“Definitely,” Kaitha said. “We’ll have everyone up to the palace for a sending off.”
“I look forward to it,” Gorm told her, and then she was away.
Finding himself alone, the Dwarf searched the plaza for familiar faces. Bannermen and royal servants bustled about the stage. Beyond them, crowds of onlookers gathered like thunderheads, drawn by a rare opportunity to see the new king and the rumors that his speeches tended to be a spectacle. Jynn and Laruna sat with delegations from all three orders of the Academy of Mages. The assembled spellcasters were engaged in a heated discussion about some doubtlessly obscure and arcane matter, and so when his friends waved him over, he shook his head apologetically and feigned an urgent need to walk in the opposite direction.
His path took him to Heraldin and Gaist, who were seated behind the stage and locked in a one-sided discussion.
“I don’t know why we’d start in Scoria. It will be cold and damp up that way for months. Chrate is much warmer in the spring,” the bard told the weaponsmaster as Gorm approached. “We should begin down in the Teagem. I’m not backing down on this one.”
Gaist remained absolutely motionless.
“Fine,” said Heraldin. “Scoria, and then Chrate, and then we make our way down through Knifevale to the Teagem coast.”
“Plannin’ a quest or a vacation?” said Gorm.
“Neither. Or perhaps both,” said the bard. “We’re taking our respective talents on the road to put them to good use. And while we’re about, we’ll enjoy the sights! The foods! The women! The music! The world awaits us!”
Gaist nudged the bard with a gentle elbow.
“And of course, we’ll be doing good work while we’re at it,” the bard amended. “Free music for needy children. Defending the defenseless. Maybe help liberate some downtrodden souls, should they present themselves.”
“Sounds like quite the adventure,” said Gorm.
“Of the very best kind,” grinned the bard.
“With a friend?”
“And without anything trying to kill us.”
The doppelganger nodded at Gorm with a question in his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Gorm drew in a lungful of the cool mountain air. “The Feast of Orchids comes in Fireleaf this year. Might see if the Khazad’im will let an old clanless like me take part. Or maybe I put in for reinstatement, and see if I can make the festival in 378.”
“If there is a 378,” said Heraldin. “By the time the Agekeepers sort through all the history we just unraveled and remade, they’re sure to declare this the Eighth Age.”
“By the time they sort all of that out, it’ll be 380.” Gorm grinned. “And beyond that… well, time will tell.”
“You’re welcome to join us, of course,” said Heraldin.
“Appreciate it, but I ain’t much of a musician, and ye and I have different ideas about what’s fun. Or helpful. Or legal. Or necessary for basic decency.”
“True enough. We’ll see you at the ceremony then.”
Gorm bade them farewell, then wandered back out into the current of bustling clerks and attendants. He felt aimless, adrift on a sea of possibilities. Where would he go next? What was his purpose now that Johan was gone? What was left to conquer after you helped slay the greatest evil the world has ever known?
Lost in this reverie, he almost stumbled over another figure who was suddenly in his path.
“Ah, Mr. Ingerson. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Poldo,” Gorm said. “Er, Your Regentness.”
“Mr. Poldo will do.” The Scribkin checked a silver pocket watch, then snapped it shut. “We should have enough time before the unveiling. Come with me. I’d like to discuss a proposal with you.”
“Uh, yes. Of course.” Gorm followed the Gnome with a disconcerted nod. “Where?”
“Just over here.” Mr. Poldo cut through the crowd like a shark through a reef, unconcerned and serene as startled bystanders hurried out of his way. He looked, at first glance, to walk alone ahead of Gorm, but on closer inspection the Dwarf saw bannermen silently moving into place all around them, and a multitude of Wood Gnomes weaving between the feet of the onlookers.
The regent led the hero and his invisible retinue to the backside of the scaffolding that held the curtains in front of the new statues, where a royal carriage waited with an open door. “If you’ll join me in my makeshift office, we can speak privately,” Poldo said over his shoulder.
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.”
