“The Imperial Offense?”

“That’s the one. We saw the big attack, the fake quest into the dungeon. But I’m bettin’ that one’s the ruse, and Johan wants us to try to dodge out of it by showin’ what evidence we have.” He squinted his eyes until they were thin slits, as though he could see the scenarios play out in front of his face if he just focused hard enough. “The king gets all of us on stage so everyone hears our accusation and we make it as big as we can. He denies it, and acts shocked it was us who attacked the Tandosians. Easy enough to clean out the facility in the Winter’s Shade and make it look like it was a simple monastery or somethin’. Some loyal bannermen will be happy to declare there’s no evidence of wrongdoin’ by the Tandosians. Suddenly, we’re vandals and cowards, and then we all get thrown in the Guild Enforcement Office’s dungeon. And with the public turnin’ against us, Johan can have us hanged or strangled in our beds without losin’ face. And then he can have his fake dragons kill with impunity, but without us muckin’ up his plans.”

“That… makes sense,” said Kaitha.

“The trap behind the trap.” Heraldin nodded.

“Thank ye, Burt.” Gorm nodded to his friend. “Ye’ve saved us again.”

“What can I say? I’ve got a knack for reading people’s motivations,” said the Kobold.

“You’re a savant at thinking like an evil bastard,” said Heraldin.

“It’s the company I keep,” Burt shot back.

Kaitha ignored the Kobold and bard. “I’m not so sure we’re saved,” she said to Gorm. “It’s good that we know what Johan plans to do, but whether or not we make our accusations, he can still bribe the bannermen and clean out the facility.”

The Dwarf smirked. “Oi! Bard! Don’t ye use the Imperial Offense in thrones all the time?”

“Long ago. It was my favorite tactic when I was young. But when you play against a skilled opponent, it doesn’t work.” Heraldin looked at Gaist askance. “Someone who knows the game well can counter it every time.”

“And how do they counter it?” asked Gorm, eyes still locked with the ranger’s.

“The key to defeating the Imperial Offense is not to fall for the ruse or try to cover your flank. If you play defensively, the game is already lost. But if you call the opponent’s bluff and push straight… through…”

“Aye,” said Gorm softly.

The bard’s eyebrows made a sudden break for the safety of his hairline. “You madman,” said Heraldin. “You can’t mean…”

Kaitha shook her head. “Gorm…”

Gorm grinned and bared his teeth at the same time.

Chapter 19

“We accept the quest,” said Gorm Ingerson.

“Pardon?” asked Johan the Mighty, staring down at the six heroes kneeling at the base of the throne’s podium.

“We’ll answer the call of duty and slay the Dragon of Wynspar,” repeated the Dwarf.

The king rallied so smoothly that even Gorm almost believed Johan had a bit of trouble hearing. “Ah, yes! Ha haaa! Wonderful!” The king threw his arms out wide, and the assembled nobles, bannermen, and town criers took it as a cue for enthusiastic applause. Gorm watched the king bask in the adulation of the crowd, studying his face carefully. The Dwarf had to fight back a smile when the king’s eyelid twitched.

“And so, you must have a plan to deal with the beast,” said Johan, turning back to the party.

“Aye,” said Gorm.

The king’s smile faded for just a heartbeat. His eyes flicked into a sidelong glance with Weaver Ortson, whom Gorm noticed was looking unusually pale. “And what is the plan?” he prompted.

“Wouldn’t want to give away all our trade secrets, Your Majesty,” said Gorm.

“Right. Right.”

“So, at Your Majesty’s pleasure…” Gorm let the sentence trail off.

“Uh… there’s nothing else to discuss, then?” asked Johan. “Nothing you’d like to share with everyone?”

Gorm shrugged and looked at the eager faces leaning in from the gallery. Many wore the hungry, malicious expressions of onlookers at a public execution. Someone had clearly promised them a spectacle more exciting than a ceremonial contract signing. Their collective anticipation was as sure a sign of a trap as a raised flagstone or an innocuous grid of holes on the walls of a corridor. If he gave Johan any excuse to take offense, the king could make a counter-accusation, and soon the whole kingdom would be discussing the dueling allegations. It would be Gorm’s word against the king’s, and given that the king’s word was law, it was easy to see where that would go.

A classic Imperial Offense. And the only way out was straight through it.

“Ye can count on us, my king,” he said, raising his axe in a carefully calibrated gesture of solemn bravado.

“We always get our foe,” added Kaitha.

Johan’s grin was frozen, but his eye twitched again. “And that’s it?”

“I believe we’re supposed to sign the contracts,” said Jynn.

“Right! Right. Bring them forth! Ha haaa…” Johan punctuated the order with his trumpeting laugh, but it lacked its usual resonance, as though someone had shoved a sock down the instrument.

Guild clerks carried thick binders, writing implements, and small desks to the crimson carpet in front of the heroes. They moved with a rigid ceremony that appealed to Gorm’s Dwarven sensibilities, though their colorful tights and frilly ruffs were even more offensive to the same part of his nature. They set up small desks in front of the heroes, then deposited a neat folio, inkwell, and quill on each one.

The contract’s cover sheet was fine vellum covered in calligraphy, illuminated illustrations, and royal seals. The king had already signed the order, and the details of the quest were exactly as expected. They were to start their expedition within the week, the king would require proof of the dragon’s death, and they were entitled to a ten thousand giltin fee plus one one-hundredth of the dragon’s hoard. Even that small fraction was estimated to have a lot of zeroes at the end. The problem, Gorm suspected, was that the sum would be all zeroes at the beginning as well.

“Everything look in order?” asked Johan. “Terms are good?”

“A kingly sum.” Gorm smiled brightly and flipped the page.

The rest of the pages were set in the neat type of a Gnomish printing press, occasionally interrupted by neat script filling in an intentional blank. Gorm’s grin grew as he glanced over the document; it was the guild’s standard contract, the same one a rank one hero might get when asked to clear rats from an inn’s basement. The mages had worried that Johan could sneak in aggressive nondisclosure clauses or harsher penalties for substandard performance, but the king hadn’t bothered to alter the terms at all. These were documents that were never meant to be signed.

“So, nothing to discuss then?” The desperation was audible in Johan’s voice now, even to the crowd of onlookers. Sibilant whispers rippled through the audience, and Gorm could almost hear the mob’s focus shifting from himself to the king, like a school of piranha aligning on an explorer wading into the river.

“Everythin’ looks straightforward to me,” said Gorm truthfully. He took the quill from the gilded inkpot and scrawled his ceremonial signature on the cover sheet. His eyes met the king’s as the other heroes signed their copies, and Gorm couldn’t help but grin at the sweat beading on Johan’s brow. They both knew what was down in the depths of Mount Wynspar’s dungeon.

The truth.

It has been said that a lie can make its way around the world before the truth gets its horse saddled. To be sure, when complicated facts or counterintuitive principles are involved, lies and rumors get a head start. Yet it shouldn’t be ignored that a simple truth can move as fast or faster than a convoluted lie. It’s also pertinent to note that the proverb is often cited by people unhappy with the current state of public opinion, as it may be true that false allegations about a noble’s infidelity will spread like wildfire, but—to the distress of many nobles—so will true allegations. The idea that lies are more rapid or mobile is often uttered in the hopes that people will begin to accept a story’s pervasiveness as evidence of its untruthfulness, which just goes to show that a clever idiom can walk through many gates where facts and rational arguments will be detained, questioned, and hung in the morning.

Any town crier in the Freedlands knows that what really propels a story, true or not, is that spark of human interest, that il’ne se la, that potent alchemy of drama and passion and scandal that drives deep into the brain and grabs the mind’s eye with both fists.

Today’s story, reflected Heren Hillborn, had it all. Mighty heroes. A massive monster. A desperate plea from a king who failed to slay the beast. And obscene sums of gold that many, many people were entitled to a share of. Abundant variables and angles to speculate on and argue about.

Heren took a deep breath of crisp mountain air and smiled. It was going to be a good day.

She settled on a promising corner on the upper slopes of the city. There was a stone wall to lean against, a steady flow of hillward folk headed into Mistkeep’s center for market day, and no other town crier in earshot. She took a couple of deep breaths to limber up her lungs, gave her bell a firm shake, and let her final exhalation grow into a full-on shout. “Heeaaah-EX-tra! Extra! Another party to face the Dragon of Wynspar! Monster that nearly slew King Johan to be tested again! Are your investments safe?”