“I will ensure that we can see to the matter of the expenses,” Asherzu told the executives seated around the conference table. “Let us focus this time on our mission.”
“Do we have a mission?” asked Pogrit, matriarch of the Fub’Fazar Clan of Gnolls.
“No, and that is the problem we must solve,” said Asherzu. “Lightling corporations all have missions.”
“Such as the ones they give their heroes,” said Borpo, nodding.
“Like ‘kill twenty Bloat-boars?’” suggested Guglug.
“Or ‘bring me five Dire Muskrat spleens?’” Izek said.
“Our company does many things,” said Asherzu loudly, trying to steer the conversation. “Warg owns shares in two tanneries, four blacksmiths, an armor shop, thirteen corner grocers, three mercantile caravans, a grundant orchard, inns, breweries, and more. And that does not count our new investment banking group. We hold all these companies, but what do we actually do?”
The others at the table stared blankly. “The finances?” croaked Guglug.
Asherzu nodded, watching the gears of understanding grind into motion. “That is our day job. But what do we do?”
An uncomfortable silence bloomed in the room.
“So we’re not talking about the muskrat spleens?” said Izek.
“No, we are not.”
“Well, that is the sort of mission I have heard the Lightlings speak of,” said Borpo.
Asherzu tried to force a smile as she stared at some of the most respected Shadowkin in the Freedlands. It struck her once again that experience can be a double-edged sword. Some people learned and practiced the fastest, most efficient way to get from point A to point B, which was all well and good until a company needed to get to point C. Her father, in his wisdom, had once remarked that the only difference between being on track and stuck in a rut is the intended destination. “I meant a bold statement that echoes our purpose to the ages,” she told the board. “A declaration of why we exist.”
“I usually leave that sort of thing to the shamans and priests.” Guglug waved a webbed hand dismissively.
“As a company,” Asherzu growled. “Why does Warg Incorporated exist?”
“We have the charter,” said Izek. “We wrote it not half a year ago. Is that not our mission?”
“Yes, correct!” Asherzu felt a glimmer of hope. “That is the sort of mission we are looking for. But it is too long. No one can recite the whole thing—that was not a challenge to do so, Borpo.”
Borpo sat back down, deflated.
“We need a mission statement that captures the spirit of the charter, but remains short enough that you could speak it to another on a trip down the stairs,” said Asherzu. “A quick way to say why we all come to work each morning.”
Izek stuck a hand in the air. “To make money so we can buy food.”
The Guz’Varda chieftain rapped her fingers on the table. “That is true, in part, but it does not inspire passions.”
“I, for one, am very passionate about not starving,” said Izek.
Asherzu sighed. “I meant that a statement such as that will not motivate people.”
“It will once they get hungry,” offered Freggi.
The CEO took a deep breath.
“Perhaps we should agree to let the agency of advertisements help us with this ‘mission statement,’” suggested Pogrit gently. “They say they are good at this sort of thing.”
“They say they are good at everything,” grumbled Borpo. “It’s just more expenses.”
“Your words are wise, Honored Pogrit,” said Asherzu, without even trying to hide her relief. “Let it be so.”
A rumble of agreement went up.
“And if there is nothing else…” Asherzu let the sentence trail away hopefully; she was already inching her seat away from the table.
“Your pardons, honored one,” said Izek, shattering Asherzu’s hope of escape. “We wish to say that the new brokerage group is having… difficulty on the Wall.”
“Of what sort?” said Asherzu.
“We cannot make trades as quickly as the Lightlings do,” said Guglug. “There is always an excuse for extra paperwork.”
“And when we do trade, the prices never seem to be as good,” said Izek.
“It should not be so,” said Asherzu. “Our agreement with the kingdom says we are citizens, with all the rights and obligations of any Lightling.”
There was an uncomfortable silence around the table, of the sort one hears when everybody knows the answer and nobody wants to be the one to say it.
“It is true,” Asherzu insisted. “If the Lightlings on the Wall do not know it, we must make them see it.”
A couple of the assembled Shadowkin nodded weakly, but the chieftain could see the doubt in their eyes. More drastic action was necessary.
“You will see as well,” she told them. “I will go to the Wall with Izek and Guglug tomorrow, and we will make trades together. I will show you the path of the aggressive seller.”
“I hope that you are right, Lady,” said Guglug, doubt still evident in her frog-like eyes. “It is good that we have all the rights that can be written down. But I fear that even with the ink long dry, we Shadowkin are not treated the same.”
“Nonsense,” said Mother Maeven. “We do not treat Shadowkin differently than any of our other tenants.”
“I think you’ll find that our documents are quite explicit on the subject,” said Father Snade.
“Your Troll employee was not a factor in our decision to evict you,” said Father Gaul.
Poldo glared up at the three senior lawyer-monks, though it was hard to make them out in the dim light of their chamber. The room looked like the mad vision of what a crypt builder would do with an endless supply of books. Massive tomes lined every arched wall, filled each cubby in the gothic pillars, even rested in the sculpted hands of robed gargoyles and cherubs. Neat stacks of books covered the floor around the office at the center of the chamber. The senior lawyer-monks’ desk was set above the lone chair for clients that Poldo now occupied. The desk itself was a mahogany juggernaut, wide enough to give three lawyer-monks ample space, and surrounded by great drifts of scrolls and periodicals to the point that they seemed to be sailing amid a stormy sea of paper.
“I wonder what did lead to your decision, then,” Poldo said. “The rent has been paid on time, we are quiet and courteous, and no provision in our agreement has been broken. The only reason I can see to evict us is that Thane is my bodyguard.”
“Really?” said Father Gaul. “It never occurred to us.”
“And frankly, I think it is a bit small-minded of you to think that way,” added Mother Maeven.
Poldo took a deep breath, if only to stop his mustache from twitching. The lawyer-monks stared back at him impassively; at least, he thought of them as impassive. He couldn’t be sure, as their faces were entirely concealed by the long, crimson hoods draped over them, and most of their hunched bodies were obfuscated by enchanted quills, ledgers, contracts, and office supplies that swarmed around the lawyers like flies around cattle. “Nevertheless, it seems probable to me that our eviction is due to traveling with a Troll.”
