Brouse’s scowl deepened. “That sounds like the opposite of an emergency. That’s a good definition of something that isn’t an emergency.”
“Gah!” Ignatius practically spat in irritation, jerking his head as if to ward off a fly. “I mean, nobody might be dying!”
“Still not seein’—”
“Look!” The old priest pointed ahead of them. Smoke was rising from the epicenter of the murmuring crowd’s attention. Thick black clouds of it rose in a spiral pattern to join the cyclonic clouds darkening the sky from the mountain to the horizon. “The shrine… the soul! He won’t leave! The master won’t—can’t—send him on!”
“Well, could be…” Brouse mused, scratching his whiskers. “Could be that your QRCs got unmoored from the BOAT.”
Ignatius’ features scrunched up in confusion. “We’re nowhere near the river—”
“The Being of All Things?” said Brouse impatiently, as though this was the most common and reasonably assumed definition of the word “boat.” “The essence of reality? It’s a technical metaphor, and if your shrine’s quantum resonance crystal gets out of alignment with it, you can get little puffs of smoke or squeaking noises or red liquid that looks a lot like blood. See it all the time.”
“And have you seen it do this?” asked Ignatius, stepping aside. Brouse squinted in the sudden glare.
The onlookers had left a wide gap between themselves and the smoking shrine of Mordo Ogg in an effort to balance their natural curiosity with their instinct for self-preservation. Every spectator would hate to tell their grandchildren they missed out on whatever interesting thing was about to happen, but that imperative carried implicit requirements regarding their survival to a time frame that included said grandchildren.
The shrine of Mordo Ogg’s head was nearly engulfed in the white-hot glow of its eyes. Behind the blueish corona of the skull’s incandescent glare and the black smoke pouring from the shrine’s stricken head, Brouse caught brief glimpses of orange, bubbling stone. The air around the statue shimmered with heat, creating the illusion that Mordo Ogg’s head was waving back and forth like a man suffering from a headache.
“Is that anything to do with your boat?” demanded Ignatius.
Brouse’s grimace pulled his bushy brow down and his stubby whiskers up until his face was a ball of prickly hair with a pair of dark eyes glaring out of it, like a hedgehog in a yellow cowl. “Could be,” he said, honoring the support professional’s creed of death before admission of error. And then, to hedge his reputation against inaccuracy, he added, “Could be something else.”
“Pretty sure that covers everything.” Gorm looked around the finely furnished executive conference room of Warg Inc.
“Let’s check the list.” Jynn stood next to the Dwarf, considering a sheet of parchment on a clipboard. He rapped his pencil on the first item on the page. “We have capital.”
“Lady Asherzu and her board assured me that this company of theirs has plenty of money if the offer is right.” Gorm nodded and waved to the chieftain and her retinue. The lady smiled at the heroes and gave them a gracious nod. “And given that I don’t see how anyone can refuse, I’d say we got the capital.”
“Very well. We have the Heroes’ Guild.”
“Aye, Vordar Borrison, guildmaster and emissary of the Dwarven Heroes’ Guild.” Gorm eyed a rusty-haired Dwarf exchanging pleasantries with a pair of Goblins. A cadre of Dwarven clerks stood behind him, carrying leather cases embossed with the seal of Khadan’Alt’s guild. “He’s second only to Grandmaster Korgen, and says he speaks with his authority.”
“And you’re sure the Old Kingdoms will be on board with this?” Jynn asked.
“I’m sure they won’t have much of an alternative. Just like everyone else,” said Gorm. “’Sides, after all the business with Detarr Ur’Mayan, Korgen owes me a big favor.”
“Didn’t they do us a favor?” asked Jynn. “We had to beg them to conscript the Red Horde.”
Gorm snorted and shook his head. It was amazing how well-educated people could be so unfamiliar with the basic economics of favors. “Aye, they did us a little favor, and I’d have been indebted to them if that was that. But it paid off like a silver seam for ’em, what with the liche’s loot and their new negotiations with Johan, and now they owe me a big one.”
The wizard’s brow furrowed. “And if they do well from this favor? Will they owe you again?”
“Of course,” said Gorm.
“This just seems like a way of getting them to do what you want indefinitely,” said Jynn.
The berserker grinned. “So long as it’s mutually beneficial,” he said. “This is how civilizations are built.”
“This is how crime organizes,” murmured Jynn.
“Not too far apart, more often than not. Speakin’ as such, ye got legal on your list?”
“Yes. I believe that’s the two lawyer-monks by the refreshments table.”
“Oh?” Gorm craned his neck. “Oh, the ones in robes who… what’s she doing with a quill and scroll?”
“I believe she’s filling out a receipt-of-gift form for the puff pastries,” said the wizard.
“Lawyers,” grumbled Gorm. “Well, they’re here.”
“And I suppose Adchul must owe you a big favor to be here.”
“They do, but nothing works the way it should with lawyers involved.” Gorm glowered at the pair of monks. “They’ll fill out paperwork for a tart, but for a hero who saved their whole monastery back in three forty-three? Nothin’. We’ll be payin’ full hourly rate plus expenses, I suspect.”
“Can we afford them?” asked Jynn.
“Like everyone else in this room—”
“We don’t have an alternative,” the archmage finished with the Dwarf. “Right.”
“We need this agreement to hold, and more important, we need people to think it’ll hold,” said Gorm. “The seals of Adchul ward off litigants and questions like a priest’s symbol wards off the undead.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The wizard ticked legal off his list. “Diplomats?”
“Laruna and Gaist are seein’ to the Ember of Heaven’s retinue now. The diplomats and emissaries that travel with her can speak for the empress, and they’ll better know how to reach out to Daellan and Ruskan.”
