A deal worth making

Hildegard has learned to make scrambled eggs. It took most of them some effort to get used to potatoes and some vegetables being rare, but eggs, some fruit and milk being steadily supplied. Anjali enters the combined kitchen and dining area, greeting her with an annoyingly fresh „Good Morning!“. Hildegard returns the greeting and asks „Do we wait?“. Anjali answers „Yes, we should. But we can have tea for the time being.“. Hildegard watches her pour the red-brown liquid into a beaker half full of milk and asks „What did you have for breakfast when you were young? Unless you don’t want to talk about it.“ Anjali smiles broadly „When I was very little, rice and vegetables, a lot of semolina. My favorite was roasted noodles, though. Later in the hotel, whatever the customers took, when we were on the job, otherwise dwarven stuff. Grilled mushrooms or baked malt pies.“ „Mushrooms?“ „Yes, they have spells that make them grow on bare rock, more or less. Living under ground they don’t have regular fields to grow crops on. They put some sort of paste on gravel with a specialised brush. It looks like a comb mounted on a shepherd’s crooked stick.“ She adds more milk to her tea and continues „Thank you for asking.“

Hildegard lowers her voice „I want to make plans, but I don’t dare to. We are alive. We are regularly eating eggs for breakfast. We are having babies while others are slaughtered. I dare not tempt fate.“ In an amused voice Anjali answers „I can understand that. However, fate can hear you, even if you whisper. And we are not exactly in a position to implement plans. Now even less than a few days ago.“ Hildegard frowns „Haven’t we become more valuable in a way? I do not wish to say that this has been a deal that should have been imposed on us, but now that it has, we ought to use it.“ Anjali responds with a slight strain in her voice „No. We have become more valuable, but less powerful. He will protect us, but that does not mean that he has to listen to us. Frankly, one of our means of persuasion is gone. I want to see that bitch gone. A succubus needs sex. Literally. She will die after a few months without it.“

Hildegard rivals a tomato.

This time I know I am dreaming. Or at least experiencing an altered state of conciousness based on memories, to be extremely precise.

I am having tea with the man who could have been my grandfather-in-law. He is looking at me with a sad smile. „You have made me angry and impressed me. What you have done to my granddaughter … Yet you are perfectly willing to marry her. You understand that your personal problems make that impossible.“

To that I can only feebly reply „Thank you. I want to provide for our child at least.“

He clears his throat. „Explain again why you won’t be traced. We need to be sure.“

That at least I can do. „Very well. They have a warning for excessive delivery orders of controlled substances. The check is done every time they process a batch of orders. That means that a customer can correct or update his delivery until the last batch delivery for the day is run. Now an update must be cleared by the central depot control, because the stores may be insufficient. Obviously a reduction would always be possible, but for simplification all updates are checked by the center. What I have found is an error that allows for an update to be sent to controller, but the acknowledgement be lost on the branch site.“

The old man displays a sharp mind and self-control just asking „But the inventory would be wrong. Isn’t that checked?“ That is my time to genuinely smile and let pride creep into my voice „Indeed. They check the inventory every day at midnight. But then the computer must also handle drugs that expire. They also want to save money. That means that if you specify on the order that the delivery is for immediate use, the customer gets a discount and the oldest stuff they have is sent. Now all you need to know is on which date a batch will expire.“

I dutifully note that down. Should I be proud of this? I cannot help myself. I am. This makes it worth being woken up a few hours after midnight.

Baron Ingmar of Bothnia is using a well heated side hall to recieve the Rabenstein messenger, who appreciates the warm spicy diluted mead in the mug put before him. The man is shaking his head vigorously stating „No, Your Highness, the captives both died during the same night without coming back to their senses. We have run out of healing potions. The medicine chest is empty. We have been unable to get anything out of them.“. Mirthlessly chuckling the Baron replies „Not just your medicine chests. A few cities on the ocean coast with magic guilds still have potions. The Lithuanians might still have some; they are not saying. They certainly won’t part with them. The roads are already largely impassable or will be within a few days.“

„What are we to do, Your Highness?“ „Fish as much as you can. We have to get out of the lake what we can before it freezes over. As for the young master, he will have to hang on. The elves have indicated that they would demand payment in mithril.“ The messenger casts his eyes down and empties his mug in one gulp. The baron continues „Not everything is lost. I have a heating stone and some eternal lights for you, so at least those accursed green midgets cannot get you through denying you firewood.“

The messenger understands the dismissal and withdraws with a bow. He didn’t expect anything else. The world is ending.