“Settle the bill, Mr. Brunt!” snapped Flinn.
A scream and a splash indicated Brunt had done so.
“Now then,” said Flinn as they continued down the boardwalk. “May I introduce—”
“Shhh,” hushed the Elf, slapping her hand over the Gnome’s mouth. Her head inclined back, and she rolled her eyes at Gorm. “Are you a hero of destiny?” she whispered.
“So they say,” Gorm ventured.
“Me too!” gushed the Elf.
Flinn finished prying her fingers away from his lips. “This is Kaitha!” he snarled.
Kaitha vomited, prompting a momentary halt in the procession.
“Charmed,” said Gorm.
When he awoke, it took Gorm a moment to take stock of the situation. He was still in the Temple of Al’Matra, which was bad. He had been out late at a tavern, which was usually good, but he hadn’t had a drop to drink there, which was unusual and bad. He wasn’t hungover, which was unfamiliar but not necessarily unpleasant. Now he could see the sun rising through his window, which was also unfamiliar and certainly unpleasant, and someone was still quietly knocking at his door.
All in all, Gorm was in a pretty foul mood when he answered it.
“Hello. Sorry,” said Kaitha. She had cleaned up and pulled her long hair into a ponytail. Her lips were set in a playful, helpless pout that would make most men subconsciously shift from groggy annoyance to alert and helpful. Dwarves, however, are closer to eunuchs than they are to most men.
“What are ye doing here?” Gorm growled.
“That’s just the thing I’d like to know,” said the Elf, stepping into his room. “Well, one of the things. Also of interest are: where am I, who are you, and why is there a Goblin with a dead rat in your bedchambers?”
“Ye don’t remember a thing?”
“I remember several things. Just not how they fit together. Or what goes in the middle.”
“I’m Gorm Ingerson. The Goblin’s me squire.”
“Gleebek!”
“Unusual. The dead rat?”
“I don’t know where he gets them, but I’m pretty sure it’s breakfast.”
“I see.” Kaitha thought for a moment. “You can call me Kaitha.”
“We met last night.”
“About that,” said Kaitha. “Any idea what happened?”
“Do ye remember the Al’Matran Prophecy?” Gorm asked.
“Is that a new name for a Tarapin Topspin? I think I had one of those.”
“A what?”
“It’s moon wine, grog, and a twist of grundant juice on salted ice.”
“What?”
“It’s good. You can’t even taste the grog.”
“I ain’t talkin’ about a drink.”
“Then I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I’m talking about how ye signed on with the Al’Matran temple to be one of the seven heroes of thrice-cursed destiny.”
Kaitha shook her head. “No. I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I did.”
“And I’d remember vomiting on someone’s boots, but ye still ain’t apologized for that.”
“Oh, sorry,” said the Elf, rubbing her temples. “Gods, I probably did sign up with … who? The Al’Matrans? Bones!” she swore.
“Aye. That must have been one titan of a drink.”
“Or four,” said Kaitha. “Okay … Okay. I can handle this. We’ll go get breakfast. I’ll get Leiry. He can get me out of this.”
“If ye say so,” said Gorm. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Sure you won’t come? I’m buying.”
Gorm was already brushing past her down the hall. “Let’s go, Gleebek! Leave the rat.”
Mr. Flinn and Mr. Brunt were seated near the front door. A board with a set of thrones pieces was set between them, but Gorm noticed that only Flinn was making moves.
“Ah, Lady Kaitha and Mr. Ingerson, might I ask where you’re off to?”
“Breakfast,” said Kaitha. “We’ll be back once I’ve sorted this contract out.”
“That’s fine,” said Mr. Flinn. “Provided you have it sorted out by lunch. The Heroes of Destiny are expected at a meeting of the utmost importance.”
“Oh, I hope to be back well before then.”
“See that you are. Mr. Brunt didn’t get enough sleep last night, and now he’s in a foul mood.”
Gorm looked up at the Ogre’s vacant, angry stare. “With Brunt, how can ye tell?”
Mr. Flinn’s lips curled into a dark smile. “I’d encourage you not to find out, Mr. Ingerson.”
An hour later, they were seated around a tiny wrought-iron table on Pinnacle Plaza, the great terrace on the topmost tier of the city. Boutique shops, coffee stands, teahouses, and popular eateries formed a neat semicircle around the plaza, sending small tables and chairs creeping toward the statue at the plaza’s center. Behind the statue sat the Temple of Tandos, and beyond that, built into the highest slopes of Mount Wynspar, was the Palace of Andarun.
“You haven’t touched your breakfast,” Kaitha said.
“I’m scared it’ll blow away if I disturb it,” said Gorm, looking in disgust at his plate. He was a firm believer that the best meals were made by holding dead things over a fire until they smelled good. As far as he was concerned, the tiny pile of twisted fruits and exotic extracts set before him was a blasphemy.
It was Elven cuisine, but then most things up at the Pinnacle were Elven. Many Elves had old money; some of them were already rich when the Freedlands were still forming.
“It’s good. Try it.”
“This stuff cost more than me boots,” Gorm grumbled. He scooped up a forkful of mashed plant matter and chewed thoughtfully. “And I’m pretty sure it don’t taste as good,” he added, sliding his plate to Gleebek.
“Kaitha!” The heaviest Elf Gorm had ever seen charged toward them, holding his thick black spectacles to his head as he ran. He wore his silver hair pulled back behind his pointed ears, and a thin beard traced the generous circumference of his uppermost chin. “Kaitha te’Althuanasa Malaheasi Leelana Ter’ethe…”
“I always know I’m in trouble when Leiry uses my full name,” Kaitha said to Gorm.
“Who is this guy?”
“Leiry? He’s my agent.”
“…Liliea Musanatila Bae Iluvia…”
“You’ve got an agent?”
“Oh yeah. I’m in high demand. I mean, not as much as I used to be, but still.”
Gorm suddenly recalled hearing tales of a woman with jade and drake-hide bracers, a shadow in an emerald cloak who slew terrible monsters before the beasts ever saw her. “You’re the Jade Wind!”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Kaitha said with a small smile.
Leiry was growing scarlet in the face. “…Yi’Nailn Loela Toranga Migracie …”
“Me Da used to tell me about you! You saved his Da from the Hydra of Gauntcragge when he was a wee lad!”
“Oh?” Kaitha’s smile was losing steam. “That’s great.”
“… Asanti Tilalala nil Tyrieth!” Leiry finished. “What am I to do with you? Signing on with the Al’Matrans!”
Kaitha ignored him. “Gorm, this is Leiry. Leiry, Gorm Ingerson, and his squire, Gleebek.”
“Pleasure,” said Leiry. “The Pyrebeard, right? Tough luck on the Az’Anon business, kid. Pay us a visit. Maybe we can make it work.” He flipped Gorm a small white card, which said in embossed, cardinal red letters:
LEIRY, Hs. Alintal
AGENT OF HEROES
34 Greenwyne Avenue
42nd Tier, Andarun
Gorm read the card. “Not many agents are interested in working with me these days.”
“You’d be surprised. I work with a lot of problem cases,” Leiry said. “Look at this one here. Am I right? I mean, Kaitha, sweetheart, how many gutters have I dragged you out of? How many times have I had to convince the mayor of some backwater that you weren’t too wasted to kill a bugbear or an owlbear or an owlverine? And now
this? This is how you repay me? The Al’Matrans?”
“I know, Leiry. I know.” Kaitha sighed. “That’s why I sent for you. You’ve got to fix this.”
“Fix this? Fix it! What is there to fix? I—” A thought struck Leiry. “Gorm, and, uh, Glubduck. Whatever. Listen. I need a moment with my client.”
“Right you are,” said Gorm. He grabbed his coffee, motioned for Gleebek to follow him, and walked closer to the edge of the plaza. All of Andarun spread out before him, gray granite and white marble and cobalt and teal slate roofs, and beyond it, the Plains of Bahn. The view was all the more breathtaking for the cloudless azure sky.
Behind him, things sounded like they were considerably stormier.
Much of the fight was too low to be heard—whispered, or hissed, or choked in fits of sobbing. Gorm could only make out small, unpleasant snippets of conversation. The Lawyer-monks of Adchul were brought up more than once, as was the Randy Goat, and alcohol, and Kaitha hanging out with losers.
At the mention of losers, Gorm mentally added Leiry to his list. It wasn’t a good list to be on; it was said that the only thing that could outlast Dwarven craftsmanship was a Dwarven grudge.
“You’re a carriage wreck,” Leiry thundered. “You were a spectacle, and now even that’s getting old!”
“You can’t say that!” said Kaitha. “You can’t …” She trailed off, weeping.
Gorm noticed a noblewoman sneering at Gleebek and shot her his most vicious professional smile. She scowled and hurried away. Satisfied, he turned back to the view of the city. Gleebek sat next to him, eating a dead rat. “Where do ye find those bloody things?” he asked the Goblin.
“Grot?”
The fight blew over eventually. Leiry thundered and blustered himself out, and then moved on. Gorm turned to survey the wreckage.
Kaitha was slumped over the table, looking smaller and sadder than an Elven breakfast. Her red-rimmed eyes watched her fingers trace a small pattern on the table. She didn’t look up when Gorm and Gleebek took their seats again. “I haven’t finished a quest in more than forty years,” she said. “I can get them started. I try, I really do. And then … I just feel like I need … you know? Something to take the edge off … and it gets all messed up.”
Gorm nodded. It wasn’t exactly his song, but it was in the same key.
“And, of course, everyone’s heard of the Jade Wind,” she said, her voice a hollow husk. “And they all know what I used to be. And they keep on telling me the stories, the thrice-cursed stories, of what the Jade Wind did, and who she saved, and how she did it. And I hear them whispering about what a shame it is that such an amazing ranger could come to this. And I’m sick of hearing about that Jade Wind, because I don’t know her any better than you do.”
The oldest Elves were older than Andarun, some even older than the race of Dwarves. However, it was almost impossible to identify the eldest among them with any certainty, because how Elves look does not change over time while, crucially, who they are changes quite a lot.
An indefinite lifespan is not the same thing as an infinite memory. Time erodes events into stories, stories into recollections, recollections into impressions, impressions into vague sensations that eventually dim altogether. An Elf’s old life was always trickling away, being replaced by new memories, new ideas, and eventually, for all intents and purposes, a new Elf.
“I haven’t been the Jade Wind for a long time,” Kaitha said. “I’ve been the person trying to be the Jade Wind again. Leiry said he could make it happen, but now he’s gone. And he was the last agent who’d take me, so I guess my career is too.”
Gorm watched a falcon circling overhead. “They used to call me Pyrebeard,” he said. “I used to run the biggest quests, slay the nastiest beasts. I was gonna be as big as … well, as big as ye were. And then I messed up once. Just once. And now I’m here.”
The moment of camaraderie brought a small smile from Kaitha. “And now we’re a part of this … this Al’Matran madness.” She laughed and gave a long sigh. “How are we going to get out of this?”
“I don’t think we are,” said Gorm. “Not anytime soon. Might as well get used to it.”
Kaitha looked out over the edge of the plaza, across the city. “Did you ever hear of the aithanalasi?”
“My Elven’s a little rusty. On account of me never learning it.”
“The Imperial tongue calls it the Wide-gulleted Bobbinjay.” Her mouth twisted at the taste of the translation.
Most Elves consider the Imperial language to be crude, graceless, and discordant—largely because it is. It’s also precise, broad, and nearly universal, making it a necessary evil.
“It’s a beautiful little bird with a sacred voice. The Lords and Ladies of my people will gladly spend thousands of giltin to entice them to their balconies, just in the hope of hearing a song.”
“Thousands?”
“Easily thousands. Tens of thousands. Aithanalasi need the right trees. The right flowers. It can’t be too cold or too warm. The balcony has to be at the height they like. And if you do it just right, an aithanalasi may decide to perch on your rail and sing for hours.”
“I can buy a bird cage for twelve giltin,” said Gorm.
“That’s the point. If you want the song, you can never cage one. Once it’s behind the bars, it goes silent. It might even beat itself to death against the cage. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“Birds are daft?” Gorm grabbed a roll off a passing waitress’s platter.
“It’s not. The bird won’t be caged!”
“I’d take it over being beaten to death against iron bars,” said Gorm. He broke off a piece of the roll and offered it to Kaitha.
“That is the song of the aithanalasi,” she said, waving the bread away. “That is why its voice is sacred. Wherever you go, go because you decided to. Never let anyone cage you. Find your freedom.”
“All right, I got one for ye,” said Gorm, handing half of the roll to Gleebek. “Ever hear of the Warbling Slateclaw?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Big, ugly badger with claws like stone. Digs tunnels up in the Ironbreaker Mountains and the Black Cliffs. Only singin’ mustelid in the world. Dwarves everywhere used to want ’em as pets, till they found out what miserable beasts the slateclaws are. Take one in, and it’ll claim your favorite chair and sing songs that’ll run your spine inside out unless ye give the furry bastard its favorite treats.” He mimicked a horrible yodeling, and then silenced himself with a bite of bread.
Kaitha smiled. “I’m wondering where this is going.”
“That’s the song of the Warbling Slateclaw. Wherever ye go, there ye are. Try to find the comfy chair.” Gorm leaned back in his seat and shook the half-eaten roll at the laughing Elf. “And see if ye can grab a free meal.”
Chapter 5
The Temple of Al’Matra was bustling with activity by the time Gorm and Kaitha returned. Attendants rushed about the gardens and lobby. Silver Talon mercenaries marched through the halls at rigid attention, clad in the same black leathers that Mr. Flinn wore.
They found Niln in the sanctuary, and the high scribe excitedly informed them that they were summoned to an audience with the king.
“What’s the occasion?” Gorm asked.
“We are to be recognized as the Seven Heroes by His Highness. He has also indicated that he will give us our first quest.”
“Well, that was fast.”
“Destiny,” said Niln, wearing a broad smile.
“We’ll see,” said Gorm.
“The king expects us soon,” babbled the high scribe. “We’ve only got an hour to get ready.”
Wisps of steam drifted from the copper basin in Gorm’s room when he took his bath. The water had cooled to lukewarm by the time he convinced Gleebek to get in. The Al’Matrans had provided him with a coat of shining mail, a deep indigo cloak, sturdy boots, and soft leather gloves. His outfit was complemented by a new round shield, painted sapphire blue,
with shining steel braces and a drake-hide rim; a couple of gold and brass rings for his beard; and a new steel helmet encircled with runes. They had also provided a replacement war axe, covered in gold etchings and runes of power, but he forgave them for it as he tucked his trusted old weapon into his belt loop.
When he looked at the Dwarf in the looking glass, he could see Pyrebeard staring back at him, eyes hard, jaw set. He could almost hear the roar of the crowds, almost see the banners with his emblem hanging from every turret in the town. He remembered the smell of summer nights in Scoria, when everyone knew him for slaying the Hydra of Hangman’s Grotto, when friendly shouts greeted him as he rounded every corner, when he never bought his own drinks at the bar.
Gleebek stumbled into view behind the Dwarf, struggling to hike up a pair of breeches beneath his new squire’s tunic, effectively shattering the illusion. Pyrebeard was gone. In his place was a clanless drunkard with a Goblin for a squire.
“Come on,” Gorm said. He stalked past Gleebek into the hallway. “Let’s get this mummer’s farce over with.”
The procession was taking shape when he stepped out onto the palace grounds. Niln sat mounted on a great white stallion at the head of the line, arguing with a pair of Al’Matrans in even more decorated robes. Gorm surmised they were the high priestess and the alternate high scribe of Al’Matra. Behind them, Jynn and Laruna rode side-by-side on a pair of chestnut mares. Gaist sat behind them, so stiff and motionless on his black stallion that even the beast seemed uncomfortable. Al’Matrans and Silver Talons hurried around the heroes, preparing for the procession to depart.
Kaitha found Gorm as an attendant was helping him mount his own horse, a ruddy stallion with a foul temper. “There you are,” the Elf said. “Finally. Have you met these people? You’re the only one I can talk to.”
“Tried talkin’ to Ihee—er—Gaist, eh?”
“It’s like having a conversation with a mural. I wouldn’t even know his name, except someone hung a sign on his horse. And that’s still preferable to the mages. Anything you say is just an excuse for them to indirectly insult each other.”
“I don’t know why they’re ridin’ next to each other,” Gorm said.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 8
