“We do our best not to get bogged down in the details of such matters,” said Mr. Baggs. “It makes our lives easier.”
“And keeps our liabilities limited,” added Goldson.
“Eh? See? Keeping their hands clean,” growled Mr. Flinn.
Ortson, though, had a deeper knowledge of the mercenary companies operating in the Freedlands, if only for the sake of keeping tabs on his competition. “Wait, this is the same Mr. Flinn from the Silver Talons! The one we hired for Bloodroot, and to bring in Ingerson.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Johan’s smile brimmed with cruel amusement. “It’s true that Mr. Flinn has let us down on occasion. But since those unfortunate incidents, Mr. Flinn has disbanded his mercenary organization and formed a most useful… partnership with another entity.”
“Who?” demanded Mr. Ortson.
“It’s best that we don’t know,” said Mr. Baggs coldly.
“You got that right,” growled Mr. Flinn.
“Needless to say, he has—or rather, they have—become central to several of my plans.” Johan stared at the twitching Gnome. “Their combined service has been unerringly helpful. Until now.”
“Sire, we don’t know that Ingerson has actually found anything,” Mr. Flinn said.
“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.
