“Well, yes, the old king. And the new king was too, they say. But only for a while, and he’s better now.” The clerk paused, his lips moving as he walked back through that scenario. “It’s complicated, sir. But there is, in fact, a king, and he’s called for you.”
“Young man, I do not have much patience for this,” Poldo said wearily. “It has been a very long day, and I just lost a dear friend.”
Then Gorm Ingerson eclipsed the clerk, grinning ear to ear and offering the Gnome a hand up. “Aye, about that last bit,” said the Dwarf. “I’ve got good news.”
There was a reunion of the very best sort; both unexpected and joyous, where the only tears were of joy and the laughter flowed freely. Friends who had thought their goodbyes were final, found each other whole and hale. Insurmountable challenges had been surmounted. A future that had seemed impossible was here, and with everyone together to see it.
It was followed by a coronation of the very worst sort, both frenetic and confused, where nothing was planned and there was no precedent to cite. The new king was awkward and unsure; he ducked under arches and doorways that were far above his head, and often crouched down as if he could shrink into the background entirely. He would only address the attendees with frequent reassurances from friends and ancient guardians, and even then his words were punctuated with fits of hyperventilation and mild panic attacks. Nobles seethed and businesses fretted at the timid oration; the city was already reeling from the financial ruin wrought by the Dragon of Wynspar’s plunder fund evaporating and the loss of two monarchs, and sentiment was not helped by the dragon herself emerging from the mountain to attend the ceremony. The future was uncertain and terrifying once more.
Yet then came a ceremony of a completely new kind. Andarun’s history had few regencies, and never a voluntary one. The new king entrusted his authority to a Scribkin trailed by a swarm of Domovoy in tiny suits. The new regent gave a perfunctory speech outlining his top priorities for the city, and his diminutive cohort set about executing them before he had walked off the stage. The gears of governance ground back into motion.
Jynn Ur’Mayan and Laruna Trullon watched history flow by from the side of the makeshift stage, seated together on a mostly intact bench. His arm was wrapped around her shoulders, and she idly played with his fingers. “What happens now?” the archmage asked, watching a gaggle of Wood Gnomes skitter past.
“I suppose we rebuild what was broken,” the pyromancer said. “It will take time, and hard work, but I know we can come back from all of this stronger than ever.”
Jynn gave her a wry smile. “I was talking about what happens next for you and me.”
Laruna grinned back at him. “Me too.”
Chapter 36
Time passed.
By Dewen’s month, the Palace of Andarun had been restored enough for royal audiences to resume. New banners hung from the walls, alternating purple and gold with green and silver—a gift from the newly reopened Temple of Al’Thadan and Al’Matra United. A new royal throne with enough height and heft to accommodate a Sten sat at the top of the royal podium, carved from finest ebony and inlaid with gold and precious stones. It was, of course, more a symbol than a seat, as it was always empty. At the base of the steps was a much smaller chair, set behind a simple but well-made desk. A chair fit for a regent. It was also usually empty, as Duine Poldo preferred to work in a small office in the western tower of the palace. The room had a magnificent window, originally made for Princess Xandra the Fifth in the Sixth Age, offering an unparalleled view of Pinnacle Plaza and the city beyond it.
Poldo stared out the window as he listened with waning patience to the latest petitioners pleading their case. “I understand your concerns, gentlemen,” he said at length. “But as I have said, I am confident that your institution has the reserves to survive the battering it received in this winter’s volatility without tax relief. The executive bonus pool, for example, doubtlessly has some available funds in it.”
Fenrir Goldson’s eyelid twitched, but otherwise he and Bolbi Baggs maintained their composure. “Indeed, sir,” said the ancient Dwarf.
Baggs made an obsequious gesture with a gloved hand. “However, that alone will hardly—”
“Yes, I realize,” Poldo cut him off. “Still, I know that if there is anything to stand on at Goldson Baggs Incorporated, it’s the creativity of your accountants. I remain certain you will find a way to survive. Unemployment is at near-historic levels, new job creation is down, and even those who work cannot make enough to make ends meet. The kingdom’s coffers have been pillaged—quite literally—and all that remains within them are the funds that we taxed back from the guild and beneficiaries of Johan’s quest. And in such dire times, influence of nefarious groups such as the Red Horde or the Power of Light grows. We are working through a convergence of crises, and the kingdom’s aid must go to those with the greatest need.”
“As you say, Regent,” Baggs said through a grin. Poldo thought he heard the old Halfling’s teeth grinding.
“And now, gentlemen, I’m sure you are as busy as I am. I have an appointment at the Heroes’ Guild before the ceremony this afternoon. Perhaps I will see you at the unveiling.”
“Ah, I should hope so,” said Mr. Goldson. “But before we go, there was another matter we hoped to discuss…”
“Oh?” Poldo feigned surprise as he glanced over his planner. “I don’t see anything else on my agenda.”
“Ah, we must have left it off our petition,” said Baggs. “Careless.”
“Regardless,” said Goldson smoothly, “as we are here, we hoped to discuss the inquiry into our company regarding the Elven Marbles and the unfortunate business at Bloodroot.”
“It really is getting silly,” said Baggs. “The town criers are suggesting that there may be criminal charges in a business matter! Ridiculous!”
Poldo took a deep breath. The topic was as predictable as gravity; in corporate physics, every action has an equal and opposite effort to avoid consequences. “Ah, I am sorry, gentlemen, but you must realize that I cannot discuss an ongoing investigation with any member of the public, let alone two affected parties. General Gurgen will doubtlessly make you aware of the bannermen’s findings once they’re ready.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of talking about the particulars,” said Mr. Goldson. “We just wanted to discuss the principle of the thing.”
“While we certainly share in the sorrow for the unfortunate demise of the Orcs of Bloodroot, this inquiry does more harm than good. Probing into the past only prevents healing,” simpered Mr. Baggs.
“Not so much as letting the responsible parties go without consequence.” Poldo stood and retrieved his long coat from a hook next to his desk.
“An interesting philosophical point,” said Mr. Baggs. “Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?”
“I’m afraid not, gentlemen,” Poldo replied brusquely. “I welcome your input as much as any other citizen’s, but all of our communications must happen through official petitions and follow regular procedure. To do otherwise might create the appearance of impropriety. And now, gentlemen, I really must be along. The royal guard will show you out.” A few Wood Gnomes darted off to fetch the bannerman at a nod from the Scribkin.
For the first time, cracks appeared in the calm facade of the two bankers as they exchanged nervous glances. “Uh, Mr. Poldo,” Baggs ventured. “I appreciate the need to maintain appearances, but since Handor’s days our firm has enjoyed a… ahem… special relationship with the crown.”
Poldo turned to the magnificent window and gazed out over the city, trying to hide a smirk that he couldn’t restrain. “Indeed you did, gentlemen,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “But I’ve solved that.”
“Lady, I bring ill news,” said Ugmak of the Zabbagar. The wise-one wore a long mustache that denoted his caste and seniority, and a well-fitted suit that denoted his recent promotion to middle management.
Asherzu Guz’Varda grimaced. Below her, charts and spreadsheets were splayed across her mahogany desk, held in place by paperweights made from the skulls of her father’s enemies. “Speak,” she said.
“It is the Red Horde, lady,” said the wise-one. “They have refused our entreaties for, uh, a short time for rest between our fights.”
“For peace.” Asherzu emphasized the Imperial word.
“Yes. That,” said Ugmak, whose grasp of Lightling tongues was still limited.
Asherzu stood and walked to her office window as she considered the message. “And did they say why they rejected our offer?”
