~

Chapter Ten

~

“There’s a call to either rock yall to death, or drop ya down a shaft,” the old bull said. Not too old, so he likely wasn’t a Troll Council member, since there was just a splatter of gray at the top of his dreads instead of a cascade of white. Shiny black coursed down the majority of his chest.

He cracked a smile. Went well with that unripe-green suit he wore and fuchsia tie. I think fuchsia is pink. Probably an attorney.

“Ya have any preferences?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to say I’d rather enjoy a nice lunch. Without grubs, scorpions, or centipedes. But the ogre hen’s mouth began flappin’, as I should have expected. And I didn’t really mind. Clearly this isn’t my expedition. Long taken over by her. Don’t know why I decided to stick along with her.

I’d committed to joinin’ Ezra, not Nuel.

I interrupted Nuel to ask how she was feelin’, since tall-guy had just escorted her into the office I’d been keepin’ company the last two hours. She gave me a short glare, as though her political gobbledygook was more important than me ascertainin’ if she was gonna survive.

“What she’s—tryin’ to say,” I inserted before she could get her momentum goin’ again—

Of course she interrupted me. “We have a proposal for the Troll Council.”

“No?” the tall-guy gushed, hand to his chest. Pretty sure that was sarcasm. Faux surprise. But I’m no expert.

That took Nuel back a smidgen. Like ogres aren’t good with sarcasm, our super power.

“They already—guessed—Ike’s got some—wild idea,” I told her.

Her neck had to crack with the speed she turned a glare on me. If I read minds, her shouted ire would have sent me to the office’s beautiful marble floor. Both tall-guy and I snorted at her.

‘Give me yar proposal,” tall-guy said. “I’ll present it to the Council.”

“Can’t do,” I said. Nuel sputtered at me. “Not like our Council—has ever—been closed to yall. Ya don’t want—to continue friendly relations—that would be seen in poor—light down the mountain.”

Nuel glared at me. Let her simmer.

“Ah. Ya must belong to Ike son of Birs heritage. Plain speakin’. Direct to the point. Often rude.” The attorney smiled, as though he truly considered the average ogre reserved. He crossed his two-mile-long arms and puckered up his lips pretendin’ to think.

“While—yar thinkin’—can ya explain—why—yar entrance is—so rustic?” The other kid had no clue, said he never went out that way. I always assumed they had convenient access to the East Slope—even marmots have multiple entrances to their burrows. I motioned about the nice office. “And—”

He clearly likes to smile. “First-glance appearance, I suppose. Left completely out of the rehabbin’ the clan began several hundred years ago.” He cleared his throat. “Give me the basics. I know how the Council thinks. If they’d reject it, I’ll save ya time here. If it has merit, I’ll let ya sell it to the subcommittee I represent.”

Made sense. Of course Nuel started yappin’. I closed my eyes and let my chin drop toward my chest. That’s body language I can recognize, and see a lot. I hope I copied it well.

The hen likes to use fifty words when two would do. After a couple days of her bloviating, the attorney raised his hand. Kind of rude he never introduced himself.

“Why would we want that number of Northerners to join us? Just reduce the resources available to every other member of the clan.”

“Yar brothers aren’t resources ’emselves?” she asked. I would have stated that differently, but waited to see what other fifty words she’d add. “We’re talkin’ an entire labor union with resources of their own, that would add to the greater community inordinately.”

“The kicker,” I urged her, bored with her cliches.

“And I’m assured the entire Range would be open to ’em.”

“Ha!” he balked. “Yall have consistently refused to allow any growth within three hundred miles of yar quaint little Hamlet. As though the gods granted ya ownership of the entire Range.”

Angry much? Resentful maybe? Quaint? For a troll he’s quaintly rude. “Didn’t want—’em humans—spoilin’ the joint,” I said. Needed to get past the animosity. The past in general.

Nuel gave me another hard look. Don’t know what it meant, but her eyes were open wide. Did I surprise her somehow?

She turned back to tall-guy. “I can share with ya—” Nuel pulled out her cell from a vest pocket. “Conceptual designs, city plannin’ the Black Lake Council has prepared, of rich communities connectin’ throughout the Range without irreparably harmin’ the beauty and harmony of our paradise.”

My mouth dropped open. Not fair. Ike hadn’t shared any plans with me.

The attorney cocked his head. Then pointed at the laptop on his desk, which he strode to. A few moments later he was pullin’ up the threatened, harmonizin’ plans.

Blast Ike.

We might avoid death, and get somethin’ accomplished. But Ike is a stinkin’ fink. All this sneakin’ about makin’ plans, as though the Black Lake Council is a bunch of do nothin’s. I’m gonna disown the stinkin’ bull.

Wow. The designs were pretty awesome. Great graphics. Plans didn’t just accommodate a few thousand, but millions. Into the succeedin’ centuries.

The attorney pointed at a map. “I’m no city planner, civil engineer. But I know these valleys. I’ve hunted game in some of ’em. The surroundin’ green space—tunnels connectin’ ’em all— The reservoirs ya’ve created as focal points for these communities are—inspirin’. The business parks—”

Pretty sure this guy is sold. But doubted he’d ever held a bow in his life. Or hiked more than a mile. He looked pretty soft. Definitely had never slung a pickax.

~

Nuel

~

The idjit continued to interrupt me. I had a complete presentation in my head. Had spent hours since I first called Ike, creatin’ it, and the bull broke my chain of thought over and over.

But the way the attorney—can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself—responded every time Kriz pushed me, made me skip forward, the troll attorney’s attention doubled instead of waned. So maybe the idjit had the right idea.

Mama always said I made grand peaks out of marmot mounds.

“It’s late,” the attorney said. I should introduce myself. “We’ve been here three hours. I’ll meet with my guys. Schedule a full council in the mornin’. I’ll get ya set up in a suite.”

He folded his laptop together and rushed out of the office. Yeah. Nice mettin’ ya too. Good night. See ya tomorrow.

At that point I realized I was exhausted again. Maybe visit Tie, Dr. Tie, again. That’s funny. My imagination relived the sense of peace which came over me as she held her giant hands, one on my chest, one behind my neck, hummin’ just noticeably.

“Ya ever meet a healer?” I asked Kriz.

He gave me a look like it was a topic he didn’t expect. “Uh—”

“Ya believe in this ethereal business?” I asked.

“He hit ya—in the head—before he left?”

I explained about Tie. He didn’t interrupt me. Miracles happen. When I finished, he said the folks up the hollers are big in the belief. That no one he knew ever needed to visit a practitioner.

He used the term, practitioner. Hmm. A lot nicer than referrin’ to ’em as witches, or hacks. He changed the topic. Asked how I thought our attorney friend felt about stagin’ communities on the North Slope and gradually introducin’ ’em into new cities across the Range.

I told him it seemed a given. Ya can’t just plunk a new city in place out of the blue sky. That’s why it’s called buildin’, and not creatin’.