Night had yet to fall across East Port, the colours still bright and vivid as Jurot trekked through the city. Most of the people wore a hat of some sort, in a myriad of colours. Those who wore little colour, their clothing ragged and almost colourless, wore small, flat hats, whereas those adorned in finer clothing, full of colour, wore larger hats, with multiple accessories of complimentary colours.
As Jurot approached the docks, he weaved through the various side alleys, ducking under clothing lines and around barrels and crates, before finding a large wooden building. A giant sign board was nailed crudely to one side, threatening to fall if it wasn’t for the tiny piece of wood which nailed it to the roof.
The Iyrman stepped into the The Salty River, noting the tavern was as lively as he expected, with at least thirty different dock workers all eating and drinking together, small groups tossing dice, cards, and coppers. The smell of the workers permeated the air, true to the tavern’s name, though Jurot stepped through it, towards the young woman at the counter, no older than thirteen.
Her hair was dark, cut short, up to her ears. Her dark eyes scanned the Iyrman quickly, and she reached for something beside her, behind the counter. He heard the crossbow shift beside her leg.
As Jurot stopped at the counter, he reached in to his pocket, and placed down a gold coin onto the counter. “I am here for Bill.”
“Ain’t heard of no Bill,” the girl said, leaning her head back slightly. Her skin shifted in such a way that Jurot could see part of a tattoo peek out from her tunic. It was near black, with lines curling all about her neck. Jurot knew of the tattoo, for the curling lines were the tentacles of a creature of nightmares which lived deep in the sea.
Jurot placed a second gold coin on the counter. “Bill has debts to pay.”
“Ain’t never done no business with no savage folk like yourself,” the young girl said. She began to hoist the crossbow from behind the counter, but Jurot slid Phantom out, the edge of the axe caught on the counter.
The voices in the inn began to quieten down as the dockworkers looked to the Iyrman, some of the rougher hands reaching for mugs, and others grabbing for open stools.
“Baktu is a just God,” Jurot said, staring into the girl’s eyes, seeing himself within her pupils. “He does not discriminate. Men. Women. Children.”
The girl slowly placed the crossbow back under the counter. “Now that you mention. I do know a Bill. Pops! Savage man here for you.”
A short, but stocky man, blasted through the doors, axe in hand. His eyes were dark from hallowed knowledge, and his entire body was covered in dark tattoos. Two of his fingers bore silver rings, and at his neck dangled another ring, once bronze, but now green with patina.
“No business with Iyrmen,” Bill said.
“Debts to pay,” Jurot said.
“What debts be they, boy?”
“Fifteen years ago, on the White Sea,” Jurot said. “You saw crimson, blood.”
Bill swallowed, licking his lower lip quickly. He slowly lowered his axe. “Aye. I remember.”
“The debt must be paid.”
Bill glanced around to the other dockworkers. He slowly nodded towards the Iyrman. “Aye. Come to the back.” He turned and stepped into the back, and Jurot followed him. Mugs were placed down, and stools were righted.
“Boy George, head around back, make sure he don’t take no barrel of piss,” the girl said, while a young sailor, with his tunic half open to reveal his bare chest, and the tattoo of the nightmare under the sea half on display, stepped into the back, hand firmly grasped against the shaft of his scimitar. He stepped with great urgency, wanting to get to the pair quickly.
He opened the door to find the splashing water, which fell onto the floor, and drained away between the cracks of the tiles.
Boy George sighed. “I never get to go.” He let go of his scimitar, and paced around the area.
“It must be dire if you’re coming during daylight,” Bill said, opening his eyes to find themselves deep within a mountain. The area was dimly lit with small lights embedded within the domed ceiling, signalling the time of day outside.
Jurot glanced around, noting the carvings on the wall, that of the creature the cult worshipped. He had been within the tavern one moment, taken to a back room, where Bill had splashed water against them with a ladle.
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Bill walked up to the statue, which was hidden in the shadow, save for a large circle, which Bill pressed, instantly drying himself. “Don’t want you getting sick, Iyrman.”
Jurot pressed the button, and warm air surrounded him for a moment, magically drying him instantly.
“We don’t have much time,” Bill said, grabbing a torch which instantly lit, and he began to lead Jurot out of, seemingly, the only pathway out.
Jurot could hear distant chanting as they marched through the hallway, heading straight ahead. Many other paths led elsewhere, but Jurot did not think anything of them.
They eventually arrived at a wall, which was etched with all manner of symbols, as well as the giant sea creature the cult prayed to. Bill knelt, dipping his fingers into a crevice filled with water, before tapping his forehead. He muttered a prayer, before placing his hands on the wall, which shuddered, and opened for them, revealing a small area, with an underground lake, and two statues, with a chained tome between them. One of a woman, another of a man, both sitting opposite one another casually.
Jurot tilted his head, staring at the male statue. He was then distracted by the shields on the floor, each made of stone the colour of sand.
“Great Urkina’s sheddings,” Bill explained, chuckling as he stepped up to the tome. “They make wonderful shields, greater than typical shields made of steel. Not magical, but they protect better than other mundane shields.” He unchained the book by simply pushing the metal aside. “So what news does the Iyr bring? Do you have need of our Priests? Our Guardians?” Bill picked up the seastone quill, beginning to write down the meeting’s matters.
“Elder Story has left the Iyr,” Jurot informed.
Bill’s hand froze midway through the word. He pulled his hand away once he wrote the title of the Great Elder, before slowly turning. “Elder Story does not leave the Iyr.”
“Emperor Hadda is dead.”
Bill stared at the Iyrman, growing even paler. He turned back to the book, paused for a moment to compose himself, and then began to write. “It is a good thing mother patrols The Black Zone, or we’d be in such great trouble. You must know of the stories.”
“Your mother is dead too,” Jurot stated, as politely as he could.
Bill froze. He placed the quill to the side, and turned to face the Iyrman, reaching to the axe at his side. “What?”
“Emperor Hadda confirmed the matter.”
Bill remained silent for a long moment, blinking once he realised they had very little time. “Then who grants us our strength, Iyrman?” Everything had been going business as usual, as none of the Priests had lost any of their strength.
“We must know what we must know,” Jurot replied simply.
Bill swallowed. He turned to the book, staring down at the notes. There were very few times the Iyrmen came to the sanctuary, but none, in all of its histories, had informed them of such a disaster.
“Gods be damned,” the Sea Priest whispered in the Iyr’s tongue.
Jurot stepped out of the tavern, blinking rapidly. He noted he was out of the tavern, but he recalled that he had just followed Bill into the back. A vague sensation tickled the back of his mind, and his tattoo burned gently, letting him know he had completed his task.
Jurot made his way through the large city, dodging and weaving through the crowd, tapping his pouch as he passed through the market, and passed an urchin. He approached a familiar stall, where a Devilkin man was currently fixing the turban of his young son, and looked towards them, before his eyes drifted past them to the ledge behind.
“Hoi, hoi, hoi, Iyrman,” Kalid called, his head floating from side to side as he pat his chest.
His father grabbed his head, his voice low. “Do not bother Iyrmen when they are making their rounds.”
Since his father hadn’t called him a son of a cat, Kalid fell silent, his eyes passing by the Iyrman, before he checked on the rolls of yellow cloths they kept in the stall.
Jurot passed the stall, noting the coins which lay behind the pair on their cabinet, stacked left to right. Three copper coins. Two silver coins. One gold coin. They were only stacked that way for one reason. It should have been obvious that Yellow Turban came across them, but it hadn’t been explicitly stated to Jurot when he learned about him.
Jurot turned, heading into another district. He stepped into the butcher’s shop, where a large, older man currently worked on cutting a seapig in half. He eyed up the Iyrman, who placed down three gold coins.
“Right this way,” the butcher said, palming the coins, before heading into the back. They continued to head into the back, to a large area with slabs of stone, where carcasses were currently being processed by another butcher, who was built like Nobby.
The butcher who had guided Jurot washed his hands, before drying them with a clean rag, holding out his scarred hands for it. Jurot reached into his robe, passing the letter to the butcher, who eyed up the texture and the colour of the paper, and the colour of the wax.
“I’ll get your order,” the butcher said, heading towards the underground cellar, leaving Jurot with his worker.
Jurot’s eyes remained on the butcher’s back, watching him as he worked, listening to the sounds of him hacking away at a carcass.
“Are you still working?” Jurot asked, in a tongue which was almost the same as the Iyr’s.
The remaining butcher slammed his knife down, cutting into the bone, and paused. He turned, revealing his greyish green skin, that of a Horc, like the Jin family. One of his eyes was white and scarred, the other was a dark blue. His tusks were broken, but Jurot’s eyes fell to his gloves, seeing the black skin on his left arm.
“I’m retired,” he said, his voice a low growl.
Jurot bowed his head, and remained silent until the first butcher returned, carrying a small crate about the size of his head. Jurot opened the top, finding it was dried meat, liver specifically, covered in salt. He nodded, and carried the crate out. As he stepped towards the door, he stopped.
“My grandfather is fighting in the war,” Jurot said.
The Horc turned to look over his shoulder at the Iyrman. He had seen the boy’s tattoo previously. A blue circle with three blue diamonds floating outwards on both sides. “I wish him the best of luck.”
Jurot said no more, stepping out. If one of the world’s greatest assassin’s had retired, he had no need to worry about Adam while they were within the city. He recalled the coins behind Yellow Turban, and wondered who had placed an order for assassination.