“Hardly any better!” sneered Lord Gedral. “We can’t be governed by someone whose only work experience is living as a monster in the wilderness. Gods, he must have been practically raised by wolves!”
“Wolves were afraid of me!” Thane’s voice had risen to a panicked pitch, despite Kaitha’s best attempts to calm him.
“Indeed. Hardly a fit ruler!” snapped Lord Gedral.
“So who else?” asked Gorm quietly, polishing his axe.
The crowd fell silent.
Lord Gedral took a moment to straighten his ruff and adopt a humble facade. “Well, ahem, I’m sure that a suitable noble of good pedigree and means could be found.”
“I’m sure ye could find enough to fill the palace courtyard. That’s the problem, ain’t it?” Gorm checked his reflection in the steel of his Orc-forged axe-head. “It’d be a war for sure, assumin’ any of ye survive war with the Sten there. Though given what their magic did to the King of Demons and the entire plaza in an afternoon, I don’t like your odds.”
The crowd looked back to Lord Gedral, whose eyes were locked on the statues and their Elven translator. The noble’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, like some frilly tropical fish pulled from the Teagem Sea.
“Maybe ye’d prevail. Maybe one of ye would be king next. But I doubt there’d be much of a Freedlands left to rule over. I doubt the guilds and banks and all the rest will stand for that. A poor king is certainly bad, but most businesses I know will take a bad certainty over a big, dangerous unknown.”
The clerks and lawyers in the crowd began to nod and mutter. Even the less ambitious nobles looked thoughtful.
Deep furrows knit Thane’s brows as he stared down at Gorm. “What are you saying, Gorm? I don’t… I don’t want this.”
“I’m sorry, lad—er, Your Majesty,” Gorm corrected himself. “Nobody wants it. But what a king needs most of all is legitimacy, and ye’ve more of that than anyone else. Without ye on the throne, we may lose all the lives we just fought to save.”
Thane looked at Kaitha, and then the crowd, and then the bard stepping forward.
“Thane, my friend, if I may… have you considered a regency?” Heraldin asked.
“A what?” Thane eyes lit up with hope.
“If you were to appoint a trusted regent, he or she could rule in your stead while you learn more about the role,” the bard went on. “You’d still be king, of course, but the actual governance could be handled by someone more… experienced until you feel ready to take up the mantle.”
“Ad hoc administration formed for the indefinite interregnum,” said a lawyer-monk. “It sounds legally defensible.”
The statues conferred as well, and eventually delivered a statement through their translator. “The Sten would accept that arrangement.”
“You see?” Heraldin grinned up at Thane. “You don’t need to understand the law or diplomacy or business. You just need someone you trust who does.”
Thane thought for a moment, and then broke into a wide grin.
When it was over and done, Duine Poldo surveyed the carnage.
The Wall was littered with the wreckage of business on an epic scale. Broken quills and empty ink pots littered the ground. Loose sheets of parchment blew across the Wall. Poldo himself was sitting on a briefcase sized for an Orc or Elf that had been abandoned to the flagstones amidst the melee. Dazed clerks staggered about, trying to make sense of what had just happened. A few interns and low-level employees folded up the last of the temporary trading desks, but most of the brokers and day traders had fled to the bars and taverns along the Broad Steps to mourn their losses and drown their sorrows.
A young Halfling in a rumpled suit staggered across Poldo’s path and looked at the Scribkin with bleary eyes. “Did… did we win?”
Poldo sighed and looked up at the Wood Gnome’s slate swaying forlornly in the wind. The white chalk line had filled about four-fifths of the bar. “We gave the economy a chance to survive, but almost a fifth of Andarun’s wealth is still in a fund that is now worthless. It’s like the gold just evaporated. Many workers just lost their jobs, or pensioners their funds. They just don’t know it yet.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “There are no winners on a day like today.”
An enthusiastic whoop rang out further up the Wall, followed by ringing laughter.
“There are few winners on a day like today,” Poldo corrected himself as he turned to look at the leadership of Warg Incorporated.
The Shadowkin stood in a circle some distance away. Someone had carried in a massive keg of Orcish grog, and the senior leaders sipped it from elegant gazelle horns as they celebrated their massive gains. What had been a rout for Andarun’s established business community had been a triumph for Asherzu and her team. With a portfolio untainted by the dragon’s hoard and a near monopoly on the transaction fees from the largest sell-off in history, Warg had become one of the wealthiest banks on Arth over the course of the afternoon.
Poldo saw the chieftain raise a toast to Feista Hrurk, and another celebratory cry went up. A small smile crossed the Gnome’s weary face. “It will be all right,” he said as Mrs. Hrurk raised her own glass. He noticed her tail tucked between her legs in embarrassment.
“Yeah,” said the Halfling. “But I was asking if they killed King Johan? There was all that screaming and the strange lights up on the Pinnacle.”
“Oh. I’m sure,” Poldo said. “It’s usually loud and messy, but some hero inevitably gets the job done. If they hadn’t, I doubt we’d still be here. All that’s left now is to see what it cost us. The cost… the cost was so high…”
“You financed the expedition?” asked the young broker.
“No.” Poldo’s shoulders sagged. His thoughts drifted back to Thane, and the future they might have made in Mistkeep. The Halfling mercifully hurried along, and Poldo cradled his head in his hands and wept.
A while later, Mrs. Hrurk sat down next to him on the briefcase, and improper as it was, took his hand in her paw. Poldo rested his head on her shoulder and let the tears flow. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, leaning on the Gnoll and wrestling with grief. Eventually, his memories were interrupted by the clip of footsteps on stone.
“Mr. Duine Poldo?” asked a nasal voice.
“Another time,” said Mrs. Hrurk, shooing the interloper away.
Yet the visitor would not be deterred. “I found him!” the man shouted. Poldo opened his eyes to see a young clerk from the Heroes’ Guild jumping and waving.
“No, you haven’t,” growled Mrs. Hrurk. “Let the poor man rest.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the clerk. “I’m on orders from the king.”
Poldo looked up with a start. “I thought the king was dead.”
“Well, yes, the old king. And the new king was too, they say. But only for a while, and he’s better now.” The clerk paused, his lips moving as he walked back through that scenario. “It’s complicated, sir. But there is, in fact, a king, and he’s called for you.”
“Young man, I do not have much patience for this,” Poldo said wearily. “It has been a very long day, and I just lost a dear friend.”
Then Gorm Ingerson eclipsed the clerk, grinning ear to ear and offering the Gnome a hand up. “Aye, about that last bit,” said the Dwarf. “I’ve got good news.”
There was a reunion of the very best sort; both unexpected and joyous, where the only tears were of joy and the laughter flowed freely. Friends who had thought their goodbyes were final, found each other whole and hale. Insurmountable challenges had been surmounted. A future that had seemed impossible was here, and with everyone together to see it.
It was followed by a coronation of the very worst sort, both frenetic and confused, where nothing was planned and there was no precedent to cite. The new king was awkward and unsure; he ducked under arches and doorways that were far above his head, and often crouched down as if he could shrink into the background entirely. He would only address the attendees with frequent reassurances from friends and ancient guardians, and even then his words were punctuated with fits of hyperventilation and mild panic attacks. Nobles seethed and businesses fretted at the timid oration; the city was already reeling from the financial ruin wrought by the Dragon of Wynspar’s plunder fund evaporating and the loss of two monarchs, and sentiment was not helped by the dragon herself emerging from the mountain to attend the ceremony. The future was uncertain and terrifying once more.
Yet then came a ceremony of a completely new kind. Andarun’s history had few regencies, and never a voluntary one. The new king entrusted his authority to a Scribkin trailed by a swarm of Domovoy in tiny suits. The new regent gave a perfunctory speech outlining his top priorities for the city, and his diminutive cohort set about executing them before he had walked off the stage. The gears of governance ground back into motion.
Jynn Ur’Mayan and Laruna Trullon watched history flow by from the side of the makeshift stage, seated together on a mostly intact bench. His arm was wrapped around her shoulders, and she idly played with his fingers. “What happens now?” the archmage asked, watching a gaggle of Wood Gnomes skitter past.
“I suppose we rebuild what was broken,” the pyromancer said. “It will take time, and hard work, but I know we can come back from all of this stronger than ever.”
Jynn gave her a wry smile. “I was talking about what happens next for you and me.”
