Pormello was a bookseller. His father had been guildfolk, a former Far Traveler who had laid down roots with the Kai Ochoa. His son’s childhood was spent hunting Skywhales on Doriad, watching racers on the Runway, and helping hunt space pirates in the Silver Eye.
But when he hit adulthood, he decided not to follow in the footsteps of his parents. He found a nice, little patch in the Flyleaf Forest, and opened a bookshop.
It was a quaint little place, known as the Flyleaf Fellowship, with a coffee shop inside and hundreds of books within. Pormello sampled everything, from the smuttiest of romance novels to the most boring, most inane encyclopedias on the various leaves of the multiverse, so drab and mundane that he often used such books to fall asleep.
Under usual circumstances, the Flyleaf Forest was a relatively quiet plane. Its vast size and lack of true civilization here meant that business came in waves. Word of a newly-contacted plane would bring in explorers in droves, to buy up any book or tome that had somehow found itself in the Forest. Guilds racing for some artifact or another would scour the plane in storms, before pulling back with either success or failure. During the hunting seasons of legendary animals such as the Skywhales or the Glittering Migrations, Far Travelers would come to browse through his little shop, to find books on anatomy, or migration routes through the planes they traveled, one even was looking for a book for how to properly cook Skywhale tongue.
But InterGuild? InterGuild was another matter entirely. Pormello had sold more books in its first day than he had for the entire season.
He had already put in an order for another ring. He liked collecting them, wearing them on his pudgy fingers, on his fat little toes, one was even pierced through his nose. He had three on now, two ruby-encrusted pieces and one made completely of amethyst, as he walked down the steps. It was the early morning – though one only told the time based on the timers downstairs, or nowadays the great clocktower the guildfolk had created for the event. Koris was already at the window, and Rancy and Trell were busy sorting through the non-fiction section.
“Good morning, everyone,” Pormello said.
Rancy was too concentrated, her many hands reaching up and sorting an entire shelf. Trell and Koris, however, waved and piped up a “Morning, boss!”
Pormello took his usual spot at the counter, noting how his chair creaked under his weight a bit. He had been eating well lately, and he assumed he would be eating well for several seasons to come.
“Koris,” he said, “Please, remind me to toss the scale out after we close.”
Koris looked at him, three tired eyes turning to look at his boss, a tentacle wrapped around a fresh mug of coffee.
“Right, boss,” they warbled.
“Alright, everyone!” Pormello called out to the shop, “We've got another big day ahead of us! Let's get to it!”
Trell let out a triumphant cry (always excited, that one), while Rancy simply continued to sort, moving towards the almanacs like an automaton. Koris merely sighed, and took another sip of their coffee.
“Well,” Pormello said, leaning back, “At least some of us are excited.”
***
The day wore on. Joseph and Tek returned back to the annex building, and once more got to work with Professor Adesanya to work on the engine.
And, like before, Tek held Joseph for the entire time. Once more lightning arced, the air smelled of fresh ozone, and Joseph felt his soul crying in his stomach as he forced it, again and again, to circuit. It was good practice, at least, a lesson in stamina. His belly was roiling though, as though he had eaten something sour or spicy.
Tek, meanwhile, ignored his discomforts. Always with the notes with Adesanya, the two giggling to one another as they made further gains in their work.
Time passed. Joseph kept glancing at the clock. The morning disappeared quickly, with nary a wave goodbye. Lunch was a meager affair of badly burned sandwiches courtesy of Adesanya's awful cooking.
And the afternoon came. Joseph looked up at the clock, wincing a bit as he noticed the time.
“Hey,” he said, “Tek. Almost four.”
“A bit more time, Joseph,” Tek said.
“You said that yesterday, you know?”
“I know, Joseph,” Tek said.
But he continued staring down at the diagram with Adesanya. They had made another breakthrough, and Joseph could tell they were getting very close to... doing whatever it was they were trying to do. The air was starting to warp with each run of the engine, shimmering like the rippling promise of a Traveling Point.
But Joseph's stomach was still turning in frustration. All that Tek cared about was the engine. How close they were to its completion, always with that same tired excuse.
The mound and the Professor were leaning over the schematics once more, whispering like lovers and making small modifications. They were ignoring him. He was like a tool, Joseph realized, just another piece that they used. He was no different than one of the alembics. A nice pair of electric tweezers.
Well, Joseph wasn’t a tool.
And he had places to be. He only had today and tomorrow to meet with Meloche and his contact, and it would take at least a couple hours to walk to the Bookish Wyrm.
“Fuck this,” he whispered.
And he walked out the door. Dodged past a few curious students, and power-walked out of the annex building, into the warm ever-night of the Forest.
***
Tek and Adesanya had finished another set of calculations. They quadruple-checked the math, made a couple last minute adjustments to the bronzefish's antennae, and turned.
“Alright, Joseph,” Tek said, “Last time, and we should be done.”
The mound looked around the room, noting that they were alone.
“...Joseph?” Tek said, “J-Joseph?”
And silence answered.
***
“And furthermore,” guildmaster Antrovan said, “I do not agree with the fact that the Law of InterGuild has increasingly been used to justify these specific incursions!”
There was a chorus of murmurs and whispers to the guildmaster's assertions, some of them agreeing, others venomously contrary. Kathen rolled his eyes, groaning as Almogra muttered under her breath. She rose up and stepped forward.
“The Law of InterGuild,” she shouted, “States that guilds may be used in the use of warfare. It has been the case for thousands of years.”
“Yes!” Antrovan roared, and the mandrill's teeth were bared, “But that is using the Law of InterGuild as it is written, not the spirit of its purpose!”
All heads were turned as the guildmaster of the Weaponeers opened a small booklet, the Law of InterGuild made manifest, and Kathen was surprised at how small it was, how thin the actual documentation was.
All of the Law of InterGuild, condensed into a wafer-thin notebook.
“'The use of technologies and ideas not native to a client's plane shall not be prohibited, save if the technologies and ideas are shared by the guild in question to the client or any other inhabitant of the plane,'” Antrovan looked up, “That is all it says! All that governs us! The next three pages are punishments, judgments on the result of technological intermixing. They say nothing of the ramifications of these uses.”
He slammed a fist into the table in front of him.
“My point! Guilds, and their advanced technologies, are being used to destabilize the local governments around the multiverse. Remember Ornistan? It was the Suits who were the ones to turn the tide in the Royal Participants’ Party’s favor, there!”
The guildmaster of the Suits, Godmother Vilena, sneered.
“Tiermen, and the Silver Hall’s takeover of the central government there?” Antrovan said, “The authoritarian dictatorship, that is now being investigated by the interplanar community for crimes against mortality? They were put into power because they hired the Seventh Imperial to assassinate their rivals’ leadership!”
“If not us, then someone else!” Ambrosius Superbus, guildmaster of the Seventh Imperial, rose from his seat. The ex-general leered down at Antrovan, “Watch your tongue, ape, before I tear it out myself!”
“I told you,” Antrovan snarled, “I’m a monkey, not an ape!”
Kathen sighed, feeling the entirety of the Guildmasters' Moot stir at Antrovan's accusations. Political talk – even when being spouted out by a talking monkey – could only be so interesting. Merry Curiosity was already typing out a transcript of the debate, one he could review later if Valm or Almogra prodded him.
The entire place was beginning to erupt, as guildmasters stood and began barking out their thoughts. So many powerful personalities in one room meant there was a dangerous aura about the place, as though everyone were on edge. Violence had erupted at the Guildmasters' Moot before, and the way that Ambrosius was glaring at Antrovan made Kathen afraid that the man would leap from his seat and begin tearing the monkey to pieces.
But all of this chaos did have another advantage…
“Soon,” Merry said, “Look at Almogra. She's about to get into another argument. When I say go, you go.”
“Right,” Kathen said.
More arguments were beginning to start up, not just in response to Antrovan's wildfire words, but about other parts of the Law of InterGuild. Or other parts of the guild life in general – Kathen could hear two guildmasters start snarling at one another about some personal issue, a skirmish gone deadly, or something to that effect. Almogra turned right as another guildmaster approached. It was Ultan, the guildmaster of the Exodus Walkers. The great skeleton was wrapped in his usual peacock-colored robes, and he was raising a single, bony finger at Almogra.
“I won't have any more of my Exodus Walkers fight in a war!” he snarled, “We got pulled into that spat between the Entian Houses on Gallios, and we lost a full quarter of our lineup!”
“I fail to see why you're bringing this up to me,” Almogra's voice was low and deadly.
“Because you're one of the big ones!” Ultan said, “You've a responsibility to make sure the Laws of InterGuild aren't being used against the spirit of which they were intended! Like him!”
He pointed down. Aldr, of Blue Sky Waiting, was slowly standing to his feet. His spear was in hand, and his ancient, rune-etched armor shined in the light of the false sun above. Two of his eyes were closed. The third, which grew out of his forehead, was staring straight ahead.
Beginning to glow.
“Time to go,” Merry said, “When he shuts everyone up.”
“Right,” Kathen said.
“SILENCE!”
There was a flash of light. Guildmasters groaned and winced, averting their eyes away, clenching them tight.
Including Almogra.
Kathen grit his teeth, getting out of his seat and taking off. He stumbled a bit as he opened his eyes, deep purple spots in his vision from Aldr's burst.
“Take a right as soon as we're out of the hallway,” Merry said, “Almogra's pinned, I think. She'll know you've disappeared, but the other guilds will be looking to her to help mediate.”
Indeed, he could hear Almogra's voice booming, even in the hall. She lived up to her title of right hand, the way she could command a room.
“The Law of InterGuild is porous, not tight,” she said, “The spirit of the law is what is required, for it allows us to make our own judgments, our own calls. Some of us will go to war, Antrovan, will be used as tools, for tools we are…”
And her voice disappeared as Kathen ran out the building. He was jogging now, giving a wave and a disarming smile to the two guildsfolk posted outside. The one with the fins for hands gave a halfhearted, confused wave back.
“Right,” Merry said, “Let's go find ourselves a book.”
***
The Bookish Wyrm was a bar on wheels. It was a circular, multi-floor tent, as though someone had combined a yurt with a wild west saloon, complete with swinging doors that Joseph pushed open. The bar's patrons were on the floor, sitting or lying on mats made of goat skins and fur, though there was a counter where a tender was mixing drinks. The ceiling rumbled with footsteps and movement. Another floor, presumably to account for the increased number of patrons that came with InterGuild. Joseph walked in, clenching his teeth at the sound of the piano playing in the corner. A badger was hammering out something akin to 'Ghost Riders in the Sky,' but they were missing every other note. Joseph tried to ignore that as he went up to the counter.
The bartender looked at him with seven insect-like eyes, an antenna twitching with something akin to irritation as Joseph sat down.
“I'm looking for a guy,” he said.
“You order, I talk,” the bartender said.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Deal,” Joseph said. He reached into his jacket. He had been saving up, saving his shares from the last few jobs for InterGuild. He produced a credstick from his jacket and laid it on the counter. The bartender's snout shriveled up.
“I don't take Fed cash,” he said.
“Then I don't have money.”
“Then I don't talk.”
“Fine,” Joseph said, “I'll find him myself.”
He made his way to the stairs, muttering “Asshole,” under his breath as he went.
Fortunately, Meloche was not hard to find. The second floor had a couple of tables tucked away by the walls, and the philosopher was at one of them, nursing a mug of what appeared to be alcoholic goat's milk. Beside him was a figure Joseph...
Joseph had met before.
“Norcanthopus Bulg?”
“Ah,” Meloche said, waving Joseph over, “So you've met.”
The large, gray-haired alien turned to consider Joseph with his three dark green eyes. They flashed a brighter green for a second as Bulg scanned through his memory banks to place Joseph's face.
“A metahuman who works with Myron Becenti,” he said, “How fares your significant other? How fares your father?”
“I, uh, I'm single,” Joseph said, “And I haven't spoken to my dad in a few months.”
“A pity,” Bulg said, “No Becenti?”
“I'm on my own for this one,” Joseph said.
“A mission, outside of the guild,” Bulg nodded, “Very well. I usually don't work with such folk, not when it comes to the multiverse.”
“Bulg,” Meloche said, “Joseph's as good as they come.”
The great, shaggy alien looked Joseph up and down again. Three eyes narrowed.
“Very well,” he said, “I suppose he will do. But I am very busy, Meloche. If he cannot get what I need, I will be very... displeased.”
Joseph nodded, feeling butterflies in his stomach. He had worked with Bulg once before, on one of his first jobs with the Amber Foundation. He was a dealer, Joseph remembered. An information broker who had given Becenti information on a space station in the Outer Reach.
It seemed like his information extended well past the Silver Eye, too.
The meeting Becenti had with the alien had been completely transactional. A couple of greetings in an old, seedy little bar tucked away on Everlasting Truth. But there was an edge to Norcanthopus Bulg's words, now. They were clipped, hesitant. Even suspicious.
“Have a seat, Joseph,” Meloche said.
Joseph sat down across the table from the two of them, looking between them.
“Right,” Joseph said, “So, how is this going to go down?”
“Directly to the point,” Bulg said, “After introductions, at least. This is agreeable.”
“I want to get home,” Joseph said, “Back to Earth. To see my family again, including my father.”
He added that last bit to get on Bulg's good side, and it seemed to work. The alien relaxed a bit as he laid four of his hands on the table.
“It goes like this, Joseph Zheng,” Bulg said, “My colleague here tells me that you are seeking out knowledge on twin sarcophagi once used by Iresine.”
“Yeah,” Joseph said, “Anuté and Inweth.”
“I have information on them,” Bulg said, “Or, at least, I have the means of getting that information. Those sarcophagi – and others like it – were used by metahumans throughout their wars with the High Federation. I believe, if I were to grease a few palms, I could get you information on them. More than you presumably have.”
“Like what?” Joseph said.
“How they were built,” Bulg said, “How they avoid the forecasts of the multiverse and the wandering of the planes. How to use them. How to circumvent them.”
“Circumvent?” Joseph asked.
“When I had a spare moment,” Bulg said, “I took a look at how they worked. The sarcophagi were used in pairs, and when one pair was destroyed, it meant that the other was rendered useless.”
Joseph leaned back, letting the alien finish.
“There are rumors,” Bulg said, “Of metahuman research being done, of circumventing the paired system that was created. Of making more sarcophagi, and adding them to the network.”
Joseph's heart hammered.
“And if I get that...” he said, “I can make another sarcophagi.”
“Or find one that has lost its pair, and add it to Anuté and Inweth's network.”
“What do you want?” Joseph said.
“Simple,” Bulg said, “I desire a book.”
He laid a disc on the table. A hologram sprang to life above it, depicting a solid-looking tome, upon which were words in a language Joseph didn't recognize, the letters etched and jagged and flowing together as one long symbol.
“The Dyriptium of Karn,” Bulg said, “A book that details the Frauds-Echten Squall.”
“The... what?”
“Planes often travel in groups, Joseph,” Meloche explained, “The big ones are known as paradigms. Smaller ones are known as squalls.”
“I thought the multiverse didn't have a shape,” Joseph said.
“Your understanding of the multiverse is rudimentary and irrelevant,” Bulg said, “I desire the Dyriptium of Karn for my own studies and research. Alas, I haven't the time to track it down. InterGuild is... a busy time, for me.”
“Right,” Joseph said. He wasn't going to complain, not when the job to be undertaken seemed so simple, “So I get this book from you, on a plane of nothing but books, and you get me the info I need?”
“Yes,” Bulg said, “Have we a deal, Joseph Zheng?”
Joseph took a deep breath. His eyes were hard as he extended a hand.
“Ah, a human custom,” Bulg said, “You people and your obsession with hands.”
He extended one of his six, and shook.
“I must be off now,” Bulg said, “I will come at the usual time to this place. I am a busy being, Joseph Zheng. If I do not have the book by the end of InterGuild, then our deal is off.”
“I'll get it,” Joseph said.
“Meloche,” Bulg said. The metahuman nodded.
Bulg made his exit, leaving Joseph and Meloche alone. The sap-covered philosopher took a sip of his alcoholic milk.
“So, a book, then,” Joseph said.
“Yes,” Meloche said, “I'm glad, usually Norcanthopus Bulg asks for information that is hard to come by. But it appears that the Frauds-Ecthen Squall is not his direct priority right now, just something he would rather have now as opposed to later.”
“How am I supposed to find it?” Joseph said.
“Simple,” Meloche said. He reached into his pack, producing a laptop, “Many of the works in this immediate area have been logged into a local network. If the Dyriptium of Karn is in the network, we should be able to find it.”
“And if we don't?” Joseph said.
“...I hope you like dark forests, Joseph,” Meloche said, “And lots of reading.”
***
“Right,” Merry said, “Remember the place. The Flyleaf Fellowship.”
“It's on the other side of InterGuild,” Kathen growled, “Great.”
“That's alright,” Merry said, “Just keep jogging. I've got a map of the place in your head. We should be able to get pretty quick. We'll need to be fast, too. As soon as today's Guildmasters' Moot gets out-”
“Almogra will be on my ass, I know,” Kathen said. He danced by a crowd of musicians who were playing a light tune. It was a part of InterGuild that he hadn't seen before – the people here, the sheer number of the strange, the odd, and the beautiful. He was used to seeing multiple alien species in his time working with Pagan Chorus. But it was…
Different here.
The people of InterGuild didn't have that odd, downtrodden look that most aliens gave. There was hardly any talk about raising taxes as he dodged past vendors, or the economic downturn in the Inner Reach, or even of the Harvest Worlds providing less and less food each year. Every time, Kathen realized, every time he left the confines of Milky Dawn, that was the conversation on everyone's mind.
Not here, though. Spells were traded like candy. Stories were swapped. Laughter was genuine, deep and infectious.
That is what Kathen felt as he jogged through the fields, through the forested copse that were left here and there, people from countless guilds picking at the shelves for books here and there, some returning them to their places, others stowing whatever they could find away.
The greatest of the strange, these people were. Promises of what the multiverse offered.
Kathen had to smile at that. Valm would have disapproved of all of this nonsense.
***
“Here it is,” Meloche said, “The Flyleaf Fellowship.”
Joseph had been holding his breath, he realized, and he let it out in a relieved sigh.
“Right,” he said, “And it's just a few blocks down. Do they take Federation credits?”
“I believe so,” Meloche said, “It makes logical sense. Bad business, not accepting Federation coin.”
“You can tell that to the asshole downstairs,” Joseph said.
“Ah, a true revolutionary,” Meloche chuckled, “Now, get going! The sooner you have that book...”
“You're not coming?” Joseph asked, standing up.
“I cannot,” Meloche said, “I've a couple other obligations of my own. Bulg's not the only one with a tight schedule.”
“Right,” Joseph said. He smiled, “Thanks, Mel.”
“Of course, Joseph,” Meloche said, “Good hunting. I will see you when we dream again.”
And Joseph was off, heading down the stairs, resisting the temptation to flip off the bartender (he had to come back here, after all) and stepping out into InterGuild proper. The Flyleaf Fellowship was nearby, past what was becoming a blooming market that smelled strongly of paper, as guilds traded various books and tomes from their travels, as well as their pickings from across the forest. But these were temporary structures, stalls that had been set up the day before. These guilds would move on after InterGuild was over.
No, what Joseph was after was the more permanent structures. The Flyleaf Fellowship was one of them, a brick and mortar building, its green banner depicting the book shop's name in a dozen languages, the image of a coffee cup in the corner. There was a walk-up counter, in which sat a rather portly man in a loud, yellow number and a very bored-looking three-eyed squid. The squid was talking to a pair of red-skinned, horned twins and handing them a couple books.
Joseph ran forward towards the counter-
And bumped into someone, who arrived at precisely the same time as him. They both stumbled, and Joseph caught the other man as he fell. The man was roughly his own age, with hair like a lion's mane atop his head. He was wearing long, chute-like gray robes, a gold badge depicting hands reaching away from each other emblazoned on his chest, almost like the High Federation's flag in reverse.
“Sorry,” the lion-haired man said, “Couldn't slow down.”
“All good,” Joseph said, “Sorry, too. Should have looked where I was going.”
They both, as one, turned to the shopkeeper.
“Good day, sirs!” the shopkeeper said, “You both came here at the same time, but I'll start with the fellow with the black hair and confused look.”
Joseph rolled his eyes.
“Right,” he said, “I'm looking for a book.”
“Well!” the shopkeeper said, “Anything specific? Or are you just a general reader?”
“Uhm,” Joseph said, “I'm looking for something specific. The Dyriptium of Karn.”
The lion-haired man gave him a curious look. The shopkeeper nodded, turning around.
“Rancy!” he called, “Rancy!”
A many-armed, short-looking woman with mousy hair popped up from between the shelves.
“The Dyriptium of Karn!” the shopkeeper said, “You know, the one that came to us from the Outer Banks. A customer needs it!”
“Excuse me,” the lion-haired man interrupted, “Ah... there aren't multiple copies of that book, are there?”
“I'll have to check the records,” the shopkeeper turned, “Koris, stop flirting for a second, and pull up the inventory.”
The squid nodded, taking out a small tablet, flicking through screen after screen. Two eyes watched the screen, the third went between Joseph and the lion-haired man.
“Ah... sorry, sirs,” the squid chirped, “I only see the one.”
Rancy came up to the counter, laying down the book between Joseph and the lion-haired man.
“Thank you, Rancy,” the shopkeeper said, “You can get back to work, now.”
The mousy woman nodded, and she skittered back to her place.
“Well, this is awkward,” Joseph said.
“It is,” the lion-haired man said, “And my AI's telling me this is the only... only copy found so far.”
“Probably the only copy on the plane,” the shopkeeper said. He opened the book, flipping a few pages, “The Dyriptium of Karn's a rare book, most of them were burned during the Reorganization of Toleration, fifty-odd years ago.”
“Well, damn,” Joseph said.
“Hell,” the lion-haired man said. There was a moment’s pause, before he wheeled on Joseph, “Listen, I really need this book.”
“I do, too,” Joseph said.
“There's no way you can... skim through it, or something?” the lion-haired man asked.
“I need to give it to a contact of mine,” Joseph said, “He'll give me info.”
“A trade, then,” the lion-haired man said.
“Exactly,” Joseph said, “I'm...”
He stared down at the book. They both had arrived at the same moment, so he couldn't really say it was first-come, first-serve. He doubted the shopkeeper would really buy that, either. Joseph looked over. A few other shoppers were coming up to the window.
“I can give you whatever you want,” the lion-haired man said, “Trust me, I’ve got plenty of connections. Surely, whatever your other party’s giving you, I can give better.”
“...Know of a way to get to Earth?” Joseph asked.
The man blinked.
“What’s Earth?”
Joseph shook his head.
“Finish this up, gentlemen,” the shopkeeper said, “It's a busy day.”
“Listen,” the lion-haired man said, “Please. I need this to save a friend,”
Shit. But he had gotten this far.
“I'm sure there's other copies out there,” Joseph said, “Book burnings or not. Come on, I need this. It's my one shot to get out of here.”
“I know,” the lion-haired man said, “But I don't care.”
Joseph's temper flared. He saw red for a brief moment.
“My friend is more important than whatever you've got going on,” the lion-haired man said, his eyes narrowing. There was an air of authority to his voice, like he was trying to command Joseph.
Joseph gritted his teeth. He placed a hand on the book.
“Well,” Joseph said, “I’m sure you’re friend’s a nice guy, but-”
“Gentlemen,” the shopkeeper said. They both turned to the portly man, who was rummaging beneath the counter, “We'll make this easy. I don't have all day, and it looks like you two need to figure out your differences. Away from the counter. You're holding up the line.”
Indeed, more customers were lining up.
“We'll do it the ol' InterGuild way,” the shopkeeper said, “Or the ol' Pormello way. I forget which.”
He had evidently found whatever he was looking for, as he produced a pair of wings from beneath the counter. They were adhesive, and he slapped them onto the book's spine. A dash of magical sparkles emanated from the Dyriptium of Karn, and it began flapping the wings, though before it could take off the shopkeeper grabbed hold of it as though it were a stray balloon.
“Each of you pay half,” he said, “Right there. We accept Federation credit, Methuselah ra'at, Kelstondan international currant, ah...”
He paused as both Joseph and the lion-haired man paid out half. Twenty credits, each, two credsticks jamming into the small scanning device on the counter.
“Good,” the shopkeeper said, “Now, one of you is going to get this book. The other pays the loser the other half of the pay.”
“Winner pays full price,” the lion-haired man said.
“Winner pays for the book,” the shopkeeper said, “You seem like trustworthy lads. Work it out between yourselves. Use violence, if you have to.”
He gave a smile, and let the book go.
There was a moment where both Joseph and the lion-haired man both blanched, watching the book flutter away and above the market like a loosed pigeon.
Then, they were off. Both of them rushing forward, pushing people out of the way, the Dyriptium of Karn becoming a white speck in the darkness above.
***
“Did you really have to set them off like that?” Koris rumbled, “They're like two dogs snarling over a piece of meat.”
“It got them out of the way,” Pormello said, “And we made a sale.”
“Still,” Koris said, as they counted up a few coins, “Is that really the InterGuild way?”
“It's my way,” Pormello said, “Which is in the spirit of InterGuild, isn't it?”
He handed a book to a rainbow-scaled cobra, suppressing a cold shiver as the cobra sank its fangs into the spine as it slithered away.
“When one guild wants one thing, and another guild wants another, what is the result?” Pormello asked.
“I was a paperman's child,” Koris said, “Not a guildfolk.”
Pormello rolled his eyes.
“What happens,” the portly shopkeeper said, “Is that there is conflict, and one of the guilds win. Wounds are licked, hands are shaken, and it's settled. Those boys were from two different guilds, probably on two different jobs. But their goals are the same.”
Pormello turned to the back.
“Rancy!” he said, “A copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'!”
Rancy ran over with the copy. A good girl, she was, fabulously organized and efficient. She was going places, if she stuck to the book business. Koris was still giving him an odd look.
“They'll work it out, I'm sure,” Pormello said, “Or one will kill the other. I don't care. I made the sale.”