The Beer Run
Mark Finn
I don’t know if you have ever seen a meticulous plan that you spent weeks putting together suddenly tilt to one side and completely upend itself into a slurry of pure chaos, but I think it’s something everyone should experience at least once. It’s incredibly refreshing, like coming out of a perfect thirty-minute nap. There’s even a moment, like in a dream, where you seem to be watching from outside your own body, at a distance, and you have this top-down view of everything all at once.
That’s how it was for me when I heard the squeals and the sound of rending metal and snapping wood. I looked up just in time to see Farmer Dire’s herd of razorback hogs bursting out of the corral in a panicked frenzy, scattering in every direction at a dead run. Behind them, on a worged-up and terrifying version of a razorback hog, was Pliff Punchsack, standing up in the stirrups like he was leading a cavalry charge. He had his goblin-sized scimitar out and was slapping the hogs on their asses, driving them straight toward the crowd of innkeepers and tavern owners, of which myself and Ferrah were included.
I was supposed to shout, “The pigs’re loose!” but it was completely unnecessary. Everyone in the middle of the commons saw, and knew, what was going on. Ferrah grabbed my arm and pointed. On the opposite side of the quad, Clork Punchsack, Pliff’s allegedly more stable brother, had opened the corral on the war goats the farm sold to the dwarves for use as cavalry mounts. They came out, heads down, ready to tussle with the hogs, and that’s when it happened: time ground down to a halt, my body seemed to cough out my soul, and I floated up, over the scene, hyperaware of everything and everyone at the same time. This was not the plan. It was, in fact, so completely not-the-plan that I wondered, not for the first time, if the goblins were trying to get caught.
I should probably back up and explain how we got to this particular point.
The Princess Job was a failure in more ways than one. After Delsarte, a former thief who bought his way into politics, used me and my crew to cover up a sizable cash grab with a kidnapping and a murder and pinned the whole thing on us, I decided that we needed to return the favor. I don’t like being played for a fool, and hate having blood on my hands, especially innocent blood. He owed me, and I was especially interested in collecting.
We spent most of the winter season in the vicinity of Archway, which gave us plenty of time to take stock of all the pies Delsarte had his fingers in. It was a baker’s dozen, to be sure; there wasn’t any dirty money passing through town that he didn’t get a taste of. Hitting one, two, or even three of those setups would sting him, but it wouldn’t hurt. That’s when Ferrah suggested we take out his delivery system, instead.
Direwood Farm was the richest operation in the area. The Dire family was one of the earliest settlers around here and they have a large farm that now supports a brewing operation for which they are best known. Direbrau is the beer of choice in these parts, and for good reason. Everything they grow that doesn’t end up in their secret-recipe mash, they sell at market. The brewery operates year-round, but at the start of spring, they release some special stock, limited quantities only, that is exceptional and fetches premium prices. Lately they’ve taken to holding an auction on the farm, letting all the innkeepers and tavern owners from as far away as Riverton bid for the casks until they can’t anymore. The innkeepers haul it all away, and Exedor Dire counts his gold and sleeps like a baby.
They also raise goats and pigs as a side hustle. There’s a dwarf on staff who trains the goats to be ridden into battle, and it’s about as terrifying a thing as I’ve ever witnessed. The pigs go the other way; goblin worgs—that is to say, goblin wolves— were outlawed ages ago, as part of their agreement to be allowed into civilization and polite society. But no one told the goblins they couldn’t worgify other animals, and being a people that pride themselves on exploiting loopholes, they wasted no time goblinizing the various and sundry domesticated (or nearly so) animals at their disposal, jacking with their size, their ferocity, and their willingness to be ridden by a battle-mad goblin. The razorback hogs are prized by the local goblins, who buy them and turn them into porgs. (I’ve seen worse; worgified dogs are bad enough—dorgs—but the worged-up chickens—chorgs—are a nightmare.)
But the real secret behind the success of Direwood Farm is that, about ten years ago, during a particularly rough freeze, Exedor Dire made a deal with Delsarte, who was the leader of the thieves’ guild at the time, to act as a courier for the guild. Using beer casks, he was able to move stolen goods and freshly laundered coins to and from a number of innkeepers who were on the take. Four times a year, whenever one of the Dire family makes a delivery, a few special casks are taken off the wagon and loaded back on again, and along the way, Delsarte is getting his cut in tribute, and he doesn’t have to lift a finger to so much as threaten anyone.
Once we figured out how he was getting his ill-gotten gains, Ferrah said, “It’d be a damn shame if that supply line were suddenly choked off.” When she’s right, she’s right.
That’s how we all ended up on the farm, posing as tavernkeepers and boozemongers, with the specific intention of buying some casks of beer and making off with Delsarte’s butter-and-egg money instead.
I thought the hardest part of the plan would be figuring out how to get Pliff and Clork onto the farm to scout for us, but as it turned out, Direwood Farm needed the extra hands and were surprisingly egalitarian about goblin help. Pliff apparently had some experience with the worgification process, so he was a shoo-in, and I guess he sweet-talked Xander Dire to take Clork as well. Within a week we had a working schedule for the farm, the stables, and the brewery, as well as who was in charge of what, and why.
The money came into the brewery in casks that looked identical to their actual product, except for a single faded letter A stenciled on the side. It was red paint, lightly applied, and it looked just like an old, worn cask that was ready for the wood pile. It was actually half a cask—beer on one end and hollow on the other, stuffed with ingots or tightly bundled sacks of coin. A cask would be off-loaded to a specific inn or tavern, and the owner of the place would stash whatever he wanted to have cashed in, or just a sack of dirty money to be cleaned, and send that cask back to the farm.
The farm would then liquidate said assets and trade bad money for good, and send the clean money back down the line to pay off the various gangs and crews Delsarte oversaw. They all kicked up to him, and the Dire family was paying down on their massive business loan. He got paid coming and going.
Three weeks of planning and snooping around later, we were ready to move. I remember the night before, discussing all our roles. I’m sharing this with you so that you understand how we got here.
We were holed up in a small tavern behind the shipyards, looking over the crude map we’d pieced together. Everyone was here, except for Pliff and Clork, who were bunking at the farm with the rest of the hired help.
“This is stupid,” said Zalthis. He was drunk, which is akin to remarking that the alive guy over there is breathing air. “We know what we’re doing, already.”
“Humor me,” I said. Zal got on my last damn nerve, but he was our skulldugger, like it or not. Zalthis was an alchemist and his concoctions, elixirs, and powders had saved our asses more than once. That said, if we didn’t need him so badly, I’d have broken his nose five times over already.
Ferrah threw a sneer at me and rose to speak. “The gobs are already on the grounds, so we won’t see them until after the auction.” She used coins to represent who was where on the map. I noticed that as soon as she started talking, everyone shut up and listened. Lovely.
Ferrah moved a stack of three silver crowns next to the barn. “Me, Larcen, and Savorsa will be here, in the crowd at the auction. Me and him”—she tossed her head in my direction—“will start a little show and get their attention.”
I’ve known Ferrah much longer than any of them. Our personal history is complicated, to say the least. The last hitch we worked together got us both locked up for a spell. I’m pretty sure she’s still mad about that. Ferrah makes grudge-holding a vocation.
“Savorsa, you’re on crowd control, in case we can’t sell the act, or if things get dicey.” Ferrah glanced up at Savora, who smiled and nodded. She was our storyteller, and we were lucky to have her, frankly. I hired her as cover for a job we pulled, and she turned out to be quite adept at scoundrelry, so we cut her in for a share and she’s been with us ever since.
Thurl raised his hand, a gesture that was completely unnecessary, since he towered over us all by a couple of feet. “Larcen? Where do you want us again?”
I started to speak, but Ferrah cut me off. “You and Zalthis will come in on a separate cart with the rest of us. You’ll be here.” She put two silver crowns on the barn. “This is where all the roustabouts will be, waiting to load barrels into the wagons.”
“You’ll wait for our signal,” I said to Thurl, “and then you’ll step into the back area where the barrels are. It’s your show after that.” I made a point of looking into Zalthis’s eyes when I said it.
“And what about her?” Zal jerked his thumb at Constance, who was leaning on her bow, saying nothing.
“Insurance,” said Ferrah. “She’s going to make sure we get away with it.”
Constance plucked her bowstring and smiled to herself.
Zalthis shook his head and made a chuffing sound. “So, she sits in the tree line, having a bite to eat and maybe a pint, watching from a distance, while me and him have to do all the work?”
Ferrah set her jaw. “Just do your part and don’t worry about everyone else, okay?”
“I don’t like this one little bit,” Zal muttered.
“Well, you’ve got the same boots to get happy in, now, don’t you?” I snapped.
“What does that even mean?” Zal replied.
Thurl clapped a shovel-sized hand on Zalthis’s shoulder. “It means, don’t worry about it.” He nodded at me. “Larcen’s got this figured out. Trust the plan.”
“Thanks, buddy,” I said. His mother was a giant, or a half giant, or something like that. I don’t know how it works. I lost a fight with Thurl years ago and we became fast friends. He’s been on most of my big jobs with me ever since.
“Okay, that’s it,” Ferrah said. “Get some sleep.” She gathered up the coins and the map and didn’t look at me when she said, “I’m going to beat the shit out of you tomorrow.”
“I know you are,” I said. “I know.”
That was the plan. It was a good plan. A simple plan. And, knowing us, it was doomed from the get-go.
* * *
Our first mistake was not thinking that some of the tavern- and innkeepers in attendance would also be the brewery’s partners in crime, which meant that these people were pretty sketchy to begin with—and that meant a much higher chance of one of them recognizing someone from my crew. In this case, it was me. We’d no sooner assembled in the milling throng of people, waiting for the auction to start, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I turned and looked right into the face of Arbo Lendt, an old snatch-and-grab man from back in the day. He eyed me suspiciously. “I thought that was you,” he said, evenly.
I racked my brain to remember if we parted on good terms. “Arbo,” I said, forcing a smile. “Small world.”
“Ain’t it just,” he said. I took his appearance in and was a bit surprised to find him wearing clean clothes that looked like they’d been taken care of.
I decided to press my luck. “You still raiding cradles?”
“Are you still selling snake oil to the rubes?” he fired back.
“Fair enough,” I said. “I bought a bar. Legit business. What brings you out this far?” I said, hoping to keep the exchange brief.
“My old man kicked a while back. Left me the tavern. A little town called Beaverton.”
“No shit?” I said. “What’s your place called?”
“The Frog’s Ass,” he said. “Yours?”
He meant my business. I thought fast. “The Boiled Owl,” I said.
Arbo frowned. “Never heard of it. Where—?”
“It’s way north,” I said, giving my left earlobe a tug, hoping like hell someone saw my signal for help. “Mining town.”
“Oh,” Arbo said. I could see him working out the cartography in his head. He was about to follow up, when Ferrah shoved him out of the way and clocked me on the chin with a punch I barely had time to roll with. I overplayed the landing and really hurt myself when I hit the ground.
“You son of a bitch,” she growled. “You’ve got a helluva nerve, showing up here!”
“I’m just trying to make a living,” I groaned, trying to get my legs under me to stand up. No one helped.
“If you think I’m going to let you have it without a fight, think again!” She turned on her heel and stomped off.
“Who the hell was that?” Arbo said, watching her go.
“My ex-wife,” I said.
“Ah,” said Arbo, suddenly all caught up. “She really don’t like you, does she?”
“No, Arbo, she doesn’t,” I said. “Good to see you again.” I patted him on his shoulder and put as much crowd between us as possible. It actually worked out well that I had to have Ferrah extract me from the chance meeting, as it gave us a chance to preview the fight we’d put on in the middle of bidding for the first keg of Direbrau that came up.
I staked out a spot in the crowd that was visible from the front, but close enough to the edges that I could easily bolt if things went sideways. I could see Ferrah, but not Savorsa, in the crowd, which was fine, since Savorsa was supposed to be a surprise, anyway. All we could do now was wait for the curtain to rise.
Finally, the two large barn doors that served as the brewery’s loading dock opened and two men stepped into view. Pollux Dire was the middle son, a jovial, robust man with bushy eyebrows. Next to him was an older man, thin, worn down by the elements, but his eyes were like chips of blue diamond, fierce and unblinking. Exedor Dire, the patriarch of the family.
There was a mixture of claps and cheers as they walked forward. Behind them, in the brewery proper, were stacks of casks and kegs, and several hired hands and innkeepers’ sons, standing around, waiting to be told what to do. Exedor raised his hand for quiet and got it.
“Welcome to Direwood Farm,” he said in a voice that was both raspy and cutting, like a dull saw. “Thank you for participating in our little auction. I’m gonna turn it over to Pollux in a minute, but I wanted to let you know that the Direbrau this year is particularly fine, and I should know, because I helped make it.”
I watched Pollux try, and fail, to keep the smile on his face. Family businesses. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I could see Thurl behind the others in the brewery, towering over everyone by a good head and a half. Exedor took a seat on a specially prepared stool, off to one side, and began the casually elaborate business of filling and lighting an ancient clay pipe.
Pollux, his voice nothing like his father’s, gave instructions as to how the bidding was to proceed. Each kind of beer would be offered, and one cask tapped for everyone to try. Then the bidding would start, and the highest bidder would be allowed to purchase as many casks as they wanted at the high bid price. Then the bidding would start over on the remainder, and the process would repeat until the stock was depleted. The Direbrau would be the last of the beers offered up, of course.
Our strategy was to let the auction get rolling, and get the crews moving things around, loading casks, and so forth. There’s a rule in prestidigitation: use a large action to cover a small action. We’d provide the large action—a donnybrook in the middle of the bidders—and the small action would be Thurl and Zalthis taking three steps backward, behind the stacks of casks, where they would make their way to the loot with a minimal chance of being detected.
We didn’t have to wait long. As soon as the Pig’s Eye Pilsner was brought up, I made a large bid. Ferrah howled from the other side of the bidders, and implied to everyone in the area that my mother and father were directly related. I waved her off and caught Pollux’s eye and raised on my own bid. Ferrah tore through the shocked innkeepers like dry grass and leapt on me, knife in hand. “Dial it back a notch,” I growled. “You’re gonna cut my ear off with that stiletto.”
“You stole my inn, you fucked my sister, but you’re not getting my beer!” she screamed in my face.
I threw her, as practiced, up and over my shoulder in a tumbler’s arc. She caught a random spectator by hooking her legs onto his shoulders, bringing him down to the ground with her in a tangle of limbs. “How dare you put your hands on me, sir!” She slapped his face and then lunged at me again.
I had a second to glance over my shoulder and see Thurl melt back into the darkness, and then the breath was knocked out of me. I had a line, but I couldn’t get it out, and Ferrah took the opportunity to pummel me, throwing punches I knew she’d been saving for just such an occasion. Finally, I was able to croak out, “Fine, you take the pilsner, you demented swamp witch!” That wasn’t quite the line we’d rehearsed. I might have rewritten the dialogue while I was on the ground, searching for my wind.
She threw one more punch, and I glared at her as she let me up. “Fine!” she said. “I’ll take his bid. Any objections?” She spun around and eyed the crowd. Someone’s hand started up, but another person grabbed it and jerked it back down. She turned around, all smiles. “One cask, please.”
“Sold!” Pollux said, slashing the air in front of him. “And please, try to control yourself, miss.”
“Apologies, sir,” Ferrah said, now the picture of comportment. “If you’d been married to him, you’d know how crazy he can make people.”
Pollux smiled politely. “Uh, yes, well, we have twenty-one more casks of Pig’s Eye. Let’s start the bidding over…” He stopped and turned around, looking into the brewery at something we couldn’t see. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Exedor got off of the stool. “You need to see what that’s about,” he growled.
I had one fleeting thought that we were blown—and that’s when the pigs got loose.
You’re about caught up now, I think.
All the innkeepers scattered like grouse, trying to get out of the way of the stampeding razorbacks and charging war goats. Savorsa suddenly popped up and used one of her singsong charms to direct the crowd closer, around the side of the brewery, out of harm’s way. She’s considerate like that. Ferrah still had her knife out, and now its mate was in the other hand, looking for something to mow down.
“Wrangle the gobs,” I said, because Clork was suddenly nowhere to be seen, and Pliff was heading at full speed toward the brewery’s side door, which I was fairly certain wouldn’t slow that porg down for a second. Whatever else might be happening, the action was in the brewery.
I shook my head at my own stupidity and then ran into the dimly lit building, right into a wall of fleeing hired hands and various members of the Dire family tree. They were running from the giant porg and Pliff, swinging his scimitar and out for blood. I dove to the side, and that razorback’s six-inch-long tusks missed me by a fraction. “Sorry, boss,” the goblin said as they galloped past.
I scrambled between the rows of kegs and saw what the problem was. Behind the brewing apparatus, Thurl and Zalthis were pinned against the wall by two rough-and-tumble-looking men with swords in hand. Grief and Strife Dire, Exedor’s younger brother’s adult kids. He evidently had them later in life and they were both a half step away from being feral. It was a sure bet if the Dire family needed someone killed and fed to the pigs, they’d send those two assholes to do it.
I had all of a single eye blink to take in the scene before Clork came tumbling in from the right and Ferrah slid into view from the left. They each took a Dire brother and traded blows, moving them away from Thurl and Zalthis. I skirted the edge of the melee and ran up to Thurl.
“Sorry, Larcen,” he said. “They were back there where we couldn’t see them.”
“Never mind that,” I said. “Just get the casks.” I gestured at the seemingly abandoned stack of casks in the far corner of the storage area we were standing in. They all had the red A on the side, and were deliberately separated from the rest of the beer supply.
“Right,” he said. “Zalthis?”
“Move,” Zalthis said to me, throwing an elbow. “You’re in my way.”
I stepped back and made a mental note to talk to Zal about his on-the-job etiquette. Zalthis made a couple of shapes with his hands and spoke words from a dead civilization. A five-foot-wide square of blue energy appeared, floating about three feet off the ground. Thurl pivoted with two casks under each arm and stacked them all together on the platform. There were twelve casks in all, and they just fit on the thing Zalthis had conjured.
“Okay, let’s get them loaded,” I said. Zalthis stopped, his hands in the air.
“Don’t change them?” he said.
“No time,” I said. “Just load them and let’s get out of here.”
“Fine,” Zalthis grumbled. “I wrote a spell just for this, but never mind that.” He flounced off in a huff and the platform followed behind him at a leisurely pace.
Thurl leaned down and whispered, “You want me to hit him?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Can we circle back to that?”
“Let me know, either way,” said Thurl.
“Thanks, buddy,” I said. “Go load the wagon, okay? We’ve gotta haul ass.”
The side door to the brewery was obliterated by the porg charge, allowing us to step unheeded through the widened hole into the quad area. Our supply wagon was hitched along with the others on the far side of the quad, along the fence line next to the barley field. To get the casks out, we’d have to cross the through the pandemonium of frantic field hands, panicked innkeepers, the odd hog or goat, and several members of the Dire family with farm implements, trying to regain control of the situation. I made an executive decision.
“Zalthis, wait here,” I said. “Thurl, bring the wagon to us.”
“On it,” said Thurl, wading into the fracas. A goat bounced off his upper thigh and shook its head, wondering what the hell he’d run into. Thurl swung an open hand and someone armed with a pitchfork went flying backward. After that, he had a clear path. He unhitched the horses and drove the wagon over. Zalthis lifted the platform up and nestled the casks into the back in one smooth motion. I leapt in and threw a tarp over our haul, then helped Zal clamber up.
“We need to pick up the others,” I said. “Drive through the crowd.”
Thurl slapped the reins and drove the wagon around in a circle until we were pointed toward the road leading out of the farm. He stopped the wagon alongside the loading dock doors of the brewery. Savorsa broke free from the innkeepers she’d been managing and vaulted into the wagon and crouched low, keeping her head down.
“Where are the gobs?” I asked. “Where’s Ferrah?”
“Covering our ass,” Savorsa said. “Go! They’ll catch up!”
“Nuts to that,” I said. A goat rammed into the wagon and sent a shudder through the wood slats. I swatted it on the head and it backed up and looked at me in surprise. “Get!” I barked. To Savorsa and the others, I said, “We’re three people down, and these bastards feed trespassers to their pigs. We’re all going out together.”
Zalthis stood up in the wagon and scanned the milling throng. “Well, where in twelve hells are they…?” he trailed off. “Oh shit.”
We all looked at what he was staring at. “Oh, shit,” I said.
The war goat’s trainer was a grizzled old dwarf named Kellus Coldiron, a cavalry veteran of a dozen bloody wars. Evidently there had been some friction between Pliff and Kellus, because they were squared off, Pliff riding his porg and Kellus astride a massive war goat—in full plate mail barding, no less—and they were well on their way to reenacting some past transgression for the blood honor of their dead families, or some other fae and fairy bullshit. They met in the middle of the crowd at a full gallop, sending people flying out of the way in a spray of blood as the porg clattered against the war goat’s armor and Pliff’s scimitar sheared off at the hilt against Kellus’s glowing shield.
We were all stuck out in the open, and that was not where we wanted to be.
“Head for the trees!” I screamed, and Thurl obediently slapped the reins. The horses bolted for the front gate, the road, and the tree line. Pliff turned his porg with a dexterity that was admirable and he spurred the beast straight ahead for the exit. Suddenly, Clork popped out of a shadow in the crowd, bleeding from his head, and Pliff grabbed him with one hand and slung him over and behind, where the goblin clung to his brother for dear life. He didn’t look so good.
I heard someone yell, “Stop her!” and spared a glance backward. Ferrah had commandeered a horse and was spurring the animal up and over the low part of the front gate. Not two seconds later, two more horses and riders thundered out of the corral from behind the brewery. It was Grief and Strife Dire, in hot pursuit. Strife had a ribbon of blood running down his side and his leg; evidently, Clork got a couple of licks in, as well.
Riding out of Direwood Farm, the Punchsack brothers led the charge with Ferrah on horseback close behind. Grief and Strife were next, riding to cut us all off. Kellus Coldiron followed, screaming blasphemous insults in low dwarvish, which is close enough to gobspeech that his meaning was made clear as to the size, color, and general disposition of Pliff’s mother’s ladyparts. We were dead last in the wagon, followed by a few members of the Dire family, throwing rocks.
The road leading to Dire Farm was a half mile of packed earth, flanked on the right by open field for grazing and on the left by a grove of trees and dense foliage. Flying out of the farm, that put the trees to our left and all that open ground on the right. The road joined up with the main highway leading back into the city, several miles away. The wagon was on the packed earth road, and the riders were crossing the field at a steep diagonal. At their speed they would make the end of the road well before the wagon could get there. But Ferrah and Pliff weren’t heading for the road. They veered right and made for the trees.
As soon as they crossed in front of us, they turned left and straightened out, taking the road at full speed. The Dire brothers followed the dogleg turn, and I watched as their horses hit the road, and wheeled left. Grief and Strife were both knocked from their saddles, their horses bolting in different directions. Each man had an arrow sticking out of his neck, compliments of Constance, who we’d stationed at the tree line in the event that things went sideways and we needed someone to cover our escape.
Grief and Strife rolled and flopped in the road, coughing blood, their eyes wide. “Don’t stop,” I said to Thurl.
“Wasn’t gonna,” he replied. The horses clipped both men and they went down and didn’t get back up. The wagon slung wide, lurched to one side, and took the corner on two wheels, and I caught a glimpse of the dwarf reining the goat to a stop, presumably to help the Dires, before they were obscured by the row of thick trees came between us.
About a mile outside the main gate, we pulled off to the side, where Constance was waiting for us, cool as you please. She leapt onto the horse behind Ferrah. “That went about as well as I expected,” she said.
“Better,” said Ferrah. “We got the casks. You didn’t think we would.”
“Until I see what’s in them, this was all a big bust,” Constance replied.
Savorsa took advantage of the break to look at Clork’s head wound, which was more serious than it appeared. She worked some of her art on him and he muttered something in goblin, farted, and then fell asleep. Pliff looked up with tears in his eyes. “He’s gonna be all right!”
“Hey,” said Zalthis, “thanks for saving me.”
Pliff nodded.
I had to ask. “What was that? With the livestock?”
Pliff shrugged. “We saw those two assholes skulking through the back door. We knew that was where the casks were coming out. You three couldn’t see it. We were the only ones. So we improvised.”
Ferrah scratched Pliff behind his ear. “It was quick thinking, kushak.” She spoke a little gob. “Kushak” was one of those things other goblins could call each other, but we couldn’t. Pliff punched her on the arm, and they chuckled. It was a weird relationship those three had.
Thurl slapped the reins and we resumed fleeing the scene of the crime.
We stayed out of sight for a couple of weeks until we were sure no one was looking for us. In the meantime, Clork recovered nicely and we counted our loot—it was the biggest score we’d taken to date, tens of thousands in gold and silver ingots, all freshly minted with no city seal, no smith’s stamp, no nothing except a duty stamp that let those ingots be spent or deposited into any treasury with no questions asked. We didn’t just take Delsarte’s cut—we made off with the quarterly earnings for his whole criminal organization.
Now we had a war chest of our own.
And, also, a porg. Pliff named him “Dammit.”