“Ha,” said the Kobold. “The world doesn’t change. Not for the better, anyway.”
Gorm sucked at his teeth. “It… it used to. I mean, I know things were bad. I know I done terrible things. I fed the guild’s monster and helped perpetuate an endless war. It wasn’t good.”
“This is where one of you Lightlings usually says, ‘but.’” Burt glared at the Dwarf askance.
Gorm left the conjunction unsaid. “I remember this time we went to the dungeon of Mathrax the Foul. Kidnapper. Slaver. Specialized in snatching kids and… and doin’ things to ’em in front of a crystal ball.” His hand tightened around the axe at the memory. “Built up a small army of mercenaries and assassins to protect his whole operation. Anyone who got too close to the truth would be found face down in the Tarapin. Same thing happened to the quest contact.”
“Sounds like a bastard.”
“A basement full of them,” said Gorm. “And they knew, Burt. Every cutthroat, every thug working for Mathrax knew what happened in that basement. And we can talk about how hard life was for those mercenaries, or how society was unfair to them, but there’s no amount of sufferin’ that would excuse that kind of evil. And when my party got there, and they tried to send our corpses floating down the river, well… all the nuance and complications of this mad world didn’t matter. We were just a party of heroes, doin’ what’s right, savin’ folk who needed it. A force for good protecting the innocent by slayin’ evil. It was as perfect a moment as I’ve ever lived—where my purpose and everythin’ I wanted and what the world needed most all lined up. Moments like that… that’s why I took up professional heroics.”
Burt took a drag from his cigarette and nodded, which was as much approval as he’d ever allow for guild heroes.
“I thought… I thought fightin’ Johan would be like that again. Our side so clearly in the light of justice, his so clearly in the wrong. I thought we’d be back in one of them perfect moments. But it ain’t. It’s all complex. All the people and their needs and dreams are all strung together, caught in the same web.”
Burt shrugged. “Why do you think the Red Horde and League of Night and all them other villains want to burn it all down? It’s way easier to tear a kingdom down than fix it. Utopia’s never gonna happen. At least total annihilation might be possible.”
Nothing sparks reluctant optimism like an encounter with someone even more bleak. “Well, I mean, it ain’t all bad,” Gorm fumbled.
“It ain’t much good.” The opening of the rucksack smoked and fumed like the maw of a deflated Flame Drake. Burt could puff his way through a whole packet of Shireton’s Best rolled pipeweed in less than an hour when he got worked up. “The rich and the powerful take from those without, but if you flipped the script and took from them, they’d call you just as bad.”
“Ye can’t seriously—”
“I ain’t in the Red Horde. Do you think the lady would have me as her hand if I thought the way they do?” Burt waved the concern away. “But I still understand why they think burning down the kingdom would be a good start. Everything seems stacked against people, Gorm. Everything seems wrong. And there’s no way to fix it. We can’t win, Gorm. Not in this world.”
“Feels that way.” The Dwarf let out a long breath.
“Hard to see otherwise,” said the Kobold. He held up his cigarette. “Look at this. You think Shireton’s Best only employs fat, happy Halflings in green fields like the woodcut on the packet? Nah, they pay the poorest folk pennies to break their backs, just like every farm out there. I know. I got cousins who used to work the fields out by old Aberreth.”
The Kobold took a long drag from the cigarette. “So what should I do? Get everyone to stop buying cigs and food, so those poor souls can nobly starve? Or maybe I force those farmers to pay better? Well, I ain’t the king, and if I was a king who did that, everyone with money and power would call me tyrant. Kings like that don’t last long. So I smoke, and I eat, and I try to do what I can to get those poor sods in the field some better treatment. It ain’t much, but it’s what I can do. The key is to get over it. Just go with the flow.”
“Hard to find comfort in that when we’re in the sewers,” Gorm grumbled.
“If it makes you feel any better, I hear Johan goes crazy knowin’ that the Shadowkin are running a big business.”
“Annoyin’ him don’t seem like enough.”
“It’s like the Tinderkin say: ‘The best revenge is a life well lived,’ right? Live it up and stick it to the thrice-cursed bigwigs at the top.”
“This ain’t about revenge,” said Gorm. “It’s about justice.”
“Yeah, well revenge is a lot easier than justice.” Burt blew out a long ring of smoke through his nostrils.
“But if ye’d—”
“If we’d do what you wanted, we’d be Dwarves thinking like Dwarves.” Burt jabbed his cigarette toward Gorm. “But if we were Dwarves, we wouldn’t need to do anything. We’d be sitting pretty, knowing the king would keep us safe as long as he had someone green or furry to kick around. We ain’t alike. We’re on the same side, but we ain’t the same. Just because you think something makes sense doesn’t mean we’re going to do it. You don’t understand what you’re askin’.”
Gorm’s lips drew into a thin line as he stamped the chill out of his toes. “Aye, I guess not.”
They stamped and smoked for a bit, trying to get warm in the icy silence.
“M’sorry,” Gorm mumbled eventually.
“Cigarette?” A bony paw extended from Gorm’s rucksack, holding a Shireton’s Best.
Gorm smiled at the offer; a conciliatory cigarette from the Kobold said a lot. Specifically, it said, I want to offer you something, so that you know we’re still good friends, but I also know that you hate cigarettes.
“Nah,” the Dwarf said, waving the offer away. “Not sure how ye can stand smokin’.”
“Suit yourself,” said Burt. “Look, I know it feels like things are moving slow, but I think this informant’s gonna pan out for us. Get things moving. And you gotta realize it’s a big deal that the lady is paying attention to this at all. She’s got a lot going on. Big-time, important stuff.”
Chapter 3
Asherzu Guz’Varda, Chieftain of the Guz’Varda Tribe and—more recently—CEO of Warg Incorporated, stared dispassionately at her officers from the head of the table. “Honored cohort,” she said. “I must ask you: is it really the place of this most revered board to review humble expense reports?”
A Goblin in a cobalt suit cleared his throat. A wooden plaque in front of his seat said “IZEK LI’BALGAR” in thin, white letters. “Ah, usually not, honored one,” he said. “But Borpo of the Skar’Ezzod has been most insistent about the reports—”
“Costs that bring rage and shame!” interrupted a huge Orc perched atop a tiny office chair, like a siege engine teetering on a farmer’s cart. Borpo wore a fine suit and tie that strained and frayed as the muscles beneath it bulged and flexed. “We have labored many nights, and we still see costs such as these? And often with no trail of paper to follow to the irresponsible spender?”
“We must spend money to make money.” A Slaugh in a slick suit seated across the conference table raised her webbed hand. “Is not a market that has gone down the ideal time to invest in—”
“We cannot invest money that does not reside in the budget, Guglug!” countered Borpo.
“We would have more money to invest if the expenses were better managed,” said Freggi of the Water Horse Clan. The Goblin’s words only seemed to incense both the Orc and the Slaugh.
“The expenses are the investments!” croaked Guglug.
“Unreported expenses cannot be controlled!” bellowed Borpo.
