Grenade

Anya, whom Duke hadn't laid eyes on in ages, now sported a glint of competence in her gaze that even he found startling. It was like finding a fully functional cog in a goblin contraption – utterly unexpected.

Even though Anya was no stranger to the world's rough edges, suddenly being surrounded by so many kingdom bigwigs made her stomach do flip-flops. She took a few deep, fortifying breaths, like a warrior bracing for a charging Kodo, and quickly wrestled her composure back into line.

"Your Majesty, Your Excellencies," Anya began, her voice remarkably steady, "I am Anya, a humble follower of Count Edmund Duke. Please allow me the distinct… pleasure… of introducing you to Sir Sherlock, a goblin engineering merchant from the sun-drenched, troll-infested wilds of Stranglethorn Vale."

"Howdy-doody, Your Majesty! And a fine day to you, gentlemen!" The goblin, Sherlock, executed a bow so stiffly formal it looked like he'd swallowed a yardstick.

While his movements were, technically, by the book, every high-ranking official in the room looked like they'd just bitten into a rotten apple. They simply didn't know what expression to plaster on their faces when confronted with this particular goblin – a goblin, mind you, whose reputation preceded him like a bad smell.

Unlike the goblins Duke had read about in his pre-time-travel novels – those generally grimy, despicable, low-IQ, yet terrifyingly fertile scourges of humanity – the goblins of Azeroth were a different breed of menace. Sure, they were still humanoid, with green skin just like Orcs, barely taller than a human's knee, and sporting limbs as skinny as matchsticks, topped with pointed heads and eyes the size of dinner plates.

And yes, to be brutally honest, some of their less desirable traits had been inherited lock, stock, and barrel, like their uncanny knack for causing trouble.

But generally speaking, Azeroth's goblins were more obsessed with gold than a dragon with its hoard, surprisingly adept at cranking out all sorts of bizarre technological marvels, and, most importantly, absolute sharks when it came to business.

Before Duke had popped into this world, goblins had already set up countless "companies" that mimicked the structure of real-world corporations. The catch? These so-called "companies" were more parasitic than a swarm of blood-sucking mosquitos, with the notorious Venture Capital Company leading the charge.

There was a joke that perfectly encapsulated the Venture Capital Company's stellar reputation:

Venture Capital Company: "Come on down, join our company! We've got investments in every nook and cranny of Azeroth!"

Someone, foolish enough to ask: "What's the catch?"

Venture Capital: "Well, we're currently being hunted by pretty much the entire world."

Someone: "…(crickets chirping, followed by a hasty retreat)."

The goblins' antics were so utterly abominable, they made even the most hardened demons blush. Many Night Elf Druids, upon spotting a single goblin, would instantly flatten it like a pancake. If they saw two, they'd make it a double.

Seeing the goblin merchant waltz in, Lothar didn't hesitate. He tapped his temple, giving Duke a look that screamed, "Are you out of your mind?! You're actually going to cut a deal with these slimy green gremlins?!"

Duke merely offered a serene smile, completely ignoring Lothar's silent protest.

He leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye, and slightly tweaked a classic line from his past life: "Hey there, Sherlock, I've heard it said that if there's a 20% profit on the table, goblins will start twitching with excitement. If it hits 50%, they'll risk life and limb. A cool 100%? They'll risk getting strung up by their toenails. But if you dangle a whopping 300% profit in front of them, goblins will gleefully stomp all over every human law known to mankind. Is that just a tall tale, or is there some truth to it?"

Sherlock shrieked on the spot, a sound like a banshee with a bad head cold. "Slander! This is absolutely, positively, unequivocally slander! We goblins, sir, possess the most noble of characters!"

"Oh, really?" Duke purred, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "What if I were to offer you five million Arathor gold coins… for the head of the Horde's chieftain, Blackhand?"

Sherlock's tiny, beady eyes… it might have been an illusion, but they seemed to swell to ten times their normal size in an instant. Sherlock's usually reedy, sharp voice suddenly transformed into something impossibly sonorous, powerful, resolute, and brimming with courage.

"Consider it done, Your Excellency! Mission: ACCOMPLISHED—"

As he spoke, Sherlock practically launched himself at Duke, his right hand outstretched, index and middle fingers rubbing together in a frantic, universal gesture for "show me the money!"

But the very next second, the light of avarice dimmed in his eyes. He realized Duke was pulling his leg.

"Your Excellency Sea King," Sherlock stammered, his voice deflating like a punctured balloon, "are you… are you playing me for a fool?"

"Not at all, my dear goblin," Duke replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I am merely demonstrating to His Majesty King Stormwind your supreme, unparalleled courage in the face of a mountain of gold."

Llane, Anduin, and Bolvar all looked like they were fighting a losing battle with their own laughter, their faces contorted in a desperate attempt to maintain royal decorum.

"You… you cad!" Sherlock sputtered, his face turning a shade of green even darker than his skin. He looked like he wanted to throw a tantrum, but thought better of it.

Duke's words, however, were like a bucket of ice-cold water dumped squarely on Sherlock's pointy head: "Don't think for a second I don't know the pathetic strength of your so-called 'death squad.' You might be able to off some minor Horde leader, maybe. But the Warchief? Humph! If I actually handed over that deposit, you'd just send a bunch of cannon fodder to their doom, then bolt with the cash, wouldn't you, you greedy little goblin?!"

Sherlock Belfort's face went white as a sheet, his head dropping like a lead balloon. He stammered, "Uh, well, that… we goblins are honest folk, with the highest business ethics. How could we… possibly… do such a thing?"

As he spoke, under Duke's unwavering, sharp gaze, Sherlock felt guiltier than a gnome caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His feet, almost of their own accord, began inching towards the door.

Suddenly, a pair of shimmering arcane hands materialized out of thin air behind Sherlock, effortlessly scooping up the diminutive goblin and depositing him, squirming, directly in front of Duke.

"I have zero interest in the 'integrity' of goblins," Duke stated, his voice devoid of humor. "The only thing that piques my interest are the engineering craftsmen in your Venture Capital Company branch. Anya already briefed you on what I want, didn't she?"

With his life literally in the hands of this terrifying wizard, Sherlock nodded so vigorously he looked like a bobblehead doll, his expression that of a wronged young wife.

"Good," Duke continued, "Now, I'm adding one more condition: if any of your… products… explode before they're actually thrown, for every one of our people injured, I'll personally kill one of your relatives, chop off one of your fingers, and deduct the cost of one hundred boxes from your payment."

Sherlock remained stoic, his face impassive, as Duke rattled off the threats to his family and digits. But when Duke mentioned deducting the cost of one hundred boxes for each dud, Sherlock suddenly let out a piercing shriek, like a pig being led to slaughter.

He flailed his skinny limbs wildly. "No goblin in his right mind would ever agree to such terms! Don't even think about it, you fiend!!"

Duke merely sneered. "What if I raise the price of the goods by 10% and demand twice the quantity?"

"Thirty percent higher!" Sherlock instantly snapped out of his panic, his eyes narrowing as he launched into furious bargaining.

"Bull roar!" Duke scoffed. "Don't think for a second I don't know what cheap materials you use. Heavy stone into High Explosives, then a dash of Iron Ingot, a pinch of Silk, and poof! Done! With a cost that cheap, you dare to try and gouge me for 30% more?!"

Sherlock was stunned, his jaw hanging open. Then, like a defeated general waving a white flag, he slumped, nodded, and mumbled, "Alright, alright, it's a deal."

Just like that, Sherlock slunk away, his face a picture of profound misery, looking like he'd just lost his last copper.

Anya, visibly nervous, quickly offered an apology. "I… I had no idea those things would explode before they were thrown, Your Excellency."

Duke rubbed his temples, a weary sigh escaping him. "Dwarf engineering is a crapshoot, and goblin engineering always blows up. If I didn't know that, I'd have played this game for nothing all these years."

"You're not in this field, Anya. It's not your fault," Duke said, comforting her. He then turned back to Llane and the others, a triumphant glint in his eye. "Didn't you say you had tens of thousands of militiamen but no clue how to use them? Weren't you worried about evacuating the last few defenders? Well, consider all those problems solved, all at once. Not only that, I'm also giving you a big, shiny gift package."

"A gift package?" Llane repeated, completely flummoxed.

Duke merely smiled mysteriously. "If I told you now, where would the fun be? No mystery at all, would there?"