ORION
The Junkmaster’s office was as congested as ever. His oil lamps were guttering low, and the man’s weathered face was bent over yet another document detailing the workloads of his wagoners, their shift assignments, and the complaint he had received from a nobleman of Harborfell claiming his garbage had not been collected in a timely manner and that he was therefore entitled to compensation. Orion watched him from the one clear corner in the room, having phased in through the wall, both invisible and in disguise. He had scanned through many of the documents on Rumgeard’s desk already, but there was nothing there of interest to him. Thorne would have a fit if he knew a rival Guildmaster was going about the city wearing his face, and Orion had to suppress a chuckle at the thought.
How Rumgeard carried on this existence, buried in paperwork of no more significance than the contents of the dump he managed, taking himself as seriously as he did, was beyond comprehension. Then again, not everyone could be a [Wizard]. Lesser classes had to exist to fill out the ranks, and even if everyone had been [Wizard]s, it would have left some of them to deal with the trash.
As the Junkmaster leaned over his desk, scratching out a careful note with his quill, Orion deliberately scraped his boot along the wooden floor. Rumgeard jerked up, scattering paperwork as he grabbed the sword leaning against his chair.
“Who goes there?” He demanded. “I know someone’s here. I can smell you.”
Orion doubted that was the case, but he dismissed his veil to reveal himself, or rather, to reveal the image of Thorne Blackhand that he was wearing over his skin. “As observant as ever, Rumgeard. I’ve been standing here for a quarter of an hour.”
Rumgeard grimaced, annoyance warring with propriety as he bobbed his head in a gesture of respect. “Guildmaster. I believe I have told you that you are welcome to use the door.”
“What would be the fun in that?” Orion said. Thorne was famous for his sudden appearances, and it amused him to play the role. Rumgeard was past his prime, and he looked it. A rugged face that had gone loose around the jowls, shoulders that were no longer as broad as they had once been. He was more than capable of putting novice heroes in their place when he had to, and his dog was formidable, but he wasn’t foolish enough to risk a confrontation with a Guildmaster.
He set down his sword before busying himself reordering his desk. “May I ask the reason for your visit?”
“There have been some changes in Midden. I thought you should be aware.”
“The Great Goblin is dead, long live the Great Goblin,” Rumgeard muttered sourly. “I’m on top of it.”
“No,” Orion said, “you aren’t, and I don’t want you to be.”
“What?” Rumgeard paused, some of his frustration at being treated as a subordinate creeping into his voice.
“I want you to have a light hand in Midden in the coming days. When is the next raid scheduled?”
“Not for three months yet,” Rumgeard said, “not that it’s your business. Whatever approach I take to the junkyard is my own. Guildmaster or not, this isn’t your playground.”
“My playground is the entire world,” Orion said lightly, “and the situation has changed. If you don’t heed me, then your services here will come to an end.”
“You can’t fire me,” the Junkmaster protested. “You don’t have the authority. That’s up to the city council.”
Orion crossed his arms, adopting a bored look. “I could whisper in a few ears. You’ve been doing this a long time, Rumgeard, but it isn’t as if people love you. You're a convenient man to have in this hole, but there are others who would fit just as well.”
Rumgeard sat back down, defeated. “What is this even about? Since when does Thorne Blackhand care what goes on in Midden?”
“He doesn’t,” Orion said truthfully. “Not officially, that is. As far as anyone knows, this conversation never happened, and what I am about to tell you was never told to you.”
That got the Junkmaster’s attention. Orion could see the interest in his eyes, the gears working behind them. When a Guildmaster told you to do something, you did it, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t profit from the moment.
“What’s in it for me?” Came the expected question.
Orion tossed a pouch of coins onto the desk, further disturbing the papers. Rumgeard had the good sense not to open it yet.
“There’s a dragon in your dump,” Orion said, “and I need you to stay clear of him.”
Rumgeard barked a laugh. “Is this a joke?” He saw the look on Orion’s face. “You’re serious? How the hell did a dragon get in there?”
“That’s not important.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Rumgeard growled. “Who else knows?”
“No one, and I would prefer it stayed that way. If your wagoners see anything, if they talk, silence them. I’m only telling you because it’s necessary to do so. There can be no other loose ends.”
“What are you planning?”
“That’s not within your purview.” Would Thorne use a word like ‘purview?’ He supposed it didn’t matter. [Guise of Light] made taking on someone else’s appearance a facile exercise, but true impersonation required far greater skill. Thorne himself would probably have been better at imitating Orion than Orion was at imitating Thorne, but that came with being a [Rogue]. “Take your payment and do as I say.”
“A dragon.” Rumgeard leaned back in his seat, completely uninterested in Orion’s vocabulary choices. “This is big, Thorne, bigger than any pouch of gold, or that pouch at least.”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“It’s platinum,” Orion said.
Rumgeard’s eyes got very wide, then he cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, I still want to know what this is about. How old is it, anyway? And what kind? I can’t imagine any dragon content to make a lair in my dump, among goblins, no less. I knew there was something in there, something that didn’t belong, but not for my life would I have bet on a dragon.”
“What do you mean, you knew?”
“It spooked Fang. He came running out of there like well…like a dragon was after him now that I think about it.”
Fang. Orion suppressed a sigh. What an unimaginative name for a hound, like something out of a children’s tale. “It’s only a hatchling, no threat to anyone, yet.”
“A hatchling? What kind?”
“Once again, I remind you that you are not to involve yourself. I’m telling you of the dragon’s existence so that you can avoid him, and make sure your men keep clear as well. The novices are another matter. I suspect they will discover his existence in time, but by then, secrecy will no longer be necessary. Three months, keep the junkyard quiet for that long, and you’ll have another bag waiting for you.”
Rumgeard might not have known exactly how much platinum was in the pouch, but it was close to five years’ worth of his salary. Orion had checked. With another payment like that to look forward to, the man would do everything in his power to ensure he got it.
“Fine, Thorne. I’ll keep it quiet. Is there anything else?”
Orion didn’t answer. Instead, he used [Guise of Light] to make it look like the shadows cast by Rumgeard’s foul smelling lamps were multiplying a hundredfold. He wrapped himself in darkness and raised his veil once more to make himself invisible to the Junkmaster before letting the shadows dissipate again.
“Asshole,” Rumgeard said, believing he was alone. Then he snatched the coin pouch as if it were liable to disappear along with the Guildmaster. Orion watched him count its contents for a moment, quickly growing bored, and phased back through the wall of the office. He floated through the streets of Harborfell, invisible to all, and returned to the Red Tower, the seat of his guild in the city.
For a Guildmaster, Orion had always considered himself quite reserved, at least when it came to furnishing his rooms. His suite in the Red Tower was practical and clean, a simple bed, an oak desk, and a bookshelf. The walls were unadorned, and the desk was uncluttered, the very antithesis of Rumgeard’s poor excuse for a filing system. The one hint that this living space belonged to the most powerful living [Wizard] in Elswyre was in the alcove beside the bookshelf.
The stand itself was unassuming enough, sturdy, varnished wood without ornamentation. A glass orb sat atop it beneath a silk shroud, one of the most dangerous objects in the All. Around the stand, he had etched the stones of the floor with an arcane array that thrummed with latent energy, a magic bottle to contain the will of the orb. He regarded it for a long moment, seeing that the wards were undisturbed. The orb was quiescent, assuring him that, for one more day at least, the end of the All as they knew it was not about to begin.
He cast a few minor spells, [Identify], [Reveal], and [Hush], an old habit to ensure that he was not being observed and proceeded to an adjoining room. He could hear the dulcimer playing, a sure sign that Aila had returned ahead of him.
The elf did not notice him entering, lost to the world as only her kind could be when they were engaged in their art. Her rooms, closer to the center of the tower, had no windows. They were lit by a golden sphere that hung in a silver sconce, filling the space with a light like that of the sun on a perfect summer’s day. In contrast to his own spartan appointment, she had adorned the walls with delicate ivy, emerald and azure intermingling in their vibrant foliage. Their roots dipped down into an antique vase, a relic from her homeland, and the vines transformed the space from a gloomy tower cell into something like an enchanted grove.
The song she played was impossible to ignore, a melody that wove in and out of the heartbeat of the world. It was melancholy, but also hopeful, a tribute to the cycles of light and dark, life and death, which interwove in his mind to become the memories of his own youth. What she played was always changing, an evolving composition, but it always drew him to the same thoughts, the same wistful mood.
Not for the first time, he wished humans could advance by sitting alone and playing the dulcimer. His life would have certainly taken a different course if that were the case. Around the room, there were several ornately embroidered pillows, and he chose one for his seat while he watched the elf play.
Her pale hair shone in the enchanted light; her exquisite face lowered in concentration. He loved her like the daughter he had never had. Though they were not far apart in age, it was hard to not think of that small, beautiful creature as anything other than his child.
The playing went on for a few minutes more, but when it stopped, Orion felt as if it was playing still. Its echoes were inside of him, fading slowly, draining away along with the stresses of the day.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he said.
“You never do,” she smiled. “How did the Junkmaster take the news?”
“Greedily,” Orion said, leaning back on his hands. As nice as the pillow was, it was no substitute for a proper chair. “I don’t believe he will be an obstacle, and as far as I’ve been able to surmise, none of the other Guildmaster or their servants are aware of what we’ve done.”
“Why would they be?” She lightly touched one of the dulcimer strings, and it responded with a long, low thrum. “What care do the mighty take for what happens to their refuse?”
“You’ve spent more time with the goblin than I have,” Orion said, taking the question to be rhetorical. “What do you think of him?”
“Chul?” She looked amused. “He’s a special sort of goblin. Innocent, with a good heart. Most of them aren’t, you know. When you sent me into Midden, I didn’t really believe I would find someone like him. I thought you were mad.”
“I am mad,” Orion said with a straight face. “That’s a separate issue.”
“The goblins aren’t what I thought they were,” Aila mused, running her hand along the smooth wooden side of her instrument. She had changed out of her goblin disguise, in favor of a muslin shift. Like everything else she owned, it was of the highest quality, the sort of thing a human seamstress could labor for a lifetime to imitate, still falling short in the end. When an elf had made something, you knew an elf had made it.
“Most people don’t think about them at all,” Orion said. “There was no reason for you to be an exception.”
“I would like to have told him more. All this secrecy, these masks. I appreciate it, of course, the work, the art, but I can’t help thinking we could be more certain of the outcome if we didn’t leave them both in the dark.”
Orion shrugged. He didn’t have any personal connection or attachment to the goblins; they were a means to an end. “The less they know, the safer we are if this fails. Toying with dragons is a deadly enterprise, my dear.”
“Dragons and Guildmasters,” she stretched in place, lifting her arms over her head and twisting at the waist. “Do you want me to go back in? I doubt Chul will think much of Slink after tonight.”
“No,” Orion said. “We’re hands off for now. Give them space to flourish. You’ll have enough to do running interference. Make sure the Great Goblin doesn’t get himself killed in the next few months. Apart from that, you could consider working on a new song.”
“An artist only has one song,” Aila said, “though they may sing it with many words, or change the tune.”
“You’re the expert.” Orion got to his feet, feeling the aches of his joints as he did so. [Wizards] tended to live longer than the other classes. There was magic for that, but they were still only human. He had a few decades left to finish his work, maybe more, but Aila would go on long after he was gone, perhaps adding a few bars to her composition to remember him by. Assuming the world didn’t end before then, of course. The islands were sinking, and the sun could always explode, but the orb was one threat he thought he could manage, at least.
The music began again as soon as he shut the door to her chamber, a comfort to his aging heart.