“Of course he can, he’s the king. Between you and me, I was pulling for Lord Olmstead’s request to be accepted and funded.” He said the last part in such a low voice that even Orum, with his ear close to the guard’s mouth, could barely make out his words.

“Lord who? What request?”

“Lord Olmstead, Master of Kerrigan?” The guard said it like these nonsensical words should mean something to him. “Gods, you’re really not from around here, are you? No matter, I can direct you. Take the main thoroughfare back the way you came until you reach Bearing Street, you’ll know it by the gaudy Finfallian flags planted on every corner. Turn left and march until the road ends. There will be an iron gate. Climb it and be ready to run because of the guard dogs and watchtower archers.” When Orum stared at him, the guard chuckled at his own little joke. “Only twisting your knickers. Just tell them Guard Lawton sent you on a matter of urgent business. They’ll put you right through.”

Orum was amazed by this stroke of luck at what might’ve otherwise been a dead end. “I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“No thanks needed. Like I said, I’ve always wanted to see a dragon, and I don’t rightly care whether the beast is dead or alive.”

Orum’s lips opened to ask what he meant by that, but then closed as the guard hurriedly retreated for the door only to be replaced by a different man in gleaming silver armor.

Guard Lawton’s directions had been easy enough to follow and mentioning his name had been like turning a key in a lock, the gates of a broad, tree-lined estate opening before him as he was led toward a grand-looking building that could’ve swallowed up half of Dunmire if given the chance.

“Kerrigan Manor” an understated sign over the door read. The door opened, and a man with a long nose and a tendency to look down it as though sighting a target along the length of an arrow, peered out at him. “What in the hallowed name of the Five are you?”

The nature of the question—specifically the man’s use of what rather than who—rendered Orum temporarily speechless, his mouth wagging several times before he managed to utter those magic words that had worked so well at the gate. “Guard Lawton sent me-me on a matter of urgent business.”

“Guard Lawton, you say? Well, then I suppose I should let you in considering that weaselly man is Lord Olmstead’s third cousin thrice removed and for some reason that remains a mystery to me my master has taken a shine to him.”

“Thank you?”

“Don’t thank me yet, your head is as likely to end up on a wall as it is to be found sipping ale from a wine flute.”