“How long do you think we have?” he asked without turning.

A Wood Gnome wearing a red squirrel’s pelt squeaked by way of answer. The Gnomes of Clan Fengeld, or Domovoy, communicated with taller folk using a dialect of Imperial that was actually nuanced, complex and— Poldo had been surprised to discover—copiously laced with profanity and lewd remarks. Usually most of this subtlety and swears were lost in translation, in part because a Wood Gnome’s tiny voice sounded like a nest full of baby birds to anyone larger than a household rodent, but mostly because many people considered Domovoy to be a more destructive variety of household rodent.

Still, after all this time working with the Wood Gnomes, Poldo was able to understand them well enough. “A week will not do,” he said. “The sailing will be too difficult by then, and we won’t catch a boat. If we can’t stay until spring, then we’ll have to catch a boat by tomorrow.”

Another Wood Gnome piped in.

“Yes, I’m sure they are aware of that,” said Poldo sourly.

A third Wood Gnome, a woman wearing a brown rat’s skin, chittered something and thrust her fist in the air.

Poldo blanched. “Well, I… I, ah, I probably wouldn’t phrase it as such.”

Brown Rat repeated herself emphatically.

“Where would you even get a cucumber that large? But, ah, no—look, I appreciate the, ah, the sentiment. We are all frustrated with the lawyer-monks, but⁠—”

Red Squirrel came to his rescue with a chirruped question.

“Yes. It will be a most difficult meeting.” Poldo stood. “Not many can win a dispute with the lawyer-monks of Adchul, and even less can do so after contracts have been signed.”

A few of the tiny men and women chittered and waved their fists in the air.

“Thank you,” said Poldo. “I’m afraid I do not share your confidence.”

He stepped up to a simple mirror propped against a wall and preened as best he could. He wore a fine suit tailored by Llewyn and Dorfson, but the cuffs had begun to fray. His silver hair was past due for a trim, and combing it back only made it look like a misshapen mane. The luxuriant mustache beneath his bulbous nose could be kept in fine shape with a pinch from a tin of Vinn’s Fyne Gentleman’s Wax, but there was no such cure for the crow’s feet at the corners of his weary eyes. He polished his spectacles, adjusted the kerchief in his suit pocket, and headed back to his simple desk.

“One more thing,” he asked, picking up the eviction notice. “Did they ever give us a reason for terminating our stay?”

Red Squirrel chirped and shook his head.

“I imagine they wouldn’t.” The Scribkin spoke brusquely as he headed out the door and into the hallway. The Wood Gnomes scattered like leaves in an autumn gale. The tiny men and women moved in near silence and out of sight, but he was certain his diminutive entourage was never far away.

Red Squirrel dropped onto Poldo’s shoulder as he passed under the archway that led into the courtyard and squeaked a question in his ear.

“I couldn’t say for certain why we’d be evicted, and I suspect that’s what they’re counting on,” said Poldo with a grimace. They walked into the courtyard, the black spires of the monastery rising like the pylons of a tomb city all around them. They walked past Adchul’s western shrine, a small hut filled with scrolls dedicated to Emilveber, a minor god revered by bureaucrats and lawyers. Several robed monks waited in a neat line to pay their respects, one at a time, at a small window.

Red Squirrel chirruped.

“Yes, I definitely have my suspicions as to why,” Poldo said, walking past the line.

The space between the shrine and the western wall of the courtyard was a small shock of green amid the blacks and grays of winter in Adchul. At the center of it, working the earth with hands like spades, was a Troll.

The Troll looked much like what you would get if you poured a potion of hair growth over a small mountain. Most of him was covered in fur the color of lakeside granite. Upon closer inspection, his shaggy coat displayed spiraling patterns of gray and blue wandering across his chest and shoulders like moss over a boulder. His stony skin was visible only around his gnarled hands and on his face, which looked like an amalgam of an ape, a skull, and a drawer full of knives.

Poldo recognized the toothy countenance as a friendly smile. “Good morning, Thane,” he called.

“Good morning, Mr. Poldo,” rumbled the Troll. “Business to attend to?”

“I suppose,” said the Scribkin. “Hopefully I’ll be done soon enough to assist you in the… the…” Poldo looked at the Troll’s small garden. The green shoots and leaves brought to mind an adolescent’s facial hair, with wide, bare expanses between thin patches of green. Yet, given the snow encrusting Adchul’s ramparts and the bitter cold in the air, the fact that there was any growth at all was surprising. Had the plants been there yesterday?

“Do you suppose it’s common for flowers to grow that quickly? In winter?” he asked faintly.

“If you care for them well.” Thane’s voice seemed absent as he gently stroked the stem of a bloom that Poldo couldn’t name. The Scribkin would almost swear he could see the leaves growing fuller at the Troll’s touch.

“I just… I always assumed you were planting for… uh… the spring.” Poldo was reaching the extent of his horticultural experience, which until last week had been limited to pouring water on houseplants.

“I’ve always had a gift for gardening.” Thane shrugged.

“I… I see,” said Poldo. “Well, perhaps you can give me a few pointers later.”

The Troll nodded and smiled, but the young plant held most of his attention now.

Poldo sighed, a wistful smile twisting up his mustache. It was rare to see his friend and bodyguard at peace. The life of a Troll living among society was likely filled with rejection and scorn, and in particular an encounter with an Elf that Thane had admired seemed to have left deep scars. Clearly, he was haunted by a painful past, and would have been more so if the present would stop butting in with new trauma.

The last thought proved extraordinarily prescient when Poldo turned to find a hunched figure staring at them. The lawyer-monk clearly held considerable seniority; the combined weight of the medals, pins, and other insignia hanging from his robes had bent the man over double. A small, floating desk hovered through the air beside him, periodically dipping as though struggling to support the reams of parchment stacked atop it. His leathery face was shrouded by his heavy hood, yet the shadows couldn’t conceal the monk’s disgust and revulsion as he stared at Thane.

Poldo stiffened. No, there was no question at all in his mind as to why they faced eviction from Adchul.

“You know,” he muttered to the Wood Gnome on his shoulder. “When I was young, I learned that in business it is usually best to keep one’s language professional, no matter the circumstances.”

He gave a nod of greeting to the lawyer-monk, who returned it warily.

“And now that I am older and wiser, I’ve learned that you can do so and still stick it to the bastards,” he muttered, before raising his voice and arm in greeting. “Good morning!” he called to the lawyer-monk.

The old Human grimaced, but his shoulders fell like a deflating sail. With a heavy sigh, he crossed his hands in front of him and launched into Adchul’s traditional greeting. “The following is a wish of a good morning between myself, Brother Atticus, hereafter ‘I’ or ‘me,’ and Duine Poldo, hereafter ‘you.’ This is a non-binding greeting that does not guarantee or obligate either party to provide a morning of any quality, good or otherwise…”

Poldo allowed himself a petty, satisfied smile as his thoughts drifted back to a sign he’d seen in the small archway down by the docks. It was painted in simple blackletter that read: “YOU DON’T HAVE TO TAKE A VOW OF SILENCE TO WORK HERE, BUT IT HELPS.” The lawyer-monks spent their days meditating on the great disciplines of voiding liability and channeling leverage, and their sacred Master Agreement taught that careless words and idle chatter carried potential risk. Dinners at Adchul tended to be a quiet affair.

“… Nothing said in this disclaimer or greeting constitutes legal advice.” An enchanted quill on the old monk’s floating desk quickly worked over the surface of a piece of parchment, documenting every word. “You agree not to discuss legal matters with me without first signing a contract including an agreed-upon rate and fee schedule…”

The Troll had taken note of the monk and his monologue. “Did you forget how much they hate it when you say, ‘good morning?’” he asked Poldo.

“No,” said Poldo brightly. “Thane, I’m afraid your job is likely to become more challenging. We will be leaving Adchul.”

Thane frowned. “I thought you wanted to remain for at least another year.”

“Indeed, but circumstances are changing,” said Poldo.

“I see,” said Thane with a long sigh and a glance at the lawyer-monk. The Troll was no fool, and he held little illusion as to why they had a hard time finding permanent lodging.

Brother Atticus droned on. “… You further agree to release me from any liability for any damages, emotional distress, or financial harm that comes as a result of this conversation…”

“We will find somewhere stable.” Poldo reassured his bodyguard with a warm smile and a friendly pat on the shin. “Somewhere better.”

“Not safer,” Thane said sullenly. “The Hookhand still has assassins looking for you back on the mainland.”

“They’ve yet to put a scratch on me with you by my side,” said Poldo. “I’m more worried about his lawyers piercing our corporate veil and finding their way to Mrs. Hrurk’s Home. But all of those concerns are for another day. If the lawyer-monks won’t see reason tomorrow morning, we’ll want to leave as soon as possible. Pack your things and make your preparations. I’ll head to the docks to see if we can arrange passage on short notice.”