Poldo stepped forward.
“Save your charts,” said the king. “I’ve seen plenty of charts.”
Poldo stepped back.
“Tax revenues from professional heroics are down by a tenth,” Handor said frankly. “And the rebuilding costs for collateral damage caused by monsters and questing heroes are up by a quarter. The kingdom’s coffers can’t take it.”
Baggs intervened. “Majesty, nobody benefits from the current situation—”
“You seem to be handling it quite well,” Johan said. “Ha! I hear your revenues are up seven percent.”
“Six, Your Honor,” corrected Goldson.
“I imagine that was helped by the Griffin of Whitegeld,” said Handor.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I’m unfamiliar with that particular quest,” said Baggs.
“Oh? Well I’m sure your Gnome has a chart for that. Right, Scribkin? Do you have anything on the Griffin of Whitegeld?”
Poldo stepped forward.
“That won’t be necessary, Poldo,” snapped Goldson. “I do recall something of the case, Your Majesty.”
Poldo stepped back.
“Let me refresh your memory,” said the king. “Adventure Capital estimated the Griffin’s hoard to be worth more than a hundred thousand giltin, and investors spent over eighty thousand for the rights to its loot. And when your heroes put the beast down last week, it had nothing but a broken shield and some beads. The whole quest brought in eighty-seven giltin, and that only after the carcass was sold to a tannery.”
“Sire—” Goldson attempted, but Handor could not be stopped mid-charge.
“The city-state of Whitegeld pocketed sixty thousand giltin, Adventure Capital walked off with twenty thousand more in fees, and investors got back eighty-seven giltin. The Royal Guards’ pension had invested huge sums of the gold in the project, and walked away with half a week’s wages. Now old Guine has to work for another two years!” The king pointed to a leathery bannerman in rusted armor that rattled with each geriatric shake.
Goldson and Baggs wrestled their faces into a reasonable facsimile of empathy and nodded at the old soldier. “Your Majesty, we’re aware of current hardships, and we’re sorry for the losses,” said Baggs. “But everyone involved understands that risk is inherent in the system. We all would have shared in the gains, and sadly we all must share in the loss.”
“Recall that our business had to hire six heroes,” continued Goldson, “equip them with expensive magical gear, and pay a portion of the death benefit for the two who gave their lives slaying the Griffin. It’s a considerable expense.”
“Ah yes, that,” said the king. “Mr. Ortson, can you tell me how much Adventure Capital paid in expenses for the quest to slay the Griffin of Whitegeld?”
Weaver Ortson was caught with a mouthful of bread and soup dribbling through his straggly beard. “Ahem, yes,” he said, swallowing and using a napkin. “Er, I believe it was fifteen thousand, one hundred and two giltin, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ortson,” said Handor.
“And worth every copper, Your Majesty,” said Ortson. “Our heroes are putting their lives on the line every day for the sake of the kingdom and its citizens.”
“Yes, thank you, Weaver. We’re all familiar with the Heroes’ Guild,” said the king. “Now then, Mr. Goldson, twenty thousand in fees, minus expenses, sounds like almost five thousand giltin in profit to me, which is quite above what one would expect for a quest that cost investors tens of thousands.”
“Sire, please!” Baggs protested. “Remember that we were projecting a much larger hoard, which would have allowed us a share of the net loot.”
“Meaning that our profits were about a fifth of what we expected, Your Grace,” pressed Goldson hurriedly. “That drives our stock price down, making our company as a whole worth less.”
“Which is just as bad as a loss,” said Baggs.
“Perhaps even worse,” finished Goldson.
“Nearly,” said the king, with pointed doubt. “Regardless, in recent years you’ve profited from the public’s gold. The only hoards that have met your projections have belonged to monsters that ransacked city-states and towns, and those are the very beasts that burden kingdom coffers with heavy repair bills.”
“If that is the case, sire, taxing loot will hardly fix the problem,” said Goldson.
“You could have covered the expenses for damage that way years ago, but not in today’s adventuring climate,” agreed Baggs. “Poldo, if you’d bring the charts …”
Poldo stepped forward.
“There’s no need for that. I think we all know that loot isn’t what it used to be,” said Handor.
Poldo stepped back.
“And that’s precisely why I also plan to tax profits from the sale of looting rights.”
The little color that remained in Goldson’s face drained away. “Sire, that … that would be … disastrous.”
“Would it?” Handor asked with a wry smile. “For whom?”
“Your Majesty, think of the consequences,” wheezed Baggs. “The kingdom’s coffers may swell, but the losses sustained by city-states and businesses would be phenomenal. Everyone from sewer-urchins to Poldo here would find their job in jeopardy!”
Poldo nearly dropped his charts.
“The problem, sire, isn’t tax policy,” said Goldson. “Professional heroics have never generated revenue for the kingdom directly. Rather, heroics promote economic growth and reduce city-states’ dependence on kingdom funding. The recent loot situation has just made that more difficult.”
“Much more difficult,” added Mr. Ortson.
“That’s why our side project is so important,” said Baggs. “If successful, we could return professional heroics to where it was twenty years ago. We could experience that kind of growth and mutual prosperity again.”
“Perhaps we should hold off instituting taxes until after we see the results of the project,” suggested Goldson.
Handor pursed his lips. “The plan may fail.”
“We have a contingency,” said Ortson.
“The one you told me about, Johan?”
“Indeed, sire,” said Johan.
The king nodded and fell back into thought.
“Speaking of which,” Johan said. “I had to deal with an incident at the Elven Embassy today. One of the Al’Matrans’ Seven Heroes beat the captain of the Elven guard senseless for insulting a Goblin.”
Poldo wasn’t sure why, but the champion’s anecdote improved the mood at the table. Mr. Goldson even allowed himself a small smile.
“Very well,” said the king. “We shall wait until after the project to assess our tax situation.”
“A wise choice, sire,” said Mr. Baggs.
The king turned his eyes to Poldo. “I think I shall see those charts after all, if you please.”
Poldo nodded and stepped forward.
“So … uh … the bandits were sighted north of Ebenmyre by …” Niln paused to scan a page from the Elven Embassy’s dossier. “A ranger. Right? Yes.”
Gorm rubbed his temples. He had hoped the high scribe might be better at strategy than at fighting, but watching Niln try to run a meeting was downright painful. The alleged Seventh Hero looked like he would rather be taking a sound beating from the training golems than mired in the Al’Matran temple’s small conference room, floundering amid the papers and files he had scattered across the table.
“But the Myrewood is … I mean, if we didn’t have to go there …”
“Of course we don’t have to go there,” snapped Heraldin impatiently. “In fact, assuming we like breathing, we probably shouldn’t go there. We should look anywhere else.”
“But the Myrewood is where the marbles probably are,” said Laruna.
Gorm really didn’t want to intervene. A party of heroes needed a clear voice of leadership; any sign of split authority or divided loyalties could send a quest spiraling into constant bickering about the best course o
f action, the best strategy for combat, or even the best tavern for the evening meal. That bickering could quickly descend into open fighting, and eventually inter-party violence. Gorm had seen it happen in too many parties.
No, the party needed to have one leader, and given that Niln held the purse strings, the contracts, and the backing of the Heroes’ Guild, it was best for that leader to be the high scribe. Still, taking charge of a situation didn’t seem to be Niln’s strong suit.
“Um … there’s also the tip about the Leviathan Project with the … the, uh, Orcs,” said Niln.
“We don’t want to spend a lot time on false leads,” said Kaitha.
“I’d rather spend my time on any kind of lead than have it cut short in the Myrewood,” said Jynn.
“Then go back to hiding in your tower, Rank One,” sneered Laruna, prompting the meeting to degenerate into a shouting match.
“Uh … excuse me. If we could just …” Niln shot Gorm the desperate look of a drowning man.
Shaking his head, Gorm answered the scribe’s unspoken plea. “All right! Enough,” he barked.
The table fell into a sullen silence as Gorm glared at each of the other heroes in turn. “Now, the way I see it, we got three leads. The Elves think they know the marbles are a short ways into the Myrewood, where we may run into a fight we can’t survive. Magrash thinks they might be with some Lizardmen in a tower by the Sudden River. Now, that’s a fight for sure, but I’m hopin’ we can at least handle a band of Lizardmen. And if those ain’t good enough, we might get some insight about the marbles if we dig into this so-called Leviathan Project in Bloodroot. Most of the Orcs there are NPCs, so it’s as safe as Orcs get—which still ain’t that safe.”
He pushed several of the papers aside and planted his finder firmly on a map of the Freedlands. “Our best chance of finding the marbles is our most dangerous. Our safest option probably won’t get us much more than their backstory. But the middle option”—he plunked a finger down on the thin blue strip that represented the Sudden River—“only takes us a day or two off course if we’re headed to either the Myrewood or Bloodroot.”
“So we should go there,” said Niln.
“If ye say so,” said Gorm, sitting back and giving the priest an encouraging nod.
“Ah, right,” said the high scribe. “So, we’ll go to the tower, and then move on to the Myrewood, right? Right? So next … we should talk about …”
“Preparations,” prompted Kaitha.
“Preparations! Right!” said the high scribe. “Er, how do you think we should prepare?”
All eyes turned to Gorm. He sighed, but split authority was better than no authority at all. “All right, here’s what we need …”
Chapter 9
“Kaitha,” Gorm said, knocking. “It’s mornin’.”
He knocked several more times before the oak door to Kaitha’s bedchambers finally opened enough for the Elf to poke her bedraggled head out of the door. “Mrmhermm?” she asked.
“It’s time to go.”
“Hrmm?”
“To the Myrewood? On the quest?” exclaimed Gorm.
The ranger winced. “Shhh … jus’ … shh.”
“Are ye not ready? The whole caravan is waiting for—” Words failed Gorm as he pushed the door open. Kaitha was still wrapped in a bedsheet. The room was a wreck, littered with bottles and armor and debris. “What happened in here?”
“I needed li’l more … li’l more drink,” slurred Kaitha. “I needed take th’ edge off.”
“Are ye still drunk? After all night?”
“Jus’ a li’l more,” Kaitha insisted. “’Sides, we don’ leave ’fore sunup.”
“The sun’s been up an hour!”
“Then you’re late.” Kaitha burped. “Shoulda … shoulda got me an hour ago.”
“What the burnin’ hells happened? Ye were supposed to be keeping it together!”
“Hey! First’ve all, I’m up before noon,” said Kaitha. “Point B, I woke up alone. An’ number four, I’m still stand—oop.” The ranger tripped over her blankets and toppled onto the bed.
Gorm rubbed his temples. The heroes were already behind schedule; now it was doubtful they’d leave much before lunch.
“Okay, I admit I’m not standing,” said Kaitha. “This is still going pretty good. For me.”
“Well, ye need to do better!” barked Gorm. “This is the kind of stunt that gets heroes fired or killed. Or both.”
Kaitha leaned over the side of her bed and heaved into an empty chamber pot.
“Bloody bones of thrice-cursed gods,” swore Gorm. “Gleebek!”
“Gleebek?” The Goblin poked his head in the door.
“I need water here.”
“Grot?”
“You know. Water? Drink? Water?” said Gorm, pantomiming with his free hand. “We need to clean her up.”
“Dig ra’root zuggog …” The Goblin hurried away.
“I’m sorry,” said Kaitha, in between violent fits of heaving. “I know it’s bad. I know. I’ll do better. I’m sorry.”
“See that ye do,” said Gorm. A part of him envied Kaitha, the part that still wanted to seek peace at the bottom of a bottle. The rest of him, however, needed to get this quest on track, and he was relying on the ranger to help it stay that way. It was too early for this.
Still, Gorm had been pulled from his fair share of gutters. Heaving something between a growl and a sigh, he hoisted Kaitha into a better position and started cleaning her off.
She scrutinized him through bleary eyes. “Your armor … your armor looks bad. Messy.”
“I tried havin’ Gleebek polish me gear.”
“Really? It doesn’t look like … did he shine any of it?”
“I ain’t sure. Depends on how far he got before he drank the armor polish.”
“Ah.” Kaitha looked Gorm’s outfit over with an appraising eye. “He’s not a very good squire, is—?”
“Worst squire in history,” said Gorm.
Gleebek returned a moment later. “Da dibitz ska gluggoo,” he said, presenting a bottle of wine.
“Good Goblin,” said Kaitha. “Give it here.”
“What the bloody bones are ye doing?” hollered Gorm. He snatched the bottle away and instructed Gleebek to watch Kaitha in his stead. “Here. Ye help her get clean. Lass, we leave in an hour if I have to tie ye to your horse. Understand?”
“Guz’pootig Hupsa!”
Kaitha nodded, and then bent over the bed for another round of hurling.
Gorm stormed down the hall. What kind of quest was this going to be if they couldn’t get to the city walls without the party falling apart?
He stopped a passing acolyte, handed her the wine, and instructed her to bring a bowl of water to Kaitha’s chambers. Then he headed back to the temple’s stables to see how the others were progressing.
The Al’Matrans were holding a small ceremony for Niln in the courtyard, although few of the attendants and none of the heroes seemed to be paying attention to the affair. Most were preoccupied with getting the heroes’ mounts and gear ready for the journey. Gaist sat perfectly still atop a rather unnerved-looking mare, all of his gear in place. The mages and Heraldin were still adjusting their equipment or seeing to the horses. Gorm’s own horse was prepared, as was a mule for Gleebek to ride.
“Today is an auspicious occasion,” High Scribe Pathalan announced loudly, waving a scepter with a falcon’s head over Niln. “We celebrate the departure of Scribe Niln and his company of heroes.”
“I think he meant that to sound differently,” Laruna muttered to Gorm.
“I ain’t sure he did,” Gorm told her. “Come on. We’ve much to do.”
And yea, the Heroes did set forth on their journey to retrieve yon Burial Stones of the Sons of Ogh Magerd, which the Orcs called Gar’gaist dur Garg, and the Elves called the Elven Marbles.
Niln wrote his latest scriptures by the light of a traveler’s lantern, scrawling them in a small volume, a
condensed copy of the Second Book of Niln (A Worke in Progress). The high scribe had left his library at home, with the exceptions of the first and second Books of Niln and an old leather journal in which he had collected the prophecies of the Seventh Hero.
And for three days and three nights they did journey, and stay at heroes’ inns and taverns along the way.
It was initially surprising to Niln that there were inns and taverns that catered especially to professional heroes. Most of them just carried extra large stocks of ale, nailed down the bar stools, and fireproofed the rooms, although one of the more upscale establishments offered amenities such as masseuses, equipment repair and cleaning, workshops for skilled heroes to create and upkeep their own gear or potions, and more.
When they’d stayed in Vala’s Song, a luxurious tavern complex with a fully stocked study and incredibly comfortable chairs, the goddess had been silent. Now that they were out on the open plain with nowhere to sit and write but a lumpy rock in his canvas tent, the scriptures flowed freely.
And on the fourth day, as the Heroes did cross yon Plains of Bahn they did encounter a Venomous Scarg.
A Venomous Scarg, Niln learned, was a nasty sort of giant, burrowing bat, with poisoned fangs and beady scarlet eyes. Jynn explained later that scargs are nocturnal scavengers that only attack solitary, helpless prey, and thus the specimen that had burst from the ground in front of Gorm’s horse was most likely startled awake rather than springing an ambush. Whatever the scarg’s intentions, the results were equally traumatic.
Gorm Son of Inger didst draw his axe, and set to smite yon Scarg a mighty blowe. But Laruna Trullon did loose a fiery Spelle at the Scarg at the same time, and Gorm did fall from his horse.
It was more like the Dwarf dove to the ground, Niln noted. A split second later and Gorm would have been burned to a crisp.
The Scarg did fly ’twixt the Wizard Jynn and the Mage Laruna, and they did cast their Spelles Hastily, and each did blast the other from their steeds. And the Wizard Jynn did fly into the High Scribe Niln, who fell into the Bard Heraldin, who was holding a Grenade of Smoke, which he dropped upon the ground.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 16