“This is ridiculous,” Widge Gearloose sighed, squatting down next to yet another bush. “Hello? Hello?”

“Keep your voice down,” the bush snarled, and Widge had to swallow a yelp of surprise. “What took you so long?”

“For one thing, Connelly, you look like every other bush in Kun-Lai Summit. Good choice, not wearing a flower in your foliage or something so I’d actually be able to find you.”

“Couldn’t risk standing out, Gearloose. Leave the spycraft to the experts.”

“And for another thing, I’ve had my hands full.” Widge nodded back at Frostmaw, who was doing what the gnome had learned bears not only do in the woods, but any time the mood strikes them, including in the middle of the Halfhill market, on the deck of the Skyfire and on the polished marble floors of the Sanctum of Seven Stars. “So, just tell me what you know: Where is Ringo Flinthammer?”

“Well, you know all this business with the Divine Bell?”

“Uh …”

“The war in Dalaran?”

“Well …”

“How do you not know any of this?”

“I have been following a polar bear around with a Pooper Scooper! And looking for Ringo, remember?”

“Well, you can stop looking. After all the business with the Dalaran and the Divine Bell — which I still can’t believe you don’t know about — the Sunreavers are on the march. They’re apparently going to try some mystical hoo-hah at a site sacred to the Mogu.”

“What does this have to do with Ringo?”

“He’s one of several prisoners they intend to sacrifice on the Isle of Thunder.”