The mansion has a name: Overbrook, carved into the columns that flank its front gate on Edacio Square.  Naming homes is a custom that Tanner has only ever read about in comedy of manners novels, but that sparks a sense of recognition in the ork that bolsters their confidence as they stride up the walk to its front door.  The building is venerable, the grounds immaculate.

The door opens on their approach by a liveried doorman.  “Good afternoon and welcome to Master Mastica’s salon.”

Tanner wonders for a moment if the servant has avoided ‘sir’ or ‘madam’ out of respect to the ork’s skirt—did he watch them walk up to the door?—or if it’s a quiet dig at their plainly common background.  But there isn’t much benefit from that line of thinking, they tell themselves.  “Thank you,” they say instead, and step inside.

“The guests are mostly collected in the solarium, through there,” the servant says, indicating the open doors on the other side of the wide entry hall, “but have the liberty of the entire ground floor.”

The ork looks into the sun-bright room and the wash of people within.  They can see at least twenty guests from this angle, and there is certainly still more they can’t see.  A handful of others are chatting at the other end of the hall, and a pair of ladies emerge from one door and pass through yet another.  This is not a small party.  “I’m looking for someone,” they tell the doorman, and flash him a rueful smile.  “I’m sort of meeting him here.  Intense young dwarf, green eyes, black hair?”

The faintest trace of a scowl servant flickers across his features, and Tanner realized they’ve interrupted some sort of welcome litany.  “Does your friend have a name?”

“Klaus,” they nearly laugh.  “Klaus Bock.  Sorry, I should have lead with that.”

The doorman nods, whether in agreement or not is uncertain.  “Prentice Bock arrived perhaps twenty minutes ago.  I cannot say with any certainty where you’d find him within.”

“Thanks,” they say.  “And I’m sorry, was there something else you were going to say?”

“Questions are in thirty minutes,” is his reply, delivered as if Tanner should know what that means.  He then nods to the package cradled in the crook of the ork’s arm.  “May I take your… bag?”

“Oh, this,” Tanner stammers, and makes to hold it out, but then stops halfway.  “Sorry, I’ve just… never called on Master Mastica before, and I wasn’t entirely sure if I should bring a gift.”

“A gift, you say?” comes the master’s garrulous croak, and Mastica’s hand lands on their shoulder.  “Young Tanner, you are the apotheosis of etiquette.”  He hooks a thumb behind him, to indicate the rest of the party.  “None of these assholes ever bring me anything.”

“Well it’s my first time in your home,” Tanner says with a gameful smile, and hands over the tight-drawn burlap package, quartered by twine.  “It’s coffee, a special dark roast that just came into port yesterday,” they explain.  They do not explain that their fathers’ crew unloaded the ship and not all the barrels made it to the horse carts.  “I thought you might enjoy it in the morning, while you’re recovering from having so many people in your home.”

The ogre brays laughter.  “You’ve guessed exactly what I end up doing every Sunday morning.  Toast, coffee, and why the hell did I have so many people over yesterday.”  He presses the burlap up to his nose, inhales deeply, and groans.  “Well that does smell incredible, Tanner.  Thank you.”

The ork smiles despite their misgivings playing nice with the man who maligned them in the press.  Rubbing elbows with people of a higher social caliber and playing along with their customs feels like a kind of game.  How much surprise can they elicit from people who assume this ork will act uncouth and undignified?  Can they make their “betters” question if perhaps this point-eared kid is hiding some secret, high-class background?  Even despite their clothes, which are the nicest Tanner owns but will be eclipsed by everyone else’s daily wear.  They’re going to stick out like a sore thumb, but maybe they can at least be a fascinating thumb.

Mastica lobs the bag of coffee to the doorman.  “See this to the kitchen, and tell Cook I’ll have it at breakfast,” he says, and then pats Tanner’s shoulder again, a little gingerly.  “Tanner, you seem to be… a touch moist.”

All the illusions of passing as secret aristocracy that Tanner is building in their head immediately collapse.  “Well it’s… a warm day, sir,” they say, “and Edacio’s on the other side of the city from Orktown.”

The ogre sighs, but in a glance Tanner sees that he’s frustrated at himself, not them.  “You walked here.  Of course you did; I should have thought of that.”  He pats Tanner’s shoulder again.  “Next time, if you choose to join us again, I’ll send my carriage your way.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

But the ogre is hearing none of it.  “I already send it round on Saturday mornings to pick up a few friends who either don’t have their own or expect an… older brand of hospitality,” he explains.  “Sometimes I have time to ride along, and we have a lively little pre-salon before the festivities proper.”

Tanner smiles hesitantly.  “I— that’s very kind, Master Mastica.”

“As for today,” he says, and gently guides Tanner to the base of the stairs, “why don’t you skip upstairs for a moment to freshen up.  Tell the footman up there I’ve put you in the Grey Room.  It’s a horrific little suite, but if you open the windows you get a fresh breeze from the garden.”

The ork balks.  “Oh, I mean— I couldn’t…”

“You can,” the man of the house insists, and his gentle guidance becomes more like a shove up the stairs.  He keeps his voice low so it doesn’t carry.  “Seriously, Ribcarver.  Just shuck off your clothes for a bit to stop sweating through them.  Maybe apply a little rose water.  You’ll thank me in fifteen minutes.”

•

“You know, Mastica said this wasn’t your kind of party,” Klaus observes.  “More pedantry than patronage.”

Beulah Hill looks down at the dwarf with a smirk.  “What can I say, sometimes I get this powerful craving for pedantry.  How’d you get away from your master for a whole afternoon?”

Klaus offers the woman one of the drinks he’s carrying, which is gratefully accepted.  He smirks softly.  “This last week, I… saw something that I wasn’t supposed to, and ever since Barchan has been incredibly accomodating.”

Hill lifts her glass.  “Blackmailing your master.  Well done, love.”

“Is it blackmail if I don’t even threaten him?” the apprentice asks, demeanor landing in the awkward space between a knowing smirk and an uneasy chuckle.  “I haven’t said a word about it, and he’s bending over backwards to appease me.”

The jotun lifts an eyebrow.  “May I… ask what it was?”

But Klaus shakes his head and settles in to stand next to her, looking out into the crowd.  “I think it’s nothing, personally, but he’s embarassed by it, so I wouldn’t want to spread it around.”

Hill snorts.  “Fucking jotun pride.”

“I’ll drink to that,” the dwarf tips his glass.  “I doubt it will last the week, but I will take advantage while it lasts.”

“You should just finish your journeypiece.”

“I see you’ve joined the chorus,” Klaus scoffs, eyes still on the parade of guests circulating through the mansion.

“No, I mean—” the celebrity clarifies, “take this opportunity while he’s loosened your leash to knock out that journeywork.  Instead of, you know—”  She waves her glass to take in the whole assembly throughout the house.  “—going to parties to listen to blowhards pontificate.”

The dwarf lays a finger to the side of his nose and throws a wink up at her.  “Oh, believe me, I haven’t just been goofing off.  But I’m not here for the… philosophy.”  His gaze returns to the mess of people.

Beulah frowns softly, considering, and then lets a soft little satsified sound of arriving at a conclusion.  “Oh.  Hank invited Tanner here, didn’t he?”

Klaus looks up, startled like he’s been caught.  She laughs at the look on his face, which melts into a rueful grimace.  “Am I that obvious?”

“You don’t look at anybody else when that ork is in the room,” she tells him, “or even when they might be in the room.  You don’t even tell your old friends wearing new outfits that they look good.”

The dwarf looks up again, then gives her dress an up-and-down.  “This isn’t new.  The sash and the collar cut are from six months ago.”

“You are such your mother’s son,” Beulah sighs, and then touches her collarbone.  “The necklace is new, and something I’d think you’d appreciate given your chosen profession.”

Klaus snorts.  “You think I can see up there?”

With an indulgent roll of her eyes, Beulah kneels so that Klaus can get an eyeful of the glittering thing around her neck.  “You shouldn’t worry about being too obvious,” she advises him as he appraises the piece.  “People could stand to be a little more obvious with the objects of their affections.”

Klaus lifts the pendant from the jotun’s decolletage.  Gold whorls loop around in a geometric pattern, clutching a broad, flat opal.  Its milky surface shimmers with triangular flecks of a dozen different pastels.  “Is this someone being obvious with you?” he asks, and she makes a small sound of affirmation.  “It’s a lovely stone.”

But the girl winces.  “Is it that bad?”  At his look of befuddlement, she says, “The setting’s where the artistry lies, that’s what you always say.”

The dwarf rolls his eyes.  “The stone is better than the setting, which is probably journeywork.  The prongs don’t really need to be this thick, but… the stone’s certainly not going to fall out.”  He lets the pendant fall back against her skin.  “But you like opals, right?”

She nods, eyes brighter than the opals.  “They’re my favorite.”

He nods, tilting his chin upwards to indicate that she can stand up again.  “The important part is that your admirer remembered your favorite,” he counsels.  “You’ve no idea how many people come into the shop and then don’t have any idea what to buy their lovers.”

“Not my lover yet,” Beulah corrects lightly.

“Well, they’d like to be, given the price I’d put on that stone.”

“It’s not the price tag, it’s—as you say—the remembering,” the jotun says, and doesn’t bother hiding her smile.  “What can I say, I like to be wooed.”

“Prentice Bock.” Klaus can hear the sneer in the greeting before he turns to see it on the incoming dwarf’s face.  He’s a finger-width taller than Klaus, blonde and pale, decked out in white and baby blue silk.  Jewelry glitters all over him.

“Mister Pivo,” he rejoins with a tight smile.  “I didn’t think you still came to these, after that rhetorical drubbing you got over the… what was it, the aesthetics of southern fashion.”

Pivo scoffs, a little too forcefully.  “Oh, that was months ago, now.  Nobody remembers that little tiff.  And you’re one to talk: I haven’t seen your face here in the interim.”

“Work keeps me busy,” Klaus says with a shrug and a self-satisifed smile.

“That’s why I avoid it,” the other dwarf laughs gaily, and tips his glass in a mock-toast that neither Klaus nor Beulah join.  “I don’t know how—or why—anyone would bother with a profession.  Every description I’ve heard of it paints it as a ghastly experience.”

“Some of us like to contribute to society,” the dwarf in black replies, and lifts his glass, “instead of leech off of it.”

Beulah taps her empty glass against his.  “And not all of us have family money to sit on.”

Pivo directs a pale, frigid smile at her.  “Well I do believe you’ve done well selling the assets your mother gave you, dear.”  His eyes trace up and down her body, making it clear he is not talking about banking.

“Dempsey Pivo,” Klaus grates.  “If it is your wish to lose a duel to a mere workman, keep going along that line of conversation and I will happily grant it.”

But the jotun’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.  “Don’t trouble yourself, Klaus.  I’m more than capable of defending my own honor.  Especially since my reach is Pivo’s entire height.”  She spears the foppish dwarf with a steely glare, and then returns her attention to her friend.  “I think I should like some fresh air.  Would you accompany me through the gardens?”

Tanner walks a tight circle in the bedroom, all but nude.  Their clothes are spread out across a pair of chairs and a table, airing out along with the ork.  They hate to admit it, but the moment it all came off, they did feel immediately better.

The air in the room is cool, a fresh breeze drifting in from the open windows.  Everything laid out on the vanity is touched with a light floral scent, and now Tanner smells like lavender, too.  They continue around their little circle in the middle of the room, taking in the details of what must be the fourth or fifth guest bedroom of the mansion.  The furniture is polished to a shine; the fabrics draped all over everywhere are thick and rich.  It’s a lovely room, despite what Mastica said.

Strictly speaking, none of this is new to the ork, who has packed up and moved houses just like this.  Things just tend to be stacked up and wrapped in muslin by the time their crew arrives on the scene.  That, and they’re usually not naked.

Tanner stifles a sudden giggle: how on earth have they arrived here?

They circle the room one more time before they hear a familiar voice outside, and creep to the window.  Sure enough, Beulah Hill is strolling out into the elaborate formal gardens that roll out from the house and down to the river.  And what’s more, Klaus walks at her side.  Tanner stifles the impulse to call out and wave.

“He can wreck your life without even noticing,” Connor’s warning comes tumbling out of their memory.  He had been kind, caring, even gentle about it, but insistent, too.  “You’ve got to remember that no matter what happens, he will always have the power in the relationship.”

“It’s not even really a relationship yet—” Tanner had tried to protest, a trifle blearily, because they’d hit the ale hard, steeling themself for the talk.

“Any two people interacting is a relationship,” the elf cut them off, “and every relationship has imbalanced power.”  At that point, the elf realized he was sitting in a pub parroting guild teachings, which technically weren’t for public consumption.  He lowered his voice.  “Most relationships the power see-saws back and forth, a little or a lot.  In a relationship like this, it doesn’t, and it never will.”

“Look, I just want to get to know him a little better, have a nice evening.  It doesn’t have to be all about power.”

“The power imbalance exists whether you want to think about it or not,” the prostitute counseled them.  “And he won’t think about it much.  In fact he may never be aware of the power he has over you.  Which means you have to keep an eye on the power imbalance, for both your sakes.”

Last night it had been gibberish: over-protective and hyperbolic, even if well-meaning.  But now, standing naked in a bedroom leagues beyond his normal life, overlooking a private garden that, in Orktown, would be packed with tenements housing hundreds, watching a boy stroll alongside a celebrity and see absolutely none of it as out of the ordinary… Connor’s words begin to ring true.

“It doesn’t mean you can’t go for it, and I think you should,” the elf’s voice echoes in Tanner’s head.  “You just have to be smart about it, okay?  Careful.  Don’t get in too deep, and always make sure you have a way back out.”

Tanner shrugs on their blouse and steps up to the window, watching Klaus and Beulah Hill.  “Don’t get in too deep,” they mutter to themself.

They pull on their now-dry clothes and head downstairs, then out into the gardens.  The crushed-gravel paths loop endlessly around flowering shrubs and artfully clipped trees, but there is no sign of the dwarf and jotun.  Tanner’s frustration is interrupted by the sound of a gong.  The doorman stands on the edge of the terrace, strikes the gong once more, and announces: “Questions begin in the Solarium presently.”

The handful of guests that Tanner can see turn their steps towards the mansion.  Following, they find a similar flow of people into the sunlit reading room off the main hall.  It is quickly filling to standing room only.

A familiar, thick hand falls on their shoulder.  “Tanner,” cries Mastica, drawing them into the crowded room.  “Come sit with me for Questions.”

“I’m not really sure what that even is,” the ork protests, but follows along through the sitting and standing guests to a conspicuously unoccupied couch in the center of the room.

“Oh, you’ll love it,” the newsman says, and guides Tanner to a seat on the couch.  Mastica himself remains standing, chest puffed out and looking over the assembled with a satisifed and proprietary air.  The room quiets.

“Welcome to Overbrook, friends new and old,” he tells the room as he picks up a wide-lipped chalice holding a squat candle.  “As most of you know, I do love a lively conversation, and I absolutely despise hearing the same old conversations over and over again.  And the core of a good conversation is always a good question.  And so—” The ogre snaps his fingers over the candle, which sparks to life.  “Let’s hear what you’ve brought.  Questions have begun.”

Mastica then crashes back into the couch beside the now-mystified ork  “Here we go, young Tanner.”  He claps his palms over his knees, watching the room expectantly.

“Aside from the trick with the candle,” they whisper, “that was less than illuminating.”

Hank points at a brash young satyr or faun who has taken a half-step forward, straining to her full height.  “It’s quite simple,” he explains.  “Guests stand or step forward or raise their hand of whatever, and they ask the assembly one question, and then they sit or step back down.”

The satyr does exactly that. “If a king rules his lands by right of conquest,” she asks in a high, clear voice, “by what right does his son rule after the king has passed on?”  She waits a beat, and then steps back into the crowd.

Tanner shifts forward in their seat.  “And then we… discuss the question?” they ask their host.

“No, no,” Hank says with a shake of his weighty head.  “No discussion during Questions.  There’s no benefit to it, you see.  The answer that leaps to your lips is the answer that most everyone has already heard or already thought of themselves.”  He smiles contentedly as three different guests indicate that they have a question, and then by gestures and nods defer to the elderly gnome among them.  “Let the questions settle inside you,” the ogre whispers as the gnome steps forward.  “Savor them.  Ruminate.  And then—”

The gnome asks her question: “Is the truth always valuable?”

“And then,” Hank continues, still hushed, “after Questions is over and we all break apart into little chattering clumps again, then we discuss.”

A burly minotaur licks his lips before asking with bravado, “Can the gods possibly be exactly what their priests tell us they are?”

“That’s… heresy,” Tanner whispers to Hank, more querulously than they want to.

“Stating it in a declarative would be heresy,” the ogre whispers back with a knowing smirk.  “But as he phrased it, it’s merely a question.  Which could always be answered, ‘of course the priests and their inquisitor friends are all correct.’”

A blond dwarf in samite and jewels stands, looks over the crowd with relish, and asks, “If a slave is stolen from a plantation and brought to the city, does the city air make them free?”

Hank pats Tanner’s hand.  “That’s just sophistry; ignore anything Pivo says.”

Tanner nods, but isn’t really listening.  Four heads to the left of this Pivo character stands Klaus, with Beulah behind him.  Tanner waves; Klaus waves back.  Neither want to disrupt… whatever this is.

An older jotun, slumped on a chaise and moving no more than a mountain might, asks the room without getting up: “Do the common people, lacking breeding, refinement, and education, require the rule of their betters, who possess these qualities?”

There is a slight upset as a young centaur leaps up and talks over a gnomish boy who was about to speak, who wilts under the energy of the upstart: “How can society provide the common people with the refinement and education that has been denied them for generations?”

“Oh ho!” Hank chortles, slapping his knee.  “Oh ho!  A reversal!”

“Ahem.”  It’s Klaus, who has stepped forward.  He addresses the room, but his eyes never leave Tanner’s.  “May my friend Beulah switch seats with my friend Tanner?”

Mastica straightens to his full height but does not stand.  “Absolutely not,” he declares with mock haughtiness.  “I want something young and pretty on my arm for a change.  You can have them after Questions,” he adds with overacted ill grace.

The room accepts the banter with amusement, and Tanner tries not to blush too hard.  When someone else steps up for their question, the ork mutters, “I thought your type was pretty and stupid.”

Hank pats their hand placatingly.  “And that’s why it will never work between us, young Tanner.”

The last question of the day is asked by a withered elder dwarf who shakes as he stood up.  The room quiets in anticipation and he intones, “What, in the name of all the divines, are any of us doing here?”

Mastica stands up as the room explodes into laughter.  It’s an odd kind of laughter: rueful, self-abasing, communal.  Simultaneously a recognition and a release that the things they’ve said to each other here, and the things they’re about to say to each other as the party proceeds, are all either treasonous or heretical or both.  Tanner’s not sure they’ve ever heard its like before.  Perhaps very late, when a crew of theives have slipped deep enough in their cups to shed their defensiveness.

Tanner likes being immersed in this laughter.

“All right, all right, I think that will do us this week,” the host tells the assembled guests.  “Mingle, discuss, make bombastic pronouncements and see how far they get you.  And eat!  The spread should be laid out in the dining room by now and last week I was swimming in leftovers.  Welcome to my home and thank you for bringing your dazzling conversation.”

When the ogre turns to Tanner, he gives the ork an avuncular smile.  “Thank you, dear, for playing my arm candy, but do feel free to go frolic with your peers.”

“I also heard there was food,” the ork grins tuskily.

Mastica waves at the door to the great hall and presumably the dining room beyond.  “Not as exquisite as Bock’s table, but I do take some small measure of pride in it.  The roast ham is my favorite.”

When Tanner finally meets up with Klaus, the both of them stand there looking at each other uncertainly.  Beulah finally rolls her eyes and steps in to offer them her hand.  “So good to see you again, Mixter Ribcarver.”

Tanner takes it gratefully, and brushes their lips over her knuckles.  “Likewise, Miss Hill.  Although please call me Tanner.”

“I’m Beulah,” she responds with a nod and a short smile.  “I’m also starving.  Shall we?”

At the barest nod of agreement from the two of them, the jotun turns and swishes her voluminous skirts through the milling guests.  After a beat, the dwarf dislodges himself from hesitation with a cough and offers Tanner his arm.  The ork takes it with a smile.

“How’s your first freethinker salon going?” Klaus asks, voice making it clear how little respect he holds for the gathering.

Tanner’s attention is more on the dwarf’s arm than the dwarf’s words.  It’s pleasantly solid for someone who does fine work all the time.  Given how he swaggers around with that sword on his hip, he probably drills regularly.  The thought of the boy lunging and sweaty fills Tanner’s head until there’s hardly enough space for a verbal response.  “Oh, um,” they stammer, “I kind of… I mean, I’m enjoying myself.  Are you… not?”

“I know too many of these people too well,” the dwarf says with a shrug.  “When you know the motives lurking behind them, the questions lose some of their fascination.  Besides.  I didn’t come here for questions, anyway.”  At this he looks up at Tanner and flashes a smile.

Their heart stutters.

And then they are in the dining room, its long table decked out with all manner of easily portable food.  There are plates ranging from gnomish saucers to jotun platters.  Beulah takes one of the largest as a matter of course and Klaus the second-to-smallest.  Tanner hesitates for just a moment, uncertain what message they’d be sending, or how they’d look taking which plate.

The ork is close to average size for the gathering, so that might imply that they should take one of the middle-sized plates.  But there are so many tantalizing foods laid out around that central roast ham.  They can easily see sampling one of each, which could easily overburden anything but the largest plate.  Spilling food everywhere seems worse than taking too large a plate, right?  But they also don’t want to look like some starving-poor point gorging on the hospitality of their betters.

“What are you waiting for?” Klaus asks, good-naturedly, and gestures with a pair of tongs.  “Don’t miss the ham, it’s perfection.”

Beulah looks over at Klaus’ comment and discerns their predicament immediately.  Making eye contact with the ork, she pats the rim of her massive platter and nods confidently.

Tanner doesn’t argue.

They pile their plates high and step out into the gardens, finding a bench next to a babbling fountain.  “Six gods,” Beulah sighs happily over the piles of food arrayed across her platter. “I never need supper after lunch at Mastica’s.”  But there is little other conversation as they work their way through the hors d’oerves, sweetmeats, slabs of ham, and tiny sandwiches.

The jotun polishes her plate off first and rises.  “I’m going back in for more, and I’m not coming back out here afterwards.”

“Do we smell?” Klaus asks with a grin.

She ignores him.  “It was lovely seeing you again, Tanner.  Don’t let him get away with too much, all right?”

“Oh, I— I’ll be careful,” they stammer, trying to wipe the stupid grin blossoming across their face.  They watch her swish away, and when she’s out of sight, their gaze falls down to Klaus, who has apparently been watching them the entire time.

The dwarf inches closer along the bench.  “So I guess we start with innocent chit-chat, right?” he suggests.  “How’ve you been?”

Tanner’s not sure what to do with their plate of food: put it aside, or continue picking at it?  “Oh, I’ve been… good,” they fumble.  “I mean, it’s only been a couple days, and… my days aren’t usually very noteworthy.  Finished the Roses job, ran cartloads up to Bishop’s Table for a couple days.  Just, you know, warehouse stuff.”

“Just work and straight to bed every day?”  There’s a note in the boy’s voice that might be teasing.

“Well no, I went out with Connor one night,” they say, a bit defensively.  They go out.  They have fun.  They’re a fun ork.  “But otherwise, I just had supper with my dads and read.”

Klaus tips his head, a question forming behind his eyes.  Tanner gulps because the dwarf is probably going to ask about going out with Connor, maybe make a joke about if Connor was acting in a professional capacity, but more likely innocent details about where they went and what they filled their time with, and Tanner doesn’t want to explain that their friend warned them to be careful around this high-class Bock boy.

But instead the dwarf asks, “What are you reading?”

In that moment, they could kiss him, but that seems like it would be jumping too far forward too fast, and suddenly Tanner realizes that they’re more than a little intimidated by the dwarf.  “Oh, just a silly novel,” they shrug.  “In and Out of Happenstance, by—”

“—Alfred Bract!” Klaus grins.  Dazzled by the smile, Tanner almost misses anything else the dwarf says.  “That’s the one that’s the—what’s the subtitle, again, the… Novel of High Ideals and Low Convinctions, right?”

“That’s the one,” they nod.  “Comedy of manners, is… your kind of thing?”

 “When they’re good,” is the dwarf’s answer.  “The surface-level witticisms and stuff are nice and all, but the good stuff, it cuts deep, you know?  The structure underneath, the inner workings: that’s the real test of a work of art.”

Tanner elects not to mention that they were rereading it to brush up on the etiquette of an afternoon house party.

The book is still, however, one of their favorites.  They both fall into talking about the different characters and their family dynamics, their deepest yearnings and the obstacles laid out before them.  Klaus highlights a number of interactions and historical references that Tanner had not been aware of.  More than once, though, the dwarf brightens or seriously considers some insight that Tanner shares, so the exchange is not—Tanner hopes—entirely one-sided.

The book talk is interrupted by a soaring call of “Prentice Bock!” and a roll of Klaus’ eyes. Dempsey Pivo and three others come sauntering down the garden path.  The dwarf in white takes a few dancing steps to the lead of the little knot of people, eyes flashing at Tanner.  “And you must be the revolutionary ork.”

Klaus does not stand up.  “Tanner Ribcarver, this is Mister Pivo,” he says, less than enthused to make introductions.  “Dempsey Pivo, this is Mixter Journalier Ribcarver.”  

“Journalier of Labor!” the other dwarf all but titters as he offers his hand, palm down.  “Very modern.”

Tanner takes the dwarfs hand and, since it was offered sideways, kisses the space above his knuckles.  Judging by the immediate smirks of the other three, this was the wrong response, even though Pivo offered his hand the wrong way in the first place.  Tanner decides to smile in the face of mockery.  “Journalier of Labor, indeed, although I’m not sure I qualify as a revolutionary.  What do you do, Mister Pivo?”

“Nothing,” Klaus supplies before Pivo can answer, lips pulled tight in a satisfied smile.  “Mister Pivo is above that sort of thing.”

The blond dwarf ignores Klaus.  “I am a philosopher,” he says, with just enough of a smirk to indicate he is less than serious.  “That’s why I am here.  To think big thoughts and then spill them out onto the ground to impress the smaller brains around me.”

“Still sore about southern fashion, then,” Klaus observes, and then nods towards the other three.  “Did you bring your own peanut gallery to bolster your reception this time?”

“In fact we were just talking about a topic that I’m sure could benefit from your perspective, Mixter Ribcarver,” Pivo purrs.  “We were discussing how city air makes serfs free—and to be specific, by law, if a runaway serf lives in the city for a year and a day, the city won’t turn them over when their lord comes looking for their runaway labor.”

Tanner nods, trying to be polite.  “I’m aware of the law.  In fact, one of the workers on my crew breathed her freedom here last year.”

“How marvellous for her,” Pivo says without a trace of sincerity.  “The thing we were wondering is this: what is it about the air that turns a slave into a citizen?  And we figured you’d know more than we.”

“Because of my friend?” Tanner asks, lifting one eyebrow.

“Because you’re an ork,” Klaus clarifies, “and they assumed you’re an escaped slave, because they walk through a world significantly simpler than we do.”

Pivo rolls his eyes.  “I do not assume you are an escaped anything, but I do assume that, as an ork, you have an opinion on the matter.  It is an issue that especially concerns points, does it not?”

“It’s an issue that concerns all of us,” Tanner answers, head cocked in slight confusion.  “There’s as many enslaved dwarves as there are enslaved orks, maybe not here, but back in the North, especially.”

“Well those are serfs, not slaves,” he quibbles.

“The law doesn’t distinguish between those, though,” the ork says with a shrug.  “And serfdom is just another kind of slavery, when you get down to it.  Bound to the land or bound to an owner, you’re still forced to work and can’t leave.”

“We’re getting away from the question,” says Pivo with a sniff.  “What is it about the air, Mixter Ribcarver, that makes us free?”

Tanner can’t help but smile.  “It’s… just a saying, Mister Pivo.  The law doesn’t say it’s the air that makes them free.  The law says the city makes them free.”

“Because the city wants to tax them,” Klaus points out helpfully.

“So if I were to go steal a handful of slaves off of a plantation,” Pivo presses, stepping a little closer to Tanner.  “And kept them locked up in my basement.  Would they be free at the end of a year and a day?”

The ork chuckles.  “You’re going to feed them for a year and a day?”

“That’s just details,” Pivo hisses.  “A distraction.  If I do it, if I steal another man’s property and hide it in my basement, it doesn’t become not his property a year later, that’s ridiculous.”

“You seem to have a pretty decisive opinion on the question,” Tanner observes drily.  “I wonder if you have the same respect for the law in question.”

“The underlying law is for slaves and serfs who free themselves,” the dwarf in white insists, “who make it to the city by their own wits and abilities, who scrape out a life for themselves here for an entire year.  That’s the kind of people we should welcome into citizenship, don’t you think?  The clever, the resourceful.  Those who have proven themselves valuable.”

Tanner looks Pivo up and down, taking in the glittering samite and jewels that the first dwarf is wearing.  The outfit would by an entire block of Orktown real estate.  They glance to Klaus, and smile softly.  “When you know where the questions come from, right?”  Klaus nods incrementally.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demands Pivo.

“I’m going to go out on a limb, here,” Tanner says, “but your family owns a plantation outside of the city, yeah?  And you work it with enslaved labor.”

“That’s besides the point.”

Tanner nods.  “And the bands of raiders striking out from the city, coming back with people they liberated from plantations like yours… they must be worrisome for you and your family… and your wardrobe.”

Pivo rolls his eyes theatrically.  “That’s not it at all.  Our country house is hardly a plantation and we only staff it with slaves because there’s no viable alternative.”  He turns to his three friends and insists, “My family holds slavery in as much contempt as any other family in the city.”  He turns back to Tanner and Klaus. “I just think those plantation raids are missing the point.  You can’t just give people citizenship, they have to earn it.”

“Like Pivo did,” Klaus suggests, but the other dwarf continues to ignore him.

“So you’re worried that the plantation raids are bringing the wrong kind of people into the city,” Tanner summarizes for Pivo, deadpan.

He doesn’t notice the tone.  “Exactly.  I’m glad you agree.”

“Oh, I didn’t agree with anything you’ve said,” the ork laughs.  “And if you hold slavery in as much contempt as any other family in the city, that would necessarily mean the same level of contempt as the citizens who are raiding plantations.  Are you raiding plantations, Mister Pivo?  Because that would be holding slavery in contempt.”

“High ideals and low convictions,” Klaus observes.

But now Pivo finally rounds on the other dwarf.  “Oh, I’m sorry, Prentice, do my convictions not measure up to yours?”

“Do you have convictions?”

“Do you?” Pivo shoots back.  “Because your boyfriend here says somebody with convictions raids plantations.”

Tanner’s stomach drops through the ground.  “Not a boy,” they mutter, not that anyone hears.  They dressed for the party as feminine as their wardrobe gets and apparently it’s all for nothing.

When Klaus looks to Tanner, the ork’s features are downcast.  They refuse to meet the dwarf’s eye.  Klaus experiences a moment of panic, and looks back to Pivo: aristocratic dwarven features, silk doublet, sparkling jewelry.  Shit.  Does Klaus look exactly the same to Tanner?  Is he just another foppish twit to them?

Klaus concludes that he must prove himself.  He must make a grand statement.

“I’d join a plantation raid,” he says with a shrug that is supposed to convey disregard for the ludicrous amount of danger and consequences involved.  “Hells yes.  I’m a free citizen of a free city, and slavery is a fucking abomination.”

“He would join a plantation raid,” Pivo tells his friends with a knowing smirk.  “But he can’t, because his master won’t let him.  Except your master’s being suddenly lenient with you, isn’t he?  That’s what you were telling Miss Hill earlier today.”

“Eavesdropping on me, Pivo?”

But the other dwarf keeps rolling: “What are you going to do with your newfound freedom, Bock?  For a man of conviction, who’s not a coward, the answer seems pretty clear.”

“Okay, first of all,” Klaus stands and spits, “fuck you.  And secondly, yeah, I think I will go raid a plantation.  Maybe I’ll raid yours, Pivo.”

The other dwarf rolls his eyes, although Klaus does detect just a hint of quaver in his stance.  “You’re all hot air, Bock.  You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

But Klaus Bock now settles into an easy, relaxed stance, hands on hips, steely eyes leveled with Pivo’s.  “By the six gods, Pivo, I’m going to raid a plantation, and I’m going to liberate more people than you’ve ever had at a birthday party.  Shouldn’t be hard: that’d be what, three?”

He looks pointedly past the other dwarf at his entourage, and it’s only then that he looks past them, too, and sees that the two quarrelling dwarves have attracted a small crowd.  A small crowd who have just seen him swear by the gods that he’s going plantation raiding, and while he had every intention to follow through when he said it, now he feels the weight of expectation on him.  His grand gesture might have been a bit… grandiose.

Pivo stalks away with a final parting scoff.

“Did I get you in trouble?” comes a meek voice behind him, and he turns to find it coming from Tanner.  The ork’s right hand is absently smoothing their skirt over their knees.  “I shouldn’t have laughed at him.”

“Pivo needs more people laughing at him,” Klaus counters, and rushes over to sit next to them again.  “I was happy to see you do it.”

The ork smiles wanly.  “I was really going with him for a bit, there.”

Klaus scoffs.  “You demolished him three times over.  You learn all your banter from novels, or is it just a natural talent?”

Tanner’s smile grows just a touch.  “Definitely the novels.”  They reach down to touch their empty plate, think better of it, fold their hands in their lap.  “Sorry, I’m all… flustered.”  They scrub their face.  “So you swore to go raid a plantation in front of a dozen people.”

“That’s a thing that happened,” Klaus nods.  “On that topic, I don’t suppose you know anybody organizing a plantation raid?”

Tanner scrubs their face harder.  “Look, you don’t have to, you can just… say you did.”

But the dwarf is unswayed.  “No.  I want to.  Because, in a very backwards way, Pivo’s right.  Or scratch that, the Happenstance novel is right.  When presented with an opportunity to forward his ideals, a man of conviction acts.”  He looks down at Tanner, but since the ork doesn’t look up, the dwarf’s uncertainty is on plain display.  “Right?”

Tanner doesn’t answer immediately.  Finally, they tell the ground between their feet, “I can probably find some people planning a raid.  But I really don’t want to be responsible for you getting yourself killed, so.”  They squeeze their eyes tight, grimace, and finally spit the words out: “I’m coming, too.”

After a moment of surprise, Klaus grins like a fool.  “Really?  That’s great!”

It’s then that Beulah comes rushing down the garden path, her skirts bouncing in ways that make it clear it was not designed for such haste.  When she spies the two of them, she cries, “I left you two alone for fifteen minutes and now you’re revolutionaries?!?”