“Asherzu Guz’Varda has spoken highly of you!” said Borpo, and now there was a hint of danger in his thundering voice. “What is more, she believes it is a failure of Finance that we had no Analysis Department before today. And given how wise our chieftain and CEO is, I am sure this will work out very well.” There was enough vitriol in his last declaration to curdle milk.
Feista felt her tail instinctively curling beneath her legs, and willed it to straighten. “Uh, right, but—”
“Excellent. Then we have an understanding. I expect your first report tomorrow. Glory and honor!” With that bold and disjointed declaration, Borpo strode back out of the Analysis Department.
Feista took stock of the day as she watched him go. She had only a vague sense of her job, a boss that seemed to resent its existence, and no team to rely upon. On the other hand, it was apparent that she still had Asherzu’s confidence, and that clearly still counted for a lot. There seemed to be plenty of good research materials here as well, and there were some papers in her inbox that seemed like a good place to start. And then, in her pocket…
She pulled out the neatly folded slip of fresh parchment. The message had been transcribed by Wood Gnomes afield, then chittered to a sprite, flown to Andarun, and relayed to Gnomes at Mrs. Hrurk’s Home for the Underprivileged, and was finally stamped out and left on the front table this morning. Mr. Poldo had devised it as an extremely secure way of sending letters, and as an added bonus, most of the correspondence only took a single night to arrive.
Mrs. Hrurk who is dear to me,
I greet you with happy smile! Your new job reaches my ears. Very happy!
Feista sighed. She had to admit that Mr. Poldo’s ingenious use of Wood Gnomes was secure from interception, but much was lost in two rounds of translation. Usually the coherence.
I have knowledge of nervousness in new task. Fear not! I had new job too, long time ago, and you are my superior. I am confident you will be best at business!
There is hard work you are very good at. There are smart things you are very good at. There are no things you cannot do.
I stare ahead to the time when I hear of your success.
Biggest hopes,
Duine Poldo
“There are no things you cannot do,” she said to herself as she tucked the note back into her pocket. With a determined nod, Feista Hrurk sat down at her new desk, took the top piece of paper from her inbox tray, and got to work.
“This is no time for sittin’ around!” Gorm growled, fists on his hips. Gaist cast a long shadow over his shoulder. Both Dwarf and doppelganger glared down at the bench before them and the recumbent figure occupying it.
“I respectfully disagree.” Heraldin lay in the shade of the lone maple that marked Duflo Park on the Fifth Tier. The bard kept the brim of his wide hat pulled low over his eyes. “And I’d know better than you. I’m both a former participant in your insane quests, and something of an expert on leisure. I can say from experience that I find the latter much more agreeable.”
“We know where the flame olive oil is goin’!” the Dwarf insisted. “We’re on the cusp of exposin’ Johan for a liar and a killer!”
Heraldin lifted his hat an inch to watch an Elf in a well-tailored dress walking along the street. “And when you do, you owe me your ballad rights.”
“If and when your information pans out!” Gorm jabbed a figure at the bard, distracting him from the retreating Elf. “And not a moment before.”
“Then the sooner you start, the sooner we’ll all get what we want.” Heraldin pulled his hat down over his eyes again. “I look forward to your return.”
“I thought ye might want to do your part,” grumbled the berserker.
The bard lifted the edge of his hat a fraction with a flick of his thumb. A single, irritated eye gleamed up at Gorm from the tangle of shadow and hair beneath its brim. “I did my part.”
“We ain’t done—”
“I found you the source. I led you to the information,” growled Heraldin.
“Aye, but—”
“I fought the undead. I stood against the liche. I rescued the downtrodden. I spent a year in the thrice-cursed wilderness. I fought for the Orcs. I quested for the Elven Marbles. I have done much, much more for this city than this city has done for me, my friend, and now? Now I want to play music and drink in excess and sleep the mornings away. I have earned it. I did my part.” The bard pulled his hat down with theatrical emphasis. “I bid you good luck.”
Gorm threw up his hands in exasperation and looked at the weaponsmaster. “Will you talk some sense—er, stare some sense into him?”
Gaist cast a sidelong glance at the lounging man and shrugged in such a way that suggested this was an old fight he was unwilling to start again.
“I saw that,” sniped Heraldin. “Not everyone is so eager to shout zahat’emptor.”
Gaist’s eyes narrowed.
Gorm’s limited grasp of language failed him. “‘My hat is empty?’” he hazarded, based on his knowledge of Old Dwarven and Root Elven.
“‘Only my honor remains,’” the bard translated, staring at the weaponsmaster. “It comes from the old tongue of the Imperial people around Arak. It’s the battle cry of Arakian men who have nothing to live for. They call it a way of life, but it seems to me the battle cry of those who’d rather die than live another day.”
Gaist shook his head fiercely and turned away.
Gorm took a step back. He’d stepped into some muck between the bard and the weaponsmaster. If their fight was about Arakian culture, he suspected it cut at an old wound for Gaist. Iheen the Red, the adventurer Gorm had once quested with and that Gaist now emulated, hailed from Arak and wore the red scarf to honor its warriors. This was a line of inquiry that had already cut deep, and applying pressure would only make it worse.
“All right, enough of that,” the Dwarf said, waving a hand between the two. “Heraldin, I’ll not force ye to come, though we could use your help. Is there anything we could say to get ye to join us?”
The bard’s face softened a bit. “My friend, do not take it personally. Questing is not for me.”
“Ye were one of us—one of the Heroes of Destiny.”
“Yes, but not by choice. The first and last person who got me to leave the comforts of the city on an insane errand was Niln, and he did it with a royal writ and the threat of death. Your place is in the heart of battle. Mine is here, on a comfy seat dreaming up rhymes about your brave deeds.”
Gorm nodded. Heraldin was a competent fighter and a decent lockpick, but at his heart, he was still a useless bard. “Aye, fine. Suit yourself. Come on, Gaist. I know who’s probably looking for work.”
