“They have what?” said Feista.

“Ahm,” said the host as he reappeared. “If you would follow me, I will take you to your, ahm, table.”

“See?” said Burt, rubbing his paws together. “This is gonna be good.”

The host led them into a dining room furnished with oak and brass tables and chairs. The walls were covered with a small armory’s worth of weapons, shields, and plate mail, with a few monster heads and other trophies interspersed among them. Feista noticed more than a few Goblin totems and Orcish Gaists up on the wall, but she put it out of her mind. She had seen nicer restaurants, but only from the back alleys when she was picking through their trash. It was a rare opportunity to eat at such an establishment.

They were directed to a large table near the back. A few couples and groups were spread across the handful of tables; closest to Asherzu’s party sat a group of several Dwarves who had clearly been enjoying the wine list.

Feista sat and picked up the menu. Her tail wagged as she read over the list of river fish, mollusks, chicken, and lamb.

“Why is the writing so hard to read?” Freggi of the Water Horse Clan turned the menu on its side, and then upside down, in an attempt to decipher the script.

“It’s calligraphy,” said Burt.

“It is confusing and hard to see.” Izek squinted at the menu. “I cannot tell what letter this begins with!”

“Why would anyone write in such a way?” Guglug demanded of Mrs. Hrurk.

Feista sighed. As a younger person and a lifelong city-dweller, she was often called upon to defend the customs of the city. “It’s cultured.”

“It’s sophisticated,” offered Burt.

“Sophisticated?” snorted Pogrit. “A repeating crossbow is sophisticated. A permanent shapeshifting hex is sophisticated. This is silly writing that cannot be read.”

“Right, but people can read it, right?” said Burt. “If you’re in the know, you know how to read it. It’s like fashion or trends. If you’ve got enough status, you’ll know how to follow along.”

“So it is an otherwise useless skill that gives you status?” asked Izek.

“That’s…” Burt paused. “Well, yeah, that’s a pretty good description of sophistication, actually.”

“Seems foolish to an old dog like me.” Pogrit scoffed at the idea.

Still, Feista noticed that the old Gnoll and the other board members began to study the menus with renewed interest. And their collective opinion of Lightling food seemed to brighten considerably when a Scribkin waiter brought the first round of ale and wine, along with another curiosity.

“You said that we must ask for food,” Darak said, pointing an accusing finger at the basket.

Burt didn’t look up from the menu. “We do. Just give it a minute.”

“But they have brought us some sort of… tiny loaves,” said Darak.

Izek picked up one of the long, thin pieces, speckled with garlic and parsley, and gave it an inquisitive sniff. “Yes, bread,” he said. “Rods of bread.”

“Yeah, they do that,” said Burt.

“We did not ask for the bread!” declared Darak.

The Kobold finally set down his menu. “All right? So? The bread’s free! What about it?”

Izek moved in a blur. The bread in the Goblin’s hand disappeared with a sound like a log going through a sawmill, and a similar spray of dust and debris.

“Hold on!” said Freggi.

Izek froze with his hand just above the breadbasket.

“How can this be?” Freggi demanded. “If they gave free bread to everyone, that would be all people ate!”

“People will come and stand in line just for this bread!” said Pogrit.

“We do not need to buy food at all!” suggested Guglug. “We will just eat this bread.”

“No, that’s…” Burt shook his head. “You only get the bread because you’re going to buy other food.”

“Ahh.” Pogrit gave the other Shadowkin a sly nod. “That is how they entrap you.”

The Goblins and Slaugh nodded back sagely. Darak and Asherzu looked less certain. But all of them reached for the basket.

“If I may.” Asherzu raised a glass of ruby wine after the bread was little more than crumbs. “Today, we gather to honor Mrs. Hrurk. These are hard times on the Wall, but her analysis has kept our firm strong! And as the city mourns its king⁠—”

“To a degree,” muttered Burt.

“We can take courage from our strength!” The chieftain cast a warning glance at Burt. “So I honor you, Feista Hrurk, for your keen insight! And I honor all of you for your hard work. Because of your efforts, Warg Inc. is mighty, and grows in strength and market capitalization by the day!”

They drank. Their celebration was muted at first, but wine and ale loosened their tongues, and soon much of the table was sharing old battle stories and laughing.

Halfway through her wine, Feista noticed that Asherzu and Burt were having a conversation of their own. They spoke without directly looking at one another, in tones so quiet and low most of the rest of the table couldn’t hear it. But Feista’s ears were to sound what a spyglass was to sight, and she couldn’t have avoided eavesdropping at this distance had she wanted to.

“And you are sure we should forego the Naga’s salute?” Asherzu muttered to the Kobold.

“Gorm thinks the king’s death is a ruse,” Burt said.

“To what end?” asked the Orcess.

“The bard thinks the Golden Dawn are a bunch of crooks. More so than other gold-hounds. Specific ones. And everybody thinks the king went down there for some sort of mischief. They aren’t sure what it is, but it’s like the old saying: an Ogre has two fists, so when the first one hits you, you know the second ain’t far off.”

“And so for now he wishes us to play along and try to avoid speaking ill of the king,” said the chieftain.

“Yeah. And he gave us the packet. Just in case.”

“Just in case.” Asherzu nodded and glanced at Mrs. Hrurk, prompting the Gnoll to feign interest in Izek’s war stories. The rest of the table listened with delight to the old Goblin’s tale of an elaborate headdress that got caught on a passing adventurer’s saddle.

“And if the strap had not broken, my neck would have,” Izek told them. “Since that day, I never wear a headdress!”

The table’s laughter was cut short when their waiter returned with a slight clearing of his throat. “Ahm, so sorry to disturb you. Would you please lower your voices a little? A few guests have complained, and given the state of the kingdom and the king’s uncertain fate…”

Feista cleared her throat when it became clear that the Scribkin intended to leave the rest of his sentence unspoken. “Oh, uh… a thousand pardons,” she said.

“Thank you,” said the Gnome. He gave a toothy smile, and the waxed tips of his pointed black mustache rose up like a pair of spears. “Now, have we decided on our order? Perhaps a round of appetizers?”