Gorm shot Jynn a pointed look. The wizard shrugged and held up his hands.
The Kobold yawned, stretching his arms as he stepped out of the bag. His tiny blue and white suit had a small hole in the seat for his tail. “Isn’t he the cutest? Oh, he’s the cutest! Yes he is.”
“I thought ye didn’t allow Shadowkin in here,” said Gorm.
“Well, we make exception for the cutest widdle Kobold ever, don’t we?” Jalana set the Kobold on her lap. “Boots is the Honorable Ambassador of Adorable, isn’t he? Yes he is. Yes he is.”
The Kobold nuzzled into the Elf’s lap and gave Gorm a smug smile.
“If we could focus on the business at hand,” said Niln. He removed the velvet pouch from his robes, and from it he produced the lone Elven Marble.
Jalana’s face lit up when he placed the stone on the table. “You found it already? Oh, thank Tandos. That didn’t take nearly as long as I expected.”
“There are said to be four more of the marbles, my lady,” said Niln. “This one was entrusted to me by the king.”
“Oh,” Jalana seemed annoyed. “Well, look, House Tyrieth is very upset about this whole business with the artwork. It’s a cultural treasure or something.”
“From what I hear, that’s what the Orcs are saying too,” said Gorm.
“What? Really? Well, who cares?” Jalana gave the Kobold another treat. “Besides, the Orcs can’t take proper care of the sculptures or protect them, right? I mean, the sculptures were broken and looted, right?”
“By your house,” said Gorm.
“Thank you, Mr. Ingerson,” said Niln.
“Look, it’s simple. House Tyrieth demands that the marbles be returned.” Jalana’s grimace faded as she turned her attention to her Kobold. “Is that a good nom-nom, Boots? Yes it is. Yes it is.”
“Can you tell us who might have wanted to steal the marbles?” Niln asked.
“Well, the Orcs, like your Dwarf said. And House Galantia has always envied our artworks. They’re collectors too, you know. Last week at the Embassy Ball, Kalithan of Galantia had the nerve to call our gallery ‘banal.’ Can you believe it? Well, I wouldn’t stand for it.”
The meeting degenerated into an update on the latest gossip as lunch was served. Gorm was starving, but the food was Elven. He halfheartedly poked his spoon at what seemed to be a piece of jellied spinach before turning his attention to the marble in the center of the table. He picked it up, stared into the angry eyes, and felt the tusks from the vicious underbite. Something caught his eye when he flipped the statue over.
A small sigil was stamped in faded indigo ink onto the bottom of the statue, at the base of the neck, where the head had been sawn from the original sculpture. It was a fish pointing downward, but its mouth opened in a fearsome, sharp-toothed star ringed by a pattern of tentacles. Two appendages were longer than the rest, wrapping around the fish to create a perfect circle.
“What’s this symbol here?” he interrupted the story of some house’s slight against some other house.
The marble was passed around the table, but nobody seemed to have seen it before.
“I don’t know,” said Jalana, examining the stamp. “Maybe the museum curator put it there for some reason? No, Boots! Down! Down! There’s a good boy.”
A knock sounded, and an Elf dressed in a smart suit entered. His face looked remarkably like that of the captain of the guard at the front gate—or, at least, before Gorm was through with him.
“A message for you, Madam Ambassador,” the Elf said.
He handed Jalana a dossier. “Oh, this is wonderful news,” she said, reading the files. “We think we know where the other marbles are.”
“We have word that suggests the marbles were taken by bandits,” explained the messenger. “They’ve made camp in the outskirts of the Myrewood, not half a day’s ride from Ebenmyre.”
An uncomfortable silence settled around the table. “That’s … excellent,” said Heraldin. “Heroes of Destiny, quick huddle?”
The heroes pulled into a tight ring at one end of the table and leaned their heads in close.
“How is that wonderful news?” Heraldin hissed. “The marbles are in the bloody Myrewood!”
“Ugh,” said Laruna. “I don’t want to go wading through some festering swamp brimming with foul monsters.”
“Isn’t that professional heroics?” said Niln.
“Professional implies there’s money involved,” whispered Kaitha. “The Myrewood got looted clean thirty years ago. Everything that’s crept back in is poorer than dirt.”
“And also homicidally insane,” said Heraldin.
“You can make a name for yourself killing horrible monsters, but it’s loot that pays the bills,” said Laruna.
“The Myrewood is a lot of risk for little reward,” said Jynn.
“Not if the Elven Marbles are in there,” said Niln. “They’re the object of our quest.”
“Yes,” said Heraldin. “The quest that was supposed to be easy, right Dwarf? A simple walk to pick up some sculptures and be on our way, wasn’t that what you said? And now we’ll probably be eaten alive by giant blood leeches.”
Gorm had been through the Myrewood before. He’d helped clear the thrice-cursed swamp of monsters in one of his early campaigns. But he’d been with a well-organized party then, every hero a hardened veteran with years of monster-hunting experience. And they’d still lost a few. You couldn’t bring newbloods like Niln or Jynn into the Myrewood. They’d just be dead weight—in more ways than one.
Still, that had been on a journey to the swamp’s center. “That fellow said the marbles are on the outskirts of the swamp,” Gorm said.
“So what?” said Laruna.
“The edges of the Myrewood ain’t so bad,” Gorm explained. “That’s why bandits camp there. Everyone’s scared of the swamp, but the nastiest things of the mire stay nearer to the middle. We should be fine, provided we stay near the outskirts.”
“Assuming he’s right,” said Heraldin.
All eyes turned back to the Elves of House Tyrieth. The messenger smiled at them and handed Niln the dossier of intelligence. Jalana treated Boots to a vigorous tummy rub.
“How sure are you that the marbles are on the outskirts of the swamp?” said Niln, studying the documents.
“And not in the parts with the giant blood leeches?” added Heraldin.
“We have good information indicating as much,” said the messenger.
“What kind of information?” asked Gorm.
“Good,” reiterated the Elf in a manner that clearly indicated he wasn’t revealing his sources.
The heroes resumed their huddle.
“Do we trust him?” said Jynn.
“Do we have any better leads?” said Niln.
“Do we even have a choice?” said Heraldin,
“No, no, and no,” said Gorm. “Unless we get a better lead, we’re going to the Myrewood.”
Duine Poldo entered the black marble and glass office of Goldson and Baggs with a growing sense of trepidation. The binder in his hand overflowed with reports and charts and tables of numbers; none of them were encouraging.
“Welcome, Mr. Poldo,” said Mr. Goldson, without glancing up from his ledger.
“We trust you have news,” added Baggs, scrawling on a parchment with his heavy quill.
“Yes, sirs,” said Poldo, stepping forward with a nervous cough. He opened his file and read from his notes. “Sethiroph the Serpent Priest is dead, and the cult of Sitha has been cleared from the Black Temple.”
“Ah, excellent,” said Baggs. “I’m sure the citizens of Berleycrest and Fenrose Heath are resting easier tonight.”
“How was the loot, then?” asked Goldson.
In Poldo’s experience, Mr. Goldson was always more to the point than Mr. Baggs. The point was always money.
“The hoard was approximately forty percent of projections,” said Poldo. “All of the plunder funds have taken a massive loss. Three smaller firms folded when the
haul came in.”
“I’m sure our funds were suitably insured,” said Baggs.
“Yes, sir,” said Poldo uncertainly.
Goldson finally looked up from his ledger. “And yet you don’t seem reassured.”
“All of our funds were insured by Lamia Sisters through one of their subsidiaries, sirs,” said Poldo. “And as we’ve insured all of their funds through one of our own subsidiaries, we’ve ended up owing each other about five million giltin, with the balance sheets no better off for it.”
Mr. Baggs was about to respond when a small chime rang out. They turned to the back wall of the room, where numerous crystals were arrayed in a neat grid, each with a small bronze plaque beneath it. One of the crystals glowed with a faint emerald light and still hummed with residual sorcery.
“Mr. Poldo, would you be so kind?” said Mr. Goldson.
“Yes, sir,” said Poldo. He hurried across the room, adjusted his spectacles, and read the small, polished placard beneath the crystal. “It’s a green light from one Relic Investment Group, sirs.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Baggs. “It seems things are shaping up nicely.”
“Perhaps. Mr. Poldo, join us for a drink,” said Mr. Goldson.
Poldo wasn’t in much of a mood for celebration, but he hurried to retrieve the drinks from an ebony cabinet regardless. He set three glasses and an ice bucket on an ornate mahogany tray, selected a bottle of fine Dwerrow spirits, and poured three drinks. Mr. Goldson took his liquor with two ice cubes. Mr. Baggs preferred his neat. Poldo made his a double; it was that kind of day.
“I’m not so sure things will turn out as well as you think they will,” said Mr. Goldson as Poldo set his drink on the table.
“I’m completely sure they won’t,” said Mr. Baggs. “That’s why we have contingencies.”
“One contingency.”
“I’m told it’s a good one.” Mr. Baggs raised his glass. “To plans well laid and profits well earned.”
“To new beginnings,” said Mr. Goldson, joining the toast. “And the good old days.”
Mr. Goldson and Mr. Baggs turned to Poldo, both wearing small, expectant smiles.
Poldo raised his own glass. “Cheers,” he said.
Gorm and the heroes were leaving the courtyard of the Elven Embassy when an aide in green and indigo robes rushed to catch them. The messenger breathlessly greeted them all and paid respects to Niln before he addressed Gorm directly. “Mr. Ingerson, if we may detain you a little longer, your presence is required in the lower chambers.”
“What about?” said Gorm.
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“It might have something to do with the spontaneous dental work you gave the captain of the guard,” said Heraldin.
“Thank you, Heraldin,” said Niln.
“It’s probably bloody paperwork,” grumbled Gorm. “Insurance forms and all that.”
The aide assured Gorm that it wasn’t paperwork and wouldn’t take long. Niln assented to the diversion, and so Gorm agreed to meet them back at the temple. “Take Gleebek back with ye,” he told them.
He followed the aide back to the embassy, but instead of entering through the front door, they walked around the side of the building. They took servant’s paths past the sprawling gardens, hidden by carefully placed hedges and strategically grown trees. A cleverly concealed staircase led them down to a small grotto where the Elves kept their servants’ entrance. The aide took his leave.
For a while, Gorm leaned against the grotto’s mouth and listened to the songbirds above him. The air smelled of moss and summertea blossoms. He heard the oaken service door open and close behind him, but he didn’t see anyone standing there when he turned.
“Down here,” said a raspy voice.
Gorm adjusted his gaze earthward. “Boots?”
“Ha! That’s my stage name,” said the Kobold. He leaned against the wall opposite Gorm, struck a match on his teeth, and lit a small cob pipe. “You can call me Burt.”
“They brought me back here to talk to a purse Kobold?”
“Whoa, hey, look at Mr. High and Mighty denigrating my career!” said Burt. “And here I thought I was trying to help, but what could a lowly handbag performer offer a professional hero?”
“I was just surprised—” Gorm backpedaled.
“Shocking that a purse Kobold would dare talk to a hero, huh? Maybe I should have looked at all of the other great career options available to a young Kobold, right? I could’ve been a sewer worker like my cousin Tibbo. Course, he got eaten by something down there, but this is Andarun, right?”
“All right, all right, settle down.”
The Kobold champed on his pipe and waved his hands animatedly. “And hey, I could have been a gutter runner, right? I mean, I’ve known a friend or two who got blown off the rooftops. But if they pooled their wages, they could almost afford food and rent.”
“Ok, look—”
“I get food, I get good pay, and I ain’t at much risk of dying. It’s a good gig. More Kobolds should be so lucky.” Burt scratched a tuft of hair above his bulging eyes. “Course, most ain’t got the face for it.”
“I didn’t mean nothin’, all right?”
Burt chewed his pipe furiously and glared up at Gorm, his paws firmly on his hips. “Yeah, I guess not,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Is it true what they said? You took down old Captain Nethallar in a fight?”
“Bones,” swore Gorm. “Word travels fast.”
“You hear things, when you’re in a purse. People forget you’re there. Or that you can talk.” Burt puffed furiously on the pipe, conjuring clouds of glaucous smoke. “So it’s true, then.”
“Aye. It’s true.”
“And you did it for a Goblin? Just because the guards wouldn’t let him in?”
“I suppose I did.”
“Not many Dwarves would stick their neck out for a Shadowkin,” said Burt. “Then again, not many Dwarves would have mentioned the Orcs’ claim on those statues to the Elven Ambassador.”
“I’d like to think that quite a few would,” said Gorm.
“I’d like to as well. But you and I both know they wouldn’t.”
Gorm shrugged. The Kobold was right, but acknowledging as much was difficult. It was always hard to talk about Shadowkin with Shadowkin.
“Takes a strange kind of Dwarf to stick his neck out for a Goblin and some Orcs,” said Burt. The Kobold scrutinized Gorm with bulbous, mismatched eyes, looking for some hint of reaction. When Gorm gave him none, he pressed further. “Maybe the same kind of Dwarf who’d give the statues to the Orcs, if he found them?”
“Whoa, slow down,” said Gorm. “I ain’t agreeing to that.”
“No, no, course you ain’t,” said Burt. “But you may be the type who might do it, if he had good reason.”
“It ain’t my decision to make.”
“You got influence. I saw the way the high scribe looks to you for advice. The rest of them listen to you. You could put in a good word.”
“Why does a Kobold care whether the Orcs get the marbles anyway?”
Burt shook his head and took a slow drag from his pipe. “Because if they get them, that would mean somebody recognized them. That the king, or his chosen champion or whoever, picked the Shadowkin over the Lightlings. It’d make them somebody. And then we Kobolds, all the Gnolls really, and the Goblins and the Gremlins, we’d all be a little more somebody too, you know?”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Everybody is somebody,” said Gorm.
“I’m somebody as long as I got these thrice-cursed papers,” said the Kobold, pulling a tiny green booklet from his coat. “I’m somebody as long as a washed-up princess wants me in her purse! We ain’t like you Lightlings, waking up every morning and wondering what you want to do, where you think you should go. I wake up every morning and wonder what they’ll let me do, what I can get away with. ’Cause any day I cross them, they’ll take away my papers and then I’m nothing again. Fodder for some
hero’s license, a dead dog walking.
“Think about the Orcs and Ogres, the Kobolds and Gnolls, the Slaugh and the Nagas, the Goblins and Gremlins. Know any rich ones? Know any nobles? Thinking of any connections you’re glad you have, or would like to make? No? Because we’re nobody. Or, at least, we’re less somebody than you. Shadowkin never win, Lightling. We can’t win.”
“Er … sorry,” said Gorm.
Burt waved off the empty apology. “I know you can’t promise me anything. I know you don’t get to make the call, and even if you did, you might not be able to make it our way. I get it. Just make me this deal. I give you a tip about those rocks, and you think about giving them to the Orcs if you find them. Just a thought. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Aye,” conceded Gorm, shaking his head. “I can’t say it will do ye any good, but I’ll think it over.”
“Good.” Burt leaned back against the wall and looked around conspiratorially. “I recognized the stamp,” he said.
“The what?”
“The stamp. Blue ink on the bottom of the statue? Looked like a fish-squid?” Burt leaned toward Gorm, stood on tiptoe, and whispered, “That’s the seal of the Leviathan Project.”
“What’s the Leviathan Project?”
“Shush! Shh!” hushed the Kobold. “Look, I don’t know what it was. But I know a guy who knew a guy who was on it, and it was bad. We’re talking about some heavy stuff here, Dwarf. Dark magic and dark secrets, right? I don’t know why the stamp’s on the statue, but it isn’t good news for you or for anybody. You want to know more, you go talk to One-of-each Magrash.”
“How many Magrashes are there?”
“Oh, there’s only one of him. One-of-each is his name. You’ll see. Orc working the sewers down near the Base. Look in Sculpin Downs.”
Gorm nodded. “That all?”
“That’s a lot.”
“Aye,” said Gorm. “Aye, it was. Thank ye.”
“For what?” said Burt. “This conversation never happened. I was never even down here. I was up getting ready to head to the groomers, see.”
“Course ye were,” said Gorm. “Goodbye, Burt.”
“So long, Lightling.” Burt stopped at the door and shot Gorm a pointed look. “What’s a guy gotta do to get let in?”
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 13
