“And you believe the guild and the nobility will accept this new quest?” asked Asherzu, seated across from the Scribkin. Darak Guz’Varda and Borpo Skar’ezzod were wedged into the seats around her, framing the chieftain in a wall of pinstripe silks and green flesh.

“The Dwarven guild has already affirmed it. And as for the nobility and the judicial…” Poldo gripped the seat with both hands as the carriage made an especially wide turn. An unfortunate pedestrian screamed from somewhere outside. It took a moment for Poldo’s stomach to drop out of his throat. “Well, the key will be to get the people to want it to be true, and their desire will put pressure on institutions to make it so.”

“And with so much of the economy tied up in this fight, that shouldn’t be hard.” Feista Hrurk slid across the seat next to Poldo’s. “Everybody’s fortunes are resting on this quest.”

The Gnome nodded. “As in so many things, the government will follow where the market leads.”

Asherzu nodded. “Does the palace have so much treasure?”

“Not in the palace itself, no. There will be valuables, to be sure—a king’s ransom—but in the grand scheme of things it’s a relatively small sum.” Poldo glanced out the window and saw several more of Warg Inc.’s carriages in formation behind them. The brigade of black-clad coaches careened through the streets of Andarun like a squad of knights charging a foe, and it struck him that their mission had far greater stakes than that of a hero fighting any beast. He turned back to the Orcs. “The real treasures lie in the Great Vault of the Heroes’ Guild, below the palace. The artifacts stored there are worth more than all the gold in the Freedlands—half of which is in the vault anyway.”

Asherzu nodded, thoughtfully. “But does your vault possess the same value the hoard of the dragon was thought to?”

“It can’t possibly,” said Mrs. Hrurk. “There isn’t enough gold on Andarun to be worth what the Dragon of Wynspar was valued at.”

“But perhaps a sizable percentage, if the gods are good,” said Poldo. “Many firms have more than half of their assets directly or indirectly in a dragon’s hoard that turned out to be empty. For them, the difference between losing a sizable chunk of those holdings and losing all of those holdings could be the difference between their worst day as a business and their last day as a business. Our mission is their only chance of survival. With those stakes, they’ll act now and let the lawyers justify it later.”

“The key is to get them invested in the new quest,” said Mrs. Hrurk. “Literally.”

“Exactly,” said Poldo. “Once I register the quest with the Andarun Stock Exchange, we must get the shares out and into circulation before the heroes complete their quest. That’s why we need the full Warg Inc. staff at the Wall. I’ll sell Warg the shares at a copper a piece, with the understanding that you’ll act as a clearing house to exchange them with any buyer at a one-to-one rate.”

“Minus a three-percent processing fee,” interjected Asherzu.

“And once the transfers have begun, we’ll need to signal…” Poldo paused as the chieftain’s statement finally boarded his train of thought. “Wait, what?”

“A three-percent processing fee on all transactions,” said Asherzu. “Warg Inc. shall withhold three percent of the Palace of Andarun shares as payment, or charge for smaller transactions directly in giltin.”

The Scribkin smiled in sudden realization. “Ah, surely you mean three basis points, my dear. Three percent would be a hundred… times… that…” His smile faded as he saw those of the Orcs, their tusks and eyes gleaming.

“Indeed it is,” said Asherzu. “I think two hundred and ninety-seven basis points an appropriate markup given the market’s condition.”

“What condition?” asked Poldo.

“Desperate,” said the chieftain. “Warg Inc. has the least exposure to the dragon’s hoard of any bank. Our staff is ready and en route to the Wall—who else can assemble their host of clerks before the king dies? As you said, many banks will fall this day. If any are to stand, they need us. They will pay three percent.”

“But… but it’s outrageous!” burst Poldo. “Most clearing house fees are a basis point on the high side! Three percent is extortion!”

“Oh no, Mr. Poldo,” said Asherzu. “This is business. My colleagues and I would never dream of harming you.”

Borpo looked about to speak, but the chairwoman silenced him with a deadly glare.

“We will stop our carriages if you wish,” Asherzu continued. “You can get out and run to Maiden Street and register your stock and negotiate with another bank to act as clearing house. I do not think you have time, but you may. If the market collapses and you are too late, well…” The Orc gave a small, apologetic smile.

“But…” Poldo reeled at the very idea of what it would take to succeed without the Shadowkin at this point, and what it would cost to fail. “This rate is… it’s absurd. Nobody will accept it!”

“I doubt that, Mr. Poldo.” The chieftain smiled. “They do not have much choice, unless they wish their whole economy to collapse.”

Poldo scowled. “You pretended you don’t want the economy to fail any more than we do!”

“We did not pretend. We have no wish for such a collapse, but we fear it less,” said the Orc. “Warg Inc. has no exposure to the dragon. Our balance sheets will not tumble as others. And if the economy falls, we Shadowkin have more money and more experience living a hard life in the wilds. We will feel the pain, but we are used to such pain. My people will find a way. Your people… well, I worry for many of them.”

Anger flared in Poldo at the betrayal. “I just thought we were on the same side,” he snarled.

“Did you?” Asherzu seemed surprised. “How much did your portfolio grow when your Goldson Baggs sent heroes to kill my father? How much gold did you make when my brothers and sisters died? The blood of my ancestors and my friends runs through these streets, and for centuries your people justified the slaughter by saying we would do the same to you. When did you think we joined you in this?”

Poldo opened his mouth, but thought better of it and swallowed his protest. “But surely things are different now.”

“They are,” said Asherzu. “My kin and I have joined you on the path of the aggressive seller. No longer do we fight; now we compete! We wield briefcases instead of axes, and plunder accounts instead of homes! And even as we triumph, as fortunes rise and fall, all of the parents will return to their children at the end of the day. Conquest without orphans. Battle without bloodshed. Everything is different, Mr. Poldo, even if some things stay the same.” A fire burned behind the chieftain’s eyes. “And if you cannot accept this, perhaps your problem was never how we fought, but a fear that we might win.”

Poldo shook his head. “I see your point, madam, but with so much at stake, now is not the time to…” He trailed off at the gentle weight of Mrs. Hrurk’s paw on his own hand. He turned to look into her big, brown eyes.

“Then when?” the Gnoll asked.

Duine Poldo thought for a moment before his shoulders fell. “Seventy-five basis points,” he said. “It will make you one of the richest banks in Andarun.”

Asherzu’s grin widened. “Two hundred and twenty-five. We do not strive to be ‘one of’ anything.”

“One percent,” said Poldo. “Any more will break some firms.”

“Such firms will be broken anyway. Many businesses fall this day. Two percent.”

“One hundred and twenty-five basis points!” snapped Poldo. “Over a hundred times the going rate! Leave me a shred of my dignity!”

Asherzu considered the Gnome. “One hundred and thirty.”

“Done,” said Poldo, and held out his hand.

“A pleasure, as you say,” said Asherzu, wrapping her hand around his and shaking it. “Mr. Borpo shall have the contracts⁠—”

Borpo had already thrown the door of the carriage open and, holding a rail to steady himself, leaned out of it with a fist in the air. “One hundred and thirty basis points!” he shouted.

“One hundred and thirty basis points!” an Orc roared from another carriage. Another took up the call, and then a Goblin’s reedy voice joined in, and then the Gnolls began to howl it. Soon the whole host of carriages had taken up the cry, whooping like warg riders as they descended on the Wall.

Gorm could see fear on Johan’s face as they approached.

Heavily armed bystanders began moving toward the front of the gathered crowd, wearing bladed armor and wicked grins. They were just the vanguard, those heroes lucky enough to catch an early rumor of the job of the century, if not the age. Parties of adventurers crested the steps from the tiers and marched across the Pinnacle. Enchanted trinkets rattled against polished armor. Arcane runes danced over sorcerous robes. Flames and lightning and white auras of frost crackled over blades and long spears. Soon the Pinnacle was crammed with heroes, all armed to the teeth, all eager to storm the palace and take its treasures. As numerous as locusts. As certain as the grave.

“What’s with the king?” asked Laruna, stepping up to Gorm’s left.

“Just gave him his options,” the Dwarf muttered. “Don’t think he likes ’em.”

Gaist nodded, falling into place on Gorm’s other side.

If the king heard them speaking, he gave no indication of it. The king stared with wide eyes at the advancing heroes. His lips twitched as though muttering something, but if he made any sound it was too low to be heard down on the cobblestones.

“So when are we going in?” Jynn joined the pyromancer beside Gorm. The Wyrmwood Staff glowed with gray light in the archmage’s hand.