Our diet marginally improved by introducing berry bushes to our farms. Yula noted where she’d spotted berry and fruit trees, and her scouts marked their maps so farmers could later retrieve and replant them within Forren’s range of influence. After the tailoring teams made nets to keep the birds off, we received a steady stream of fruit—some of which went to our bakery for dessert ingredients.

  As the manor’s construction neared its completion, barley fields appeared among our crops. The mysterious appearance of barley implicitly reminded me the dwarves wanted a brewery. With the thought of them tilling fields during off-hours, I resigned myself that the brewery would become the town’s first tier 3 building by acclamation. No other structure justified the headaches of placing anything else before it in the queue.

  But planning to move ahead with a brewery didn’t stop me from having a little fun at the expense of our shorter citizens. I asked the leading questions of the most vocal supporters of the brewery. “Hey, guys, can I borrow you for a second? After the manor, do you think our next building ought to be a bathhouse?”

  The dwarves’ eyes widened with alarm that I would consider building anything other than a brewery. None wanted to say it outright, thus beginning a battle of subtext.

  Angus shook his head. “Nosir, yer Guvnorship. We wouldn’t need no bathhouse! Not for us. And the humans hardly smell at all—even those that’d been working on the farms all day. We keep plenty clean in the river, and the walk stretches our legs. It’s pure refreshing, and mountain water washes us up natural-like!”

  I mused at the feedback. “Hmm, I wonder. Maybe it would be nice to have a temple. That would please Forren, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh—ahh—I dinnae about that! Forren’s a simple lass. I’d wager a homespun goddess like ‘er might find temple be a wee bit tawdry—if yer asking my opinion.”

  Stroking my chin, I pretended to think about it. “Do you really think so? Hmm. Maybe we could start a market to open up our economy, giving everyone more independence. ”

  “What fer would we need a market? Everyone has what they need. I’ve heard nary a complaint of anything lacking!”

  Watching them wring their hands might have been cruel, but it was great fun.

  As the manor neared completion, I thought more about the milestone Hawkhurst had crossed and what our town might look like when it reached the next tier. I hoped a manor wouldn’t create a separation between the worker bees and the officers. I enjoyed teasing the dwarves, and they spoke to me unguardedly. Their irreverence and bawdy jokes refreshed me, and I didn’t want that to change the social dynamic.

  As time passed, people settled into cliques, usually by vocational groups. Guards acted like the jocks in the school lunchroom, usually laughing the loudest in the town hall. The tailoring crew ate together. Colliers hung out with Rory and Fin, our blacksmiths. Rory taught blacksmithing basics to two boys from Arlington, who stuck together. And the agricultural community kept to themselves.

  It bothered me a little to learn that the town had grown to the point where not everybody knew one another. As a player, I identified the newcomers from Arlington by their nameplates instead of their faces, and I wasn’t sure if this represented a healthy change. It reminded me of the self-segregating students at Belden University’s Formal Hall. I didn’t know if I should work against it or embrace it.

  At one point, Charitybelle’s plan for Hawkhurst revolved around exploring the continent’s core, but the precariousness of our situation forced us to concentrate on town-building. Yula controlled patrols, so neither Fabulosa nor I partook in the schedule. I wanted the mercenaries to like me, but my civic duties kept me at a distance. Did guards resent my softer responsibilities, or did focusing on government matters elevate my authority?

  Since Hawkhurst represented a command economy, I controlled more than I wanted over its development. While the building queue and settlement stats always weighed on my mind, I spent too much time listening to arguments that took longer to explain than resolve. Would Rocky’s need for more serving trays outweigh the colliers’ need for more axes? Which of the farmers received the newest plow—and if they had to share, how would the shared use of plows work? Decisions like this forced me to talk to all the farmers, and doing so invited them to complain about other things. Were woodworking tools more important than a loom? Whom could the tailors enlist to spin wool? Bunk assignments, schedules, and endless meetings over food stores harried my free time.

  Questions like these rationalized my decision to move the manor from the town’s center. I wanted to address issues important enough for citizens to hike down to the edge of Hawkhurst Rock and see me, but I also needed a little space.

  While others worked and trained, I had enough spare time to visit the old flagpole, the first structure kicking off our settlement.

  Brodie’s memorial stone rested beneath the faded green flag showing a hawk flying over a castle wall. Next to it rested another commemorative marker. Its size and shape mirrored those of its neighbor except for its chiseled words—In Memory of Charitybelle.

  This flag once represented our settlement’s seat of government. Anyone attacking the town needed only to destroy this flimsy banner with structural damage to destroy Hawkhurst’s settlement status. The flag posed a vulnerability. Building the town hall supplanted the flag’s functionality, although we left the banner for legacy reasons. Similarly, the manor downgraded the town hall. We’d move our desks and all the parchments, vellums, lists, and schedules to Hawkhurst Rock, turning the town hall into a simple canteen and social hub.

  We only had a few dozen witnesses to our foundation ceremony, but we’d grown bigger. To Hawkhurst’s newest citizens, the graves represented only abstract tokens of a bygone era. None of the people from Arlington had ever met Charitybelle or Brodie, and the thought made me sad. Sentimentality was a casualty of progress.

  The memorial stones reminded me of Charitybelle’s high-minded goals. Although I never believed in the adage that people needed to suffer to achieve greatness, the data certainly supported this.

  Beaker and I spent late afternoons here. The winds blew harder, and the grass rustled louder than elsewhere in the meadow. My griffon extended his wings, and the wind lifted and blew him backward. He’d tumble and cluck to himself and try again. Watching him made me wonder how not having a proper mother stunted his maturity. It made me question how it had stunted mine.

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  “I wish I could teach you how to fly, little buddy. But we all gotta play the cards we’re dealt.”

  Celebrations for the manor’s completion took place in the town hall. The elitist manor only suited small gatherings, wherein no kitchens or tables fed the masses. Citizens went to it to reach those in charge, a place for airing grievances, suggestions, and ideas. The manor’s three apartments provided private accommodations, posh by settlement standards.

  But the lakeside seat of the government closed in on me like a trap. Since citizens knew where to find me, I had nowhere inside to hide from complaints, requests, and questions. The location hadn’t dissuaded citizens from seeing me. It encouraged it.

  Before the manor, citizens had to find their governor. The buffer zone dissuaded extraneous conversations. I had routines, but they changed occasionally, and people couldn’t tell if I’d gone patrolling, training, or busied myself with counting supplies with Greenie or Rocky. Sometimes, I worked with Ally and the work crew or hung out with Maggie at the quarry. People who found me sounded out of breath or began conversations with phrases like “There you are!”

  I imagined those looking for Ally acted the same way. Her flight pattern included exotic locales ranging from the northern tree line to the northeast riverbank, from the town hall to the quarry, and from the active worksite to survey locations.

  My desire to have my cake and eat it, too, brought me to the attention of Ida, an aging matron we liberated from the debtors’ prison. Ally suggested her for the town secretary, and she seemed like the perfect candidate for the job.

  Ida worked in Arlington for a bookie running bets for the sky wheel—the gadget that tracked the moon’s phases. The colloquial term for her customers, lunatics, became a deprecating term that the gamblers happily embraced. Arlington’s lunatics threw money at predicting where the moons would be at particular times, and Ida tracked their wins and losses. She worked with bookies, bosses, and collection crews. She acted as a point person for the aforementioned degenerate gamblers. Speaking to Ida rattled me, but her sharp eyes, hoarse voice, and short temper would let nothing fall through the cracks.

  Ida possessed the jaded dispassion of a civil servant who’d seen it all, appearing unimpressed by personal emergencies. The no-nonsense woman earned her sandpaper voice from shouting over betting parlors. Yet, when she raised it, she commanded attention, and I immediately wanted her to represent our settlement’s government. Anyone wishing to bend the governor’s ear had to go through Ida. If people feared her, people might learn to solve problems without me.

  At celebrations, citizens had full gubernatorial access—not even Ida could prevent that. Making myself available became part of the job, and town gatherings counted as office hours. People listened whenever someone asked me about plans or gossip. Most enjoyed being aware of the town’s future and offered suggestions for civic decisions.

  People often pitched pie-in-the-sky daydreams that sounded good but didn’t come close to supplanting our immediate priorities. “That’s a good idea, but it’ll have to wait,” became my default response. Advocates equated this response to a “no,” and no amount of consolation explained to supporters that I agreed with them, but the town had to focus on dozens of more important matters.

  If people wanted to leave messages or nag me about things, they needed to go through Ida. It seemed a perfect match and explained why I looked forward to the manor’s commencement. Positioning Ida’s desk at the door, the manor’s only entrance, insulated me from unnecessary headaches. Maybe our new watchdog could solve the problems herself.

  The town gathered outside the manor while the workers implemented its finishing touches. We promised not to open the ceremonial ale stores for the occasion until the work crew finished so that everyone could enjoy it together. When it ended, I addressed the community about moving our governmental office to the manor and explained Ida’s role. I rushed through the ribbon-cutting ceremony so the town could get to the main event—tapping our remaining stores of ale in the town hall.

  Ida became the first person to greet me after the dedication ceremony—although “greet” might not be the proper word to describe her interaction. She pushed through the crowd, confronting me with her vellum board pressed to her breast, which I soon learned to be her weapon of choice. She used it to prioritize tasks and decisions, and whenever she carried the thing, I braced myself for bean-counting.

  When I spotted Ida, I tried to lighten her up—it was a party, after all. “Have you tasted the berry punch? Grayton’s finest! Mrs. Berling says it’s a traditional drink this time of the year. Or are you waiting for the ale?”

  Ida ignored my question. “Yula told me she doesn’t need her office or message board. Do you expect me to chase after her every time we schedule an officers’ meeting?”

  I had no simple answer to this. “I’ll talk to Rachel. Maybe we can get her to check in every morning and night for Yula’s messages.”

  “And if her hours on patrol prevent Rachel from doing so?”

  “We’ll deal with it then.”

  Ida frowned at my answer, which typified her reaction. She moved on to the next issue. “It makes sense for me to take the desk by the door. If Yula doesn’t want an office, it means the L.T., Ally, or Greenie gets her space.” She waited for a decision.

  “Greenie isn’t by himself?”

  “Three offices, four people.”

  I thought out loud about the situation. “I’ll take one office because I don’t want Beaker getting into someone else’s things. Fab gets her own space. Let’s put Greenie and Ally in the big room. He needs space for his drafting table.”

  “And we need to do something about Murdina’s herd. The farmers are complaining that they’re eating the spinach again.”

  “Isn’t that Murdina’s job? She’s our shepherd.”

  “She can’t do it all day long. She’s other animals to mind and needs time off.”

  “Can’t we just build them a pen?”

  Ida gave me a hard look. “After they graze in the pen, they’ll have nothing left to eat.”

  “Can’t we build a fence around the farm?”

  “All of them?”

  I grunted, conceding her point. “Are there sheepdogs in Miros?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m a city girl.”

  “Fine. We’ll look for a sheepdog the next time we go to Basilborough or Grayton.”

  Without acknowledging that we tied up any loose ends, Ida moved to the next issue. “The dwarves haven’t finished the apartment furniture for the manor’s residence. I assume you know this.”

  I nodded. “Greenie prefers to sleep on the floor, and Fab’s room can wait. She’s shacking up in Dino’s quarters in the battle college, and I can rough it until the furniture is ready.”

  Ida wordlessly ticked something on the vellum. Her posture made me feel like I made poor decisions no matter what I said. One by one, we made our way through her bullet points. Before leaving, she uttered thanks in a way that didn’t convey gratitude.

  I took a big drink of my punch while watching her leave, a Frankenstein monster of my own making. Everyone around me tittered at my discomfort, but it didn’t bother me. Everyone loves a grounded governor.

  Fletcher Sternway approached after her departure. I hadn’t seen him since he brought his mercenaries into the motte and bailey to fight Winterbyte.

  I lifted my mug. “Howdy, stranger. What brings you this far south?”

  Fletcher smiled as we clinked our mugs together. “Why, the climate, of course! Although it felt a bit nippy a few minutes ago. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I waved my hand. “Bah. Ida’s all right once you get to know her.”

  Fletcher gave me a theatrical smirk at my bald-faced lie but said nothing—the coward. “I wanted to know if you’ve conquered the goblins or orcs since I last visited. After quelling kobolds and neutralizing gnolls, I should think either a logical next step. It makes me wonder if you should guard our little mercenary guild.”

  I gestured toward Beaker perched on the table. “There’s something to that. My guard dog will be airborne soon. Loudest bark in the meadow!”

  My Familiar preened his feathers at our attention. He’d found a loophole in my no-griffons-allowed-on-tables policy because the table stood outdoors. As a fan of exploits, I allowed it.

  “That’s no empty boast. We can hear him from the guild house. And I see he’s so much bigger now.” Fletcher turned his attention back to me. “I hope it isn’t inconvenient that we passed on your offer for an office in the manor. It’s easier to keep all our operations at the top of the meadow….”

  I held up a hand. “Think nothing of it. I didn’t think you’d accept, but I wanted to make you northerners feel welcome, just the same.”

  Fletcher lifted his eyebrows in appreciation. “Ah! Was it an empty gesture, then?”

  I raised my mug. “It’s the only kind you should expect from a bureaucrat.”