The lot of us – Joseph, Johnsson, Whistlemop, Richter, and I took the day off to go and join Bando in ‘improving the public utilities of Crack’. Rosie was angry at first that we were ‘humouring his delusions’, but my explanation about looking out for Bando and guiding him as a responsible adult won her over. She now ‘trusted me wholeheartedly to show Bando the error of his ways’.

No pressure, especially since I wasn’t really sure there was an error. We were going with him to help install water mains, and the fact that such a major part of Kinshasa’s infrastructure still didn’t have running water was a testament to how little the nobility really cared about their own capital city!

Having learned from our trip to Lucky Jean’s, we didn’t bring any of our more recognizable members. Whistlemop had his face plastered all over the Godsdamn city, and under the circumstances I really didn’t want any possible Chosen or their minions knowing I was around, so the two of us got disguises. We left behind Kirk, Aqua, and Penelope. Annie toyed with the idea of coming with, then decided someone had to hold down the fort.

The only other dwarf I really wished could come was Balin, and he was away today. Team Brightstar was preparing to spend a solid month or so descending the dungeon to the first teleport point, and he had lots to do.

Bando brought us from the tavern to a nearby park in Greywall, where a grumble of his acquaintances were waiting. He introduced us as ‘fellow dwarves interested in the cause’. The only real outlier in our group, Joseph, waved his presence away as ‘interest in seeing the reality of dwarven existence’.

And that was it. No further explanation necessary, no suspicions raised, and we were all suddenly friends. Much back slapping and welcoming followed, and then we made the trek to Yellowwall, shouting catchy slogans and passing out flyers and dodging the guard all the while.

These kids were ripe for agent provocateurs, and if there weren’t any, I’d eat my socks!

We arrived in Yellowwall pretty much right as the project kicked off. Hundreds of dwarves and quite a lot of gnomes, all milling about excited and ready to work. There was a solid mix of crafts-dwarves, miners, adventurers, and even minor nobles scattered throughout the crowd. I didn’t see any other humans or elves other than Joseph, though.

Then, I finally got to see Thadd Harmsson in the flesh. From a distance, at least. He arrived surrounded by his aides and guards. He wore a fine black business suit with the barest of nods to armor and beautiful gold filigree. He walked with a pronounced limp, aided by a silver cane, and I had to wonder why a nobleman of his station hadn’t gotten one of those fancy magical prosthetics. His long grey hair was done up in a high-ponytail, and his beard was a well-brushed and enormous affair of streaked grey and black.

He had a demeanor that screamed ‘I know better than you’, and a look that said ‘and I have more money too.’

In other words, he looked almost exactly as I’d pictured him – the very image of a modern major statesman. Bah.

But what I really cared about were the people surrounding him.

“Oy, Bando!” I asked, as one of Harmsson’s people began calling for quiet. “Who are all the people with Harmsson. Do you know?”

“I don’t, but oy, Micah, do you know any of the folk with Lord Harmsson?”

Bando’s friend from his hometown was a rather plain looking dwarf with a scraggly brown beard, brown eyes, brown, ruddy skin, and a face that screamed that he would’ve been a brown-noser in any modern breakroom.

“What, you don’t, Bando??” He replied with an eye-roll. “They’ve been workin’ with us fer weeks now!”

“I’ve been focusing on the important things!”

They began arguing. Ah, youth. I had to butt in to get their attention back. “Micah! Who are they!?”

Micah shrugged. “Most of ‘em are local nobility what owns tha smaller towns and what’not ‘round Kinshasa. They’ve all come fer tha Octamillenial festivities. We’ve met a few while doin’ odd jobs fer Lord Harmsson.”

“Do any of ‘em work fer city hall?”

Micah beamed. “Aye, they gots a lot of pull actually! Lady Viola to his left there is in charge of the Blacksmithing contests fer the Octamillenial, and Lord Brownbeard ta his right handles immigration. The rest of ‘em work here and there in City Hall or tha Guilds. They’s all some real influential dwarves, and Lady Viola even just got her Title! She’s real young for it.” Micah gazed at the black bearded dwarfess with star – or possibly love – struck eyes.

“Mmmm.” I stared harder at Harmsson. I still doubted he was the actual Chosen – why use a half-dead old dwarf as a Chosen? But I couldn’t discount it; there were advantages to old age in dwarven society. It’d definitely been the right idea to come in disguise though.

The crowd grew quiet, and Harmsson stepped forward to strangled shouts of “Fer Crack and Kinshasa!” I held back my own “Fer Crack and Annie.”

Harmsson held a hand up to call for silence, and then spoke in a clear, deep voice. Apparently he had [Project Voice], just like every other bloody politician I’d met in this world.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“My fellow Kinshasans! My dear kin of Crack! Thank you for coming today! I know that many of you have taken the day off to be here, and I’m thankful to your managers and mine supervisors for giving you permission to come!”

There were some jeers at that, and Harmsson nodded and waited for silence to return before he continued. “Because that’s why we’re here, is it not? Permission? Permission to do what you want? Permission to live the life you want to live! Permission to partake in ancient gnomish traditions! Permission to craft and create! Permission to become who you were meant to be! Permission to help your neighbours get fresh water!”

The crowd roared, and I almost wanted to roar too. This guy was good! Or at least his Charisma was through the roof! I could actually feel my emotional heartstrings being pulled, like when I listened to famous speeches in high school.

Harmsson’s voice echoed out even over the shouts. “The city bleeds and it’s only the efforts of hard-working citizens like yourself that staunches the flow! Even now, more refugees are piling up outside our walls, with nowhere to go. The Council threw them aside, but you all welcomed them into your homes and your workplaces to give them a better life. I have tales from my acquaintances here in city hall of the good you’ve done with your outreach and volunteer work. The Refugee Retraining Program has been a massive success!”

Insert more cheers.

“Even today you give, and give, and give! But if you’re giving, who is taking!? Who, I ask you, has cut us bloody in the first place? Who drinks the lifeblood of our country without thought nor concern for its health! The King and his Council! The high nobles of Kinshasa! They claim to be doing their hard work for the good of the country! But they’ve forgotten that the nobility works at the sufferance of the people! They think they are given their positions through hard work and excellence, but where is their excellence for the dwarves of Yellowwall? Where is their hard work when the country suffers? Where are they today!?”

Oof. Those were some hard words. And my reading of the Country of Crack Ordinances Chapter 2, Section 1 told me they were illegal words too. Lese Majeste and all that nonsense. I began looking around not just out of interest, but out of self-interest. I had zero plan in getting caught up between the royal guard and a hard place.

Harmsson’s speech continued for another minute or so. He was full of fire and brimstone and promises of a bright future through hard work and effort. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, but it burned through the crowd like wildfire.

Then the speech was over, and Harmsson was gone. But the fire he’d lit remained.

And then the shovels came out.

—

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Whistlemop grumped. “I already don’t have enough time as it is.”

“Come on mate, keep it togetha!” Joseph declared with more chip than a family sized box of Old Dutch salt and vinegar. “It’s not so bad once ya get used to it!”

“Nope.” I grunted. “I agree with Whistlemop. Why in the Greasy Tresses of Minda’s Mangy Mullet did I agree to this?”

“‘Cause… ‘cause said you wanted to help all dwarfkind, and ‘cause you believed in my ideals?” Bando said, plaintively.

“Because yer a stupid ass! And that’s an insult to donkeys everywhere!” Johnsson groaned.

“At least you lot aren’t doing all this hard work in a bloody disguise. This beard itches!” I rubbed at my ‘dwarven miner’ disguise.

“At least yours doesn’t keep getting full of dirt!” Whistlemop complained, cursing and pulling flecks of mud out of his false Yosemite-Sam moustache.

“And why do you both have costume –” Bando began.

“It’s a kink. Don’t ask.” I grumbled, instantly heading his curiosity off at the dive.

The lot of us were in the middle of digging a trench down a sidestreet of Yellowwall. There was absolutely no way we were going to get water pipes from the central cistern throughout all of Yellowwall, so each team had been given a single main street that we were to excavate. City Hall would send the pipes and [Engineers] as needed. Thankfully we didn’t need to put the pipes down too low, as burrowing escapees from Deepcore would break through anything deep and make a mess of things.

I complained about the work, but really it reminded me of being back in the mine. The simple joy of hard work and the sweat of your brow.

It was obvious that Micah and Bando and the lot had never spent time mining, though. They were absolute wrecks after the first hour, and I had to turn to using [Mental Maths] to put them on a rotating schedule. The Ability worked okay, but it wouldn’t replace a real clock or time keeping Ability.

Now that I was waist deep in it, Yellowwall was even worse than I’d thought. The sense of hopelessness hung over everything like a depressing fog, and the residents didn’t raise a finger to help us in our task, even as we dug past them. To be fair, the only residents we could see were either very old, infirm, or very young.

Micah and Bando and their friends kept up a healthy chatter, when they weren’t gasping for breath. They were so very hopeful and innocent, and they made me feel old as all get out. It stood out like a sore thumb against the bleak surroundings, and I couldn’t bring myself to utter a single pun or even break into the verses of Diggy Hole. The same was true for the rest of the Thirsty Goat gang, with even Whistlemop being driven to silence.

Joseph was circumspect as well, barely ever speaking and just watching everything with a faint air of disapproval.

All in all, it was depressing, and it made me agree with Harmsson even more. Seriously, this country could use a kick in the pants.

We were at our fourth hour of digging when it happened. The terrifying moment that I’d been praying wouldn’t come. The chance had always been there, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen. I’d prayed, begging Midna, Yearn, Barck, anybody.

I looked up from digging to see the smiling face of Thadd Harmsson, his two lackeys, and a bevy of his private guards.

Private guards with axes.