“If Porak were smart, he would have brought me in on his plan. How does he know I won’t tell the chief what he’s up to?” Jig stopped to rest for a minute. “No, even Porak isn’t that stupid. If he gets in trouble, he’ll know who told. Next time he’ll put me into the muck pot.”

He extinguished his torch on the floor and started walking again, taking a left at the first fork, then two rights. He let his ears and his memory guide him through the dark tunnels.

“Maybe I could blackmail him instead. Threaten to tell the chief if Porak doesn’t do what I want.” He grinned. Porak was big and important. If Jig could get Porak on his side, life would get a lot nicer. No more sleeping by the entrance, where the draft froze his feet every night. No more waiting at the end of the food line so that his meal was nothing but bones, gristle, and the occasional lump of fat.

“No more getting sent ahead on patrol while the others gamble.”

Maybe he’d even get a real sword instead of the stupid kitchen knife he carried now. He pulled the knife out of his belt and swung at an imaginary foe. He could almost hear the hiss of the broadsword. He ducked, thrust, and attacked again.

“Help me,” Porak would say as two adventurers backed him into a corner. Jig grinned and crossed the tunnel to rescue his captain. He took one adventurer from behind. The other was meaner. He put up quite a fight before Jig’s sword caught him in the chest. Jig raised his weapon in triumph as the adventurer gasped and died. Back in the lair, everyone would talk about his heroic battle. They would ask him to lead patrols of his own, and say things like—

“Be patient, lad. You’ve gone and made me lose count. I’ll have to start again.”

Jig jumped. The reality of his small kitchen knife replaced his daydreams of battle and luxury. He pressed himself against the wall and swiveled his ears forward to better hear the voices ahead.

“By all the gods, do not allow me to interfere, oh wise one. Perhaps you’d like to wait while I summon a calligrapher to assist you. And you’ll want an artist to paint another scene of old Earthmaker.”

“Enough. We’re not going anywhere until I finish my map, and I’ll not be able to do that until you get out of my way.”

Jig clutched his knife in both hands. Two voices. The first one sounded old and gravelly. The second was definitely human.