Orconomics (The Dark Profit Saga, #1)

by J. Zachary Pike

Johan was the kind of physical specimen that inspires sculptors, clad in the kind of cutting-edge gear that inspires bankruptcy.

He was the sort of rural soul who had more fingers than teeth—and he was missing several fingers.

He was sick of drinking, and sick of being sober,

“Nobody’s got a true self,” said the Mask in a new, reedy voice—a bureaucrat’s voice. “Everybody is trying to look like someone else, even to themselves. We’re just more honest about it.”

“Oh, there’s always a choice. Choice is a constant.” Flinn grinned, a cold glint in his eye. “It’s consequences that vary.”

“You know, saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t count for much after saying something really offensive.”

“And what makes you think that I haven’t seen enough of the world?” Gorm looked up from the contract straight into the priest’s mismatched eyes. “Yer still tryin’ to save it.”

Kaitha was slumped over the table, looking smaller and sadder than an Elven breakfast. Her red-rimmed eyes watched her fingers trace a small pattern on the table. She didn’t look up when Gorm and Gleebek took their seats again. “I haven’t finished a quest in more than forty years,” she said. “I can get them started. I try, I really do. And then … I just feel like I need … you know? Something to take the edge off … and it gets all messed up.”

As far as Gorm was concerned, a ceremony was the most efficient way to expunge the joy and excitement from any event, refining it into the purest tedium.

“Stability. The people in the streets claim their freedom or their virtue binds our kingdom together, but in a famine you’re only free to starve, and in a drought there is no virtue but survival. No, liberty and piety are well and good, but a kingdom needs stability to survive; a healthy stalemate wherein every people, every faction, every city finds the status quo preferable to the price of change.”

“It’s purpose. Ye find something in the battle to fight for, something ye’d die for. Your brothers back in the clanhome, the honor of your Da’s name, the lives of innocents. A reason to fight, if nothing else, like a tiny fire, and ye reach out and grab it. And ye hold it no matter how it burns. And soon ye can’t separate yourself from your purpose, any more than ye could take the light from a candle flame. Ye live to win. Ye can’t lose; ye can only die.”

“And later, they’ll say ye looked crazed, or ye howled like a beast, or ye seemed possessed, but their words are nothing but a vapor in a breeze. ’Cause ye can still feel a flicker of the fire ye held inside, and ye know now what ye knew then, and ye’ll never be the same. That’s what it is to be a berserker, and I’d never trade it for anything. Or I wouldn’t have, until I ran. A berserker doesn’t run.” He caught Gaist’s eyes and saw his own painful memories reflected in them.

“Sounds more like something ye’d do, Flinn,” said Gorm. “I know your type. Ye’d kill your own mother for tuppence.” “Ah, you see, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Flinn. “I know the value of a life, usually within a few cents. When I killed my mother, it was for well over five thousand giltin.” “That’s disgusting,” said Kaitha.

her knew, the next time would be. Kaitha started near her wrist and cut down the front of her forearm almost to her elbow. She sat back and grimaced, feeling a familiar thrill as she watched her life pour down her arm. She wondered if she’d bother to stop it this time. People would say it was a waste, a horrible shame that one so great should wind up like that. But they said it now, and if she died, she wouldn’t have to hear it anymore. Or know it anymore. Kaitha threw her head back and drank the elixir, tasting its fire and copper flavor, feeling it burn sweetly down her throat. She rested against her bed as the gash in her arm closed itself. Warmth spread from her wrist through the rest of her body as the magic began to replenish the blood she had lost. Her eyes glazed over. It was the warmth that she craved; it enveloped her, a rapturous glow took her in its arms and loved her unconditionally. It drained away all of the memories, the fear, the shame. Everything painful floated away on velvet wings, and in the warmth, Kaitha could finally be herself. Whoever that was.

Addiction Described perfectly

“All of our funds were insured by Lamia Sisters through one of their subsidiaries, sirs,” said Poldo. “And as we’ve insured all of their funds through one of our own subsidiaries, we’ve ended up owing each other about five million giltin, with the balance sheets no better off for it.”

“I’m somebody as long as I got these thrice-cursed papers,” said the Kobold, pulling a tiny green booklet from his coat. “I’m somebody as long as a washed-up princess wants me in her purse! We ain’t like you Lightlings, waking up every morning and wondering what you want to do, where you think you should go. I wake up every morning and wonder what they’ll let me do, what I can get away with. ’Cause any day I cross them, they’ll take away my papers and then I’m nothing again. Fodder for some hero’s license, a dead dog walking.

“I’ve heard it said that gear does not make the hero.” “Aye, but gear does make the hero live longer,” said Gorm.

“Professional tip? Always buy your best gear on a well-financed project.”

“You’re young. You still have that sparkle in your eye, that drive to go out and save the day and let the rest sort itself out. But when you think like that, people can take advantage.” The Elf got a distant look in her eye. “Employers want your services. Agents want a cut of your pay. Companies want your image to sell their products. And men want, well, what men always want. If you’re not careful, you give yourself away for less than you’re worth. You trust people that you shouldn’t. You play with fire, and you get burned.”

“Yeah. Is there more to life than just killing and looting? Are we more than just numbers in some Guild Master’s ledger, statistics written on our license? And the big one, the one that haunts you every night on the job: Why are we doing this anyway?”

Managing egos was as much a part of the job as slaying monsters, and often far less pleasant. The

“I figured it was only a matter of time before the heroes came for my tribe too. Put in for my noncombatant papers the next day. Thought I’d be safer.” Magrash gave a dark, mirthless laugh. “See how well that turned out? I was just One-Eye Magrash before I started working the sewers.”

“They can’t,” said Jynn. “Surely you’re familiar with our gross domestic product.” “Of course I am. Why do ye think I’m drinking imported?” said Gorm, shaking his tankard at the noctomancer. “What’s that got to do with anything?” “No, I mean our GDP—the total value of everything that’s made or done in the Freedlands. It’s a big number, but if you break it down, four out of every ten giltin are linked with professional heroics.” “Forty percent of the economy is loot?” said Kaitha.

“So now the little buggers will bow down to anything,” said Gorm. “Whenever a nest of them moves somewhere, they always find a weird-shaped rock or a cow with a funny marking or something and set it up as their god.”

Hinduism :D

Gorm gave a grim nod. It wasn’t that the tower was empty; it was actually difficult to maneuver through the heaps of offerings and tributes the Lizardmen had set before their god, but the Lizardmen failed to take current market trends into account when choosing their sacrifices. He’d often heard it said that one man’s trash was another’s treasure, but in his experience the opposite was more often the case.

of the Moon’s strict rules against the magic of undeath. Individually, a walking skeleton or a zombie was a nuisance on par with a door-to-door missionary from the Temple of Oppo; both had unnatural persistence, an unnerving grin, and a single-minded focus on making converts.

Gorm rubbed his temples. The problem with the professional heroics industry, he had often said over one-too-many beers, was the title. The fame and the glory and even the very word ‘hero’ had a way of going straight to people’s heads and convincing them there was more to their job than violence and wealth retrieval. Overconfident heroes often tried to act as army commanders or diplomats or, as in this case, detectives.

“It can wait,” said Heraldin. He turned back to the heroes. “I’m fairly certain half of that man’s business model is blaming his wife.”

“Excellent. Mr. Ingerson, I noticed earlier that you have a Goblin with you.” “Aye,” said Gorm slowly. “He’s me squire.” “Ah. So you must be the same Gorm Ingerson who punched out the Elven Guard at—”

Poldo collected himself. “I did have several more key points, sir.” “What’s the market doing with the Dragon of Wynspar?” asked Mr. Goldson. “It’s up four and a half giltin, sir.” “Tell the men in the brokerage to buy ten thousand shares,” said Mr. Goldson. “Thank you, Poldo,” said Mr. Baggs. Poldo felt a twinge of despair. “It’s just that I did have several more reports to review.” “That won’t be necessary, thank you,” said Mr. Baggs. “We will offset our risk by investing in the Dragon of Wynspar,” said Mr. Goldson. “I even had a bit to do with some props and, ahem, visual aids,” said Poldo, losing his nerve as Mr. Goldson and Mr. Baggs looked up from their work and directly at him. “Your reports have been noted,” said Mr. Baggs coldly. “Investing in the DOW will help rebalance and stabilize our portfolio.”

“Why should I care who you tell your inane theories to?” Laruna waved a dismissive hand. Heraldin strummed his lute with a wistful sigh. “Because a secret love, a romance known only by the lovers who hide it, is the very best kind of love.” “You say every kind of love is the best kind.” “Yes,” said Heraldin, wearing an infuriating grin.

“Bard apprentices,” said Heraldin. “Trust me, it’s awful.” “I’m surprised ye went to the Bards’ College at all,” said Gorm. “I thought ye was always a thie—” “I was a bard long ago, when I was running from a past life,” Heraldin interrupted loudly. “But singing for my supper didn’t suit me, nor did the Heroes’ Guild, and so I pursued an alternative career.” Gaist took one of Heraldin’s last bannermen. “As a thie—” “As a hoard adjuster. But then word got out that I was, aha, adjusting the value of the hoards in too literal a sense.” “You were steal—” “I was exercising lifelong skills in creative acquisitions,” said Heraldin. “But the guild did not see it that way, and as our mutual friend Mr. Flinn was quick to point out, Benny Hookhand likely won’t see it that way either. And one does not practice certain illicit skills in the Freedlands without the approval of the Hookhand, especially not if you have a history with him. And so here we are.”

“Marketing is its own kind of magic, is it not?” said Zurthraka. “An illusion that men pay to be fooled by.”

“So, that’s it? We run around killing and looting just to line our pockets and marginally improve people’s disposition.” Gorm shrugged. “It beats accounting.”

The liche’s skeletal grin seemed more of a smirk as he contemplated the high scribe. “People of light? Vile necromancer?” he asked, amusement plain in his hollow voice. “Are we still hung up on branding people as good or evil? Why, little priest, you travel with a Goblin; surely you’ve seen the good in the ‘barbaric’ Shadowkin. And I’ll tell you I’ve found no greater example of the depravity of the world than the olive markets of Kesh.

“Then you must find one. The mantle of leadership is like destiny, Mr. Ingerson. It chooses whom it will, regardless of the wishes of kings or men, and you cannot give it away should you be chosen.” The high scribe gave a resigned sigh. “No more than you can seize it for your own should you be passed over.”

“Exactly,” said Jynn. “All you need is a perceived threat sitting atop something of great value, and the guild will send in the heroes to wipe out the enemy and loot everything worth a copper from the corpses. Why not send in a false offering? They’ll get it all back with interest.” And finally, Gorm knew the truth, and saw what had been gnawing at him. His stomach felt like lead. “Get to the horses,” he gasped. “What?” “Now!” roared Gorm. “We need to get to Bloodroot!”

“Burn the guild. Everybody’s hero is someone else’s villain, aye? And the other way around. We’ll be a hero to those who don’t have many of them.”