She stared out the window down at the street below. “My Hristo died because he crossed the wrong Lightlings; no, because he crossed the street in front of the wrong Lightlings. My children and I were given a second chance because I met the right one. At times it feels like everything we lost and had and lost again came not from what we did, but what your people did. And though I have worked my paws to the bone, and though I have built two careers and raised three beautiful pups, at these times I still feel that I live in a Lightling’s world, and that I can only have what a Lightling chooses to give me.”

She turned back to him, the fur around her eyes damp with tears. “You cannot fix that, Duine. It speaks well of you that you would try, but you need to know that it hurts just that you would have to. If you bring in the best lawyers, it is another reminder that I could not. If you get justice for Hristo, it is another thorn in my heart. You cannot give me victory, because a victory unearned is not a victory at all.”

Poldo tried not to bristle, but he was unaccustomed to problems that he could not solve. “So you just, what, sit here and think of how unjust everything is?”

She looked at him with kindness and mercy; the look a priest gives a wretch with a self-inflicted wound on the temple’s doorstep. “Every day. I do my best, I fight on, I work as hard as anyone I know, and then I sit down and think about the injustice of it all every day.”

The Gnome bit back his response, his reasons that he could be more effective, and swallowed them all in a ragged breath. He recalled telling Thane that the evil that was hardest to spot was the one lurking in his own good intentions. It took a bit of thought to come up with words that felt right. “I am sorry. For the things I can’t help, and the ones I could do better. May I… may I sit with you for a time?”

She smiled and took his hand in her paw. “I’d be glad if you did.”

They sat together for a moment—just a half minute or so of somber reflection and welcome companionship. And then, because the universe is just as full of cruel irony as any other kind, there was a rapping on the windowpane. They tried to ignore it for a time, but the messenger sprite was determined enough that the glass panes began to rattle and shake under the weight of its siege.

“Perhaps the sprite has an extra-strong seeking enchantment,” Poldo mused.

Feista frowned and stood. “Her lady must think it’s urgent,” she said, but when she opened the latch the pink sprite buzzed past her and landed on the desk in front of the Gnome.

“Duine Poldo of Silver Guard Securities?” squeaked the sprite.

“Formerly of Silver Guard Securities, yes,” said Poldo.

Upon that confirmation, the sprite placed its hands on the area its belt might be and leaned back. When it spoke, its tiny voice had dropped an octave and developed a hint of Scorian brogue. “Mr. Poldo, I ain’t got many connections in securities, and I need one now,” it said. “I saved your life once in the lair of Benny Hookhand, as ye’ll recall, and now I’m callin’ in a favor. Meet us at the main offices of Warg Inc. It’s a matter of urgency.”

The sprite hadn’t stopped speaking before another, this one from Lady Asherzu herself, flew in the open window and landed in front of Feista. “You are needed at the main office,” the tiny, pink figure intoned in the Orc’s voice. “And I know you have contact with the Gnome called Duine Poldo. If you can find and bring him, make every effort to do so.”

Three more sprites were already lining up behind it. Feista looked at Duine with regret in her eyes. “I think we had better leave, Mr. Poldo,” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Hrurk,” he said, finally releasing her paw. “Whatever this is about, it seems rather important.”

“Oh, it’s always important. Always urgent, they say. Everything’s the worst thing. Every priest thinks a loose toenail on their idol is the end of the world.” Theological Support Friar Brouse’s grumbled litany did not pause as he marched up to the back of the crowd gathered around the square in Sculpin Down. Cowl down and shoulders hunched, he trundled into the mob, a dingy phalanx breaking the siege line. “And who do they want to fix it? Who else? Sprites all hours, screamin’ crystals, everyone wailing like it’s all on fire, and it all comes down to me. And I tells ’em, I says it needs to be high priorities. I says, but they never listen. They just says⁠—”

“Yes! Finally! Come quickly!” The gaunt face of Ignatius loomed as the onlookers suddenly parted. The old priest’s long beard swayed to and fro as he did an impatient dance over the cobbles. “Hurry! You must hurry!”

Brouse paused long enough to bunch his face up into a deep scowl. “Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he muttered as Ignatius started pushing his way through the citizenry. “I’ll remind you, mister sir, that the crystalline matrix is for emergencies only!”

The old priest suddenly whirled and grabbed the friar by the shoulders. “This is an emergency!” he shrieked. “Someone isn’t dying!”

Brouse’s scowl deepened. “That sounds like the opposite of an emergency. That’s a good definition of something that isn’t an emergency.”

“Gah!” Ignatius practically spat in irritation, jerking his head as if to ward off a fly. “I mean, nobody might be dying!”

“Still not seein’—”

“Look!” The old priest pointed ahead of them. Smoke was rising from the epicenter of the murmuring crowd’s attention. Thick black clouds of it rose in a spiral pattern to join the cyclonic clouds darkening the sky from the mountain to the horizon. “The shrine… the soul! He won’t leave! The master won’t—can’t—send him on!”

“Well, could be…” Brouse mused, scratching his whiskers. “Could be that your QRCs got unmoored from the BOAT.”

Ignatius’ features scrunched up in confusion. “We’re nowhere near the river⁠—”

“The Being of All Things?” said Brouse impatiently, as though this was the most common and reasonably assumed definition of the word “boat.” “The essence of reality? It’s a technical metaphor, and if your shrine’s quantum resonance crystal gets out of alignment with it, you can get little puffs of smoke or squeaking noises or red liquid that looks a lot like blood. See it all the time.”

“And have you seen it do this?” asked Ignatius, stepping aside. Brouse squinted in the sudden glare.

The onlookers had left a wide gap between themselves and the smoking shrine of Mordo Ogg in an effort to balance their natural curiosity with their instinct for self-preservation. Every spectator would hate to tell their grandchildren they missed out on whatever interesting thing was about to happen, but that imperative carried implicit requirements regarding their survival to a time frame that included said grandchildren.

The shrine of Mordo Ogg’s head was nearly engulfed in the white-hot glow of its eyes. Behind the blueish corona of the skull’s incandescent glare and the black smoke pouring from the shrine’s stricken head, Brouse caught brief glimpses of orange, bubbling stone. The air around the statue shimmered with heat, creating the illusion that Mordo Ogg’s head was waving back and forth like a man suffering from a headache.

“Is that anything to do with your boat?” demanded Ignatius.

Brouse’s grimace pulled his bushy brow down and his stubby whiskers up until his face was a ball of prickly hair with a pair of dark eyes glaring out of it, like a hedgehog in a yellow cowl. “Could be,” he said, honoring the support professional’s creed of death before admission of error. And then, to hedge his reputation against inaccuracy, he added, “Could be something else.”

“Pretty sure that covers everything.” Gorm looked around the finely furnished executive conference room of Warg Inc.

“Let’s check the list.” Jynn stood next to the Dwarf, considering a sheet of parchment on a clipboard. He rapped his pencil on the first item on the page. “We have capital.”

“Lady Asherzu and her board assured me that this company of theirs has plenty of money if the offer is right.” Gorm nodded and waved to the chieftain and her retinue. The lady smiled at the heroes and gave them a gracious nod. “And given that I don’t see how anyone can refuse, I’d say we got the capital.”

“Very well. We have the Heroes’ Guild.”

“Aye, Vordar Borrison, guildmaster and emissary of the Dwarven Heroes’ Guild.” Gorm eyed a rusty-haired Dwarf exchanging pleasantries with a pair of Goblins. A cadre of Dwarven clerks stood behind him, carrying leather cases embossed with the seal of Khadan’Alt’s guild. “He’s second only to Grandmaster Korgen, and says he speaks with his authority.”

“And you’re sure the Old Kingdoms will be on board with this?” Jynn asked.

“I’m sure they won’t have much of an alternative. Just like everyone else,” said Gorm. “’Sides, after all the business with Detarr Ur’Mayan, Korgen owes me a big favor.”

“Didn’t they do us a favor?” asked Jynn. “We had to beg them to conscript the Red Horde.”

Gorm snorted and shook his head. It was amazing how well-educated people could be so unfamiliar with the basic economics of favors. “Aye, they did us a little favor, and I’d have been indebted to them if that was that. But it paid off like a silver seam for ’em, what with the liche’s loot and their new negotiations with Johan, and now they owe me a big one.”

The wizard’s brow furrowed. “And if they do well from this favor? Will they owe you again?”

“Of course,” said Gorm.

“This just seems like a way of getting them to do what you want indefinitely,” said Jynn.

The berserker grinned. “So long as it’s mutually beneficial,” he said. “This is how civilizations are built.”

“This is how crime organizes,” murmured Jynn.

“Not too far apart, more often than not. Speakin’ as such, ye got legal on your list?”

“Yes. I believe that’s the two lawyer-monks by the refreshments table.”

“Oh?” Gorm craned his neck. “Oh, the ones in robes who… what’s she doing with a quill and scroll?”