“No, that won’t be necessary.” Poldo stared each of them in the cowl, one by one. “We all know the truth, and we all know what was agreed upon.”
“If you say so,” said Father Snade with clear disappointment.
“I am sure you will still wish to retain our legal services, even if you are no longer boarding with us,” said Mother Maeven as she turned back to the papers on her desk.
“That will not be necessary,” hissed Poldo. “I shall send word of my new counsel within a month. You will provide them with all necessary documents.”
The lawyer-monks seemed surprised. “Mr. Poldo, we must advise you that choosing another firm is not in your best interest,” said Father Gaul.
The most infuriating thing, Poldo later reflected, was that this was true; the lawyer-monks of Adchul had no peers, and any other firm he retained would inherently increase his risk of exposure and legal action against himself and his assets. Yet the Scribkin was already deep in a crimson-faced rage, and at that moment what was best for him and what was best seemed diametrically opposed. “Noted!” he barked. “Be that as it may, I’m sure I shall find less cowardly counsel much more to my liking. I must bid you good day!”
“That is disappointing. Good day, Mr. Poldo,” said Mother Maeven. Snade and Gaul muttered “good day” as well, and the high disclaimer launched into the customary denials of responsibility for the quality of Poldo’s day. She was still trilling about words that didn’t mean what they said when the office doors closed behind the Scribkin.
Fury powered Poldo through the Halls of the Sacred Offices. His legs worked like the pistons of a steam engine as he drove past startled lawyer-monks and clerk initiates. Yet by the time he was back in the courtyard, the full extent of what was happening caught up with him and the next task loomed large. Quite literally, as Poldo stood shorter than Thane’s knee.
The Troll was working in his garden, a rare expression of tranquil contentment resting on his toothy face. Thane had saved Poldo’s life when they first met and earned himself a job as the Gnome’s bodyguard. He’d kept Poldo alive for over a year, despite the best efforts of several assassins. That alone indebted the Scribkin to the Troll, but it was their friendship that gave the Gnome pause now.
“It’s just so rare to see him happy,” Poldo said to the Wood Gnome scampering up his shoulder. “He’s spent so much of our time together worried about what people will think of him, or remembering what that Elf did to him. And yet here, he’s… he was at peace.”
The Wood Gnome chirruped.
“I know.” Poldo leaned against a stone pillar. “I’ll tell him. But he’s going to blame himself, and I… I thought he could use one more moment of joy.”
The Gnomes watched in silence as Thane stroked at a budding plant with a finger, coaxing a small flower to bloom.
Yet such peaceful moments seldom last, and business waits for no one. Another Wood Gnome landed on the Scribkin’s shoulder and chittered a couple of interesting tidbits of market news.
“Oh? We shall have to sell our Imperial bonds and shift them into the commodity markets. And I think we can turn a tidy sum going short against Conglomerated Silversmiths.” Poldo sighed. “I’m afraid we shall have to ask Mrs. Hrurk to make the trades.”
The Gnome squeaked.
“She must hate going on the Wall.” Poldo pushed himself away from the pillar and stepped lightly into the Troll’s garden. “But unfortunately, the market waits for no one, and if we delay we risk missing an opportunity.”
To Gorm Ingerson, few feelings stung as much as being late for an only chance. He dreaded that fraction of a moment when icy fear running up his spine crossed paths with his heart plummeting into his stomach. The sensation called back memories of returning to Bloodroot and finding the remains of the decimated Guz’Varda Tribe, and his dear friend Tib’rin the Goblin.
In this case, the connection to those traumatic memories was only made stronger by the burned-out husks of buildings. Smoke and ash stung the Dwarf’s red-rimmed eyes as his party surveyed the wreckage. A faint, sulfurous stink pricked at his nose.
“And we’re sure this was Sowdock?” he growled.
“Yes,” said Kaitha. “This is Lake Baerussel, and Sowdock was the only town on its shores. There’s no other hamlets for miles.”
Gorm nodded. “So what could have done this?”
The ranger pursed her lips and scanned the muddy scrubland around the charred wreckage. “There’s no prints—foot, hoof, or paw—to suggest raiders or the Red Horde. No sign of a fight, either. It seems impossible to be an accident, though—fire wouldn’t leap across all of these buildings without help. And I don’t smell chemicals, which eliminates the most popular alchemical combustibles.”
“So, no party of outsiders, probably not an accident, probably not alchemists.” Gorm nodded. Her analysis lined up neatly with his gut. “Magic?”
“It wasn’t just some hedge mage or rogue apprentice,” said Laruna. “The weave hasn’t been altered enough for that. A more experienced caster weaving a complex spell might have done this, but they’d be putting a lot of effort into concealing their methods.”
“Our arsonist didn’t seem too concerned with discretion.” Kaitha stared at the smoldering ruins of an inn.
“But it’s possible this was a spell?” Gorm said.
Laruna pursed her lips as she worked her fingers through the air. “It’s possible. It’d take someone more skilled at forensic sorcery in a full laboratory to tell.”
Gorm nodded at the blackened skeleton of a barn or large house. “Could one of them foreign sorcerers tell much if we brought back some o’ that wood?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Laruna, a moment before the Dwarf’s words registered. “Wait, what?”
But the Dwarf was already trundling off. A few quick chops with his Orcish axe split a charcoal stick as long and wide as his forearm from a former rafter. “So all this may have been the work of a wanderin’, very skilled wizard.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe…” Kaitha let the unspoken suggestion hang in the air.
“Aye, I know what you’re suggestin’,” said Gorm thoughtfully as he wrapped the charred wood in a burlap sack and tucked it into his saddlebags. They’d heard the town criers and listened as the rumors swirled among the guild community. It was the most obvious answer, once you set aside the fact that it didn’t make much sense. Gorm had a hard time doing that. “Do ye suppose the dragon came this far from the mountain just to torch a fishing village?” he asked.
“The dragon has been very active of late,” Kaitha suggested. “And erratic.”
Gaist cast a sidelong glance at the Elf that said her suggestion seemed unlikely.
Gorm shared the weaponsmaster’s doubts. He turned his gaze eastward, where a distant mountain appeared as little more than a hint of purple on the horizon, so faint that it may have been more wish than Wynspar. “This is a long way from Andarun.”
Kaitha shrugged. “Who can say why a dragon does what it does?”
“Certainly not witnesses,” Burt said. “Nobody got out of this.”
“Probably not,” Gorm agreed. “But let’s go check.”
