“He’s found enough to make him curious about things he should know nothing about!” snapped Goldson.

“He knows enough to ask questions,” added Baggs.

“Curiosity is not proof,” said Mr. Flinn. “Questions are not evidence.”

“Optimism is not a strategy,” countered Goldson.

The Tinderkin squirmed in his plush velvet seat. “So long as Ingerson can’t trace our path, he poses no threat.”

“So long as he’s looking where he doesn’t belong, it’s a concern,” pressed Baggs.

Flinn’s face twitched and distorted as he literally wrestled with another outburst. “True enough. But if we were to pause the shipments⁠—”

“Absolutely not,” said Goldson. “The… strategy has been driving revenues across multiple lines of business.”

“Were operations to cease, we’d see declines in everything from weapon sales to training contracts,” said Baggs. “There isn’t enough revenue in looting to offset losses like that.”

Mr. Flinn gave a placating smile. “Gentlemen, I understand your concern in the short term, but in time⁠—”

“The markets don’t wait, Mr. Flinn!” thundered Goldson.

“As they say, profits delayed are profits denied,” said Baggs.

“That’s not what they say,” Ortson muttered into his drink.

“Who cares what the common folk say?” the ancient Dwarf hollered. “We need things to continue as planned!”

“Though, of course, we don’t need to know what that plan is,” Baggs added cautiously.

“We need to demonstrably not know what the plan is,” said Goldson. “But we still need it to happen.”

“Of course, of course, gentlemen,” Johan said magnanimously. “I shall ensure that things will stay on schedule.”

Mr. Flinn’s eyes widened. “But sire, if the Dwarf finds the facility⁠—”

“You’ve taken precautions, have you not?” Johan’s eyes gleamed dangerously as he glanced at the Gnome. “Circuitous routes with unmarked wagons and such?”

“‘Course we did! We ain’t newbloods,” blurted the Tinderkin. He took a moment to get hold of himself. “But, as Your Majesty knows, Gorm Ingerson and his fellows have a regrettable habit of surpassing expectations. It’s only a matter of time before⁠—”

“Ha! Exactly!” said Johan. “All the Golden Dawn and I need is a bit more time. A few more shipments. Ingerson doesn’t know what he’s looking for, and if by some chance he stumbles upon it, what will he do? Tell the town criers? Appeal to the nobles? Starting a movement takes time that he doesn’t have. Ha! We’ll have won the day long before he manages to find more than a couple sympathetic ears.”

The co-conspirators around the king exchanged worried glances. Mr. Goldson puffed long trails of blue smoke from his pipe in agitation.

“Ingerson truly does have a regrettable habit of surpassing expectations,” Mr. Baggs said.

Johan’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed. “We only need a little time, gentlemen. And if Ingerson… overperforms again, well then, Mr. Flinn likes to plan for contingencies, as I recall. In the meantime, we have a lot of work to do.”

The moon was already rising, and Feista Hrurk wasn’t halfway through her work.

The briefcase she dragged up the steps to Mrs. Hrurk’s Home for the Underprivileged bulged with paperwork that Borpo was expecting first thing in the morning. There were reams of calculations yet to be made and reports yet to be drafted, but the last of the sun’s light had long since faded, and she had put off a crucial ritual for far too long.

Warm light and pandemonium washed over her as she opened the front door. Two of her children careened into her like fuzzy catapult stones, and by the time she got back to her feet, Little Rex was making his way across the hallway for a hug. Her son’s lame leg couldn’t move fast enough to keep up with the rest of him, and his tail was wagging so hard he could barely stay upright.

There were stories to hear, and nightgowns to don, and bedtime tales to recite. The pups yipped and danced around her heels, all in a futile effort to cram a day’s worth of love into the precious moments before bed. And then, wretchedly fast, the best part of her day was over. The children were all asleep, and the briefcase called to her from where she’d set it in the hall.

It would have to wait. The home had business as well. Aubren needed to talk about issues with a fishmonger that was raising his prices. Vilga had a stack of paperwork Feista needed to sign. There were a slew of new applications from people of all sorts who couldn’t stretch a giltin between rent and food.

The stars and moon were bright in a black sky before she staggered into the study, hoisted the briefcase onto her desk, and collapsed into a chair.

She pushed through the mountain of paperwork at a glacial pace. The problem was that she had to keep flipping back and forth between pages to compare the figures she needed. Often by the time she found the number she was searching for, she had forgotten why she needed it. It was like trying to understand a quilt by sorting through a stack of cloth scraps.

The thought of her old family quilts sparked a thought. Her mother and grandmother had never stitched a fancy blanket; Gnoll quilting was more about scavenging fabric than creating elaborate patterns. Feista’s one heirloom was a covering made from six neat rows of trouser fabric, leather armor, and hide scraps, all cut into perfect squares. As a pup, she had lain in her bed comparing one patch to another, and remembering the tales of her grandsire sneaking through dungeons to snag cloth and armor from the corpses of unwary heroes.

She needed something like that. A grid of squares for comparison…

It took a few minutes to locate a ruler and a charcoal nib, but soon enough Feista had drawn several neat rows and columns onto a large piece of parchment. She listed companies of interest down the first column, and then the relevant metrics and projections across the top. It took well past midnight to find and transcribe the figures into their corresponding squares, not to mention run her calculations, but soon she had all of her numbers spread out on a single sheet.

Feista grinned down at the grid, triumphant. It was like a map of her portfolio, each risk and opportunity as clear and grand as the view from the Pinnacle. From that lofty perch the Gnoll could survey projected revenues, expense issues, and holdings. With such a vantage she could easily draw inferences about any company’s projections based on performance, or exposure to the key stocks and funds, or potential tax burden on gross income.

Feista blinked. Gross income. But now that she considered it, hadn’t Blackheart Securities provided revenue? As did Syrinx & Sons? But the Vellum Court and Royal Foresters Fund had both listed their gross income. A pit formed in the Gnoll’s core, and her stomach dropped into it. She had mixed two values in the same column, and now all of her calculations were suspect.

All of the joy and exuberance leaked out of Feista in a prolonged groan. She’d have to recalculate all of her numbers. At this rate, she wondered if she’d get to bed at all. She dropped her head into her paws and tried not to weep.

A pink glimmer rippled across the thick pane of her window. Feista glanced up as a messenger sprite squeezed through an old pipe fitting and fluttered over to a pack of Wood Gnomes playing a game with peanut shells. A letter from Mr. Poldo had arrived.

The prospect of a note from the Scribkin cheered Feista a bit, and she made herself a mug of black tea as she waited for the Wood Gnomes to stamp out a message using tiny, metal letters and a pad of ink. Soon a pair of Gnomes deposited a transcription of Poldo’s message on her desk.

Mrs. Hrurk.

I am hopeful for your great happiness. Hairy Mountain and I journey far in woods, and not too much trouble. It is very easy to not have much trouble with Hairy Mountain at my side.

Have found broker for trades of the foundation for house of poverty? Now you must be busy with new job. Tell me who to send trades with, and I will see foundation’s treasure to great prosperity.

Please send me sprite with more news of big job. I have big pride for you!

With much sincerity,

Duine Poldo

Peas: If you are too much working hard, perhaps consider Gnomes of Appropriate Size? They are always most useful for basic tasks and taking less time.

Feista looked up from the paper. “Gnomes of appropriate size?” she said aloud.

White Rat emerged from behind an inkwell and chirruped in response. Behind her, many more Gnomes suddenly peeked out from the nooks and crannies of the study, all staring at the Gnoll.

“Is that what you call yourselves?” asked Feista. “That’s how you say Wood Gnome?”