“Here’s what really bothers me,” said Kaitha. “I know the heroes running in just about any party from Scoria to Mistkeep, even if only by name and reputation. Bones, even the Shadow Stallions have made a name for themselves. So why hasn’t anybody heard of a single member of the Golden Dawn?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of a couple of them,” said Heraldin. “Just not under these names.”
“Ye have?” asked Gorm.
“Oh, yes,” said the bard. “I’d know Rod and Bettel Torkin anywhere, no matter how fancy the armor or glorious the titles. They worked for Benny Hookhand. I’m less familiar with their fellows, but I’d wager they’re no more qualified for heroics and no less specialized in some crime or another. Rod and Grettel Sparklit are blade names. I’d imagine they’re all using them.”
“They’re using what?” said Jynn.
“Blade names,” said Gorm. “Professional monikers.” Many heroes operated under a nom de l’arme, either because their given name wasn’t the sort to strike terror into the hearts of villains, or because it was, and they’d prefer something less menacing on the mailbox.
“Like the Jade Wind?” the wizard asked.
“No, that’s more like an honor title, a brand,” said Kaitha. “A blade name is ostensibly like a given name. Like when Niln had you called Jynn Ur’Gored,” she added, nodding at the archmage.
“Right. But usually more contrived or pretentious,” added Laruna.
“Oh. Like Heraldin Strummons,” said Jynn.
“Exactly,” said Gorm.
“What?” said Heraldin. All eyes swiveled to the bard, who sputtered, “What did you just say?”
The collective gaze of the group swiveled back to Gorm. “Well, I mean, with your past and your dealin’s with the unsavory, well… I guess we assumed that ye took a blade name.”
“I had several aliases, yes,” said Heraldin. “But naturally, the Al’Matrans found my given name when I was recruited.”
“Yes, but they knew mine as well, and they still allowed me to call myself Jynn Ur’Gored.”
“And you all thought this was a fake name?” Heraldin said.
The rest of the table suddenly found the action below the watchtower irresistibly engrossing. Gaist pointedly avoided eye contact with the bard.
“It just… you know… sounds really…” Gorm struggled to find the right words. Unfortunately, the wrong words had already been used.
“Contrived or pretentious?” said the bard flatly.
“Uh…” Gorm glanced at Kaitha and signaled for help.
“Oh! Uh… so this Grettel and Rod Sparklit…” The ranger came to the Dwarf’s rescue. “You think they worked for Benny Hookhand?”
“Yes, the Torkin Twins are among the greatest safecrackers on Arth,” said Heraldin, still glaring at Gorm. “Bettel was a hedge mage and an artificer who could crack any magical lock. Rod added demolitions and brute force. The two of them could get through any barrier—stone, metal, or magical. Any thief this side of the Highwalls knows that if you need to get into somewhere you shouldn’t be, the Torkin Twins could get you there for a hefty price. And yet, Johan is taking them into the dungeon, under blade names, dressed as heroes.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Kaitha.
Gorm looked down at the gilt thieves and ruffians masquerading as heroes as they marched into the open maw of the Dungeon Gate. Johan glanced up and, though it was hard to be certain, it looked to the Dwarf like the king winked. “No way to be sure,” he said as the great gate began to swing shut behind the paladin’s party. “But I got a bad feelin’ about it.”
Chapter 15
“It’s like a knot in my stomach,” Feista Hrurk said as she wrapped a hard cheese into a cloth. “I can hardly take the suspense. I dread the arrival of news of the king’s quest.”
“Whatever for?” said Aubren. The young Human sliced apples over a bubbling cauldron of porridge. “You said yourself, Warg Inc. has been making gold hand over paw with all that fancy math you did.”
Mrs. Hrurk was forced to concede that point. Thanks to the Gnoll’s warning, Warg Inc. had divested itself of its shares of the Dragon of Wynspar a mere day before Johan announced the Golden Dawn’s quest. It wasn’t until after the quest that most banks had bothered to calculate how much treasure the dragon would need to have in order to realize their investment. Their staff analysts must have reached a similar conclusion to Feista, because shares of the Dragon of Wynspar hoard plummeted over 30 percent within a day, and trading had been volatile since. She’d seen a chart of the hoard’s share price that looked like an unforgiving mountain range, with more jagged peaks and deadly drops than the Ironbreakers. And because almost every company in the Freedlands was heavily invested in the dragon, or invested in a company that was, few stocks traded on the Wall were doing much better.
Warg Inc. was one of the lucky few. Investors all over Arth were in a state of animal panic, stampeding toward any stock that wasn’t tainted with the dragon’s hoard. When Asherzu announced that Warg Inc. had divested from the dragon’s hoard well before the king’s announcement, she may as well have danced in front of a herd of Mammoth Bison in a red tunic. The traders had charged—quite literally; Feista and Asherzu might have been trampled without Darak there. As it was, they’d stood behind the mountain of an Orc and watched a river of equity flow into their company.
Feista took a deep breath. Many analysts said that it was hard to believe Warg’s sudden fortune, but she found it more difficult than most. “You’re right,” she said with a smile to Aubren. “I just… well, every sprite the king sends up from the dungeon could be carrying news that the dragon is dead and its hoard exceeded every projection. Which would be wonderful for the city, but not so much for Warg, and a disaster for me.”
Aubren clucked her tongue. “If you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am, you worry too much. The bank will be fine, and you will too, no matter what happens to the king and the dragon.” And with that, she rang the bell to signal that breakfast was ready.
The kitchen erupted in activity around Mrs. Hrurk. Children charged in through the back door on their way to the dining room, trying to get a whiff or a taste of breakfast before the kitchen staff carted it out to the other boarders. Feista caught a brief glimpse of her own pups among the pack. Only Little Rex paid their mother so much as a glance, and only because his bad leg slowed him down a bit. Staff and volunteers began loading trays with bowls of the hot mash and carting them out to the boarders. Aubren darted through the chaos like an Imperial dancer, shouting orders like the emperor himself.
Feista kept packing her lunch, feeling grateful that she didn’t have to participate in mealtime anymore. There was no way she could have taken on the job at Warg and kept Mrs. Hrurk’s Home for the Underprivileged running without Aubren’s help. And now that she did have the job, she could afford all manner of new niceties for the home. Aubren bought fresh fruit for the tenants, and had called on the grocer to arrange for fresh milk and eggs to be delivered weekly. She’d even hired a party of young guild heroes to clear out the giant rats attracted to all of the nice new food in the larder. And there was a little gold left over to send the pups to a school up the street. Little Rex was even good enough at sums to help the Wood Gnomes.
All of the success felt good. Better than good; she felt like some god or another was smiling down on her. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was pushing her luck, that sooner or later the universe would come to collect its due for her happiness. She’d been this happy before, back when Hristo Hrurk was still alive. He hadn’t made much as a lift operator, but he’d been so proud to work at Goldson Baggs, and so fiercely devoted to his family. He might not have left his job had he not worried for Feista and the pups; might never have had to take that fateful walk to buy bread; might never have encountered those guild heroes in the street…
Feista took a moment to compose herself, then went and checked her inbox. There were a few bills, but no couriers had delivered anything of importance. Feista was used to the disappointment; these days she presumed that the letter hadn’t arrived yet. She only checked when she thought of Hristo, and a pang of guilt struck her for not checking more often.
“Oh, Mrs. Hrurk, did you see the letter for you?” Aubren asked, walking by the office with a tray of dirty bowls.
Feista’s stomach dropped, and her tail reflexively curled between her legs. “A letter?” she asked.
“Well, a note,” said Aubren. “A sprite arrived from Mr. Poldo late last night. The Wood Gnomes were going to leave it with the deliveries, but I asked them to take it straight up to your room. Did you see it?”
Relief, and more than a little guilt, spread through Mrs. Hrurk. Still, the thought of a letter from Poldo brought a wide grin to her face and set her tail wagging hard enough to shake her hips. “Thank you, Aubren. I’ll be sure to read it before work.”
“Times like these, it’s good to hear from an old friend,” said Gorm.
“Right,” said the acolyte.
“Well, not hear. More like see. Ye know what I mean.” The Dwarf’s speech was slurred, and he was trying to lean on Burt for support. This was not going well, as the Kobold was barely taller than his knee and built like a bunch of reeds draped with a rat pelt. “I jus’… I jus’ wanna see him.”
“I understand, sir, I really do,” said the miserable Al’Matran. “And High Scribe Pathalan gave us permission to let you pass. It’s just that we’re undergoing, ah, routine maintenance, and the sanctuary is closed.”
“Tha’s good!” said Gorm. He pushed the Elf aside as though opening a gate and staggered into the Temple of Al’Matra, Burt at his heels. The Dwarf shambled forward a few steps, paused as a thought struck him, grabbed the acolyte by the arms, and shifted him back into position in front of the door. “Maybe ye got rid of the mushrooms an’… an’ the rat,” he said, staggering into the sanctuary.
The acolyte chased after them once the shock had worn off. “It’s just that… uh… well, we have cleaned up a bit, and nobody has the heart to bother old Scabbo these days, but really, that’s not the issue. You should know that we didn’t change… the… the…”
“The what?” asked Burt as Gorm wandered into the Al’Matran sanctuary.
“Uh… the…” The acolyte’s jaw flapped uselessly as he stared into the sanctuary.
The Al’Matran hall of worship had been cleared of most of its furnishings, as well as the mosses and mushrooms. Ornate censers and braziers arranged around the room bathed the floor in warm light and filled the air with aromas of cedar and incense. The lights and incense burners were part of an elaborate, esoteric diagram covering the floor, linked by lines of salt and chalk that Gorm was currently trampling over as he made his way across the room.
The acolyte, however, didn’t notice Gorm’s trail of destruction. His eyes were fixed on the bronze sculpture at the center of the arcane lines. Niln’s serene likeness greeted the visitors with outstretched hands.
