“Tough luck, Ned.”

“Have you read it yet?” asked Bog.

Ned shook his head.

“It could be good news,” offered the slime mold.

“Betcha it’s a transfer to the wyrm farm.” Yip clinked two coins together. “Up to your neck in dirt and manure all day. And those wyrms stink. Oh, boy, do they stink.”

Ned sat, laid his head on his desk, put his arms over his head. His bad arm yanked at his hair.

“Glad I’m not you,” said Yip.

“Tate wants to see you.” Ned didn’t have the energy to raise his eye to glimpse Yip’s face, but he heard the ratling swallow hard. That made Ned feel a little better.

Bog’s eyes bobbed in his transparent flesh, floating to look at Ned from slightly different angles. “You should read it before you start panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“He’s moping,” said Yip.

“It’s probably not as bad as you’re imagining,” replied Bog.

“Probably worse.” Ned held the blue scroll down on his desk as if it might jump up and attack him. “I don’t have a very good imagination.”

“Give it to me.” Yip bounded from his desk and snatched the scroll. Ned held fast, and they commenced a brief tug-of-war.

“Just give me the damn thing already!” The ratling snapped at Ned’s hand, and he let go.

“You’ll be struck deaf,” said Bog.

“Blind,” corrected Ned.

Bog adjusted his eyes with his tentacles. “I suppose that makes more sense.”

With the same fearless stupidity that was soon to make him a gryphon’s dinner, Yip unfurled the ominous document. Both Ned and Bog lowered their heads (or head-like protrusion in the slime mold’s case), expecting something terrible. But there was no flash of lightning, no torrent of shrieking phantoms, no unholy blackness to fall upon the office. Not even a single cackling imp or cold snap.