Lyra stared at me. Her expression was a magnificent, multi-layered work of art. The top layer was pure, unadulterated shock. Beneath that was a thick coating of horror, followed by a surprisingly robust layer of grudging admiration, all topped with a fine dusting of 'I am going to end you the moment my contract expires.'
It was, frankly, one of the best reactions I'd ever seen on her bubbly face. I savoured it.
"You," she said, her voice a low, perfectly controlled tremor, "framed a Minor Clan for high treason… over a logging dispute?"
I popped another Snapdragon Puff into my mouth. The honeyed crunch was the perfect soundtrack for this moment.
"'High treason' is so dramatic. I prefer 'tree stealers,'" I said cheerfully. "Besides, they were rude. And they laughed at my termites. Unforgivable."
"They will hunt you to the ends of the earth."
"Nonsense," I waved a dismissive hand. "Lord Borin is a man of pride and muscle. He won't admit he was played by a 'weakling rat.' He'll blame a few rogue subordinates, pay the astronomical fine, and spend the next year punching trees in frustration. It's the most efficient outcome."
Efficiency was the cornerstone of my philosophy. Maximum results for minimum effort. And nothing was less effort for me than using someone's own arrogance as a weapon against them.
Just then, a series of horn blasts echoed through the valley. They weren't the crude horns of the Boar camp. These were crisp, brassy, and full of officious self-importance. Royal Wardens.
I settled down on a comfortable-looking rock. "Ah, the cavalry has arrived. This is the best part."
Lyra, on the other hand, drew herself up, her hand instinctively going to her claymore. "What if they connect this to you?"
"They won't," I said around a mouthful of puff. "The only people who saw me were the ones who now have the most perfect alibi in the kingdom. Who's going to believe Lord Borin when he screams that the mastermind is the pathetic bug-peddler he threw out of his camp an hour ago? It's a better defence to just claim ignorance."
The sounds of organized chaos drifted up from the camp. Shouts of confusion, bellows of pure, impotent rage—I recognized Borin's vocal stylings—and the clatter of armored men doing their jobs with grim satisfaction.
It was beautiful. I was a composer, and this was my music. Lyra just stood there, watching the scene unfold, her shoulders slowly un-tensing as she realized I might not be completely insane.
Only mostly.
******************
Three days and seventeen bags of Snapdragon Puffs later, the official announcement was posted on the Wager Board in the capital's Guild Hall.
The board was a massive slate of polished black marble where the Royal Council's decrees and Wagers were magically inscribed. It was the centre of our little universe, the scoreboard for the game of power.
Lyra read the glowing script, her lips moving silently. I already knew what it said, but I let her have her moment.
Her eyes widened.
"By the Forge…" she whispered. "He got away with it."
I leaned over her shoulder to read the glowing text aloud, for dramatic effect. "'Clan of the Crimson Boar, found responsible for gross negligence and failure to control its own assets, is hereby fined twenty thousand gold royals and stripped of one hundred Council Tokens. Lord Borin's personal testimony has spared the Clan from dissolution…' Blah, blah, blah, boring legal stuff…"
I scanned down to the important part.
"'As the actions of the Crimson Boar have ceased, the Wager posted by the Clan of the Steel Quill is declared complete. The reward of fifty Council Tokens is hereby granted to the independent contractor responsible for the resolution…'" I paused, tapping the final name with a flourish. "'Kaelen Vane.'"
Fifty tokens. Enough to formally register a Clan. Enough to put my name on the board.
I had done it. Step one of my grand, multi-century plan to achieve ultimate, nap-based comfort was complete.
Lyra turned to me, her face a blank mask of astonishment. "How…?"
"Simple. I didn't just create a problem for them. I created the solution. The stolen tax money was 'anonymously recovered' yesterday morning, with a helpful little note suggesting a few disgruntled Boar mens were responsible. The Council gets its money back, they get to punish a Clan that was breaking their rules, and the Steel Quills get their precious trees left alone. Everyone wins."
"Except the Crimson Boar."
"Well, yes. But they started it. With the yelling."
She actually almost smiled. It was a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, but I counted it as a monumental victory. Progress.
Just as I was about to suggest a celebratory trip to the Snapdragon Puff emporium—my treat, of course—a dry cough cut through the air behind us.
"Master Vane. A word, if you please."
We turned. Standing there was a man who looked like he'd been starched, ironed, and then beaten with a ruler until all joy had fled his body. His grey tunic was immaculate, bearing the insignia of the Clan of the Steel Quill. He wasn't flanked by guards; he didn't need them. His aura of bureaucratic dread was protection enough.
My internal monologue, which had been taking a well-deserved victory lap, stumbled and fell flat on its face.
Ah, it said, dusting itself off. The 'unforeseen consequences' part of the plan.
My favorite.
"You have our thanks for your… efficiency," the man said, his eyes like chips of flint. "However, your methods, while effective, were recklessly loud. You have solved one untidy problem by creating a far larger, more complicated one."
He took a step closer, his gaze unwavering.
"Congratulations on your victory, Master Vane. You have the full attention of my Clan. And now, you are going to fix what you broke."