“Public relations?”
Gorm pursed his lips and nodded. “Heraldin says a well-worded story and a few whispers to the right town criers will have the city abuzz and rallying to our cause.”
“And you think the bard is right for such a delicate job?”
The shadow of a grimace flitted over Gorm’s face. “I don’t think there’s a job the bard is better suited for.”
“That isn’t the same,” pressed the wizard.
“It’s as good as we’ll get,” Gorm said. “Ye offering to go help him?”
“My skills lie elsewhere,” said Jynn. “And my time is better spent investigating the metaphysical implications of these developments.”
“The what now?” Gorm wasn’t sure where this was going, but his brow had already furrowed in anticipation of a discussion he neither understood nor liked.
Jynn leaned in for a conspiratorial conference. “Consider all of the signs that we’ve seen. The background low magic thrumming through the city. The strange coincidences that brought us together on Johan’s trail. The way Thane’s body desiccated and explosively decomposed in an instant. Where have you seen that before?”
“Nowhere,” said Gorm. “No, wait… it was kinda like them… soul-bound critters your father made.”
“Exactly. His death is connected to a phenomena that I am the world’s best known living expert on, and I just happened to witness it. Consider the prophetic barrier around the dragon’s lair, and the nature of the dragon’s hoard! These strange happenings and coincidences point to some low magic that goes beyond the work of any coven of hedge witches. This is the shape of the loom beneath the weave, signs of the ebb and flow of destiny or the will of the gods.”
“Destiny and the gods tend to sort themselves out,” Gorm retorted, but without vigor. He had a sense that something big was happening, and now that the archmage put words to it he felt a growing sense of unease in his gut.
“Perhaps, but if we want to be sure our party and our city survive whatever these cosmic forces have set in motion, we would do well to at least understand what we are up against. I wish to return to my lab for a few things, and I need some time to study this.”
“Time is the one thing we ain’t got much of,” said Gorm. Still, he couldn’t deny that it would be good to understand what the thrice-cursed cosmos was getting at. “But I’ll let ye have what I can spare. Help me get this set up here, and then ye can slip out and get to yer work. Just don’t be seen.”
Jynn nodded. “Agreed.”
“What else is there on the list?”
“Just a broker to bring it all together,” said the wizard. “Somebody with deep experience in securities trading, professional heroics, plunder funds, market culture, structuring a venture, and negotiation.”
“And he just arrived.” Gorm nodded to where Mr. Poldo was hanging a coat for a Gnoll he didn’t recognize. “Who’s that he’s with?”
“It’s Mrs. Hrurk, Warg’s new finance hotshot,” interrupted Burt. The Kobold popped up next to Gorm and waved a cigar toward the pair. “She and Poldo are friends and business partners.”
“How long ye been down there?” Gorm checked around his seat for the Kobold’s hiding spot.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Burt.
“So you didn’t hear us talkin’?” Jynn asked.
Burt grinned and took a drag off his cigar. “Oh, I did. But it’s just best to assume the lady and I know everything. No sense worrying about it.”
“Were ye smokin’ in here?” Gorm dug into his rucksack and pulled out some incriminating specks of ash. “Bones! Now me gear stinks!”
“How can you tell the difference?” Burt barked back. “You smell like someone grilled an old sock.”
“I smell like I came from a dragon’s lair, on account of we did.”
“Speakin’ of which, where’s the Elf?” Burt looked around the room. “You didn’t mention where she went to.”
The question hit like a warhammer to the gut. Gorm swallowed the sudden ache in his throat and shook his head. “Kaitha didn’t make it.”
Burt’s ears drooped, and the cigar dropped from his muzzle. “What? Oh… oh bones. She… I’m so sorry.”
Gorm managed a curt nod. “Time for mourning will come. She’d want us to carry on.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Ingerson,” said a nasal voice. Gorm turned to see Mr. Poldo standing near the edge of the group, flanked by Mrs. Hrurk. “Did I overhear you say that an Elf named Kaitha has perished on your quest?”
“Aye,” sighed Gorm.
“Oh dear. My condolences,” said the Scribkin sadly. “And I am sorry to pry. But we have a mutual friend who went looking for your party, and he’ll be devastated when he hears the news. I’m sure you remember Thane the Troll.”
Another blow nearly knocked the wind from Gorm. He sucked in a gulp of cold air through his teeth, ignored the stinging tears in the corner of his eyes, and broke the news about the Troll to the group. Burt howled, Mrs. Hrurk gasped, and they barely caught Poldo as the Scribkin fell backward.
“It… it can’t be,” Poldo breathed, staggering into a chair.
“Afraid so,” said Gorm. “And believe me when I say he’ll never be forgotten. But their losses are meaningless if we don’t press on and finish what we started.”
“I… I just… I… of course you must,” said Poldo, wiping his eyes with a silk handkerchief. “But… forgive me. I know you must be familiar with losing comrades, but I have seldom dealt with this in my profession. Excuse me.”
The Gnome hurried away, audibly sobbing. Mrs. Hrurk went with him, her paw on his shoulder.
“You need to give us a moment.” Burt wiped a tear from his eyes. “It’s a lot to process.”
“Ain’t time enough,” said Gorm. “Once ye start workin’ through the loss, ye never really stop.”
