Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Ha ha! Weaver! Baggs! Fenrir! So glad you could make it,” Johan trumpeted. He gave Ortson a slap on the back for good measure. “Are you having fun? Quite the ceremony, eh? But nobody’s dancing yet.”

  “Perhaps it is the timing of the event, sire,” said Goldson. “The… difficulties throughout the city are dampening many spirits, ours included.”

  Ortson took a deep breath and nodded. “And it’s not been a month since the tragedy at Highwatch,” he said, trying not to stare at Clubs.

  “The kingdom is still in mourning,” Baggs added.

  “Ah yes. We all miss good King Handor, Tandos hold him. Some people say Marja and I courted too fast.” Johan grabbed a fluted champagne glass and took a swig. “But I don’t believe in such an idea. The heart wants what it wants.”

  “Does it?” asked Ortson, shooting a sidelong glance at Queen Marja.

  “Indeed, we’ve all noted what high spirits Her Majesty has been in of late,” said Baggs.

  “Yes, it must be a powerful love to pull her from her grief, or the unrest on the Wall, or the coming undead threat,” said Goldson.

  “Or her tea cakes,” added Ortson.

  “Exactly! Ha! With a bond as strong as ours, we couldn’t possibly wait,” said Johan. “Besides, my lady knows I saved her from Detarr Ur’Mayan before. I shall do it again.”

  “Naturally, sire,” said Baggs. “Good show.”

  “But on that note, I must discuss affairs of our security with my most trusted advisors away from prying eyes.” Johan winked and pointed at a gaggle of waving nobles. “Care to join me on the terrace?”

  Guests hurried out of their way as Johan and his retinue crossed the ballroom. The paladin blew a kiss to Marja, and she stopped eating tea cakes for just long enough to return it. Then a pair of servants opened the great doorway to the balcony, and Ortson found himself standing with Goldson, Baggs, and Johan in the cold night.

  The stars glittering above them seemed almost a faint reflection of the lights of Andarun shining below. Goldson took an imperial cigar from a case in his front pocket. Baggs retrieved a long pipe and began stuffing it with dried leaves from a pouch. Ortson stuck with his trusted vice and poured himself a finger of Dwarven whiskey from a small cart that had been wheeled out onto the balcony.

  “Ah, smell that fresh air!” Johan took a deep breath, sauntering up to the balcony railing. “It’s the sort of night that makes you glad to be alive! Ha! And if we want to stay that way, we need a plan to take down Detarr Ur’Mayan.”

  “Of course,” said Baggs. “Though naturally, we believe responsibility for defense lies with the kingdom.”

  “And not the business community,” added Goldson.

  “True enough,” said Johan. “But the chaos on the Wall hasn’t been good for the kingdom’s coffers. The royal treasurer keeps mentioning combined lateral threats in the market, or something like that.”

  “Collateralized threat obligations.” Goldson’s scowl was even more pronounced as he spat the words, as though the term itself was bitter.

  “Sounds right.” Johan shrugged and poured himself a drink. “The point is that Andarun will need gold to train more bannermen and recruit heroes.”

  “Much more gold for the heroes. They’ll be demanding big premiums to face a threat that… that took the lives of so many.” Ortson felt a lump rising in his throat and tried to wash it back down with a splash of whiskey.

  “Just give them an expanded share of the loot,” said Baggs.

  “Well, that’s a given,” agreed Ortson. “But you can’t kill a monster with a weapon you haven’t looted yet. Guild heroes will want to equip themselves with top quality gear and consumables, and that will require up-front payments.”

  “I’m certain that when the undead come calling, merchants and heroes alike will answer the call of duty,” said Johan. “Their kingdom needs them!”

  “Then their kingdom will very likely need vast sums of gold,” said Ortson.

  “I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it work, Ortson. Ha! And let us worry about the finances. Right, gentlemen?”

  “Quite,” said Baggs, with the uneasy caution of an explorer who has spotted a suspicious log drifting toward him in a tropical swamp.

  “Though I’m unsure of what, precisely, we could do,” added Goldson.

  Johan took a sip of his drink and stared out over the balcony. “Your firm could purchase Thacovia Bank, for a start.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Goldson.

  “Thacovia,” said Johan. “Scoria’s biggest bank. Or it was, before this horrible business on the Wall. Now their stock is plummeting.”

  “That sounds precisely like the sort of firm that Goldson Baggs would not like to buy,” said Baggs.

  “Why would we?” asked Goldson.

  “To stabilize the market? To shore up the tax base? Or perhaps to satisfy a royal edict?” laughed Johan. “Though I hoped there was no need for such a formality among friends.”

  Goldson and Baggs glanced at each other with narrowed eyes. “My apologies for any insult, sire,” said Baggs. “We didn’t realize you had already been coronated.”

  “Given that the wedding was but an hour ago,” said Goldson.

  “Think nothing of it,” said Johan with something between magnanimity and indifference. “I certainly won’t. Ha ha! Anyway, cake is in five minutes, and then we’ll do the first dance, and then the coronation.”

  “How… expedient,” said Baggs carefully.

  “What can I say?” Johan grinned as he opened the door to the ballroom. “The heart wants what it wants. Ha! I’ll leave you three to work out the details. I’m sure I’ll see you by the buffet. Try the griffin. It’s phenomenal.”

  The paladin pointed at the businessmen, made a clicking noise with his tongue, and strutted back into the reception.

  “Well, this is an interesting development,” said Baggs as the door to the balcony shut.

  “Only if you have a fascination with tragedy,” snorted Goldson.

  “Do you think purchasing Thacovia will stabilize the market?” Ortson asked.

  “Stabilize the market?” Baggs said incredulously. “Good gods, man. Have you been listening to the town criers? Or watching the figures from the Wall? Or listening to your own guild’s proclamations?”

  “I’ve been focused on other things,” Ortson said. It was technically true, although all of those things had been poured from bottles and taken neat.

  “I’m sure you have,” said Baggs. “But what about the quests you signed this morning?”

  Ortson thought back over the day. Mostly he remembered trying to get into formal wear without spilling his cocktail, but somewhere in there were hazy visions of putting his seal on several sheaves of paperwork. “I vaguely recall them,” he said truthfully.

  Mr. Goldson rolled his eyes. “Well, Mr. Ortson, let it suffice to say that I don’t believe our impending purchase of Thacovia will help matters. Things are too far gone for such a simple solution.”

  “Is it truly that bad?” asked the guildmaster.

  Baggs leaned against the railing of the balcony and took a long puff of his pipe. “Mr. Ortson, consider that since the fall of Highwatch, the threat index for the Freedlands and Ruskan has skyrocketed. Almost every threat obligation written in the last decade has been triggered.”

  “I’m well aware. The rising indexes have done no small damage to the guild coffers,” said Ortson.

  “True enough, but at least you know what you owe,” said Goldson, taking a drink. “Now, consider that almost every financial institution out there has discovered, and continues to discover, that through their investments they are responsible for billions of giltin in threat obligations due to their direct and indirect investments in CTOs.”

  “Perhaps trillions,” said Baggs. “Those CTO funds are worse than worthless now. Nobody will pay into them until they pay out. They’re all debt.”

  “The Royal Bank of Scoria announced la
st week that half of their assets were actually liabilities.” Goldson shuddered.

  “Now, look at the lights of the city,” Baggs said, pointing at the tiers below with his pipe. “You can be sure that next to each tiny glow, there’s a person who watched their retirement savings, their pension, their bank account, all of it evaporate faster than the melting snow. And rest assured that they are all beyond anger.”

  “They’ll be out for blood.” Ortson paled.

  “They already are,” said Goldson. “Especially given those quests you signed.”

  “Exactly,” said Baggs. “Finally, consider how many of those lights are moving.”

  The glow of the torchlight crept through the windows of Duine Poldo’s Boulderfolk office. Unseen crowds marched in the streets outside, their shouts punctuated by the occasional crash of windows shattering.

  “It was a mistake coming here,” the Scribkin muttered.

  The Wood Gnome on his shoulder chirruped sharply.

  “Yes, I know you told me!” Poldo had decided that it was vital to retrieve several documents and shutter the old office before the Wall was engulfed in complete chaos. Nobody else knew the combination to the safe, nor which papers were important, so he had made the trip personally.

  Now, however, the flaws in his plan were becoming apparent. It wasn’t that the reasoning was bad, but the timing certainly was. Poldo’s miscalculation had brought him to Boulderfolk moments before the arrival of an angry mob. “How do we get out of here?” he muttered.

  Several Wood Gnomes chittered from a pile of gardening equipment.

  “Good idea,” said Poldo.

  After some rummaging and a bit of a struggle, Poldo emerged from the shed wearing overalls and a wide-brimmed garden hat. One of Boulderfolk’s gardeners was a Halfling, so the overalls were a bit long in the leg and spacious around the middle, but with the cuffs tucked into rubber boots and the midsection stuffed with paperwork and nervous Wood Gnomes, Poldo looked like he wore the gardening clothes every day. At least, he hoped he did.

  With a deep breath, he grabbed a pitchfork and pushed through the hedge. The north gate was already twisted off its hinges, and it was easy enough to join the mob milling throughout the courtyard. The Scribkin stabbed the air with his pitchfork and marched with pantomimed outrage into the street.

  It was like leaping into a river of anger. The dizzying press of bodies around him, the smell of sweat and smoke, and the blurring lights threatened to overwhelm Poldo. A current of shouting, furious people carried him through the streets of the eighth tier until an eddy finally deposited him in a small alleyway near the Broad Steps.

  The Scribkin cowered away from the shouting crowds, watching them rage by as he caught his breath. He was in such a state that it took several minutes before he realized that he wasn’t alone in the alley. Turning slowly, he found a pile of rags that stared back with a familiar face.

  “Fitch?”

  “Poldo?” gasped Fitch. “Oh, thank the gods. Poldo, we have to get out of here.”

  “Hush! I know!” Poldo snapped, ushering the Halfling behind a dumpster. “What are you doing anyway?”

  “I was holed up in Mr. Stearn’s office when the riots broke out,” Fitch said. “But pretty soon the mob broke down the door, and we had to make a run for it. I-I got myself separated from him.”

  “You lost Mr. Stearn?”

  “Eventually, yeah. It took no small effort.” A hint of relief flashed over the Halfling’s grimy face.

  “Good gods, man! You just left him at the mercy of the rioters?” demanded Poldo.

  “I’m just trying to keep all my guts where they belong,” Fitch insisted. “It’s life and death out there, Poldo. You know how many bankers fell off the Wall today?”

  “I heard several professionals jumped,” said Poldo.

  Fitch gave him an odd look. “Jumped? Maybe. I mean, I would, too, if there was a pack of heroes chasing me.”

  “Guild heroes?” Poldo gasped.

  “Is there another kind? Lamia Sisters got declared a F.O.E. this morning.”

  “Surely not Pradessa and Maliss!” Poldo had met Andarun’s most powerful Naga on several occasions. “They were two of the first NPCs! They’re patrons of the arts! Pillars of society!”

  “All the guild cares about is that they were a perceived threat sitting on top of a lot of wealth. A quest with their name on it got signed this morning, and now they’re handbags.” Fitch shook as he spoke. “But I was talking about their bank, Poldo! The guild didn’t just declare the sisters foes. They made the Lamia Sisters corporate office a dungeon, and everyone working there a henchman.”

  Poldo shook his head slowly. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “The public’s lost a lot of their money, Poldo, and watching a rich man bleed feels like justice to an angry pauper,” said Fitch. “If Goldson and Baggs were a Goblin and a Gnoll, they’d be dead already. Heck, if the markets get much worse, I’m not sure even their skin will save them. But for now, the guild is mostly targeting Shadowkin and Darkforged.”

  “The Shadowkin!” Poldo’s mind leapt to the tenants that Mrs. Hrurk had brought into his home, and his stomach leapt into his throat. He took a deep breath. “We have to get out of here.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying!” said Fitch.

  They deposited Fitch’s coat, suspenders, and footwear in the dumpster, and found a colorful rag that could serve as a foul bandana. With his shirt untucked and Poldo’s pitchfork in hand, the Halfling looked like another angry gardener, albeit one with suspiciously well-tailored pants. Disguise in place, the pair leapt back into the tide of people rushing down the street.

  The mob proceeded to the Broad Steps in disorderly fashion, breaking windows and shouting at nearby bannermen. The stairs to the ninth and tenth tiers were blocked by Elven bannermen and a contingent of heroes, prompting most of the rioters to turn around and march back down another street of the eighth. Many stopped to watch a commotion up on the Wall. A few, however, broke off and made their way down the steps to the lower tiers. Poldo and Fitch joined them, trying to blend in with the thinning crowd without getting too close to any of them.

  They were halfway down the steps to the seventh tier when Fitch elbowed Poldo in the arm and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. Poldo turned back and saw the spectacle that had transfixed so many of the other rioters on the steps.

  The eighth tier was near the top of the Wall, and the activity on the tier was visible to anyone on the Broad Steps. It made for a sort of raised stage, and on it a group of professional heroes performed a deadly dance. They darted around a shadowy foe and loosed colorful, pyrotechnic attacks. From their center came a low growl, and then a roar as a hulking, ursine form reared up among them.

  Poldo gasped. “Is that—”

  “Shut up!” Fitch hissed.

  Mr. Stearn, or at least the giant bear that Mr. Stearn periodically turned into, loosed a furious roar and swiped at his assailants with massive claws. But the party assaulting him was prepared to deal with his transformation, and the bursts of magic around him were suddenly punctuated by flashes of silver weapons. A shining arrow caught the werebear in the throat, and with a final roar the lycanthrope toppled backward off the Wall.

  “Good gods,” breathed Poldo.

  Fitch grabbed the Scribkin by the arm and hurried him down the steps. “Just keep moving!”

  They hurried down the steps while trying to look unhurried, quickly sidling along with desperate nonchalance. They made their way down to the fifth tier, where they splintered off from the other drifting rioters, then ducked into a side street before breaking into full sprints.

  Sprinting to any degree, however, is not an activity that Gnomish bankers engage in very often. Poldo made a mental note that he needed to exercise more as he staggered up to the gated yard in front of his home. A couple of Wood Gnomes crawled from his overalls to pat him on the back as he doubled over, hands on his knees. He still hadn’t caught his
breath when Fitch flopped down on the cobblestones next to him. “Wha… Whe… where?”

  Poldo just shook his head and pointed to the sign that Mrs. Hrurk had recently erected over the doorway. Thin, brass letters read “MR. POLDO’S HOME FOR THE DISPLACED.”

  Fitch just shook his head and stared up at the sign with a perplexed expression.

  “I… I have some matters I must attend to,” Poldo breathed.

  “Is it collecting your money?” Fitch managed eventually.

  “No, I—”

  “Then forget it!” the Halfling pleaded. “Come on, Poldo. The guild may not declare us foes, but soon investors are going to come asking questions. And gods, the undead aren’t going to stay holed up in Highwatch forever. They might even make it here. Andarun isn’t safe for us!”

  “I just have to see to—”

  “It doesn’t matter, whatever it is!” Fitch insisted. “Any business you had here is over. Learn to fail well! I suggest buying a bar on some island in the Teagem Sea and serving fruity drinks for the rest of your life.”

  Poldo stiffened. “Failing well is exactly what I intend to do, Mr. Fitch. It seems we just have different definitions of the term.”

  “Well, mine involves sandy beaches and Tinderkin in grass skirts.” Fitch pointed Baseward. “I’ve arranged a secure carriage down by the river, and I’m headed there once I fetch my gold. This is your last chance to join me.”

  Poldo nodded and extended his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Fitch.”

  Fitch stared at the offered hand for a moment, then shook it uncertainly. “Yeah. Yeah, good luck to you too, Poldo.” And then the Halfling was away.

  A Wood Gnome scrambled up Poldo’s arm and chittered a question.

  Poldo looked up at his eponymous home for the displaced. He could see Mrs. Hrurk’s silhouette peering down from a window above. “Yes, I’m staying because… It’s for our residents,” he told the Gnome on his shoulder. “Come, we have much to do.”