"All my dreams are dust."
April 14, 1885
The Great Library of Tarant, Afternoon
Donn Throgg, the infamous half-orc labor agitator, has been missing since Capt. Wheeler of the Tarantian Guard was forced to demonstrate the effectiveness of the Guard’s new mechanized gun on the unruly anarchist protesters in Kensington Park. The unlawful assembly of orcs and half-orcs is thought to have been organized by Throgg to bring more unrest to the city.
“That Throgg is nothing but a trouble maker,” said Capt. Wheeler, “he should be considered extremely dangerous, and if one of our good citizens happens to encounter him they should by no means try to speak with him or have any dealings with him whatsoever. Any sightings of Throgg should immediatley be reported to the Guard at once. This is a Guard matter, and should be treated accordingly.”
Capt. Wheeler is being considered by the Industrial Council for a commendation for his heroic efforts, with only Councilmen Willoughsby, Babcock and McGeehan dissenting.
--From this morning’s Daily Tarant
So that explains the gunfire I heard yesterday.
There was not the slightest suggestion in this article that Donn Throng had done anything beyond organizing a protest. Nor was any needed. A half-orc was encouraging the city’s orcs to organize for better wages, and that was justification enough, in the eyes of the paper and the city, to open fire on him. They are even giving Captain Wheeler a commendation.
Why do humans become so irrational when faced with the “orcish” question? I admit it is a difficult, delicate matter, but responding out of fear and ignorance helps no one. Tarant did not hire orcs to work in its factories because of its compassion for their well being. It hired them because the new factories and steam engines demand cheap labor, which orcs supply in abundance. It always amuses me to read a letter to the Daily Tarant from some indignant gentleman crying that it is an outrage that those of orcish blood are allowed to live in Tarant. If the orcs were all to disappear tomorrow, this city would instantly fall apart. Tarant has made a deal with the devil, so to speak, and it can no longer live without its orcish labor supply.
Given this, the orcs ought to be in an excellent position to organize for better pay and working conditions. But in my experience at least, they are too stupid to do so. I spoke with some of the orcs in one of Mr. Bates’s factories only a couple days ago. They uniformly complained of being overworked and underpaid. To my horror, some of them were nursing dreams of a violent uprising to improve their lot. I tried to suggest a different direction, but I fear the distinction between a violent uprising and carefully planned and organized resistance is beyond them. They can understand violence and they can understand submission, nothing in between. What they really need is a half-orc, like this Donn Throgg, someone who they can trust, who can lead them.
I can forgive the orcs their stupidity; they cannot help their nature. Human beings, however, are another matter. It should be obvious to anyone not blinded by racial hatred that the humans need Donn Throgg or someone very much like him every bit as much as the orcs do. The humans need Donn Throgg as an intermediary, someone the orcs trust who can be negotiated with. Of course Donn Throgg’s existence is painful to the humans. It is certainly painful to be forced to pay people what they are worth, to not exploit them as fully as one might like. But without such an intermediary, the orcs are like a powder keg waiting to go off. They understand only violence, and left on their own, that is what they will eventually resort to. Surprisingly few people in the government seem to understand these rather elementary facts. The human loathing of all things orcish blinds them, makes them insensible, in the same way my temper blinds me when I let it get the better of me. I suppose I should be more generous to humans. They cannot help their nature. Hah!
There are a few voices of reason in the government. Mr. Willoughsby is hardly a champion of orcish rights, but as a diplomat he at least understands that force is not usually the best solution to a problem in the long run. And And Mr. Babcock also appears to be a reasonable man. I can only hope that people like them prevail, otherwise the orcs will surely explode some day. I do hope I am not in Tarant when that happens.
April 15, 1885
The Great Library of Tarant, Late at Night
It is getting dark outside. It appears once again I’ve spent nearly the whole day reading in the library. I tell Virgil that I’m coming here to do research, and I suppose I’ve done a little, but that’s not why I’m here. The truth is I simply can no longer bear to face the world.
““What do you want, half-orc?”
“Please sir, I am new here, and only wanted to ask for directions.”
What are you doing in my shop, half-orc?”
”Excuse me madam, but won’t you please just tell me how much this dress costs?”
“What are you doing here, half-orc? I’m sure I have nothing for one of your kind.”
“Please sir, I’m expecting a letter.”
Over and over and over and over again. It used to make me feel so angry, but now all I feel is boredom. It is always the same, always so endlessly tedious. I feel the tedium seeping into the marrow of my bones and I want to scream. So I come here to the library, I find a book and a chair facing into the corner, and I turn my back upon the world and I read. I read and read and read, and the hours fly by as my funds dwindle and I come no closer to becoming a doctor or finding work or solving the mystery of Radcliffe’s ring.
“I want you out of my office, half-orc.”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you sir, but if I could just speak with you for one moment.”
“We don’t serve your kind here, half-breed.”
“Please sir, I promise not to give you any trouble.”
“I have no time for your kind.”
“Come sir, can’t we at least discuss this like civilized adults?”
I am gradually learning the delicate art of living as a half-orc among humans. Speaking with people has become a constant balancing act. Fall off one side and you become a doormat. Fall off the other, and you risk having someone call the guard. I have to weigh and measure every word that comes out of my mouth. I can never relax my guard with anyone. I can never ever rest.
“Away with you, half-breed.”
“That was uncalled for! I am not used to being addressed in that fashion.”
“Remove yourself from the premises, or I shall be forced to call the guard.”
“Please, madam, it is dark, and we have no place else to spend the night. What am I to do?”
“Surely you’re not expecting me to train a half-breed brute such as yourself?”
“Sir! That was most rude. I was told you were a gentleman.”
The trick most of the time is simply to refuse to play the role they expect of you. If they expect you to go to the left, go instead to the right. If they expect a brutish angry half-orc, play the offended gentlelady who is incensed at their ill manners. It confuses them, puts them off their balance. It’s usually enough to get people to talk with feigned politeness, at least for a while. A few people with unusual intelligence, sensitivity, and care, honestly regret their initial words and apologize. With them, perhaps it is possible to have a relationship as fellow sapient beings. Such people are exceedingly rare; I have met only a few so far.
“I do not like those of your type frequenting my establishment.”
“Oh this place is fantastic! Whom do I have the great privilege to be addressing?”
“How could I speak with one of your obvious inferocious demeanor?”
“Great Lukan! Prince of thieves! I am so honored to meet you at last.”
Of course with those you have no respect for, you play the game differently. With them you take the part of the obsequiously polite inferior. Listening carefully to them, hearing their fears and desires, you can discern how to move them. And because they don’t perceive you as an intelligent being, they suspect nothing. By playing subtly on their expectations, you can manipulate them without them even being aware of it. By playing on their fears and desires, I imagine you could make them do...
Dear God, what am I becoming? What am I turning into?
This has gone on too long. I am losing my mind. I will go mad if I don’t do something soon. Tomorrow is the beginning of a new week. Tomorrow morning I shall go back to the hall of records, and I shall write down the name of every doctor who practices in the city of Tarant. Then I shall go straight down that list and visit each doctor in turn until I find one that will apprentice me. If that doesn’t work, I shall go back to the top of the list and visit each one of them again. If necessary, I will go through that list again and again and again and again until I find one that will finally accept me or I die trying. What other course is open to me now?
April 16, 1885
In my room at the Bridesdale Inn, Midmorning
“PHYSICIAN BRUTALLY MURDERED
BY FORMER HALF-ORC PARTNER!
Doctor Theo. Wilford, one of Tarant’s most highly respected physicians, has been brutally murdered. Witnesses heard Dr.Wilford’s former partner Dr. Craig arguing with him, and saw Dr. Craig fleeing the crime scene brandishing a bloody knife. The authorities have informed us that Mr. Wilford’s life was extinguished in a most gruesome manner; Doctor Craig evidently used his detailed knowledge of human anatomy to deadly effect…
…Dr. Wilford had recently taken on Doctor Edmund Craig as a partner, to assist with his heavy patient load. The recent scandalous discovery of Doctor Craig’s orcish lineage rocked the medical profession. Police speculate Dr. Craig was motivated to murder Dr. Wilford out of revenge for his summary dismissal. Any information as Doctor Craig’s whereabouts should be reported as quickly as possible. Do not attempt to apprehend Doctor Craig without the assistance of the guard, as he is to be considered extremely dangerous.”
--From the lead story of this morning’s Daily Tarant
I am ruined. All my dreams are dust, burned to ashes by the morning newspaper. There is simply no possibility, if there ever was one, for a half-orc to become apprenticed to a doctor in this city. Not after this. Not in my lifetime, anyway. My dream is dead. If I could, I would find the half-orc Craig and I would wring his neck.
Of course maybe that’s wrong. Maybe I ought to thank him instead. Thank him for getting me to finally accept the truth. There was never a possibility of becoming a doctor here. I was a fool to think Tarant would be different, just because they allow those of orcish blood to live here. Of course they allow half-orcs and even orcs to live in this city. They need us. They need us to work in the factories, to clean the sewers, to collect the garbage, to do all the jobs that humans are not willing to do. I was an idiot to believe it could ever be otherwise.
At first after reading that article, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel sad; I didn’t feel angry; I just felt numb. I kept staring off into space like a zombie. Virgil kept asking me what was wrong, and I had to go into my room to find some peace and quiet. Then I did start to cry. I couldn’t stop myself from crying, and I was very glad that there was no one there who could see me. It has taken me nearly an hour to pull myself together.
So what shall I do now? The money I have will not last until the end of the week. No one will hire a half-orc, save for menial labor, and I am unwilling to resort to that yet. The commander of the guard told me that the editor of the Daily Tarant would pay good money if I would let him interview me, if I would sell the story of how I survived the crash of the Zephyr to the newspaper. Why not? Virgil will be angry, but what choice do I have? I cannot live on the street. There is some danger in having my picture in the paper, perhaps, but I doubt the assassins we encountered in Shrouded hills are still interested in me after all this time. And even if they are, what difference does it make? What do I have to live for now? Besides, just once in my life I want to open the paper in the morning and read a story about a half-orc who isn’t a thief, a murderer, or worse.
So it’s settled. This morning I shall go to the offices of the Daily Tarant.
