Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1)

by J. Zachary Pike

  A lantern flared, illuminating a face that made Marten jump back.

  One good eye studied the Halfling from a gnarled mess of scars and white stubble. “Let’s see ’em,” the man grunted, pulling his crimson hood up as he stepped out into the rain.

  “Surely, Damrod.” Marten had never worked with Damrod the Eye before, but the mercenary was well known in some circles, and not for his patience. The Halfling nodded and hurried around the cart. “You might want to cover your nose. They stink, even with the ice.”

  “Let’s see ’em,” Damrod repeated.

  Marten pulled the tarp off the back of the cart and tried not to retch at the smell. The man in the crimson cloak didn’t even flinch. Damp bodies on thick slabs of ice glistened in the flickering lantern light.

  “Five?” asked the mercenary.

  “Six,” answered Marten. “Got an extra, just in case. Extra value, that.”

  Damrod’s eponymous lone eye squinted suspiciously at the corpses. “They already smell. How long will they keep?”

  Marten had foreseen such questions. “Months. They smelled like this by the time I got ’em to the wizard, but he says they won’t get any worse as long as they’re on the enchanted ice.”

  The mercenary nodded. “That will do.”

  “And the gold?” said Marten.

  “Inside.” Damrod pointed to the dark doorway.

  Marten was prepared for that as well. In a heartbeat, he drew a throwing dagger and trained it on the mercenary’s good eye. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “You don’t want to get paid?”

  “I certainly do,” Marten corrected him. “I’ll send an associate to collect next week.”

  “Why go to the trouble?” said Damrod, without much concern for the knife Marten had aimed at him.

  “Because this job’s out of my league. A big step up for me. And when you work in, ah … covert acquisitions, if you weren’t chosen for your reputation, you were probably chosen for being expendable.”

  “That so?”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Marten. “It’s plain to see I’m good as dead if I step through that doorway.”

  “I can see you’ve thought this through.”

  “Well, I try to plan for everything.”

  “You almost did, too,” said Damrod the Eye. He snapped his fingers. There was a soft click from the shadows, and a wet thump from Marten.

  The Halfling stared down at the shaft protruding from his chest, dark dampness blooming around it. “Hidden crossbowman,’ he said. “Should have … should’ve seen that coming.”

  “Well, to be fair, this job was out of your league,” said the one-eyed man. Marten thought Damrod was smiling for the first time that night, but it was hard to tell because the alleyway was starting to run together like ink on a damp page. The ground fell away from him until he caught up to it, and then he was gone.

  Gorm sat at the fountain in the square of Tamanthan East, on the fourth tier of Andarun, in the shadow of the Wall. The square was set beside two lanes of broad steps divided by two sets of track, running all the way from Base to the uppermost levels of the city. The Broad Steps were the fastest way to ascend or descend Andarun’s tiers, despite the crowds streaming over them. People of every race and creed rushed up and down the mountain on the stair, and the tracks were filled with carts of goods and materials being sent up and down the mountain.

  Commerce blooms besides streams of people. Street vendors and specialty shops were as thick as weeds around the Broad Steps, enjoying a steady flow of customers trickling in from the stairs. Looking up the mountain, Gorm could see the turquoise dome on the rooftop of the Andarun Stock Exchange. He could hear the shouting of the commodity markets from the lower tiers, and even catch mercifully faint scents of the stockyards drifting in from outside the city walls. The whole Wall thrummed with comings and goings, business and trade.

  It was an easy place to go unnoticed, and that made it a good spot to meet with the Mask. This particular fountain was about as high up the mountain, and as close to the Heroes’ Guild offices, as Gorm was willing to venture.

  When the Mask arrived, he did so as a bow-legged, toothless Human in factory coveralls. Gorm wouldn’t have known who it was without Gleebek bouncing after him, happily waving a small green booklet. “Pauperz!” the Goblin said excitedly.

  “Well, look who got his noncombatant papers,” said Gorm, suppressing a small smile.

  Noncombatant papers gave creatures that were automatically classified as F.O.E.s a means to become productive members of society. Perhaps more importantly, they enabled them to opt out of being slaughtered and looted by professional heroes. They granted a form of limited citizenship to the bearer, provided he or she was carrying the papers. An adventurer who was found guilty of harming a Noncombatant Paper Carrier risked losing points toward advancement, accruing demerits, and even paying steep fines. The tiny green books were the single most effective defense against professional heroes.

  “His conditional papers,” corrected the Mask. “He’s not an NPC until he gets a job.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Gorm. “There’s plenty of work in Andarun for an enterprising young Goblin, so long as he ain’t got standards. All we need to do is …”

  Something bright flitted in front of Gorm’s face, forcing him to shield his eyes. “Hey! Here he is!”

  Gorm looked up at a tiny winged figure glowing with such intense blue light that it seemed to be standing in a sphere. “Blood and ashes,” he swore. “A search sprite.” He turned to the Mask, but the doppelganger was already elsewhere, and, presumably, else-whom.

  The sprite hovered and danced excitedly about a foot above Gorm’s head. “Here he is!” it trilled. “It’s Gorm Ingerson!”

  “Bones!” Gorm swore again, and hurried off toward a Ridgeward side street.

  Gleebek scuttled after him. “Grot gub’ah?”

  “It’s a trackin’ spell,” said Gorm. “It knows where everything and everyone in the area is, and it’ll tell ye all about it. Big moneymaker for the wizards. Town guard, tax collectors, anyone who wants to find something or someone, they’ll all pay good gold for a search sprite.”

  Gorm cut through a small alley, crossed a causeway and a small park, crossed Nubble Street, and generally tried any maneuver possible to obfuscate their trail as they made their way toward the stairs down. Gorm considered trying to blend with the crowd, but blending is difficult to do when there is an orb of light hovering above your head and screeching trivia.

  “He’s walking down the street! Here he is! Look! Now he’s turning left! See that! There’s a baker shop! You can get bread there! Now he’s turning right! It’s a weapon shop! Swords are sharp! Hey! He’s still walking! Now he’s talking to the Goblin!”

  “All they are is a bit of knowledge with a mouth,” Gorm told Gleebek as they walked. “They only exist to tell ye obvious things, so they don’t shut up till they wear off. Could be days.”

  “Hey! Listen!” shrieked the sprite. “He’s ducking down this alley! He’s stopping by a rain barrel! Rain barrels collect rain! He’s taken the lid off—aaaugh!”

  “Ye gotta be quick to catch ’em,” Gorm told Gleebek over the tiny, muffled protests. His arm shook violently and pale light flickered between his fingers as the sprite struggled to escape. “And they’re stronger than they look!” With a grunt of exertion, he thrust the sprite into the rain barrel. The barrel rocked and splashed and flared with azure incandescence.

  Gleebek put his hand over his mouth. “Nixtit?”

  “Don’t pay it no mind,” Gorm grunted. “The thing ain’t even alive, really. Just a spell.” Gorm gripped the side of the barrel and kept his fist submerged until the water was still.

  “I think,” he added. When he withdrew his hand, it was empty.

  “Anyways, it was me or the sprite,” he told Gleebek as they made their way down the alley. “Can’t have it followin’ me if’n I’m go
nna dodge the guild.”

  “Happily, that is no longer a concern,” said a Tinderkin, stepping from the shadows.

  To Gorm, Tinderkin, as the Gnomes of Clan Kendrin were most commonly known, always looked as if someone had shrunk some Elves until they stood just a little shorter than the Dwarves. The Tinderkin approaching Gorm had sharp features and a lithe frame. His leather armor was as black as the hair he had pulled into a neatly cropped topknot. He wore a slender blade at his hip, a neatly trimmed goatee on his chin, and a smirk on his face that reminded Gorm of a predatory reptile of one sort or another.

  “Gorm Ingerson, I presume,” he said.

  “I’m afraid yer mistaken,” said Gorm.

  “I should be more afraid that I’m correct, if I were you. My name is Mr. Flinn. I command the Company of Silver Talons acting on behalf of the Temple of Al’Matra.” He gestured to a small silver medallion set in his gauntlet, emblazoned with an eagle’s outstretched claw.

  “So ye ain’t with the Heroes’ Guild, then?”

  “Oh no, not at all,” said Mr. Flinn.

  It took effort for Gorm to conceal his immense relief. “Well, then—”

  “Mr. Brunt here represents the Guild of Heroes,” said Flinn, pointing up and behind Gorm.

  Gorm looked. An Ogre eclipsed the alleyway behind him. Mr. Brunt had a pair of arms like tree trunks, and tattoos of weapons, flames, and half-nude Ogresses covered them like moss. His sloping brow overhung two beady eyes and rushed to connect with his gnarled nose. He wore a vacant, angry expression, as though he was furious at everything and ready to take it out on anything.

  “Mr. Brunt and I have some business with you,” Flinn continued. “And your … associate as well.”

  Gleebek held his noncombatant papers out like a shield. “Pauperz!” he squeaked.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Flinn. “Keep those close, my friend. Who knows what could happen without them? But I digress. We were hoping you’d join us for a drink at Fula’s Pot to discuss a promising opportunity.”

  “Ah,” said Gorm. “And we have a choice?”

  “Oh, there’s always a choice. Choice is a constant,” Flinn grinned, a cold glint in his eye. “It’s consequences that vary.”

  High above, Brunt rumbled something unintelligible and yet quite clear.

  “Well, well,” Gorm said, “I was just thinking how thirsty I was.”

  Chapter 3

  “Nothing like a beer in a private space, eh?” Flinn said.

  Fula’s Pot only had a handful of customers this early, and when Brunt arrived, every one of them suddenly remembered pressing errands. Now, their party sat at a small grubby table in the back of the tavern’s empty common room, watching dust tumble through the thin sunbeams that trickled through the windows.

  “Aye,” Gorm nodded.

  A nervous barmaid delivered pints for Flinn and Gorm, and a cup for Gleebek. The barkeep rolled out a couple of kegs for Brunt.

  “Mr. Brunt and I expected to travel all the way to Whitegeld or Monchester to find you,” said Mr. Flinn. “How happy to find the famous Gorm Ingerson one tier up from us.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” said Gorm.

  “And traveling alongside a Goblin, no less. I find myself curious as to why.”

  “I’m wonderin’ the same thing, at this point.”

  “May I?” The Tinderkin reached across the table and plucked Gleebek’s papers from the Goblin’s paws. “Ah, it seems that your friend here has provisional papers. Where is he employed?”

  “He’s with me,” said Gorm.

  “Ah, but being with you isn’t the same thing as being employed by you, you see.” Mr. Flinn tossed the papers back to the Goblin.

  Gorm met Mr. Flinn’s cruel smirk with a hard stare. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a single giltin from his money pouch, placed it on the table, and slid it to the Goblin. “He’s my squire,” he growled.

  “Skwar?” said Gleebek.

  “Ah, but I’m not sure associating with you would be any better for our friend here.” Flinn’s smile was both mirth and malevolence as he pulled a slip of parchment from his pocket. “The Heroes’ Guild finds several serious offenses and a whole host of minor infractions in your file. Years of heroics with an expired license, failure to procure the necessary insurance, interference with heroics in progress, petty theft, unsanctioned looting … my, my, such a long list.”

  “Least I could do for ’em, after what they did to me.”

  “It seems to me they were lenient. If I recall the ballads, you fled from a quest,” said Mr. Flinn.

  It would be hard to recall the ballads incorrectly. Songs of Johan the Mighty were sung in every tavern and square from the Freedlands to Ruskan, and even into the southern Empire. All of them told the story of before Johan the Mighty was the Mighty, before he slew Detarr Ur’Mayan or the Bloodworm of Knifevale or the Lion of Chrate, when he was just Johan of Embleden, traveling into the dungeon of Az’Anon the Spider King. All of his companions died or fled, the bards sang. Even a Dwarven berserker ran away, they sang. But not Johan.

  Before that quest, Gorm had his own ballads. They called him the Northern Flame, the Pyrebeard. The berserkers called him their finest, and he was the toast of the Khazad’im Clan. He’d needed a caravan to haul loot back from some of his jobs, and when he had arrived in town, throngs filled the streets to scream his name. Then he took a mid-level job with some heroes to bring down a rogue noctomancer, and everything went to the scavengers.

  He still wasn’t exactly certain what had happened in the dungeon of the Spider King. He didn’t remember much of the fight with Az’Anon, though it was true that berserkers seldom remember much of any fight. Still, he had flashes of memory that haunted his dreams to this day. Iheen the Red falling and bleeding, Ataya Trueheart immolated in violet flames, hideous limbs reaching for him …

  And the running. Gorm remembered fleeing blindly, frantically—not just from the dungeon, but for days, running from inn to inn in the grip of a terror stronger than any battle fury he’d ever known. When he’d finally calmed down enough to stop, word was already spreading about Johan, the young hero who’d slain the Spider King alone, abandoned by Gorm, with his other companions dead around him.

  “The Heroes’ Guild could have had you killed for a deserter,” Flinn continued.

  The guild made a very clear distinction between common mercenaries and professional heroes. While a mercenary’s loyalties were based on current market prices, a licensed hero on a quest was guaranteed to either complete the task or die trying. Whether the hero was trying to finish the quest or trying to evade guild enforcers when he or she died was totally irrelevant.

  “All they’ve given you was an act of mercy.”

  “Mercy!” snorted Gorm. “Stripped me of my rank and made me a pariah, you mean.” Dead, Gorm could have been buried with his father in a quiet ceremony. But alive, as the first berserker ever recorded to have fled from battle, Gorm was a source of shame that no clan could bear. He was cast out of the Brotherhood of Flame and the Khazad’im Clan disowned him, leaving him cold, clanless, and hungry in the streets.

  He’d tried finding work, but nobody wanted someone with his reputation on a quest, or even behind a lunch counter. He didn’t eat for a week, and only then because some snot-nosed rank-two whelp thought he could take Gorm in a fight. Gorm had lived on his assailant’s provisions for a few days, and then beat up another overbold hero for more food and money. Soon, that was more the pattern than the exception, and twenty years later, here he was: a wanted vagrant traveling with a Goblin.

  Mr. Flinn shrugged. “We could debate the merits of guild law for some time, but it’s probably best if Mr. Brunt doesn’t partake too much of the local brew. He’s a bit of a violent drunk, you see.”

  Brunt finished his first keg with a noisy smack of his lips, and then eagerly twisted the tap off a waiting second.

  “Ah,” said Gorm.

  “You’ve
earned more than enough demerits and penalties for the Heroes’ Guild to name you a force of evil. And while I’m sure you’d be sad to hear that your indiscretions had invalidated your green friend’s papers by association, if you were declared a FOE, you’d doubtlessly be attending to more pressing problems—namely, that Guild regulations should require Mr. Brunt here to show you off for a quick, clean hanging.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Of course, Mr. Brunt has never been one to do things ‘by the book,’ so to speak. He’s developed quite a reputation as a renegade, a lone wolf who takes justice into his own hands.”

  “Loose … can-non,” rumbled Brunt.

  “That you are, Mr. Brunt!” said Flinn happily. “So you see, Mr. Ingerson, if Mr. Brunt carries out guild justice for these offenses, it will likely be a bit less quick and much less clean than a hanging.”

  The air rang with the crack of splintering wood as Brunt crushed his second keg against his forehead.

  “I see,” Gorm said, watching the Ogre laugh. “But since I’m havin’ a beer with ye, I suppose yer here to offer me an alternative.”

  “How very astute of you!” Flinn played with the point of his small dark beard. “You may recall that I represent the Temple of Al’Matra, which has a mission it considers to be of the utmost importance. Have you heard of the Prophecy of the Seventh Hero?”

  “I don’t know much about their religion,” said Gorm. “Is that the one who’s supposed to rise up and save the world from something and prove that the Al’Matrans were right about everything after all?”

  “More or less,” said Flinn. “I believe the Al’Matran prophecies are somewhat more specific.”

  “Yeah, but every time one shows up, he just ends up getting himself killed. Whole party wiped on some barmy quest that’s way out of their league. Last time they went to kill the Dragon of Wynspar, if I remember.”

  “Ah, well, they do say that madness finds whatever the All Mother touches. The Temple of Al’Matra has had some problems in the past with misidentifying the Seventh Hero. It’s rather tragic that hindsight has shown them all to be … less than genuine. Still, perhaps this time will be different.”