Keith DeCandido: Cycle of Hatred

At that, Thrall threw his massive head back and laughed heartily. "You are a fine woman, Jaina Proudmoore. You remind me how much I still have to learn about humans, despite having been raised by them."

"Given who raised you, I'd say that was more because you were raised by them."

Thrall nodded. "A fine point. Have your female colonel investigate the matter. We will speak again when she is done." He moved toward the rope ladder that still dangled from the hovering airship.

"Thrall." He stopped and turned to face her. She gave him as encouraging a look as she could. "We will not let this alliance fail."

Again, he nodded. "No, we shall not." With that, he climbed the rope.

Jaina, for her part, muttered an incantation in a language known only to mages, then took a deep breath. Her stomach felt as if it were being sucked out through her nose, as the butte, the airship, Thrall, and Razor Hill shifted and altered around her, growing indistinct and hazy. A moment, and then everything coalesced into the familiar surroundings of her chambers on the top floor of the largest of the castles that made up the tallest structures in Theramore.

She did most of the work of state here, in this small room with its desk and thousands of scrolls, rather than in the throne room, an ostentatious title for a like space. Jaina sat in that throne as little as possible—even during the weekly occasions when she saw petitioners, she generally paced in front of the embarrassingly large chair rather than actually park herself in it—and used the room sparingly. These chambers felt more like Antonidas's study, where she learned her craft, complete with disorganized desk and badly sorted scrolls. That made it feel like home.

Something else the throne room had that the chambers didn't was a window with a view. Jaina knew she'd never get any work done if there was a view of Theramore—she would be distracted alternately by wonder at what they'd built here and fright at her responsibility for it.

Teleporting was always an intense, draining process, and while Jaina's training allowed her to be battle—ready instantly upon completing a teleport, all things being equal, she preferred to give herself a little time to recover. She gave herself those moments now before calling out to her secretary. "Duree!"

The old widow came in through the main entrance. The chambers had three entrances. Two of them were known to all: the one Duree had just used, and the one to the hallway and staircase that led to Jaina's private apartments. The third was a secret passageway meant to be an escape route. Only six other people knew of it, and five of those were the workers who had built it.

Duree glared at Jaina through her spectacles. "No need to shout, I'm sitting right outside the door like I always am. How'd your meeting with the orc go?"

Sighing, Jaina said, not for the first time, "His name is Thrall."

Duree waved her arms about so much that the frail woman almost lost her balance. Her spectacles fell off her nose and dangled from their string around her neck. "I know, but it's such a stupid name. I mean, orcs have names like Hellscream and Doomhammer and Drek'Than and Burx and the like, and he calls himself Thrall? What self—respecting orc would call himself that?"

Not bothering to explain that Thrall was more self—respecting than any orc she'd known—since the explanation had never worked the previous hundred times she'd tried it—Jaina said instead, "It's Drek'Thar, not Drek'Than."

"Either way." Duree put her spectacles back on her nose. "Those are good orc names. Not Thrall. Anyhow, how'd it go?"

"We have a problem. Get Kristoff in here, and have one of the boys find Colonel Lorena and tell her to put a detail together that's traveling to Northwatch, and then to report to me." Jaina sat at her desk and started sorting through the scrolls, trying to find the shipping reports.

"Why Lorena? Shouldn't you get Lothar or Pierce? Someone less—I don't know, feminine? They're a rough bunch in Northwatch."

Wondering if she was going to have this conversation every time Lorena's name came up, Jaina said, "Lorena's tougher than Lothar and Pierce combined. She'll be fine."

Duree pouted, a poor sight on such an old woman. "It ain't right. Military ain't women's work."

Giving up on finding the shipping records, she instead glared at her secretary. "Neither is running a city—state."

"Well, that's different," Duree said weakly.

"How?"

"It just is."

Jaina shook her head. Three years, and Duree had yet to come up with a better answer than that. "Just go get Kristoff and send for Lorena before I turn you into a newt."

"You turn me into a newt, you'll never find anything again."

Throwing up her hands in frustration. "I can't find anything now. Where are the damn shipping records?"

Smiling, Duree said, "Kristoff has 'em. I'll tell him to bring 'em when he comes, shall I?"

"Please."

Duree bowed, which caused her spectacles to fall off again. Then she left the chambers. Jaina briefly considered throwing a fireball after her, but decided against it. Duree was right—without her, Jaina never would be able to find anything.

Moments later, Kristoff arrived, several scrolls in hand. "Duree said you wanted to see me, milady. Or did you just want these?" He indicated the scrolls.

"Both, actually. Thank you," she added as she took the scrolls from him.

Kristoff was Jaina's chamberlain. While she ruled Theramore, Kristoff was the one who ran it. His capacity for irritating minutiae made him ideal for the job, and had been the primary thing keeping Jaina from indulging in a homicidal rage when being leader became too much for her not—very—broad shoulders to bear. He had been the clerk to Highlord Garithos before the war, when his organizational skills had become legendary.

Certainly, he did not advance in the military due to any physical prowess. Kristoff was tall but rail thin, seeming almost as fragile as Duree, who at least had old age to blame. His straight, dark, just—past—shoulder—length hair framed an angular face and hawk nose, a visage that seemed to wear a perpetual scowl.

Jaina shared Thrall's story of the attack on Orgath'ar and the nearby vessel doing nothing to help.

Raising a thin eyebrow, Kristoff said, "The story does not seem credible. Half a league off Ratchet, you said?"

Jaina nodded.

"There were no military boats assigned to that region, milady."

"The fog was thick—it's possible that the boat Captain Bolik saw was off course."

Kristoff nodded, conceding the point. "However, milady, it is also possible that Captain Bolik was mistaken."

"It seems unlikely." Jaina walked around to the other side of her desk and sat in the chair, placing the shipping records on the only open space. "Orcs have keener eyesight than we do, remember, and they tend to use the most gifted in eyesight as lookouts."

"We must also consider the possibility that the orcs are lying." Before Jaina could object to this notion—which she very much intended to do—Kristoff held up a long—fingered hand. "I do not speak of Thrall, now, milady. The orcs' Warchief is an honorable man, it's true. You do well to place your trust in him, and I believe that he is simply relaying what he was told by his people."

"Then what are you saying?" Jaina knew the answer to the question, but wanted to hear Kristoff confirm it.

"I am saying the same thing that I have said to you all along, milady—we cannot afford to blindly trust the orcs. Individual orcs have proven honorable, yes, but orcs as a whole? We would be fools to assume that they all wish us well, and that they all will be as enlightened as Thrall. He was a strong ally against the Burning Legion, and I have nothing but admiration for what he has done—but what he has done is temporary." Kristoff set his thin hands down on the desk, leaning toward Jaina. "The only thing keeping the orcs in line is Thrall, and the minute he is gone, I can assure you, milady, the orcs will revert to type and do everything they can to destroy us."