People in pain sought to off-load it. When something truly awful happened, they knew it couldn’t be merely bad luck or a simple accident, as most trivial things were. No, pain of that magnitude required a powerful balm. The necessary curative lotion came in the form of seeing someone pay. Didn’t matter who, just so long as someone was adequately punished. Hurting someone else managed to suck out at least some of the anguish by sharing it, spreading it out—or so it seemed. Mawyndulë also noted that a great many citizens of Percepliquis suffered. Although it was the wealthiest city in the world, there were those who, for various reasons, had no seat at Fortune’s table. A tent community of the destitute surrounded the capital. The poor wandered the streets by day asking for handouts. All of them had stories—bad ones, painful ones. Mawyndulë merely applied the healing balm that elves were to blame.

Mawyndulë had jumped on the lingering animosity between humans and Fhrey. Emperor Nolyn and Empress Sephryn had quelled much of the friction between the races, but differences between people were always good medicine, and his was an all-purpose cure. Husband died of fever? Elves. Wife ran off? Elves. Lost your job? Elves.

Mawyndulë always took a moment to twist the logic to fit the crime, but not too much. Everyone knows elves carry disease. It’s common knowledge that elves use magic; one of them probably cast a spell on your wife. It’s obvious that elves are ruining the city. Little wonder businesses are failing. It’s a miracle anyone has work.

He didn’t need to try hard. People wanted to believe. How good it must have felt, what a weight lifted, to know it wasn’t the result of their stupidity, laziness, poor decisions, or even the frighteningly faceless whims of an indifferent world. No! Their troubles could be traced to a source that could be fought. And that sort of message just felt better the more people it was shared with. Two were helpful, ten was encouraging, but a thousand proved it true. A thousand people couldn’t all be wrong.

Mawyndulë honestly had no idea how many people had listened to his message. He didn’t care. All of it was smoke, allowing him to move unseen and to work his magic in plain sight. And he’d been successful—so far. On his lap lay the box he’d taken from Sephryn. He hadn’t set the thing down, and he wouldn’t until he’d blown the horn inside.

“Ragman,” Mawyndulë said, instantly halting the whispers his pets exchanged.

“Yes, Master?”

“Can you open this?” He held out the box. “You are a tradesman, right? Do you have a pry bar or something that could crack the lid? Any ideas about how to frustrate the hinges into letting go?”

“Frustrate the hinges, Master?”

“Can you open it or not?”