Gorm choked into his mug, covering himself in a spray of foam and ale.
“I see you’ve realized the nature of our offer.” Flinn smirked. “The Al’Matran Temple is willing to intercede on your behalf with the Heroes’ Guild, in exchange for your service, of course. It seems a good deal to me.”
“A good deal? The Al’Matrans are all touched by the mad queen! Nobody ever takes quests for the Al’Matrans. It’s certain death!”
“Oh, no, Mr. Ingerson. No, no, no.” Mr. Flinn leaned in close. “It is almost-certain death. It’s probable death. But there is that faint sliver of hope that you won’t be asked to do anything too crazy, and that you’ll make it home a tad richer and wiser. After all, Rulf the Weary was the forty-second Seventh Hero, and he and his party died from old age waiting for a sign from the All Mother.”
The Tinderkin pointed upward, to the vacantly angry figure of Brunt. “Now, Mr. Brunt, on the other hand … Mr. Brunt represents certain death. Contractually obligated death. Death backed by the laws of every government of every city of every nation on Arth.”
“Justice … Brunt-style!” Brunt’s voice was like thunder in the distance.
“Right you are, Mr. Brunt!” said Flinn. “That, Mr. Ingerson, is certain death. And if that alone doesn’t sway you, consider that the deal isn’t totally one-sided. The guild will consider you a member in good standing once again: your record erased, your back dues waived, and so on and so forth. You may even advance a rank or two. It could work out rather well for you.”
“Then find someone else if it’s such a good deal.”
“I’m sure you can see the difficulties of finding willing candidates for such a quest,” said Mr. Flinn. “And yet the Prophecy of the Seventh Hero has an inherent recruitment quota. My associates and I must look for qualified and semi-qualified heroes with limited options. Such as yourself.”
“I have options?” said Gorm.
“Of course. Two options, specifically: take the quest or face guild justice via Mr. Brunt.” Flinn drained the last of his ale. “Choice is, as I said, a constant. But I should make it soon if I were you. Mr. Brunt is not a patient Ogre.”
“Take matters … own hands!” rumbled Brunt.
“Ha ha! Let’s hope not, Mr. Brunt! For Mr. Ingerson’s sake, eh?” He placed his mug upside-down on the table. “Well? What shall it be?”
Gorm weighed his options. The Al’Matrans offered a chance to get his life back on track, but chances were far better that they’d lead him to a demise far worse than Mr. Brunt could dream up.
His eyes caught Gleebek’s, and in the ignorant yellow orbs he saw a spark of fear. If Gorm was executed for a criminal, Gleebek would be guilty by association. They’d swing from the same tree, which put them in the same boat. Unfortunately, that meant they were up the same creek without the same paddles, as well.
“Fine,” Gorm said. “Let’s meet this Seventh Hero of yours.”
Duine Poldo set the sheet of paper back down on top of the others. He looked down at the man who stood in front of his desk, which was no small feat, as Mr. Snithe was a Human and Mr. Poldo was a Scribkin, or a High Gnome. Standing, Poldo would have barely come up to Mr. Snithe’s waist, but Poldo had compensated for his lack of height by designing a mahogany desk and chair ensemble that set him head and shoulders above anyone who entered his office. Scribkin are known for their ingenuity, not their practicality.
“The numbers are not good, Mr. Snithe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In fact, they’re terrible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And here at Goldson Baggs, the numbers are everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, it is only logical to say that everything is terrible, Mr. Snithe.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Poldo stroked his luxuriant mustache and thought furiously. The numbers hadn’t been good before Mr. Snithe had come into his office with a stack of receipts from the Heroes’ Guild. Now the numbers were downright awful. He looked at the top slip of parchment. Fine calligraphy on a typeset template read:
7.373 12th OF SUMMERGLOW (OPPO)
Receipt for the Equitable Distribution of Assets from the Hoarde of
1 VENOMOUS CHIMERA OF THE EASTERN MOORS
The Heroes’ Guild hereby Holds that
GOLDSON BAGGS SWAMPLAND ADVENTURE FUND
owning
6 PERCENT
of the Hoarde, is entitled to the following:
1 NOTEBOOK (PARTIALLY USED)
6 SHILLINGS, 1 PENCE
Mr. Poldo let loose a long sigh. The other receipts were essentially the same, save that the names of the plunder funds changed, and none of the other funds got a notebook. “This hoard was projected to be valued at fifty thousand giltin, Mr. Snithe.”
Snithe had clearly been expecting this line of questioning. “We had it assessed, Mr. Poldo. Sent a hoard adjuster out and everything.”
“And?”
“He never came back.”
“And you didn’t see that as a problem?”
“It’s usually a good sign, sir. The most deadly monsters have usually done the most pillaging, you see. So when a beast takes down a well-trained hoard adjustor, it’s generally expected to have more valuable loot.”
“That’s not always the case, apparently.”
“Well, risk is inherent in the system, sir.”
“This creature had no money.”
“True, sir. The giltin is from selling its meat down at the Base.”
“And the notebook?”
“It belonged to the hoard adjuster.” Mr. Snithe handed up a small black booklet with an Adventure Capital seal embossed on its cover. “Very good condition, all things considered.”
Poldo flipped the notebook open. The first page was the only one with any writing. It read:
Venomous Chymera of the E. Moores:
The beaste hath nothing.
“Ah. This would have been useful three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks ago, sir?”
“Yes. When our plunder funds invested some sixteen thousand giltin in the bloody monster’s thrice-cursed hoard!” Mr. Poldo shouted, slamming the notebook down on his desk.
“Right, sir.”
Poldo dismissed Mr. Snithe and polished his spectacles. He picked up a quill and adjusted his calculations. He ran the numbers again, just to be sure. They were still bad.
Sighing, Poldo pulled his stepladder and climbed down from his desk. He adjusted his impeccable black suit, picked up his notes, and stepped out of his office.
He quickly made his way through the familiar maze of ebony marble corridors, ignoring the clerks and agents that scrambled to get out of his way. As he rounded a corner, he extended a hand, and a leather folio was placed in his grasp before he had taken three strides. He lifted his chin, and an attendant ran up beside him, stooping to wax his mustache. He plucked a tumbler of mineral water from a waiting attendant’s hand, drank a sip, and gargled the rest, and then handed the empty glass to a different attendant as he rounded the corner. The lift was waiting for him.
“Afternoon, Mr. Poldo,” said the Gnoll who ran the lift, with a tip of his crimson cap.
“Good afternoon, Hrurk,” said Poldo, stepping into the tiny onyx room.
“Good news today?” Hrurk asked politely.
Poldo shook his head.
“Well, next time,” said the Gnoll. The lift’s smooth black doors crackled faintly with traces of noctomancy as they slid closed. Hrurk tapped a combination on a dial of runes by the door, and they rode up to the top floor in a respectful silence.
Poldo stepped off the lift into a small waiting area. Across the room, massive gold and ebony doors were already swinging inward with an ominous creaking that rivaled the gates of any dark fortress. With a deep breath, Poldo brusquely walked into the top office of the Goldson Baggs Group, Inc.
The office had onyx walls and panoramic windows, and was empty save for two massive e
bony desks; behind them, sat the two men often remarked to be the shortest titans on Arth: Fenrir Goldson and Bolbi Baggs. A Dwarf and a Halfling respectively, Goldson and Baggs had dominated business in Andarun and beyond for more than two centuries. They continued poring over a couple of outsized ledgers until Poldo gently cleared his throat.
“Yes?” said Mr. Goldson, not bothering to look up. He was ancient, even for a Dwarf, and age had reduced his once stout figure to a wizened frame with pallid, spotted skin stretched over it. His long white beard, adorned with gold and copper rings and pendants, was his only remaining hair. He wore a dark suit that looked much like Poldo’s yet cost more than a good-sized farm in the Haerthwards.
“I have the report for tonight’s meeting with the investors, sir,” said Poldo.
“Excellent,” said Baggs, setting down his quill. Mr. Baggs’s curly silver locks settled in over a face touched by the beginnings of a grandfatherly wrinkle, and he wore a jolly smile that looked comfortably appropriate on someone of his considerable girth. He looked like a kindly old man finally enjoying all the amenities wealth had brought him, such as a suit that made Mr. Goldson’s seem cheap.
“There are some serious concerns,” Poldo said.
Mr. Goldson put down his pen and set his harsh gaze on the Scribkin.
Poldo swallowed hard and continued. “Adventure Capital isn’t performing up to the standard that it once did.”
Mr. Baggs frowned. “Our revenues are up six percent this year!”
“Yes, but revenue from loot is down by thirty-seven percent, sir,” said Poldo, consulting his notes. “Most of Adventure Capital’s profits are from selling plunder funds and their derivatives.”
In Poldo’s mind, plunder funds were growing a bit too popular. Everybody seemed to love buying up and bundling together the rights to shares of different hoards, creating a new financial product to invest in. The Heroes’ Guild encouraged upfront investment, as it could be used to pay off professional heroes, regardless of the loot a foe had. Investors were keen on spreading the risk over multiple foes’ hoards. Goldson Baggs and its competitors could make a profit selling shares of monstrous hoards before the monsters were slain, and eliminate the risk altogether.
Poldo saw the benefits of plunder funds. However, all of those reasons were built on one vulnerable assumption: that shares of the hoards were worth more than what a plunder-fund paid for them.
“The average hoard seems to be shrinking in value,” Poldo said.
“Treasure hoards don’t shrink!” Mr. Goldson snorted. “Drakes and scargs and chitinous scythers don’t give gold away, do they? No, they attack people to take gold, and the hoards grow!”
Poldo flipped through the other reports in his folio. “Monster attacks are down by five and a half percent this quarter, sir. A twenty-three percent decline since last year. The average quest time from offer to completion is down sixty-three percent from last year. There’s been a dramatic rise in the number of Shadowkin and creatures of monstrous descent seeking to become NPCs.
“Foes attack less often, live less long when they do, and increasingly are joining the economy as labor rather than common-pool resources. Hoards are rarer and have significantly less loot, and if trends continue I …”
“Yes?” Mr. Baggs prompted.
“I don’t think growth in the heroics industry is sustainable,” Poldo squeaked.
Mr. Goldson and Mr. Baggs shared a knowing look.
“Mr. Poldo,” said Mr. Baggs, with his kindly smile. “Do you think we didn’t see this coming?”
“Oh, no, sir!” said Poldo automatically.
“Our firm represents the best and the brightest minds in all the kingdom,” said Mr. Goldson. “Naturally, we’re aware of the current … irregularities in professional heroics. But we’re confident the market will correct itself.”
“We’re already taking measures to help that correction along,” said Mr. Baggs. “But in the meantime …”
“It’s your responsibility to let the investors know that this difficult situation is temporary,” Goldson continued.
“And that we’re on top of it. Reassure them,” Mr. Baggs finished.
“It’s a somewhat difficult point to make when our share prices are down three percent on the Wall, sir.”
“Our share prices will rise when the investors have been suitably reassured, Mr. Poldo,” Baggs said meaningfully.
“Yes, sirs,” Poldo relented. He bowed as Mr. Goldson and Mr. Baggs returned to their ledgers.
The Temple of Al’Matra was in the middle tiers of Andarun, wedged uncomfortably close to the Ridge. Its grounds were overgrown with thick vines and choking weeds, and its limestone walls were pitted and covered in teal and golden lichen. A couple of green-and-silver banners, each bearing the All Mother’s falcon, hung from two old windows, but they had been left in the weather too long and were starting to fade and fray. It was, Gorm thought, as he was led up the wide steps to the temple, a sad state for the house of the Queen of the Gods.
In the Age of Darkness, when the truth was concealed by Mannon and many competing belief systems spread over Arth, most people thought that religious conflict would end if the world could be converted to one faith. Then Arth’s gods and goddesses revealed themselves once more and united the world in the worship of one consistent pantheon. Religious conflicts resumed the next day.
Arth’s pantheon was essentially a celestial administration that the Creator had left in charge once He decided that His work was good, or at least good enough. Like middle management everywhere, the gods seemed to be mostly concerned with petty conflicts and power struggles. They fought endlessly over believers, and money, and status, and the best temples, and anything else that gods typically want.
By all accounts and any measure, Al’Matra, the All Mother, was not faring well.
No worshippers walked the halls Gorm and Gleebek were ushered through. The mosaics on the floor were missing chips. The murals on the wall were peeling. Some chipmunks had made a nest in the dried-up bowl of the holy font. When they reached the sanctuary, illuminated by shafts of sunlight streaming in through stained-glass windows and holes in the ceiling, a single attendant gave them a halfhearted greeting and trundled off to fetch his superiors.
While they waited, Gorm examined the windows and frescos throughout the room, Gleebek keeping close by his side. The first window depicted a beautiful Elven lady in flowing white seated on a throne next to a great, gray-skinned man with a flowing beard: Al’Matra and Al’Thadan, the All Mother and the All Father. Subsequent paintings showed them reigning as king and queen of the other gods, giving magic to men, and casting Mannon from the heavens.
Another window showed Al’Thadan’s betrayal, as he and the treacherous Sten were revealed to be agents of Mannon. The fallen king was depicted as laughing as great Trolls slew Elves and Gnomes and Dwarves below him, while Al’Matra tried in vain to stay his hand. Gorm walked along a wall, watching the rise of Tandos play out in fresco along the wall. Tandos, the greatest son of Al’Matra and Al’Thadan, rallying mankind to defend against the forces of Mannon in the War of Betrayal. Tandos protecting the warriors of light as they crusaded against the vile Sten. Tandos, striking down Al’Thadan as Al’Matra turned away.
Gorm and Gleebek were at the altar. On top of it was a great statue of two golden thrones: one empty and one with a marble lady slumped upon it. The sculpture of Al’Matra showed a woman wracked by grief, her hair matted, and her eyes staring forlornly into the distance. A queen who held her crown in limp hands. A mother who had been betrayed by her husband, and then watched as her eldest son cut her love down and slaughtered all of his subjects.
It was the kind of ugly end to a relationship that can really mess someone up.
The All Mother’s descent from nobility to madness was not so much chronicled as demonstrated in subsequent murals. The scene of Tandos’s ascension to divine regent, showed him accepting a crown from a cat on its hind legs. The images of
the first conflicts between the Al’Matran and Tandosian temples showed Tandos trapped in a spider’s web yet still striking at the All Mother with a large mackerel. Al’Matra’s fall into poverty showed her walking down a path that bore no connection to any reality Gorm had ever seen, with brightly colored flying shrimp and mocking cherubs following her through a forest of waving tentacles. The last few paintings were nonsense: a diagram of a dissected squid that had ingested a lance. An Elf painted with the angles all wrong, so that both eyes were on the same side of its face. A naturalist’s rendition of thirty-seven varieties of olives, only fourteen of which actually existed according to the footnote.
“Bloody insane,” Gorm muttered, staring at the olives.
“Some would say,” conceded a soft voice behind him.
Gorm turned to see a slight Human clad in Al’Matran robes, all white with green and silver trimmings. He had curly ginger hair and a face that was somehow innocent and weary in equal measure. There was also an oddness about the man’s face that Gorm couldn’t place. “Hello,” he said to Gorm. “I am Niln il’Devin of Al’Matra, a high scribe of Her Ladyship.”
“Oh, er, Gorm Ingerson. This is my, ahem, squire, Gleebek.”
“Gleebek!”
Niln nodded. “It’s good to meet you, Gorm, and you as well, Gleebek.” Gorm couldn’t see what made the man’s face seem so strange. There was nothing wrong with his nose, which was small and round, nor his jaw, aside from needing a good beard.
“Zuggog, da bibbot Tib’rin.”
“Er, I meant no offense callin’ yer painting insane—”
“It’s no matter. We know that the All Mother has certain challenges that she struggles to overcome. As do we all. I-it’s my eyes, by the way.”
“Ah. Right. That’s it,” Gorm said. He supposed that he should have been more embarrassed, but he was too relieved to finally identify the quirk in Niln’s face. The man’s eyes were different colors: one sky blue, the other sea green. “Sorry again.”
“No, no. I get that a lot,” said Niln. “It’s pretty common for those of us who are of the first generation.”
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 5
