Gorm scratched his beard. “So our culprit is bringin’ huge amounts of olives, in secret, up to somewhere near Andarun usin’ magic, Gnomish gadgets, or boats.”
“Or all three,” said Jynn.
“That’ll take a sophisticated smuggling operation,” said Gorm. “Now all we need is a way to track ’em.”
“Ahem.”
Dwarf, wizard, and weaponsmaster turned in unison to the bard, who had steepled his hands at the edge of the desk. “It sounds like you’re in need of a particular set of skills and connections. Skills and connections that I, as it happens, have. And you three, as we have discussed, have something that I need as well. This seems the makings of a good deal, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely not,” snapped Gorm. “Out of the question!”
Gaist shook his head forcefully.
“I’ll keep your share of the royalties at ninety basis points. That’s above average for a ballad,” Heraldin shot back. “The contract will be as generous as they come. All you have to do is sign over the rights.”
“Counteroffer,” growled Gorm. “Ye help me, and I don’t take ye down to the docks and use ye as bait to fish for the great Tarapin.”
“This is how the people will learn of the moments you single-handedly fought the liche, buying time for Jynn to weave his ultimate spell!”
“That never happened,” said the archmage.
Gaist shook his head.
“Sounds wrong to me,” agreed Gorm.
“It doesn’t matter what really happened! That’s the key to a great ballad,” said Heraldin. “You have to make it more interesting than reality. So sensational that it’s more fun for people to run with it than go digging for the truth. The bigger, the better!”
“See? This is why me answer is no.”
“Really?” Heraldin looked dubious.
“That and the fact that I don’t trust ye. And the fact that I’ve heard ye sing.”
“Come now! Your investigation has brought you to a point where you need someone with ties to smugglers that you can trust, and I—one of your closest friends—”
“One of my professional acquaintances,” amended Jynn.
“One of the bards I don’t always want to kill,” interjected Gorm.
“Closest friends,” Heraldin repeated loudly and leveled a pointed glare at Gaist. “And I happen to be just such a connected individual. I’m a former bodyguard of Benny Hookhand, the most prolific smuggler in Andarun! And you only knew you needed me because Jynn is investigating olive markets on the recommendation of his father. And I need the three of you, and the intellectual rights to a recent bit of your biographies. It’s too perfect to be a coincidence! This is destiny! Don’t deny it! Seize the moment!”
Gorm snorted. “Ye think—”
“I’ll do it,” said the archmage.
Gaist whirled to stare at Jynn.
“Ye what?” asked Gorm.
The bard sounded almost as surprised as the Dwarf. “You will?”
Jynn looked at his desk for a moment, ruminating on something far from oil prices and music rights. When he looked back up, there was steel in his blue eyes. “Yes.”
I accept your generous offer without reservation.
Feista Hrurk wrote in a neat, tight script. She was watched by a small group of Wood Gnomes from the corners of her office in Mrs. Hrurk’s Home for the Underprivileged. One of the Domovoy on the bookshelf next to the desk, a silver-haired woman in a white rat pelt, looked down at the letter and chirruped a question.
“Um, yes, thank you for asking,” said Feista. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and this is what I want.”
Mr. Poldo told Feista that it took him a while to be able to understand the speech of the tiny men and women who formed the backbone of his businesses; Wood Gnomes’ voices were as soft and high-pitched as rodents. The Gnoll imagined it was easy for most people to mistake the Domovoy’s speech for fighting rats or agitated squirrels, but for someone with a dog’s ears it was easy to make out what the diminutive Gnomes were trying to say. The only tricky parts were sorting out the Wood Gnomes’ thick accents and getting past their prolific cursing.
White Rat gave a small shrug and went back to sharpening a pencil into a spear. The Wood Gnomes here were in Mr. Poldo’s employ, and they mainly served as translators for the coded messages that she and the Scribkin exchanged about the running of the house. Otherwise, they stayed around Feista’s office and didn’t cause much trouble, provided she knocked on the doors and left them a saucer of milk on weekends.
Still, it paid to be polite to someone who knew where you slept. Feista bowed her head with a friendly smile before she turned back to her letter and, after steadying the tremble in her paws, continued writing.
Attached please find my executed agreements. Per the instructions in your offer letter, I will arrive at work on the 23rd day of Frostfall at the Warg Incorporated main office at Sixteen Wrothgar Way on the Fifth Tier.
The pups would be fine, she told herself. Mr. Poldo had assured her that replacements could be found for working around the home, and the gods knew Aubren was ready for more responsibility. This was a dream career for Feista. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Her grandmother once told her that when life gave you lemons, you grabbed them as fast as you could and shared them with all of your family so that nobody got scurvy. Granny Zelvia came from a time and place where lemons were as rare as diamonds, and still much better to eat.
With a deep breath, Feista tucked the letter and signed contracts into an envelope and sealed it with wax. Then, with a nod to the Wood Gnomes, she stood up, turned around three times, and left her office.
She found Aubren cleaning the dining hall downstairs. “I need the letter courier to get this when he stops by,” the Gnoll said, holding up the thick envelope.
Aubren looked worried for a moment. “He’s already been by, ma’am. And no, it didn’t come,” she added, answering Feista’s question before she could give it words.
Feista brushed away her disappointment and focused on the letter she did have—the one she needed to get to Warg Incorporated. At times like this, Feista wished she could rely on more relevant matriarchal wisdom than “sour on the tongue, no more bleeding gums.” Still, you had to work with the generational role models you got, and if anyone could say anything about Granny Zelvia, it was that she never gave up. “I’ll be out for a while then. I need to either chase the courier down or deliver this to the Fifth Tier.”
