“Sure as you’re born. ’Course they ain’t wearin’ the fancy gold armor, but it’s them all right.” The barkeep cast a sideways glance at Heraldin. “Don’t be jealous, eh? Great hero like His Majesty’s bound to work with more than one party. And you’re already famous for helpin’ him take down that liche. Save some monsters for the new folk, and enjoy your liquor. You’ve done your part, aye?”
“I suppose I have,” said Heraldin. But as he stared at the five members of the Golden Dawn whispering and plotting with one another, he grew more and more certain that the alleged Sparklit siblings were, in fact, the famous Torkin Twins. And, he reflected as he grimaced into his whiskey, less certain of everything else.
“Well, we… uh… we can’t know for sure they were a party of heroes,” Weaver Ortson said, mopping sweat from his brow. “But ransacking a dungeon full of dragons certainly does sound like our folk.”
The faces looming from the dark smoke around the table remained stony and, for the most part, unhappy. Goldson and Baggs were there, naturally, as well as Athelan of House Bethlyn, High Priest of Tandos. The Tinderkin with the hook leaned against the back wall of the room, watching Ortson sweat with the patient air of a lone wolf following a wounded stag. King Johan sat directly across from Ortson, the dim light gleaming off his golden armor. Johan’s scarred face was still locked in its perpetual grin, but his eyes were dark as they prowled about the room.
“I thought you had taken precautions to bar heroic activity in the Winter’s Shade,” said High Priest Athelan.
“It was unsanctioned, of course,” said Ortson.
“That doesn’t justify your lapse in control,” the Elf countered.
“And the lapse doesn’t excuse your temple’s lack of security,” snapped Ortson.
“Enough,” said Johan. The king fell into a brooding silence that smothered any protest from the assembled conspirators. The quiet was almost unbearable by the time the king let a low growl escape his lips. “It’s Ingerson. The Dwarf was following the Imperial flame oil.” The king glanced back at the Tinderkin in the shadows.
“We took the usual precautions, sire,” said Mr. Flinn.
“Surpassing expectations,” muttered the king. “Tell me, Ortson. Are you familiar with The Warlock’s Daughter?”
Weaver thought back over his sorcerous acquaintances. “Which one, sire? I know a few warlocks who—”
“The book, Ortson. By Tayelle Adamantine. One of Marja’s favorites.”
The guildmaster was familiar enough with Adamantine’s work to know that he didn’t want people thinking he read it. “I wouldn’t say that I am, sire,” he answered truthfully.
Similar denials of varying degrees of sincerity rose around the table.
Johan shrugged. “Marja loves them. In The Warlock’s Daughter, do you know what keeps the hero and his love apart?”
Weaver thought back to what he knew of Adamantine’s books. “A double suicide?” he ventured.
“No. Well, yes. But I meant what indirectly caused their deaths.”
“Indirectly, sire?”
“What doomed Gaelan and Yvette was optimism,” said Johan.
“And a fireball-wielding warlock riding a manticore,” offered Athelan. “Uh, I’ve heard,” the high priest amended with a crimson blush.
“It was optimism!” Johan sat up again with a measure of his usual buoyancy. “It was planning for the best. Ha! They might have escaped the warlock had they hoped for the best and planned for the worst. Reckless optimism is the path to failure. Optimism such as thinking a petty regulation will keep Ingerson out of our business or some mid-rank priests will keep professional heroes out of ancient ruins.” The king glared at Weaver and Athelan in turn.
“Of course, sire,” said the high priest. “It won’t happen again.”
“Not if we plan for the worst-case scenario. Ha! So let’s assume Ingerson breached the site. How bad could it be?”
“The worst possible outcome is that the interlopers found the Eye of the Dragon,” said Athelan.
“Or retrieved sensitive documents,” said Goldson.
“Right. So if we assume Ingerson looted those, what then?” Johan posited.
For a moment, the only sound around the table was the faint rush of blood draining from every face. Then, all began to speak at once.
“He could expose everything,” said Ortson.
“We’ll be run out of the city,” said Baggs.
“Or run up the gallows,” grumbled Goldson.
“If people found out about this—” gasped Athelan.
“No, no.” Johan shook his head. “Ha ha! None of that will happen.”
The uncertain quiet set back in as most of the table tried to reconcile what they’d just heard. Baggs piped up. “Sire, the people expect a government to behave with a certain level of… ah…”
“Basic decency,” offered Ortson.
“Exactly! Ha! They expect it! They believe it’s happening.” Johan held up a mailed finger. “It would take a big event to convince them otherwise. And there is little that people hate so much as big events that show them they were wrong. If we provide a different story, a better story, they’ll fall over themselves to believe it.”
Most of those gathered still seemed nervous. “Sire, the truth will come out,” said Athelan.
“And our story will be waiting for it in the yard.” The king’s smile grew, pushing his scarred flesh away from his pearly teeth. “When stories clash, people believe the one they find most reassuring. Our job is to make sure we have the better tale before Ingerson tries to play his hand.”
Urgent murmuring broke out around the table.
