Hoard

It was so close to being a good day, just the sort of errand Karl enjoyed. A peaceful ride in the forest, with just himself, his cart, and his trusty donkey plodding steadily through the dappled shadows, beams of sunlight filtering through the canopy to enliven the journey.

Plus, regrettably, the three most ridiculous people he’d ever met in his life.

“What about you?” the insufferable, interminable noisemaker asked him in an offensively cheery tone. “This has been some solid traveling music, if I do say so myself, but I feel like I could extrapolate a more cohesive theme from it. You know? I’m thinking you’d make an excellent focus, my good man! You’re a chap who deserves his own leitmotif if ever I’ve met one! The noble courier of an elite merchant company, entrusted with not only the material wealth of his patrons and clients, but the discretion of their business!”

“That’s really not necessary,” Karl said with all the wooden stoicism he could muster.

“Nonsense, good sir, I assure you the pleasure is all mine! At least, initially; once you’ve got your very own theme music, it’ll be yours. The sky’s the limit for a man with a leitmotif!” The bard grinned and jerked his hips to one side abruptly, causing one of the doodads hanging off him to slide along his belt and hit a drum, then struck a jovial chord on the miniature keyboard attached to his forearm with his opposite hand, which made something deep within his machinery produce a sound like a very small, asthmatic pipe organ. “I’m thinking…yes, you’re not a percussion kinda guy, so it’ll be driven by an ostinato. Something in the high strings—”

“That is very specifically unnecessary,” Karl said more loudly.

This entire party seemed to be competing for the rank of most ridiculous idiot, but with this bard along the other two never had a chance. He was carrying…well, more like wearing…some kind of contraption. It was mostly housed in a huge casing strapped to his back, but pieces of it were attached to so many parts of him that his clothing was mostly obscured, and he seemed able to activate some musical instrument or other with every part of his body. Every step of his feet could produce some kind of drum, he had multiple small pipes perched around his neck and shoulders, ready to be blown into, and the gadgets attached to his arms all made noises from within the main housing of a truly dizzying variety of instruments. Only his actual hands were unencumbered.

“You mustn’t impose, Greg,” the fighter and apparent team leader admonished gravely. “Such affectations afflict those on a path of destiny—a heavy burden which it is only reasonable to avoid. I feel its weight myself, in every step. My vow, to walk the path of the warrior without ever taking a life, is a truly precarious balance. Even my very weapons are unique in this world, suiting the secret martial art I am compelled to practice—the art of which I am the sole master.”

Karl prided himself on his professionalism; he was not only a merchant courier but Verdi, and discretion ran in his blood. But it had been all day with these people, and he was starting to crack.

“That is the seventh time you’ve managed to bring that up since we set out,” he said out loud, scowling ahead up the path. “It has been relevant to the discussion exactly never.”

He immediately regretted the outburst, mostly because it was unprofessional, but also… Riocco actually hunched their head slightly, cheeks darkening in embarrassment. Karl resolved to get a better hold of himself; they were just a kid, after all, and Riocco was the least stupid of them. By a thin margin, but still. Even their attire was practical armor of leather and layered silk. In black and red, because of bloody course it was, but at least functional. Unlike…

“Those untouched by destiny can scarcely conceive of its pull…or its weight,” the party’s mage intoned in the raspiest, gravelliest voice Karl had ever heard a teenage girl use; he wondered how many healing potions she had to chug per day just to keep her throat from bleeding. “Perhaps the unwitting and unwary should be silent. As graves are silent.”

He just couldn’t find it in himself to be perturbed at an obvious threat from someone hired to allegedly protect him. Aside from the impossibility of taking her seriously, he was already fully perturbed by…well, everything else.

The mage’s black robe managed to be a robe in design, despite being form-fitting, arranged in folds and layers which allowed segments of embroidered purple satin and crimson lace to peek through, and it was embellished all over with a truly absurd number of pointless belts. Around the arms, shoulders, waist, hips…belts everywhere, with ostentatious silver buckles. And, of course, augmented with a tall hat whose pointed tip was artfully crumpled and whose excessively broad brim shaded her more than a parasol. A hat also with bands of purple satin and red lace. And a belt. With a big, shiny buckle.

Laughing lightly, the bard hopped down from the cart; he was remarkably nimble considering all the weight he was carrying. Of course, now he was walking, so they got to be accompanied by a drum roll. Every few steps he would execute a little caper, varying the beat. Naturally, he never let up with the “traveling music,” which resulted from an accordion-like thing that required him to repeatedly pump one elbow up and down, fingers once more on the keys strapped to that forearm. Karl thought the jerking-off motion this resulted in was the most appropriate thing he’d ever seen.

His faithful donkey, Chevalier, flicked one of his long ears but kept plodding gamely along. He’d heard worse.

“That…traveling music isn’t what I’d call helpful,” he grumbled. “Might as well send out gilded invitations for every bandit in the area.”

The cart shifted slightly as Riocco hopped up to sit on its edge.

“This isn’t bandit country,” the youth said more quietly. “It’s the fringes, but we’re still in Boisverd’s main valley. The biggest danger here is bears, and making constant noise actually is the best deterrent to a bad encounter with one of those.”

“True enough,” Karl conceded, somewhat mollified in spite of himself. This was the first concrete indication he’d had all day that at least one of these kids was actually competent. Somewhat, anyway. “Bandits are never entirely off the table, though, otherwise you wouldn’t have a job.”

“Yes, but we won’t find gangs of highwaymen out here,” Riocco replied with a reassuring smile. “It’ll be occasional poachers. Such as those might try their luck with a delivery cart, but even there, Greg isn’t just amusing himself. Bardsong is inherently magical. It’s not as flashy as fireballs or bubble shields, but great for affecting things like probability and luck. He doesn’t play all the time in town, just out in the field where his magic can diminish the likelihood of misfortune. And Lilith and I can deal with anything which slips through that.”

“I see.” Well, it stood to reason there was some kind of magic at play; that musical apparatus was obviously heavily enchanted. Karl had seen it produce more protruding instruments than it had physical space to contain.

About the other two, he was less sanguine. Hearing her name, Lilith gave him a long, surly glower, which he did not take personally because that was obviously her resting expression. When she was actually annoyed, she thunked her staff down more loudly with each step—her elaborately carved magical staff studded with crystals and skulls that contrasted with her attire in a way that suggested it was the only actually useful part of her equipment. That robe-and-hat combo was not armor; he wouldn’t even call it gear. It was barely an outfit. That was a costume.

Riocco hopped back down, stroking the hilts of the twin swords belted at their waist, and Karl really hoped they weren’t about to start narrating about vows and destiny again.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand how all this had come about; hells, it wasn’t even that farfetched. For runs like this, wherein the most valuable thing being transported was the client’s discretion, M. Champion preferred to avoid attention by hiring the cheapest, lowest-ranked adventurer guards available from the guilds with which the Silver Hound Company did business. People with no achievements to their name or important connections, whose presence wouldn’t make the Societies or other trading houses wonder what was being transported. That meant new kids, and often enough that meant…kids like this.

Just, never before had it been kids so much like this.

When they’d set out, Karl had been hoping these three got tired or scared and quit the adventuring life before something killed them. By this point he could have accepted either outcome.

Blessedly, they were at the halfway point. Before Karl had to endure any more tortured soliloquys or much more magical traveling music, the path ahead opened up into a clearing, at the far end of which stood a neat little cottage at the base of a steep cliff behind, the mountain looming over them casting a deep shadow even at midday.

He didn’t bother refraining from an outright sigh of relief as he gently pulled Chevalier to a stop. Lilith and Riocco didn’t seem to notice, but Greg had the audacity to shoot him a knowing grin sidelong. And then the further, greater audacity to add a little flourish on some kind of slide whistle that extended over his shoulder.

“There is a haze of power over this place,” Lilith grated, planting her staff hard in the dirt for emphasis. “Beware.”

“The client’s business is under no circumstances to be inquired into,” Karl snapped as he clambered down from the cart. “You were briefed on that point. Your job is to be alert for threats; if you attack the client’s protective wards or anything of the kind, this will be your last job.”

“A sensible warning, if aggressively phrased,” Riocco said solemnly. “Stand alert, Lilith, but remember: we shall never be they who strike first.”

“I know our creed,” Lilith rasped, then had to clear her throat.

Karl gathered up the first of the sacks in the cart bed; sometimes he’d ask adventurer guards to help carry if they seemed like the type to be cool about it, but while these teenagers probably wouldn’t take offense, he did not trust them to touch anything without breaking it. And so he selected only one burlap bag for the first trip, keeping his right arm free, and stepped up to the door of the cottage, eyes scanning the entire area for the signals that were usually—

But there were no discreetly left instructions this time. Just before he got within knocking distance, the door opened and, of all things, a dragonborn stepped out.

There were few dragonborn anywhere in the Evervales, for obvious reasons. She was not the first he’d seen, but easily the first in ten years. The sight of her prompted an entirely inappropriate gasp from Riocco and some kind of miniature trumpet fanfare from that damn bard.

“Good day,” he said politely. “I am Karl Heitzen from the Silver Hound Trading Company, with Lady Roa’s regular delivery.”

“And we are the Lone Wolves of Destiny,” Riocco interrupted at this point when the hired guards had no business speaking, “a party in service to the Verdi Herons Adventuring Guild and your guardians for this mission. I am Riocco Kamiun, team leader.”

“Lilith H-khalefire,” rasped Lilith Halefire, choking momentarily on her affectation.

“And I have the honor of being Greg the Gregarious!” crowed the bard, giving himself an even bigger fanfare with, somehow, three separate brass voices and a drumroll. “Yes, it is I, Gregarious Greg the One-Man Bard!”

“Every bard is one man,” Lilith hissed in annoyance. “I mean—one person. You know what I mean.”

“It’s a play on ‘one-man band!’ And the fact that it works in no less than four languages proves that destiny itself is on my side!”

“Greg, Nourid root words are not a sign of divine favor,” Riocco sighed.

“How could they not be?!”

Karl wanted to murder them all so badly that he might have seriously considered it, if not for the ever-diminishing chance that those swords weren’t for show and the witch might actually know some magic. He had seen some deals go painfully sour in his career, but never had he been so embarrassed by the hired help.

And somehow, somehow, they still weren’t done!

“I know not what fate has brought your path to cross ours,” Riocco declaimed, bowing deeply, “but I know whereby dragonborn are brought into the world. You have my earnest sympathies, for your plight and that of your mother. In the name of justice, the Lone Wolves of Destiny stand ready to avenge—”

“Okay, whoah now,” Greg interrupted in a soothing tone, sliding forward with a gentle little arpeggio on something Karl couldn’t even see that sounded like a harp. “Our fearless leader means well, miss, but their passion for justice sometimes gets ahead of them. Any second now they’ll realize they’re undoubtedly stepping into a very sensitive issue which you probably don’t want to discuss, and also a hair’s breadth from signing us up to duel Atraximos the Dread.”

Riocco, indeed, abruptly went as still and pale as a marble statue, their face a comical mask of pained realization.

Karl couldn’t find it in himself to be amused. These kids had officially torn it; the good news was they weren’t going to have to die learning their lesson. By the time he’d finished making his complaints to the Herons, they were never going to work for any guild north of Rhivaak.

Also, even when he was trying to help, that bard managed to be an idiot. This woman’s hair and scales were blue; she obviously wasn’t Atraximos’s get. Everybody in the Vales knew he didn’t take women!

“Okay,” the dragonborn drawled. “Anyway. You are expected. Allow me to show you the procedure, Herr Heitzen.”

“Yes, thank you very much,” he replied with all the courtesy his strained soul could muster, stepping forward as she retreated into the cottage, sack tucked into the crook of his arm.

“You will need this,” she said, holding out her clawed hand with a silver key resting upon the azure scales of her palm. “The door’s lock contains a small divot above the keyhole. Press your Silver Hound signet into that while turning they key to unlock the door.”

“Understood,” he said, carefully pocketing the key. “I may not be in charge of subsequent deliveries, but I will see to it that the company knows all relevant details, and anyone sent in the future will be fully briefed.”

“Do you need to take notes?” she asked mildly.

Karl tapped his temple. “I am, miss. Anything written down can be intercepted. The Silver Hound Company places the utmost emphasis on our clients’ privacy.”

“Excellent,” the dragonborn girl replied with a thin smile. “Deliveries are to be placed in the storage apparatuses on this half of the chamber.” She gestured with one blue claw at a row of floor-to-ceiling shelves, with several chests standing open alongside them. “They are enchanted for, among other things, preservation, so perishables will be quite safe. Take note of these two boxes adjacent to the door, please.”

These were also bolted down, the larger to the floor and the smaller affixed to the wall directly above it. Karl attentively followed her over after setting down his sack on the indicated shelves, moving with great care not to step on her tail. They’d already affronted the poor woman enough.

“Payment will be left in the chest,” the dragonborn explained, lifting the lid to reveal neat stacks of coins. Karl appreciated that touch; such tidy arrangements made for easy counting. He did so enjoy working with clients who understood and respected a merchant’s needs. “In this letterbox you will find correspondence, when there is any. Lady Roa may wish to make adjustments to her order at any time; if it is so, this is where the instructions will be found. In fact, the first such is already here.”

She lifted the lid, plucking out the envelope contained within; Karl accepted it with a bow, tucking it into his secure pocket along with the key.

“For anyone not already attuned to these wards,” the keeper continued, “the key and your company signet will be necessary to open the coin chest. The signet alone will suffice for the letterbox. Do not under any circumstances perform any magic in this structure, or in its immediate vicinity. If its defenses are activated, the results may be unpredictable. Lady Roa does not wish for any outcome which may imperil her valued business relationship with the Silver Hound Company.”

From the doorway, Lilith snorted. “Wise, yet foolish. The needs of—”

“SHUT. UP.” Karl enunciated with more force and venom than he had ever directed at anyone in his life. For a wonder, it actually worked, the absurd girl rocking back on her heels as if physically struck. He continued courteously to the now-amused dragonborn steward, bowing again. “I understand perfectly; thank you very much for the clarifications. I will ensure that these instructions are conveyed to the company, and any delivery personnel will follow them to the letter.”

“I say, I took this for some kind of drop point, but it’s awfully neat and tidy in here, eh?” Greg said cheerfully, peering over Lilith’s shoulder and under the brim of her hat with a soft rattle of what sounded like wind chimes. “Do you live—”

“We do not ask personal questions of clients!” Karl roared. “Miss, you have my humblest apologies for the…for all of this. The adventurers are day hires, not employees of the Silver Hound, I assure you. You have my word they will never impose upon you again. In fact, after this performance, the Hound may reconsider its relationship with the Verdi Herons. In any case, I swear to you they will never again be your nuisance to deal with. Once again, I cannot apologize enough—”

“On the contrary,” the dragonborn interrupted, her blue eyes roving slowly across the three chagrined youths. “They are…perfect.”

Karl felt as if he were in freefall. “They…they’re what?”

“Yeah, we’re what?” Greg asked innocently.

“I would like to request this party specifically for all future deliveries,” the steward said, her lips curling up in a vulpine smile. “A small gratuity will be added to each payment for the inconvenience.”

“They—but—they—are you—did you—”

“I’m sure it might be counter-intuitive,” she said pleasantly, “but I know what Lady Roa likes.”

Karl, he had to admit, did not know what Lady Roa liked. M. Champion’s instructions were simply to regard her as a client of the utmost importance; he didn’t know who she was, why she was getting deliveries of foodstuffs to a discreet cottage in the wilderness, or how she came to have a dragonborn secretary, and he did not want to know. Knowing things about the clients…well, there was money to be made in that, but that was not the Silver Hound’s business, and certainly none of his.

In that moment, though, he suddenly felt strongly that he didn’t know much of anything.

“You know what I like, do you,” Izayaroa said in a dangerously calm tone as the three of them stood in Kaln’s chamber, watching the scrying glass near the portal to the cottage. At the moment it was showing the empty delivery cart trundling away into the forest, two of the adventurers riding in its back while the fighter strode alongside.

“I do kind of like them,” Kaln admitted. “In a…characters-in-a-book kind of way. They seem frankly exhausting in person. And we want them involved in our business…why, exactly?”

“They’re idiots,” Pheneraxa explained with a beatific smile. “Those three juvenile morons will immediately tell everything they know to the first person who asks; they probably won’t even have to be plied with ale first. I don’t think they’ll be able to help themselves.”

“She’s pausing for dramatic effect,” Kaln complained to Izayaroa. “The audacity.”

“It’s not even her most annoying habit,” she agreed, the tip of her tail lashing.

“It is also a certainty,” Pheneraxa continued no less smugly, “that absolutely no one in their guild—or anywhere else, for that matter—takes them seriously. Discretion is still a priority, but matters are proceeding quickly toward a point past which the keeping of secrets will be impossible. And when true secrecy is impossible, the last defense of a secret is to shroud it in confusion. By keeping those imbeciles on retainer, we ensure that the truth will be spread by the least credible source in all Boisverd…thus discrediting it. It’s no wall of silence, but it should prolong the full revelation of our circumstances, and maybe claw back some of the security Vanimax squandered.”

Kaln and Izayaroa paused, exchanging a thoughtful look.

“I’m no expert,” he said at last, “but…I can see the sense in it. Actually that seems quite clever, Pheneraxa.”

“Of course,” she said with profound self-satisfaction.

“Does your mother know you’ve read my treatises?” Izayaroa asked mildly.

Now it was Pheneraxa who lashed her tail. “She knows that I read everything I can get my claws on, and that your writings are in her library—their inherent notability all but demands it. I trust you would be mature enough not to try to rub her nose in it.”

“Oh, indeed,” Izayaroa agreed, “not in that. But come. Now the three of us need to go speak with Emeralaphine about this.”

Pheneraxa narrowed her eyes in a hint of alarm. “Mother is not going to be interested in the details of Kaln’s food supply.”

“No, I’m sure she won’t be. But she does need to be informed that you have just saddled us with a permanent attachment to an Eclipsian mage, if only because dealing with you is her job and no one else is more qualified to fill Kaln in on just what that means.”

Kaln and Pheneraxa spoke in unison; his own tone was purely confused, and he was not at all comforted by the shrill alarm in hers.

“With a what?”