“What about the court motions?” said Poldo.
“We shall file a motion to find the king is not a neutral party in matters of the dragon,” chanted a lawyer-monk, “and send him notice as an adverse party to strengthen our case. He will not have the authority to reverse our work unilaterally.”
Yet Poldo was already signing a new batch of contracts, dancing along to a project plan that only he could see.
Feista sat on her tail to keep it from thumping against her chair as she watched the Scribkin work. It was impressive, and inspiring, and a reminder that she had a complex market valuation to complete if the plan was to succeed. Determined not to fail Poldo, she turned back to her own parchment and was startled to see Asherzu Guz’Varda standing next to her.
“Now I see the stone upon which you sharpened your business skills,” said the Orc chieftain, her eyes locked on the Gnome at the center of the paper maelstrom. “Truly, he is a sight to behold.”
Feista felt her tail trying to creep between her legs, and she cleared her throat. “Uh, indeed lady. I shall tell my grandchildren of this day,” said Feista.
Asherzu smiled and gripped a pendant hung round her neck. “It will be so if the gods shine on us and we triumph. But first, we must see this through to the end.”
“It’s not over yet!”
King Johan’s sudden eruption froze Ahri Mizen in her tracks halfway across the throne room. The royal guard swallowed hard, eyes flicking warily around the gloom of the cavernous chamber. Thick spiderwebs filled the room, hanging from the tapestries and spreading between the columns, choking the window light. The threads of viscous silk extended all the way to the royal dais, where they tugged at the greaves and vambraces of the armored figure slumped motionless on the throne.
The guard watched the king for a few thundering heartbeats, trying to see if the outburst was directed at her. But the paladin didn’t stir, save for the rise and fall of his pauldrons with each labored breath and a bulbous, black spider that scuttled across his breastplate. The guard could see other black, round shapes lurking in the shadows of the room. She’d seen one as big as her hand yesterday. Petri claimed he saw one as big as a cat. Then he had gone missing halfway through his shift, and nobody could find him.
Ahri had dismissed the rumors initially, of course. Skepticism of grim rumors was practically a job requirement for those still working at the royal palace. You couldn’t believe what they said about why the queen killed herself, or the death of that Heroes’ Guild bigwig, or the staff disappearances, or any of them really. The Mizens had served the kings of Andarun for generations, and it was as much familial duty as honor that bade her to brush aside all of the grisly chatter.
Something small but substantial dropped atop Ahri’s head. Some frantic swatting and brushing set a thick clump of webbing down into the dust, still tangled around several strands of her dark hair. She glanced up. The torchlight gleamed off several dark, swollen shapes creeping between the rafters.
It occurred to Ahri then that the line between healthy skepticism and dangerous delusion probably lay several hundred paces behind her. Suddenly eager to be done with her errand and get to work on a resignation letter, the guard took two more steps, dropped to one knee, and cleared her throat.
Johan’s golden helmet snapped around to stare at the royal guard. She could practically feel his gaze on her, could feel every crawling thing in the room staring at her from the darkness.
“Sire, a thousand—” The guard swallowed a scream as a huge spider covered in black bristles pulled itself from beneath the royal dais. “Sire, a thousand pardons, but I bring news from the ramparts.”
Protocol demanded that the king bid her continue, and the rumors regarding the unpleasant fates of petitioners and palace staff who broke protocol had an unsettling new credibility in the wan light of the enwebbed throne room. Ahri squirmed while the king pondered her announcement. The king’s gaze sank, and he murmured half a conversation to his own knees. “No… no, if he succeeded, he would just come here the back ways… so if it’s from the ramparts…”
“Sire?”
“It’s not over yet,” growled the king. “What does he want?”
“Uh…” The guard glanced around for some help and, finding only spiders, decided to rush through the message as delivered to her. “There’s a hero at the palace gates, sire. It’s—”
“I know who it is!” Johan leapt to his feet, sending errant strands of webs and flailing arachnids flying from the throne. “What does he want?”
Gorm let the king’s question hang in the air. Instead of acknowledging the paladin, he pulled a thick cigar from his belt.
“I said, how dare you make demands of your king?” Johan shouted, leaning over the ramparts of the palace. “What news is so important that you could not bring it to my throne?”
Gorm stood alone on the slate cobbles outside the palace walls. Pinnacle Plaza was mostly deserted, swept clear of shoppers and professionals by a bitter chill and a biting wind. The hardy souls that did remain were beginning to hurry over toward the royal gates in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the king, or a spectacle or, ideally, both.
Gorm struck a match. A tiny amber light flared outside the palace like the lone campfire of a miniature besieging army. “I come to parley,” he said, putting the flame to the tip of the cigar.
“Parley?” the king sneered.
“Aye. Negotiate. Discuss. Come to terms as quickly as possible.”
Johan rocked back on his heels. “You speak to your liege, Dwarf! Why would I need to negotiate with the likes of you?”
The berserker smiled. He knew he had Johan by the cape now, and all that remained was to keep the king’s focus where the party wanted it. He took a deep breath to savor the moment, which unfortunately meant savoring a lungful of acrid smoke from the cigar. His witty retort died in a fit of choking.
“What’s that?” asked Johan. “Speak!”
“I come—ahem—to—cough—make you—cough—I—hack!”
“What?” demanded the king. “What are you getting at?”
Gorm lost his words entirely in a cloud of expectoration and bluish silver smoke. His throat burned and tears welled in his eyes.
“Something wrong?” asked Johan, cruel amusement creeping back into his voice.
Doubled over and about to cough up a lung, Gorm inwardly cursed Boomer and Buster’s convoluted design sense. Il’ne se la indeed! Through his tears, he could see that the cigar had only started burning toward the ring of scarlet foil.
“You had better have a good reason to behave this absurdly, Ingerson!” Johan leaned over the ramparts, desperate glee cracking his voice. “Do you realize what legal jeopardy you’ve put your party in? I’d have heard if you reported your quest to the guild offices! Not only are you disrespecting your liege—you’ve abandoned your duty!”
Gorm cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Debatable,” he said.
“What debate is there?” Johan demanded. “I sent you to kill a dragon, and—”
“And we fought it.” Gorm’s throat was still on fire, but the thrice-cursed cigar burned too slowly for him to catch his breath. He put the wretched device to his mouth and gave it a cautious puff, careful not to inhale the smoke.
