A sudden squeal roused Heraldin from his thoughts. He glanced across the common room to see Cantrelle struggling to pull her wrist away from a man in red and black armor. The thug was big and ugly enough to qualify as an honorary Ogre, and he grinned at the barmaid with malicious amusement. Apparently, not everyone appreciated jokes about grog down the back.
The other maids and the tavern keeper ignored the assault, which meant that either it was a common occurrence or an uncommonly dangerous perpetrator. Either way, it wasn’t the sort of situation to get mixed up in when you wanted to keep a low profile, or even a profile with a straight nose. Heraldin turned back to his drink.
Something else was bothering him. It wasn’t just that fun was less fun these days, nor was it the added difficulty of trying to live a carefree life without being careless about his real identity or the very real threats to it. The problem was something else entirely, a yearning that he hadn’t felt before.
All he could think of as he pondered that feeling was Gorm’s face on the day the party delivered the Elven marbles to the Guz’Varda Tribe. The Orcs threw a celebration beyond anything the bard had ever experienced, and Gorm Ingerson sat in the middle of it, beaming like a drunken idiot as Orcs paraded by to offer him thanks in a language that he couldn’t understand. There was something in the way Gorm smiled, a quality that Heraldin couldn’t name and yet longed to—
Cantrelle shrieked, setting Heraldin’s teeth on edge. To his surprise, he found that his hand had involuntarily slipped to the hilt of his rapier. “Do not be a fool,” he whispered quietly. The bard reminded himself that the Underdim had a distinctive set of social norms, most notably the one that said it was perfectly acceptable to stab anyone that didn’t follow the Underdim’s distinctive social norms. He took a deep breath. He counted to three. He released his blade.
Heraldin became a professional hero by accident; ‘recruited’ by the Al’Matrans to avoid being sold out to Benny Hookhand. He took it as a given that it was the wrong job for him. But when he thought about the celebration at Bloodroot, he wondered if he didn’t miss something about the career after all. Perhaps there was a small part of him that—
Cantrelle was screaming again, and Heraldin thought that someone else was hollering as well. It was difficult to tell, however, as the next few moments were a blur.
When he regained his senses, he found himself standing with one foot atop a barstool. Cantrelle was behind him, staring in shock at Heraldin’s right hand. He followed her gaze to see his own rapier. It was pointed at the throat of the Ogre-sized hooligan, who stared at the blade with bloodshot eyes.
“What did you say?” growled Cantrelle’s assailant.
Heraldin had no idea what he’d said in the haze of bravado. It didn’t much matter at this point; there’d be no mercy if he backed down. “I said the lady would appreciate some space,” he improvised.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” The huge man’s breath was fetid. “Do you know who you’re tangling with, little man?”
“I can’t say for certain. Still, I think it’s best that you leave,” said Heraldin with absolute honesty.
“You’re a dead man,” said the thug. “You’re going to die for the sake of a tavern wench.”
“I’ll regret nothing done for the sake of a lady’s honor.” The key to any performance was commitment.
A chorus of snickers rang out from every corner of the bar. “Her what?” someone shouted.
“Her honor. Her dignity.” The words felt right, like lines of a song sung to him in childhood. Heraldin started to grin despite himself.
“I would say any honor she had—” The hooligan cut off mid-snarl, a drop of crimson blooming where the point of the rapier had grazed his skin.
“I wouldn’t,” said Heraldin.
The brute didn’t waste a moment. He leaned backward and grabbed the blade of the rapier in one fast motion. A maniacal grin split his face as he jerked the rapier from the bard’s grasp with a bloody hand.
Yet, though the man was faster than he looked, he was still slower than Heraldin. The bard hadn’t let go of the rapier before his off hand was fishing a couple of glass bulbs from his belt pouch. He hurled them at the brute’s eyes, and they burst against the gnarled face in clouds of blue and yellow smoke. The heavy man screamed and doubled over, putting his face in line with Heraldin’s boot. A solid kick sent him reeling back into a table, his face still trailing brightly colored smoke like fireworks at a Mordo Ogg’s Day festival.
“I wouldn’t do that, either,” said Heraldin, retrieving his rapier from the floor near the prone man.
His opponent tried to scream something, but he couldn’t manage coherent words as he clawed at his smoking face. He was still shrieking unintelligibly as he sprinted for the door, ran into a support beam instead, and staggered out through the front window.
“Well, at least he knew how to make an exit,” said Heraldin as he turned back to Cantrelle. “Oh.”
The look in the barmaid’s eyes ripped the air from his lungs: breathless, caught between admiration and adoration, ringed by teardrops like diamonds. In her eyes he saw hope restored. He saw belief, absolute, bedrock belief in him. He saw that she would never forget him. It was the same look that the Orcs of Bloodroot had given Gorm, and Heraldin finally knew why the Dwarf had looked so overjoyed at the celebration.
He felt like a hero.
“Thank you,” said the barmaid, straightening her dress. “I mean, you probably shouldn’t have done that. Rek isn’t one to mess with, but… Thank you, Locuerdo.”
“Ah,” said Heraldin, his sense of heroism deflating a little. “Well, my lady, I must confess that I’m not who you think I am.”
“Oh, come on,” smirked Cantrelle. “I always knew you wasn’t a duke.”
“Ah, yes. As it turns out, I’m not really Locuerdo, either,” confessed the bard.
The barmaid was unfazed. “I don’t care what you call yourself or who you’re pretending to be. It’s what you did that matters.”
Her words were like a lance of ice through Heraldin’s heart, draining away the warmth of a moment earlier. “What?” he whispered.
“I said it doesn’t matter who you’re pretending to be,” said Cantrelle. “Actions speak louder than words, you know? You’re a good guy.”
Heraldin could barely hear her. His mind whirled back to the celebration at Bloodroot, where he’d sat at the table next to Gaist. He remembered the weaponsmaster drinking in the surrounding joy stoically, the subtlest hints of happiness creeping around the edges of his dark face. More memories poured in, of daily lopsided talks with Gaist, of the weaponsmaster saving his life time and time again, of countless games of thrones played by firelight. Of the man who’d become a brother to Heraldin. Of the rejection Heraldin gave him in return.
“I’ve been a fool,” the bard said in barely more than a whisper.
“Well, yeah. I mean, Rek works for Benny Hookhand, after all,” said Cantrelle. “Still, I really appreciate it.”
Heraldin looked at the barmaid as though seeing her for the first time. There were a lot of things that he could see more clearly now. “Cantrelle, I’ve more regrets than a man has any right to, but defending you will never be one of them.”
“It will be if you don’t make tracks soon,” the bartender interjected, still idly wiping the bar glasses with a rag.
Heraldin heard shouts coming from the dimly lit streets outside. By the sound of it, Rek was returning with a small army. He pressed a few giltin into the barmaid’s hand. “I must go now. To find old friends and right old wrongs,” he told Cantrelle, though he was forced to shout it to her as he ran for the back. He made it through the rear window just as Rek and his cronies burst through the front door.
“It’s a very noble gesture, but not a wise one.” Mrs. Hrurk’s paw hesitated, her quill pen hovering above the parchment.
“Mrs. Hrurk, please,” said Poldo, trying to hide the desperation in his voice. “It is
essential.”
“It’s just that I don’t know how to manage all of this money.” The Gnoll looked overwhelmed as she stared at the sheaves of papers scattered around her.
“You’ll have Vilma of the Fire Hawk Tribe to manage the books. And I will still be overseeing the finances as well,” said Poldo. “All you need to do is continue to run the home, and you’ve been doing that admirably for some time.”
Mrs. Hrurk shook her head. “Well, I’ve had help, but this will mean I have to take on more. I’m not sure Aubren is ready to run the kitchen for herself. And young Graknar has been very handy, but without oversight he—”
“I have every confidence in you and your staff, Mrs. Hrurk.” Poldo tapped the paperwork again.
“I… I’ve never had so much money.” The Gnoll sighed. “And I don’t even know if I’m allowed to hold a deed on a property.”
“You still won’t own the property,” Poldo said gently. “Neither of us will own any of it. The house, the gold, and the stocks will all be held in trust for the incorporated charity that we have set up. That’s the key.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Hrurk… Feista, please,” Poldo pushed the papers closer. “Trust me. This is the best way to preserve everything we’ve built here.”
The Gnoll looked at him, and then glanced out the window. Poldo followed her gaze to the cobbled street below, where the residents of Poldo’s Home for the Displaced were enjoying one of the year’s first warm evenings. Orcs and Humans sat together, sharing cool tea and watching the last of the sun’s light retreat across the tiers. The children had found an old wand somewhere, one with enough magic to shoot out a few sparks of sorcery when shaken with sufficient vigor. They laughed and whooped and flung tiny spells across the street until a young Goblin’s antics conjured a lightning bolt that incinerated a trash bin. A nearby adult hurried over to take the wand away.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Poldo.” Mrs. Hrurk’s tail thumped on her chair as she signed the papers.
Poldo kept looking out the window. He recognized more than a few of the figures in the street below. Hurg was an old Orc of the Merga’Lerdak Tribe. Poldo recalled the tribe’s name; he once received a big promotion at Goldson Baggs after negotiating a buyout of the Merga’Lerdak quest days before the tribe was obliterated. He still had a gold coin from the loot in the desk drawer upstairs. Kitrik was a Goblin without a tribe; she was left in swaddling rags at a Shadowkin orphanage twenty years ago. Poldo recalled working the paperwork to wipe out several Goblin tribes back in 7.355, right around the time when Kitrik was born. The young Orcs from the Daellans, Mogta the Gnoll, Joren the Kobold, even the strange Slaugh that liked to lurk in the rainwater barrel; the more Poldo learned about his guests, the better he could connect them to the quests and contracts and funds that he once traded in.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Hrurk.” It was all he could bring himself to say.
“Look at all you’ve done for them. For all of us.” The Gnoll smiled, misreading the way he stared out the window. “You’ve given them hope. You gave me hope.”
Poldo managed a wan smile. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Hrurk squinted at him as she slid the paperwork back to Poldo. “No, really, Mr. Poldo. You are too hard on yourself. The gods will reward you for what you’ve done.”
Poldo wasn’t sure that would be a desirable outcome. He was even less sure of how to reply, but a squelchy knock at the door saved him the trouble.
Poldo bade the knocker enter, and a young Slaugh hopped into the kitchen and up to Poldo. “Mr. Poldo, sir!” he croaked. “There’s men come to see you at the door. Said they had an appointment, sir.”
Poldo scowled and checked his pocket watch. “My first appointment isn’t until ten o’clock,” he said. “Did they say what it was about?”
“No, sir. Just that it’s important.”
Poldo thanked the lad and sent him on his way with a copper coin. He begged Mrs. Hrurk’s pardon, instructed a pair of Wood Gnomes to take the newly inked papers to his lawyer, and made his way down to the front hall.
Two man-shaped slabs of muscle and ire eclipsed the door. “You Duine Poldo?” rumbled the larger of the two.
“I am,” said Poldo.
“Of Silver Guard Securities?”
“Yes. And where did you say you were from?” Poldo asked.
The larger man pulled a business card from the inner pocket of his fine black coat and handed it to Poldo.
Merle D. Knucker, Lcnd. Goon
Department of Personal Business
Imports, Exports & Stuff of Andarun
“And what exactly is the ‘stuff’ that I.E.S.A. deals with?” asked Poldo as he examined the card.
“Stuff. Things. Miscellaneous,” said Mr. Knucker. “One example is investing. We hold stock in Goldson Baggs, J.P. Gorgon, and until recently, Lamia Sisters.”
“Ah,” Poldo read the card again. “What does the Department of Personal Business do?”
Mr. Knucker ignored the question. “Although recently, I.E.S.A.’s portfolio has lost over thirty-seven percent of its value due to the fallout from CTOs originated at Silver Guard Securities.”
“Ah. Well, unfortunately, gentlemen, any investment comes with risks,” said Poldo.
“Yes,” said Mr. Knucker. “Mr. Plank and I are two of them.”
The other goon tipped his cap.
“I’m not sure I like your tone.” Poldo took a step back.
“The board of I.E.S.A. is very upset about the CTOs,” said Mr. Knucker.
“And I’m sorry for it,” said Poldo. “But many board members across Andarun share their sentiments, and—”
“None of the others are B. H. Ur’Kend,” said Mr. Knucker.
“More commonly known as Benny Hookhand,” added Mr. Plank.
Poldo felt the blood drain from his face and drop into the void opening up in the pit of his stomach. “The Hookhand…”
“Now, don’t make a fuss,” said Mr. Knucker. “It never goes well when people scream.”
“That’s when bystanders become witnesses, if you get my drift.” Mr. Plank nodded at the residents sitting and watching with some interest from the yard.
“You wouldn’t want anything to happen to all these nice people living in your big house, right?” said Mr. Knucker.
Even amidst his rising panic, Poldo had enough sense to nod. “What… what does Mr. Hookhand want with m-me?”
“A meeting,” said Mr. Knucker.
“We’ve arranged for your transportation,” said Mr. Plank, gesturing back at an ominous black carriage at the edge of the walk.
“Ah, but gentlemen, I’ve other meetings to—”
“Consider your schedule cleared.”
“But—”
“Mr. Poldo,” said Mr. Knucker pointedly. “You’re going to be on that carriage in the next three minutes. The only choice you’ve got is how pleasant your trip is.”
“And what kind of mess we leave behind,” added Mr. Plank.
A sudden peal of laughter rang out in the street. By the sound of it, Mrs. Hrurk’s pups were playing with some of the Halfling children. Poldo took a deep breath. “Very well, gentlemen. Lead the way.”
“Oh, after you,” said Mr. Knucker, stepping to one side.
“We insist,” chuckled Mr. Plank.
Poldo stood up straight and walked down the cobblestone path to the street. Mr. Knucker stepped up to the carriage and opened the door. Poldo peered into a bleak and windowless interior, with long benches along the sides. The seats already had two occupants: a plump Tinderkin woman with a lazy eye, and a slender bard wearing a red and yellow suit and a broad, floppy hat. Judging by the bard’s bruised and bloody face, he had opted for the unpleasant trip.
“I didn’t realize there would be other passengers,” said Mr. Poldo, scanning the street.
“Mr. Hookhand keeps a busy schedule,” said Mr. Knucker. “But don’t worry about Lemba. She’s harmless.”
“And Heraldin�
��s not going to be any trouble for a while,” Mr. Plank said.
“Aha, of course,” said Poldo. But he’d bought enough time to see a few tiny figures staring at him from amidst the flowers in the window boxes. “Send help,” he mouthed to the Wood Gnomes, just before Mr. Knucker ushered him up the stairs and into the black carriage.
“Not much hope now, right?” said the old bannerman. His purple and silver tabard matched the banners hanging from Aberreth’s walls. “I mean, I says to myself, ‘it’s join them rotters, fight ‘em and join ‘em anyway, or get myself hung for a deserter and then join ‘em later. Might as well make it easy.’ And here I am.”
“Seems like sound logic,” said Tyren, flipping through the pages of an old magazine. He lounged by an old desk that was occupied by a few stacks of papers and his own feet, still clad in the unholy armor that had become a part of him. On the other side of the desk a long queue of potential recruits stood next to a skeletal torso with a sign nailed to its sternum. Tyren had covered the original message with a sign that read “FORM LINE HERE.”
“Uh, so how do they… you know… do it?” asked the bannerman.
“I beg your pardon?” Tyren sat up straight and closed his periodical, though he dog-eared the page with a particularly salacious woodcut of an Orcess.
“How are they going to make me… one of you guys?” The bannerman shifted nervously from side to side.
“Ah, right.” Tyren leaned back and set his feet on the desk once more as he launched into a rote speech. “You’ll have three options. You can imbibe a potion of hemlock and blue shadeleaf. We have several bladed weapons that you can use—swords to fall on, daggers and such. Assistance is available. And finally, you can throw yourself to a pack of ravenous ghouls.”
“I see.” The bannerman’s face screwed up in thought for a few moments before he asked, “Why would I want that last one?”
Son of a Liche Page 43