The Henchman
Donovan Dundigger arrived just before dawn at the domed marble headquarters of the J.P. Cognelius Amalgamated Industrial Concern. At this hour, he alone could enjoy the view from The Rim.
From such a height, there was no distinguishing the brick-and-steel edifices below belonging to Mister Cognelius from those belonging to his brother, but Donovan knew exactly which was which. He had negotiated some of the boundaries between them himself, puffing up his stout figure until he stood nearly eye-to-eye with Crocklespring Cognelius’s own right-hand man, a mountain of a loxodon with bifocals teetering precariously atop his prodigious tusk. No wonder the younger gnome lost ground to his brother every year, with that soft-spoken scrivener as his second.
Inside, the atrium and long hallways were empty. Donovan enjoyed hearing his footsteps echo off the marble, accompanied by the ticking of Mister Cognelius’s ever-present clocks. A halo of warm, orange light spilled out from the crack beneath the great gnome’s door. Donovan averted his eyes and opened the door to his own office, flinching as one of the hinges emitted a faint squeak.
Eager to rid himself of the unpleasant sound, he pulled the cover from Buidhe’s cage and drew back the heavy curtain on the eastern window, shutting his own light-sensitive eyes against the sunlight suddenly streaming in. The canary began to sing immediately.
“Good morning, love,” Donovan cooed back. He kept his eyes closed and let his head loll along to the chirping tune. Then, leaving the window open, he settled in at his desk, which was set well back from the intruding sunlight. Buidhe bathed in it, chirping merrily and summoning a smile to its master’s face as the duergar planned his day.
The two factories currently under construction were ahead of schedule despite the best efforts of a would-be saboteur, but a critical iron mine was producing poorly. The overseer, a human named Samuels, had been distracted since the death of his son. Donovan had tried to give him time to sort himself out, but if the situation was not addressed soon, then the steel mills would fall behind schedule, and that would set back the factories, and that was unacceptable.
The duergar was mulling his options for replacing Samuels when the slender face of a half-elf appeared at his door. Donovan hated leaving the door open, but until he had that hinge oiled, he dared not close it.
“Mister Dundigger, sir?”
“What is it?” He knew the half-elf’s name, as he knew that of anyone of any importance to the Cognelius Concern, but he made a habit of not using it. Nothing was gained by inflating their importance in their own minds.
“There’s a strike, sir.”
“Bah. There’s always a strike. Let the constables earn their keep.” Even as Donovan dismissed the news, he sensed from the way the man lingered in the doorway there was something more to it.
The half-elf cleared his throat. “Well, sir. The strike… it’s at Owl’s End.”
“Owl’s End?!” Beneath his desk, Donovan’s stubby fingers seized at the armrest of his chair. A sharp headache came on suddenly, and the sunlight and Bruidhe’s chirping were no help. “We pay them three times what they’d make at any other factory!”
“Yes, sir. Ungrateful gits,” the half-elf agreed unconvincingly.
“Is there something else?”
“Something… else? Um… No, sir.”
“Then why do you still darken my doorway? Time is money, young man. And you do not wish to steal from J.P. Cognelius.”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
Donovan listened to the half-elf’s feet scuff a hasty retreat down the hallway. His headache was getting worse. He drew the curtain, but Bruidhe kept on chirping. It didn’t matter. He had different music to face.
“Sir?” he called out as he rapped his gray knuckles three times against Mister Cognelius’s door.
“Enter.” It somehow sounded like a threat despite the gnome’s high-pitched voice.
Donovan opened the door slowly so as not to flood his eyes. Mister Coglinton kept his curtains drawn, but the clever little glass lamp on his desk was still too bright for a duergar’s eyes. “There’s a strike at Owl’s End, sir.”
“And a squeaking hinge on your door.”
Donovan was not fooled by the nonchalance of his employer’s answer. That Mister Cognelius had looked up from his ledgers at all meant he was deeply concerned. His monocle was like a magnifying glass concentrating the intensity of his gaze. The grandfather clock behind him, an inheritance from his father and his most prized possession, since his brother had wanted it as well, ticked away. Donovan felt the headache flaring anew and restrained himself from wincing.
“Yes, sir. I’ll have that oiled today. And the workers, of course, are already forestalled from squeaking.”
“They can attract attention nonetheless. What do you propose?”
“The Constables can’t be trusted. Not with this. But we can’t be seen sending in the Resolve so soon. It will tip off your enemies to the severity of the situation.”
“Can’t be seen…” the gnome repeated, indicating his assent with a slight nod of his tiny head. He did not look up again. “Get to it, then. Time is money.”
“Yes, sir.” Donovan closed the door gently behind him and returned to his own office, where Bruidhe was still chirping away despite the drawn curtains.
“Fucking stop!” he shouted, rattling the cage. No harm in letting Mr. Coglinton overhear a bit of private rage. That was what henchmen were for, after all, and Donovan did not deceive himself: he was nothing but a henchman with a nice office. He was still expected to get his hands dirty so that his employer’s could remain clean, and this situation at Owl’s End was going to require dirty hands indeed.
