The inside of the carriage was more office than makeshift, complete with a regal desk and several trays overflowing with paperwork. Gorm sat on the plush bench opposite the desk at Poldo’s behest.

“I hope I found you well, Mr. Ingerson,” said the regent.

“Aye, and you?”

“I feel honored to work for the people of this great kingdom, which is good, because there is a lot of work to do.” That apparently accounted for all of the pleasantries the Scribkin required, as he opened a thick file on his desk and consulted its contents. “It occurred to me, Mr. Ingerson, that although our fortunes have been linked more than once, in very significant ways, I do not know you very well. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I decided to do some research on your background.”

“Ah.” Gorm shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “So that would be my…”

“Your Heroes’ Guild personnel file, yes,” Poldo said.

“Right.” Gorm cleared his throat while the regent read from the sheet. “Am I in, er, trouble?”

“If you were, I suppose you’d be accustomed to it.” Poldo’s thick mustache bent upward around a brief smile. “No, Mr. Ingerson. As I said, I have a proposal for you. You are doubtlessly aware that the late Weaver Ortson has vacated his seat on the Guild Council of Andarun. I think you would make a fine guildmaster, and would like to appoint you to the position.”

Gorm felt his stomach drop into his iron-soled boots. “Ye… ye want to make me the grandmaster of the guild?”

“Oh, no. No. Of course not.” Poldo shook his head and waved a hand dismissively. “The guildmasters appoint their own officers and leaders. I would not dream of interfering with their process. But each master serves at the king’s pleasure, and as I speak for the king, it falls upon me to appoint a new member to their ranks. I’m especially confident that His Majesty would be pleased with this decision, should you accept.”

“But I… but why me?” said Gorm.

“A seasoned hero who helped slay the lord of evil and has a personal friendship with the king?” Poldo shrugged. “It seems an easy case to make.”

“Oh, aye, I can kill things, but I’ve no talent for diplomacy. Or politics. Or not offendin’ people at fancy parties,” said Gorm. “None of the things a guildmaster needs. Ain’t even sure what a thrice-cursed guildmaster does! Beg pardon.”

Poldo stared at him for a moment, then sniffed. “Well, a master has many duties. Voting on matters of guild governance. Sponsoring initiatives within the adventuring profession. Proposing and commenting upon regulations. And, of course, reviewing civic appeal cases and internal investigations within the guild—a practice that has been woefully neglected of late. Why, take a recent case brought to my attention by a friend and mutual acquaintance.”

The Scribkin held out a hand and a sheet of parchment flew from a tray into his grasp, borne by a pair of silent Wood Gnomes. He glanced over the sheet, then offered it to Gorm. “The case of one Hristo Hrurk.”

Gorm took the paper and started to read. “Papers revoked… traffic code… summary execution? For a traffic violation? Discretion?” As he read, Gorm’s curious muttering descended into indignant sputtering and then further into the depths of rage. “Ye can’t discretion away all the engagement guidelines! There still has to be an immediately witnessed act of villainy, or else there’s a grace period where ye can only apprehend the foe! This arbiter don’t know what she’s on about. And Drif Matuk was involved! There’s a bastard if I ever knew one. I bet ye’d find loads of cases like this one in his file.”

“A guildmaster might,” Poldo agreed.

Uncertainty momentarily interrupted Gorm’s anger, and he faltered. “I… I mean, there’s laws and protocols. I’m familiar, but I ain’t an expert⁠—”

“You’ll have experts on staff, and lawyers, and clerks. Sometimes they might even give you useful information. But I am not nominating you to follow them. I’m nominating you to lead them.”

“I just ain’t sure why,” Gorm said honestly.

Poldo smiled and looked back to the papers in front of him. “When I looked in your file, Mr. Ingerson, I found an interesting anecdote. You may recall the incident. It seems that a couple of years ago, you violently assaulted a guard at an Elven embassy over an insult to a Goblin.”

Gorm’s smirk was rueful. “Aye, I doubt I’ll ever forget that one.”

“You saw an injustice, you didn’t let prejudice color your judgment, and you took emphatic action,” said Poldo. “The Heroes’ Guild needs all of that, and more.”

“So ye want me to beat the snot out of that arbiter and some rogue heroes?”

“Of course not,” said Poldo. “It would be improper to suggest that any one case warranted your attention—let alone your violence—just because of my personal connection.”

“Oh,” Gorm said, chagrined. “I guess I⁠—”

“I want you to review all of the civic appeal cases, Mr. Ingerson,” said Poldo, gesturing at the overflowing stack of papers. “Over eight hundred of them last year alone. And I want you to treat all of them exactly the same. I want you to listen. I want you to care. And, when injustice has been done, I want you to take appropriate action, even if it ruffles the feathers of those puffed-up cockatrices on the guild council. You are good at those things. The rest will follow.”

Gorm looked at the stack of paperwork, then back to the report in his hand, speechless.

“Thousands of people are hurting, missing loved ones that were cruelly taken away,” the Scribkin pressed. “Someone’s world will always need saving, Mr. Ingerson. Someone will always need help. The challenge changes shape, but the work will always be there, if only someone will take it up.”

Gorm gave a small smile. “Me,” he said.

“I hope so, Mr. Ingerson,” said Poldo, snapping the file shut. “I truly do. I am certain His Majesty will be most pleased when I tell him of your imminent appointment. But now, we must go and watch the United Temple unveil their new monument to you and your fine fellows. Tomorrow is a new day, and you can begin saving the world anew then.”

Saving the world anew began with breakfast at the Sculpin Down Road Brothers’ Diner.

Gorm tucked into a pile of seasoned potatoes and sausage smothered under runny eggs and a thick slab of buttered toast. It was the sort of breakfast that his da used to say would put hair on his chest, served with coffee strong enough to burn it off again. In the throes of such greasy bliss, Gorm felt that his cup was running over, and not only because the waitress was distracted while pouring.

Across the booth, Burt worked at a plate that was half the size but all of the calories. “I still think they got my ears wrong,” grumbled the Kobold in between bites of bacon. “I mean, yeah, it’s an honor, but how much work is it to count the notches in a guy’s ear? I look like my cousin Herbie. They should have hired a Shadowkin sculptor for me and the Goblin.”

Gorm grunted in assent and mopped up a bit of egg with a bit of toast.

“But what do you expect? They put a Gnome in charge, and he forgets about us. I’m still miffed at Thane about that.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yeah, I’m thrice-cursed furious,” said the Kobold, his ears twitching in agitation. “We worked for years fightin’ injustice. We moved all the tribes in Warg Incorporated to capture the markets. We deposed a king and killed the thrice-cursed demon god behind everyone’s problems, and at the end we finally—finally—get a Troll turned Sten on the throne. And what’s he do? He turns his power over to a rich old Lightling.”

“Mmmph—” Gorm said through a mouthful of potatoes.

“No, no, I’m serious. When do we win? When do we come out ahead? Lady Asherzu and the tribal heads are richer, but all us grunts working in the bank, what do we see of that? My buddy Folbo got a hundred giltin bonus check and a three silver an hour raise. How’s that get him ahead? It doesn’t. He still can barely afford an apartment with his six brothers. He still has to work extra hours to make ends meet. He still has the same thrice-cursed knight outside his tenement every morning, checking all the Shadowkin’s NPC papers and letting all the Lightlings pass. He’s still behind. All of us are. Everything that helps us, helps you Lightlings too. It just helps you more. We never get ahead, and we never win.”

Gorm felt his gorge rise atop a ball of indignant sentiment. He wanted to say that Mr. Poldo and Thane were doing their best, just as anyone was, or to remind Burt how much worse things could be if Mannon had won. But he washed those unwise words back down with a swig of bitter coffee, and reminded himself that none of those facts made what Burt said any less true. “Aye. It’s drake spit,” he said.

“It’s total drake spit,” agreed Burt, sipping his own coffee.

“Pass the ketchup.” Gorm pulled a small notebook and a pencil nib from his belt pouch.

The booklet didn’t escape Burt’s bulbous gaze. “Oh, you workin’ the new gig already?” he asked with a smirk.

“Startin’ today,” said Gorm with a smile. “Should be made official by lunch. Now tell me about this knight down by Folbo’s apartment.”

The Kobold looked warily at the page. Gorm couldn’t fault him for not trusting anything associated with the Heroes’ Guild. “And, what? You just write it all down?”

“And compare it with other notes in his file. And whatever Folbo will say. And then I open an investigation.”

“Pssh.” Burt champed at his cigarette. “It’s not gonna help. You think some paperwork is gonna fix ages of problems, just ’cause your doin’ it? Doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t matter if it makes sense,” said Gorm. “It’s standard procedure.”