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

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Well, I … I—”

  “They ain’t happy about that, by the way. Point is, this magic business seems to be a little more complicated than ye think.”

  “Thank you,” said Jynn. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. She may have some raw talent, but it’s simply unacceptable that she should advance beyond an apprenticeship while using such crude weaves.”

  “And your weaves are much better,” prompted Gorm.

  “Oh, there’s no comparison,” said Jynn. “I’m the youngest wizard in three centuries to teach classes at the academy. Archmages have personally attended to see my weaves. I’m one of the most highly regarded spellcasters in the Freedlands. Some say I’ll make Archmage by thirty-five.”

  “Good! Training Laruna here won’t be a problem, then. I’ll expect an update on her progress this afternoon. Don’t start any fires. Or else.”

  Gorm turned and walked away without giving the mages a chance to respond.

  “‘Oh, there’s no comparison,’” he heard Laruna mimic. “‘One of the most highly regarded spellcasters in the Freedlands.’”

  “Shut up,” said Jynn.

  “That’s excellent advice,” said Laruna. “If only we had thought of it before talking the Dwarf’s ear off about what a great teacher you are.”

  “Let’s just get started,” sighed the wizard.

  They spent the day in drills and games, sparring and spell casting. Gorm wandered between each of the three stations, offering encouragement and barking orders in turn. A long-forgotten thrill was creeping back into him, notes of excitement that rang in his voice and hummed in his bones. The open road was before him, with mysterious lands and unknown foes and treasures waiting to be discovered.

  Of course, he had spent the last twenty years with the open road before him, and certainly there were plenty of unknown foes along his way. But now he had a task, a reason to roam, rewards to be reaped.

  Not all who wander are lost; some are on quests.

  Gleebek made it through his stave drills with ease and started the basics of dagger work. He insisted on using the knife Gorm had given him, taken from the threatening salve addict. In the same amount of time, Niln had gotten to the point where he was able to make it through a staff routine without injuring himself.

  “We’ll call it progress,” said Gorm.

  After losing forty-two straight games without ever mounting an offense, Heraldin managed to last for more than twenty turns and threaten Gaist’s throne in their final match of the day.

  “I prefer to quit while I’m ahead,” Heraldin explained.

  “Ye’ve a funny definition of ‘ahead,’” said Gorm.

  “I prefer to define words in ways that suit me,” said Heraldin.

  The mages accomplished little, if anything. When Gorm arrived looking for a report, they spoke over each other as they attempted to shift blame. Soon, they were yelling, and then they were screaming at each other, and then there likely would have been another magical battle had Gorm not intervened.

  “At least they didn’t burn anything down,” Niln remarked.

  “We’ll call it progress,” sighed Gorm.

  “See how much better that is?” said Heraldin.

  Kaitha retired to her rooms after the so-called feast. Tonight’s dinner had been a cruel mockery of the elaborate celebrations that had preceded her old quests. Before she’d headed out to take on the Ratmen of Warpspyre Peak, they’d served half a barn’s worth of livestock to hungry crowds of nobles; that was back when being the Jade Wind was something to be proud of. When she was somebody.

  Now, even the Al’Matrans couldn’t hide their contempt or amusement at her plight. And why should they? She was training a newblood and a Goblin. It seemed like such a waste for a heroine of her caliber.

  Then again, she wasn’t what she used to be. Or so she was told.

  The whole situation set her on edge. She liked Gorm and could respect his newfound energy, but his enthusiasm was misplaced. They were on a quest with the Al’Matrans, and even if they survived, their hero careers were over.

  Her hands were shaking. She needed something to relax her, just for a little, just this once. Then she’d be fine, and she could move onto the next quest. She arrived at the foot of her bed before she knew where she was going, her hands already slipping past a false bottom in her rucksack to find a few glass vials.

  She pulled out a small vial filled with warmly incandescent liquid. Kaitha had long forgotten her first healing potion. Somewhere, on some adventure, she’d doubtlessly found herself wounded and bleeding with more foes to fight. A bottle of elixir could mean the difference between life and death.

  Once she began spending too much time in the taverns, however, she started taking elixir less cautiously. She’d drink healing potions after any wound, not just the life-threatening ones. She’d keep them on her belt loop, so she could grab them faster when in a fight. She found herself running headlong into danger, not caring if she was wounded—no, even hoping that she would be, so she could drink the sweet fluid and feel the sweet fire run through her veins.

  Somewhere along the line, she’d started taking it when she wasn’t on a job, sometime back, when she was just starring to mess up on jobs and lose clients. She knew that taking elixir was risky; everyone had seen the addicts wandering around, hacking at themselves and begging for healing potions.

  Kaitha wasn’t that bad, she told herself, as she sat down next to her bed. She laid a few small rags around her, and then drew her long hunting knife. She just needed it once more, one more time to take the edge away. And then she’d stop. She had to stop.

  A tear trickled down her cheek. Of course, every time had been the last time. Just like, some small part of her knew, the next time would be.

  Kaitha started near her wrist and cut down the front of her forearm almost to her elbow. She sat back and grimaced, feeling a familiar thrill as she watched her life pour down her arm. She wondered if she’d bother to stop it this time. People would say it was a waste, a horrible shame that one so great should wind up like that. But they said it now, and if she died, she wouldn’t have to hear it anymore. Or know it anymore.

  Kaitha threw her head back and drank the elixir, tasting its fire and copper flavor, feeling it burn sweetly down her throat. She rested against her bed as the gash in her arm closed itself. Warmth spread from her wrist through the rest of her body as the magic began to replenish the blood she had lost. Her eyes glazed over.

  It was the warmth that she craved; it enveloped her, a rapturous glow took her in its arms and loved her unconditionally. It drained away all of the memories, the fear, the shame. Everything painful floated away on velvet wings, and in the warmth, Kaitha could finally be herself. Whoever that was.

  Chapter 7

  The Elven Embassy was just a couple of tiers down from Andarun’s pinnacle. It was a palatial mansion, built from granite but in the spiraling, flowing style of the Elves, so that the building seemed to be poured from the heavens rather than built from the ground. House crests were grown from the wall, living emblems made from trees guided into impossible shapes by Elven wyldsingers and decorated with the totems of each Elven House. Oak branches grew through a bear skull for House Galantia, while maple entwined boar tusks for House Lleweryn, and cherry wrapped around a stag’s antlers for House Tyrieth, and so on.

  “This place clearly has some gold about it,” Laruna noted, admiring the architecture. “It’s got real gargoyles, not the cheap carvings.”

  Gorm harrumphed.

  “Look! That one’s sunning its wings,” Laruna said. “How do they even get them to stay on the roof?”

  “You have to raise the gargoyle from hatchlings to get them that tame,” said Kaitha. “And even then, you should keep small pets indoors.”

  Gorm harrumphed again. “It’s ridiculous extravagance. Ye can’t trust someone with too much gold.”

  “And how much is too much gold?” said Kaitha.

 
“Ye can jus’ tell when someone’s got too much,” Gorm said. “Trainin’ monsters to be ornaments or puttin’ cats in chain mail or hirin’ gnomes to dress up and prance about the garden.”

  “Interesting,” said Jynn. “I’ve always thought Dwarves were particularly enamored with gold.”

  “I liked it more back when it was actually gold,” said Gorm. He produced a giltin and bit it. The coin bent easily, flaking gilt away from its tin center. “Gold today’s like a child’s trinkets.”

  Jynn shrugged. “A giltin is just a symbol, a tiny unit of power. Currency is a system of control, and coins and bank notes are how it’s measured.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” said Heraldin.

  “Most people don’t. Then again, they don’t see the warp or the weft of magic either,” said Jynn. “It’s the way of the world. Power elude the masses, and so the masses are ruled by the few.”

  “And then the few go crazy and start carrying Kobolds in their purses,” said Gorm.

  They were stopped at the front gate by Elven bannermen in jade and gold armor. Niln presented their credentials to a tall Elven captain wearing a striking golden cape. The guard reviewed the quest paperwork, the embassy invitation, and each of the Heroes’ Guild certifications. He paused when he looked at Gorm’s license.

  “Rank one?” he asked with a smile.

  “Technically,” Gorm said. He mentally added the captain to his List of People Who Had Made the Wrong List.

  The Elf grinned, handed the papers back to Niln, and waved them along. “Move through. Not you,” he added.

  “Grong, Grot?” asked Gleebek.

  “No Shadowkin in the embassy,” said the guard. “He can wait over there. Hear that, Gobbo? You. Wait. There.”

  “Ain’t a Shadowkin. He’s me squire,” said Gorm.

  A few of the guards chortled. “I’ve never heard of a slimeskin squire, even for a mine-drek at rank one,” said the captain, cramming multiple slurs into what was perhaps the most spectacularly ill-advised comment of his life.

  Gorm grinned, or perhaps bared his teeth—even he didn’t know, truth be told. The only thing that was certain was that whenever he smiled that way, events tended to get interesting. His first punch took a few teeth from the guard’s smile, his second cracked the Elf’s ribs, and after that he lost track until Kaitha interrupted him.

  “Mister Ingerson,” the ranger shouted, “is looking forward to having the remainder of his ranks restored, because now he is a proper hero once more, and doing things within the bounds of the law.”

  “Well—” Gorm started to protest.

  “Plus, we wouldn’t want to upset Master Niln,” Kaitha added pointedly. The high scribe stared at the prone guard, pale and slack jawed.

  Gorm reluctantly lifted his boot off the captain’s face. “Aye, sorry,” he said, sheathing his axe. “Been livin’ the rough life on the road too long, I guess. Forgotten me manners.”

  He offered a hand to help the captain up, but the terrified Elf slid himself back on his good arm and gurgled something or other. It was hard to understand a man without a functioning jaw. Several of the other guards shrank away, clutching their weapons in feeble imitations of defense.

  “Somebody get the man a healing potion,” Jynn said.

  “Aye. That’ll grow those teeth back,” Gorm told the terrified captain.

  “We’ll continue to our meeting,” Kaitha said. “Squire Gleebek will wait for us here.”

  “But—” Gorm started.

  “We’ve created enough paperwork here already,” Laruna said.

  “I think discretion is the better part of whatever that was supposed to be,” Heraldin added.

  Kaitha nodded. “No disrespect, but Gleebek can remain outside.”

  Gleebek approached Gorm and patted his arm. “Gi’deek. Ga’gub zug.” The Goblin nodded reassuringly as he went to sit on the bench the Elven captain had directed him to.

  Gorm sighed. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  Niln, rubbing his forehead, fell into step beside Gorm once they were through the gate. “Mr. Ingerson, we can’t … what do you think the guild will have to say about us assaulting embassy guards?”

  “Oh, I’d say thirty or forty.”

  “Years? In prison?”

  “What? No. We’ll be fined thirty or forty giltin.”

  “That’s all? You assaulted bannermen!”

  “Aye, but we’re heroes in the line of duty. Happens all the time. The rules are different for us, lad.”

  “A man on the street could lose his head for throwing a stone at a bannerman, and you’re saying we’ll pay a small fine for … for … I’m not even sure what exactly you did to him back there.”

  “Broken jaw, fractured ribs, fairly certain he lost several teeth—”

  “That wasn’t a request for more detail.”

  “Fair enough.” Gorm shrugged. “Point is, we might have more leeway with city guards than a man on the street, but that man wouldn’t hang for breaking a contract, would he? Now me, if I left your temple tonight I’d be swinging from a rope in the morning. We’re under guild law now. Some rules matter less, and some matter a lot more.”

  Niln scowled. “Still, Mr. Ingerson, I think we should abide by all of the law, not just the parts that you think matter.”

  “Aye. Sorry. Old habits die hard.”

  “Diplomatic relations die easy.”

  “Then they shouldn’t have barred me squire from entering.”

  “I’m sure no harm will be done to him.”

  “Harm’s already been done,” snapped Gorm.

  The chambers of House Tyrieth were on the top floor of the embassy. The house’s sigil grew in the sun provided by a large oculus in one of the building’s twisting domes. It was a cherry tree, grown into a perfect circle that spiraled around a great pair of antlers, yellow and white banners streaming beneath. Trained songbirds flitted among the leaves.

  “You should see it in the spring, in bloom,” Kaitha said.

  A waiting attendant guided them through the house chambers. The floors were stained oak and the granite walls were decorated with mosses and rare blooms. The furniture was made from dark cherrywood carved into sleek, fluid shapes and decorated with carvings of leaves and cherry blossoms.

  The heroes were led to a medium-sized room with an oblong table and broad picture windows overlooking the embassy gardens. Gorm walked to the window and gazed out over the exquisitely manicured trees and flowers while he waited. One by one, most of the other heroes joined him.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Laruna,

  “It has to be,” said Kaitha.

  “Kaitha?” said a voice from the door.

  Gorm turned to see an Elven woman in the doorway. Her amber hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore a smart suit jacket and short skirt, both in shades of cherry-blossom pink. She also carried a large leather purse.

  “Jalana?” said Kaitha.

  The two women emitted a high-pitched squeal of the kind Gorm had heard when horrible monsters attacked villages, and then they ran across the room and clasped each other in a lukewarm embrace.

  “How long has it been?” Jalana asked.

  “I don’t know. Forty years?” said Kaitha.

  “And so much has changed!” said Jalana. “I’m the ambassador to Andarun now. And you’re with the Al’Matrans. Oh, Mother always said you were touched by Al’Matra.”

  “And somehow, everything seems to stay the same.” Kaitha’s smile suddenly seemed more brittle. “Speaking of which, how is Mother now?”

  “Oh, you know. The same.”

  “Ye two are sisters?” Gorm said. Now that they said it, he could see a distinct resemblance.

  The Elves shared a knowing look. “Sort of,” said Jalana.

  “Queen Gwelineth always has three daughters,” Kaitha said.

  “You’re princesses?” exclaimed Laruna.

  “We used to be,” Jalana said. “M
other follows the old ways.”

  Gorm had met a few Elves who stuck to the “old ways.” Some couldn’t stand the idea of losing their identity as their memories faded, of literally losing themselves every few centuries and having to find someone new again. When you couldn’t trust your own mind to tell you who you were—and thus who you are now—the only way to know for sure that you hadn’t changed was to never change at all.

  Followers of the old ways stayed within the same cycles, endlessly repeating the same events and reinforcing the identity they clung to. Some did so at great expense and effort. Gorm recalled hearing about the sad case of an Elven couple that forever lived on the edge of poverty so they could save enough to marry each other in a lavish ceremony every decade or so.

  “The queen always has three daughters,” said Kaitha. “The babe, the girl, and the maid.”

  “When the time comes for a new daughter, the babe becomes the girl, and the girl the maid, and the maid moves on,” said Jalana.

  “So what does she do if she has a son?” Heraldin asked.

  “There’s a reason we couldn’t socialize with the stable boys,” said Kaitha.

  “It works well. We’re offered prominent positions: ambassadors, advisors, treasurers, and the like,” said Jalana. “Of course, some of her daughters wander away, much to Mother’s disappointment.”

  “Mother never liked my career choices,” Kaitha explained.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She didn’t mind them when you were successful.”

  An icy silence descended. Jynn cleared his throat.

  “Well, shall we get to the business at hand?” Niln said, beckoning them to sit at the table.

  Jalana’s handbag shook and wriggled when she set it down. “Looks like someone’s waking up!” she said. A gnarled canine face peeked over the top of the bag. It had bulging eyes and mismatched teeth and wild tufts of white hair sprouting from its eyebrows and chin. A Kobold.