, a distressing number of which were phallic. The far side of the room played host to a giant desk with a quill sticking upright from one corner and a throne-sized chair behind.

To its left was the chunkiest safe I'd ever seen. If you could buy plate mail for boxes, this was how it would look. A dial on the front with no markings was its only accessory.

"Well, Elljay," I murmured. "This is what I brought you for."

He sniffed loudly. "What's that shimmering in the air?"

"Probably the same thing making my head vibrate." I shrugged. "Come on - we don't know how long that guard's patrol is."

"I don't like it."

"I don't like beer-breath and clammy hands on my arse, but I still have to walk through it on a regular basis."

He gave me a sideways look. "Miss Rozzy, I don't see the link."

I nudged him forward with a foot and drew my two fighting dirks from my belt. "Just get on with it. Put those kiddy fingers to use. I'll keep watch."

He clumped forward, muttering irritably under his breath, and I took a look back down the corridor. Still empty - good. I was just starting to think we might actually complete this heist when I heard a grunt and a dull thud. Looking back, I saw Elljay face-down in the middle of the giant red rug.

"Damn it!" I ran over to him, sheathing one dirk. As I got close, my head throbbed and pain stabbed into the space behind my eyes. It felt like being drunk and hung over at the same time. No, wait - add to that list nauseated, repulsed and the dreadful sensation of waking up next to the village idiot. In handcuffs.

I rolled the gobbit onto his back to see he was wide-eyed and frozen stiff, but still breathing which was probably a relief. The pain swelled unbearably and all at once a bell was ringing louder than a whore's bangles in my eardrums. My vision swam, flooding with grey fuzz, darkness encroaching from the edges.

I staggered away from my colleague, blinking, trying to distance myself from the shimmer, and heard running feet in the corridor. Grasping at my belt, I pulled out the second dirk once again. The pain was subsiding and the vibrations seemed to have ceased. It might have been a relief if I wasn't now in an even worse predicament.

Four guys ran into the room in full chain attire and took up positions surrounding me, albeit at a distance. They seemed torn between keeping an eye on my weapons and staring at the grand balloons of my chest.

"I fill these, you know," I said, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my wrists.

"Now there's something I'd love to see," said a deep voice from the corridor. A man followed the voice into the room. His armour was supple leather, swathing a form built from young women's dreams, and covered in so many jewels and sequins, he'd be invisible in sunlight. His hair was shoulder-length and bounced as he moved, framing a carefully stubbled jaw with one of those annoying dips in the middle of the chin. A narrow, elegant nose swept up between hazel eyes that smiled as much as his mouth and carefully tended eyebrows.

I don't mind admitting, I felt a little tingle.

I gulped. "Hi. We heard there were guard jobs going here. Just looking for the recruiting guy." I held out a hand limply. "They call me Enigma."

"Oh," he said, chuckling with an annoyingly friendly laugh. "Is that what they call you? I'm sorry to say, we have all the guarding we need." He walked toward me and I brandished my dirks, flicking my eyes about to keep track of the men around me. He pulled off a glove with a slow, deliberate action.

"You, missy, are up Shit Creek." He blew me a kiss with his bare hand. "And I'm not here to sell you a paddle."