“Tickles!” Brunt’s face, which had been perpetually set into a vacant scowl every time Gorm had seen the Ogre, twitched under the strain of reconfiguring itself into a broad grin.

“Still, I’ve never seen Brunt so happy,” said Magriss thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t matter how he feels,” Heraldin insisted. “You can’t wear a sentient weapon as jewelry!”

“Fashion… forward!” said Mr. Brunt.

“I suppose that’s up to the authorities,” Gorm said with a grin.

“Ah, that’s the trick,” said one of the adventurers with Brunt. “What authorities? The king and queen are dead. There’s no clear line of succession.”

“No line of—gods, it’ll take months to sort out,” Gorm said, again inwardly cursing the senseless tall folk once again. In Dwarven society, every Dwarf knew his place in the line of succession, from a king’s sons down to the lowest beggar on the street. There were constant squabbles over such rankings, of course, but they were handled well in advance of the king’s death. The Dwarven system led to a lot of extra conflict over scenarios that would never come to pass, and it could make family meals very awkward, but it also eliminated any uncertainty in times of transition. “This could mean war among the nobles and houses.”

Someone tapped Gorm on the shoulder. He turned to find Gaist pointing at the Heroes’ Guild field arbitration station near the palace gates. A large cluster of oak folding tables were set up for guild clerks and arbiters to process the mountains of treasure scattered about the palace, but currently the paperwork seemed to be on hold. A large group of people standing around the station were engaged in a heated debate with several statues.

The Stennish walking sculptures were still ambulatory and, now that they had stopped singing in harmony with the universe, were also capable of speaking in Root Elven. Gorm hadn’t understood a word the statues said when he thanked them, but now that some Elves had been located to translate for the sculptures, people seemed to wish they were quiet again.

“It seems like Andarun’s old tenants have something to say about that,” Heraldin said.

“Looks like things are gettin’ complicated,” grumbled Gorm.

Gaist nodded as they headed for the scrum.

To their credit, Jynn and Laruna were amid the gathering, though it was unclear whether they were more interested in contributing to the discussion or studying the Stennish sculptures.

“What they are saying,” Laruna said loudly, “is that there is no basis in today’s laws for your proposal.”

This was relayed by an Elven hero to the sculptures, who spoke amidst each other in a tongue Gorm had never heard before. Eventually, the foremost of the stone Sten turned back to the gathered lawyers, clerks, nobles, and heroes. The marble woman wore her ivory hair in an ornate braided bun, and the eddies and currents of glowing water running over her stone body suggested the same swirling patterns tattooed on Thane’s gray skin. She spoke in a reedy, flowing language that sounded like Elvish, and as she did the water around her eyes and throat flared with extra light, like a beacon sending out sailor’s code.

“Uh,” the Elf said, “she says that he is still the rightful king. They’re being very forceful about it.”

The crowd grumbled at the announcement. “The nobility will not stand for this!” snapped a Human wearing a conglomeration of tights, ruffs, and frills that had to be expensive; only the very rich could afford to look so ridiculous. “House Gedral least of all!”

“Golems are not people in the eyes of the law,” stated a lawyer-monk flatly. “As such, this opinion is of no consequence.”

“Yes, exactly!” shouted the presumable lord of House Gedral. The crowd muttered in agreement.

“These aren’t golems.” Jynn corrected the lawyer as he peered closely at the nearest specimen. “They’re phylactoric mobile constructs fulfilling a preordained function in the lower theurgosphere.”

The crowd stared at the archmage with the mute apprehension of people who know they’ve heard something important but have no idea what it is.

Jynn sighed. “What I mean is that these are the reanimated essences of the last of the Sten. They’ve sent themselves through space and time using prophetic manipulation and carved vessels.”

“Not golems, then?” ventured a knight.

“They have souls,” growled Laruna. “Not golems. Souls.”

“Ah, they’re the undead, then!” said a guild clerk. “And the dead don’t have rights. Right?”

All eyes swiveled back to the lawyer-monks, who hunkered down in fervent consultation. Eventually one raised a hooded head. “Settled law holds that some rights are held in perpetuity or reinstated upon rematerialization on the mortal plane.”

“See Scoria v. Dead Lord Mordun in 7.314,” intoned another monk.

“It doesn’t matter!” snapped Lord Gedral. “We don’t have to listen to these walking rocks! They’ll stand down or my armies will⁠—”

The threat in the noble’s voice was strong enough to crash through the language barrier, and in reply all seven of the walking sculptures turned their baleful stares on him in unison. Their eyes crackled with sudden, crimson energy, and a high-pitched whine filled the air. The noble deflated in the face of impending vaporization, his jaw slack and his ruff drooping.

“They really are very forceful about it,” said the translating Elf.

“Forceful about what?” whispered a low voice in Gorm’s ear.

“Gah!” Gorm burst out, leaping back. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“It’s a bit of a habit.” Thane grinned apologetically as he stood up straight.

“What is everyone arguing about?” asked Kaitha, leaning against the Sten’s arm.

“And why are they all looking at me?” Thane muttered out of the side of his mouth. All eyes were on the Dark Prince, including the fading red gazes of the Stennish sculptures.

Gorm smiled up at his friend. “They want to make ye king, lad.”

Thane’s face fell. “They want to… what?”

One of the Sten interjected in Elven, and the translator obliged. “Uh, he says that Thane Thrice-Born is already king. He always was. It was written in the loom when his, uh, stone vessel was prepared, and now… now he and his line are high kings of the land.”

“Right, but dead people writing on rocks is no basis for a system of government,” said the guild clerk.

Another sculpture spoke up.

“She says it’s his birthright,” said the Elven translator.

“Birthright? Who cares about who begat who?” demanded the clerk. “There’s got to be a better way to determine who runs things!”

“Now, hang on—” began Lord Gedral, doubtlessly the latest in a long streak of begetting.

“No, he’s right,” said a guild arbiter. “A king needs to be familiar with how things work. An expert on the law, and diplomacy, and economics. A figure who can inspire the masses and manage the powerful. And we’re just supposed to believe that this fellow who popped out of some rock is going to be good at all of that?”

“I’m not!” Thane’s eyes had a hunted look, and he glanced around like a cornered animal trying to find some means of escape. “I’m not good at any of those things!”

“I, for one, am not going to be ruled by some reanimated statue,” said Lord Gedral.

Gorm didn’t spend much time around the nobility, but it didn’t take much to see where this was going. He took his axe from his belt and grabbed a rag from the nearby wreckage.

“We don’t even know where he came from!” interjected a noblewoman. “He could be a demon himself, for all we know.”

“He’s not a demon!” Laruna shot back. “He used to be a Troll!”

A collective gasp from the crowd suggested that this was not an effective argument.