I decided, with the full authority of a man whose lungs were staging a coup, that physical work was a crime against my principles.
"Remind me," I gasped, clutching a tree for dear life.
"Why couldn't we have just sent a strongly worded letter?"
Lyra Ironhand didn't so much as flinch. Her hand was resting on the shaft of that ridiculous slab of steel she called a claymore. Her breathing was even. Of course it was. She was probably composing a music in her head about the joys of a brisk walk.
"Because letters can be burned," she stated, her voice flat. "It's harder to burn a person. Marginally."
She had a point, but I wasn't about to admit it.
My grand plan for founding a new Great Clan, a plan currently consisting of me, Ren, a terrifyingly overqualified mercenary-Lyra, and the lint in my pockets, hinged on moments like this.
It was exhausting.
Crimson Boar Clan's logging camp loomed ahead. It was exactly as brutish and unsubtle as I'd pictured. A man who looked like he'd been assembled from spare barrels, and a wad of angry beard blocked the gate.
This had to be Grunk.
"You have the gall to return, you weakling rat?" he boomed.
Rat. How original.
'At least rats are clever', I thought. This guy looked like his primary problem-solving tool was his forehead. This was good. Predictable was profitable.
I pushed myself off the tree and pasted on my most harmless, pathetic smile. It was a carefully crafted expression of utter non-threat.
"But that is precisely why we're here!" I said, my voice full of a sincerity I did not feel. "We have a proposition that will bring your Clan great honour!"
Grunk's eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly, city boy, before I use your spine as a toothpick."
I felt the temperature beside me drop a solid twenty degrees. That was Lyra's signature "I am contemplating justifiable homicide" aura. It was a testament to her professionalism—and the contract I held over her—that her sword remained sheathed.
Time to work.
"The Royal Council has posted a Wager for fifty Council Tokens regarding the unauthorized felling of the Ironwood trees," I began, my tone light and helpful.
He spat. "The Quill-pushers can choke on their ink."
Wow, exactly a meat bad mouthing Steel Quill clan right in front of a stranger like me.
"A noble sentiment," I agreed. "However, the Royal Charter of Seasons, subsection four, paragraph nine, forbids logging during the nesting season of the Emerald-Crested Finch. A technicality, I know, but one the Clan of the Steel Quill will use to bleed you dry."
The look on his face was a beautiful mix of confusion.
I leaned in, dropping my voice. "But what if the trees… became worthless?"
From the corner of my eye, I saw Lyra's entire body go rigid.
"I have acquired," I announced proudly, "three breeding pairs of the exceedingly rare Glass-Jaw Termite."
I could feel Lyra's soul leaving her body. The sheer, concentrated horror rolling off her was practically a physical force. It was magnificent.
"You. Did. Not," she ground out through clenched teeth.
"Oh, but I did! They exclusively eat Ironwood. In a week, this whole forest will be sawdust. The Steel Quills' Wager becomes moot, your Clan avoids sanction, and all I ask is a finder's fee of twenty Tokens."
Before the meathead could talk to me, a new voice, a roar that could curdle thunder, erupted from behind the gate.
BAAAAM-!
The gate flew open, revealing a man who was essentially a larger, angrier Grunk.
Lord Borin. Another meat head.
"Termites!" he bellowed, his belly shaking with laughter. "You want to solve my problems with BUGS?! Get out of my sight!"
The gate slammed shut.
I sighed dramatically. "Pearls before swine. Or, termites before boars, I suppose."
I turned and began the long, arduous trek back down the path.
"Assassins," Lyra hissed as she stalked beside me. "They are going to send assassins. My contract does not cover death by termite-related stupidity."
"Relax," I said, finally locating my emergency stash of Honeyed Snapdragon Puffs. I popped one into my mouth. The bliss was immediate. "I never expected them to accept."
"Then what," she demanded, her voice dangerously low, "was the point?"
We rounded a bend, the full scale of the Crimson Boar's illegal operation coming into view below us. Hundreds upon hundreds of felled Ironwood logs were stacked, ready for transport.
I stopped and pointed with a half-eaten puff.
"The point," I said, letting a grin finally spread across my face, "was to make sure that Lord Borin and his men could provide a perfect, unshakeable alibi for where they were and what they were doing at precisely four o'clock this afternoon."
Lyra stared at me, the gears in her brilliant, violent mind finally clicking into place. "An alibi for what?"
My grin widened.
"For when the Royal Tax Assessor's convoy, the one carrying a season's worth of tariffs, was ambushed and pillaged on the road not fifty yards from here, leaving behind nothing but a single, incriminating Crimson Boar banner."