“Orcs?!” Whiska’s face lit up. “They explode great. It’s the green blood—looks great on dirt. Very lush.”
“Orcs.” Rummy looked like he had just smelled something unpleasant.
“Oh, come on,” I said, “even you could manage to hit an orc with that oversized child’s toy of yours.” I motioned to his mace. “Besides, don’t dwarves hate orcs just as much as elves hate them?”
“Sure, but halflings really hate getting dirty. I think my dislike of getting dirty outweighs my hatred of orcs, who, truth be told, have never really done anything to me.”
“Orc raiders killed my father,” said Nadi quietly.
Everyone turned to stare at her. “Nadi…Nadi, I’m sorry. Oh, dear,” said Rummy.
“We’ll get revenge!” shouted Whiska gleefully.
“Nadinta—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I reached over to pat her shoulder. She started to draw back, but then leaned forward and allowed me to comfort her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “None of you knew.” She narrowed her eyes. “I certainly wouldn’t object to paying a visit to this encampment before we go to Skendrick.”
“Good.” I nodded. “It’s settled. Be sure to tell the good people of Skendrick that Heloise sent you. And that maybe they should pay her more.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Nadi looked crestfallen.
“Orcs make funny…noises when…you squish them,” said Borg.
“It’s a beautiful sound, isn’t it?” I replied. I looked at Nadi and shook my head. “Places to go, stories to tell, I’m afraid. You guys will do great, though.” I stood up and stretched. “Turns out it was a pleasure after all. Good luck.” I stood up to go to my room, but was stopped before I could get more than two steps.
“Heloise.” Nadi stood and grabbed my arm. “Wait. I have…I have an idea.”
I arched an eyebrow, an expression that has quailed emperors, frightened children, and aroused dwarves (though not simultaneously, because that would just be weird). “I’m listening.”
She blew out a deep breath. “I haven’t discussed this with the others, obviously, but…what if you came with us—to, uh, tell our story?”
Rummy looked curious. “What are you thinking?”
“Well,” replied Nadi, rubbing her forehead, “one of our problems is that we don’t have a reputation as an adventuring band yet, right? If we slay a dragon…that’s the big leagues. That’s legitimate legend territory, but it’s not enough just for the people of Skendrick to know what we did—not if we want to become as well known as we want to be and get the kinds of quests we want to get. Everyone needs to know, and what better way for that to happen than for our legend to be spread by a beaut…er, talented bard?”
“Beautiful would be accurate, too,” I said magnanimously.
“We don’t need the dead weight,” said Whiska. She looked me up and down and then focused on my hips. “Emphasis on weight.”
“Whiska!” Nadi looked furious.
“It’s okay,” I said, motioning for Nadi to stay calm. “Body image issues don’t plague me. Unlike, say, the plague, which plagues a lot of people, and thanks for that, Whiska.”
More than anything, Ratarians hate being associated with the pestilence rats spread, mostly due to the (allegedly) mistaken belief that it was a Ratarian, not a rat, who brought the fleas that caused the Great Plague of the Year of the Crooked Spear into the port city of Dagobar. You can always count on it to be a sore point with them, and I wasn’t disappointed as Whiska flew out of her chair and reached out her hands to throttle me.
“Stand down!” yelled Nadi, stepping between us and grabbing Whiska’s hands. Whiska fought her for a second before sitting down with a huff, grumbling something about elf kabobs under her breath.
“I like this plan generally,” said Rummy, “though I see one major issue, apart from the possibility of Whiska trying to kill Heloise.”
“What’s that?” asked Nadi.
“Well, if I was a bard that a relatively inexperienced adventuring band had just asked to accompany them to fight a savage red dragon that will probably kill them (and me) so that I could tell their story afterward on the off chance that they survive, I’d probably want to be paid something. And we aren’t really in the position to make that kind of, what do they call it in the merchant world? Capital investment, I think.”
“The assless dwarf makes a point,” I said.
“What if,” said Nadi slowly, “we offer you an equal share of the treasure? One-fifth for all of us. You don’t have to fight—just bear witness.”
“Deadweight sits around and diddles her strings while we get burned to a crisp and gets the same amount of treasure? Not a chance!” Whiska crossed her arms, which, as short as they were, made her look both ridiculous and uncomfortable.
“Body shaming…isn’t nice,” said Borg. “Don’t do it…again.”
“Thanks, big guy.” I patted him on the shoulder. “What happens if you guys get melted like candles before you get to the treasure? Or offed by orcs? That doesn’t work out so well for me.”
“I know it’s a gamble,” said Nadi, nodding. “I won’t pretend that it’s a sure thing you’ll get paid out. But, if your claims about the treasure are true, you’d come out of this with considerable wealth for doing nothing more than writing a song.”
Well, this certainly put me in an awkward spot. I had no idea whether the treasure was as big as I claimed; I was taking the word of two barely functional semi-adult men, neither of whom had seen it themselves. On the other hand, it was an attractive—and exciting—opportunity, and I didn’t really have anything else going on. If nothing else, I figured I could start out on the road with them and, if they seemed incompetent, bail before we got to the dragon. They weren’t paying me, so it wasn’t like I had any obligation. And, besides, I thought—it might make for one heck of a story (spoiler alert: it did).
Still, I didn’t want to seem too eager.
“It’s possible,” I said, casually, “that you’ll earn other treasure along the way—if you take out the orc encampment, for example, you’ll probably stumble into a few gold coins. Or, at least copper. Maybe just some old bits of fuzz. And human ears. But, something.” I looked at Nadi. “How about if I get a one-fifth share of anything you find along the way, not just in the dragon’s lair?”
“No. Absolutely not!” growled Whiska. “This is ridiculous.” She stood up. “Good luck slaying a dragon without me—I’m gone!” She started to walk away, then realized she’d already done this once before today. “Again! And for good!”
“You don’t…have any…gold,” said Borg.
Whiska stopped. She glared at the rock giant, but didn’t say anything.
“The dragon…does. You are…powerful. We…need you.”
If Whiska were an actual rat instead of a race of creatures that just happen to look like rats, I might have thought she was preening, the way she suddenly began to groom her whiskers. Given her apparent love of smiting things, however, I decided not to point this out.