The Elf wasn’t listening. “No game or birds, either. Or insects. Or plants…” She suppressed a shudder. “Well, they… they can’t go much farther.”

“Let’s hope not.” Gorm eyed the lengthening shadows of the stones and crags around them. “I don’t want to camp in these wastes again.”

The driver and his mercenary companions climbed over the wagon like ants over a fallen biscuit, inspecting each barrel for leaks. The three companions had little to do but stare into the gloom and wait for the painstaking review to run its course.

The Dwarf suppressed a chill. “My people say this place was cursed by the Sten in the War of Betrayal.”

“Oh? According to Elven legends, this is where Tandos struck Al’Thadan down,” said Kaitha.

Gorm’s brow furrowed as he tried to cram Elven theology into the confines of his worldview. “So… Al’Thadan’s blood made the land barren?”

Kaitha shrugged. “The mages say it was just the amount of power it takes to kill a god. To wipe a whole people from Arth and banish their pantheon from the weave. It twists the whole weave around it, and curses the place it punched through.”

“Low magic,” said Gorm, recalling his conversations with Jynn.

“Probably.” Kaitha gave a ragged sigh, the sort that usually precedes or follows a long cry. “It all just seems terribly sad to me. All that death… all those souls…”

The Dwarf gave her a sidelong glance. “Aye. The War of Betrayal was the worst of what Mankind can do to one another.”

“So far.” The Elf wrapped her cloak around her like a shawl and glanced back toward the imposing face of the mountain. “But people are full of surprises.”

“It is easy to think that your current understanding of trends can be used to predict things, but market forces have consistently shown that circumstances return to the mean,” Duine Poldo said. “And so I’d urge you to… to, ah.” It occurred to Poldo that the regular patting of stamps hitting paper had ceased. He glanced down.

Three of the Domovoy were taking Poldo’s dictation using the set of tiny lead stamps Poldo had made for them. Another kept the stamps well-inked with a brush and Poldo’s inkwell. All four stared up at him from the table that served as their makeshift desk at the back of The Wandering Monster, a roadside inn and tavern along the way from Waerth to Mistkeep.

“Is there a problem?” said Poldo.

Red Squirrel cleared his throat and chittered a curt reply.

“Condescending? Is it?” Poldo lifted the page and replaced his glasses. After reading for a few moments, he shook his head and crumpled the paper. “It is. Along with everything else I wrote,” he said, throwing the mangled letter next to several similar balls of paper.

The Wood Gnomes below sighed and grumbled under their breath as they pulled another sheet of paper out and re-stamped the now-familiar salutation, “My dear Mrs. Hrurk.”

Poldo sighed and looked out across the common room of the inn. What The Wandering Monster lacked in amenities, it made up for in grime. Still, it had a warm fire, cold grog, and a quiet corner by the window where Poldo could work. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m teaching an apprentice, but…”

One of the Wood Gnome’s squeaked.

“Well, of course I trust Mrs. Hrurk’s judgment.” He picked up the latest letter from the Gnoll and shook his head. “But these numbers that she sent make no sense. The Heroes’ Guild regulates how those shares are issued. It’s audited by the royal lord of accounts. Everyone knows this isn’t possible.”

He sighed and looked out the window next to him. The long shadows of the trees on the boulder outside the window told him the sun had almost finished setting. “I just need to tell Mrs. Hrurk what everyone knows without sounding like I’m teaching her the obvious.”

Red Squirrel piped up.

“Well, yes, I suppose it’s technically possible she’s correct, but given the controls in place, it’s exceedingly improbable.” A thought struck the Scribkin. “Maybe that’s how I should say it.”

The Wood Gnomes winced and shook their heads.

“Or not. This is very difficult to say.” Poldo sank back into his seat.

Another squeak.

“Look, I’m sure your compatriots did the math correctly, and I know she said she has checked it many times, but—” Poldo felt his ire rising a bit. “Listen, I think decades of experience in finance should count for something, shouldn’t they? Can we just take my word that the most trusted fund on Arth is not insolvent? Or shall we litigate the color of the sky next?”

Approaching footsteps interrupted the Wood Gnomes’ response. A slender Human in dark armor was headed toward Poldo’s corner of the tavern. The Domovoy grabbed their stamps and dove into the briefcase just before the dark figure addressed the Scribkin.

“Duine Poldo?” the woman said. She had the sort of dark, glassy eyes that said their owner has seen a lot of death, and the sort of twisted smile that added she had enjoyed it. The bolt end of a crossbow protruded from the gap in her long, black cloak. “At last we meet.”

Poldo rapped his knuckles on the table three times and sighed. “Yes, and I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, miss.”

“I do,” said the assassin. “I like it that way.”

“I presume you also like to keep things ‘nice and neat,’” Poldo said.

The assassin’s brow furrowed. “Uh…”

“Discreet as well, I presume? Clean kills, no witnesses, just a body in a ditch and a stack of unmarked bank notes,” said Poldo. “That sort of thing. Your lot seems to prefer it that way.”

“Yes,” said the assassin slowly, though clearly nonplussed at the infringement upon her monologue. She pressed on. “Now, why don’t you⁠—”

“I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider? Or tell me who sent you?”

“No,” hissed the killer. “One more word out of you and I’ll bolt you to that chair.”

Poldo shrugged and leaned back in his seat. Had it been novel, such an assassination attempt would have shaken him. But oily assassins with ample precautions and scarce humanity were becoming rote.

“Now, I do like to keep things clean, as you said, and there’s all these witnesses around—” The assassin flicked her crossbow to point back at the tavern’s other patrons, inadvertently giving Poldo his chance.

As soon as the crossbow wasn’t trained on him, he gave the table a fourth knock—the signal knock—and dove to the floor. The assassin swung the crossbow back around just as an arm like a hairy tree trunk punched through the window, grabbed her by the head, and yanked her into the gloom outside.

Poldo picked himself up and dusted himself off. “Gods help us if we ever meet an assassin who prefers things be a messy spectacle,” he muttered as he began to pack up his briefcase.

Screams of “Monster!” and the thunder of footsteps leaving the tavern were almost loud enough to drown out the shrieks and grim sounds from outside.

The Gnome ignored the cacophony and made his way to the front of The Wandering Monster, where the tavern’s proprietress and her husband cowered behind the bar. “Sir!” whispered the tavern keeper, a Human short and stout enough to be a Dwerrow. “Sir! There’s a Troll, sir! Get to cover!”

“Yes. Oof. He’s with me,” grunted Poldo as he scrambled up a bar stool. Once perched on the seat, he took out his wallet and began leafing through the bank notes. “I’m afraid that, in the course of stopping an attempt on my life, my bodyguard was forced to break one of your windows. I’ll gladly pay for it.”

The blood drained from the woman’s face until it was as pale and pasty as a lump of bread. “You brought the Troll upon us?”

“I’ve hired him, if that’s what you mean,” said Poldo. “Now, a window such as that must be at least forty giltin⁠—”

“You can’t stay here!” snapped the woman, clambering to her feet. “You’ll have to leave.”

“And take the beast with ye!” said her portly husband, standing beside her. The man’s face was two beady black eyes peeking out over a bristling yellow beard; he looked like he was most of the way through swallowing a sheaf of wheat.

Poldo snorted. “What? Why? Thane’s done no harm.”