Chapter 4: Chamber of Fools

"Blessed be the scoundrel, the thief, the evildoer. Conceal the one who hides in shadow. Exalt the thorn in the eye of the powerful. All truths fail. All lies crumble. In the end, we shall be made equal."

-The Prince of Rogues, date unknown.

The chamber dedicated to the council was an old ballroom of the old Elandran style that had fallen into disrepair, one section of the stone wall having collapsed and been patched up with planks. A large, oblong table had been placed in the middle of the room, with enough chairs to hold all the representatives and then some. The place had only been sparsely decorated for the occasion with a few moth-eaten wall drapings and some spherical magelights.

Stephan was surprised to see the number of faces there, a bit over a dozen in all. All the rich and influential of the Free Cities had assembled for this meeting, most of them enemies in some way or another. They mingled amicably, but kept their hands close to concealed weapons and made slow circles around the table, each person unwilling to be the first to sit. The Golden Son himself was present, asleep in a corner of the room with his face covered by the greasy curtains of his own dirty blond hair.

Orelius Chaesim, governor of Tumba, met Stephan and Taira at the door. “Ah, there you are,” he said, offering Taira a handshake. “Miss Wenezian, it’s been a while.”

Taira tensed up. Stephan put his hand on her arm, and it seemed to soothe her a little. She took the governor’s hand with a winning smile, only a slight quiver to it. “Well, it’s not a crime to see the world, is it? I wanted to enjoy my newfound freedom for a while.”

“True. Though you need not have overdone it. There were many in the city who thought you were dead.”

Taira snorted. “Those of little faith will always find a reason to disbelieve. Either way, I’m back, and I’m ready to pick up your mess, you old bastard.”

Chaesim’s face tightened with indignation, but he let the colorful commentary slide with a sigh and a wave of his hand.

“Thank you for helping me put this together,” Stephan said, eager to change the subject but earnest in his sentiment. “I couldn’t have done it without your contacts.”

“All in the interest of self-preservation, I assure you.”

“As it should be.” Stephan looked out over the old ballroom. “To be honest, I half expected to find no one here. I can’t believe everyone actually showed.”

Chaesim pushed up his glasses with the back of his hand. “Ah, well, we had some dropouts, of course. I heard that the ATU was sending someone, but it appears they’re a no-show.”

“That’s a shame. No one’s got cash like they do.”

“Look, boys,” Taira said, “this is fun and all, but not everyone appreciates politics like you two. So I’m just going to take my boyfriend here and trot on.”

Chaesim gave a slight nod. “But of course.”

Next they bumped into Io Moricus, magister of the Valerian Dynasty. Regal as always, he carried himself with a stick-straight posture, arms folded behind his back, white robes just brushing the floor.

“An interesting occasion,” the magister said. “I hope, for all our sakes, that it proves fruitful.”

“Anything can happen,” Stephan said. “Maybe even Elandra lifting a finger to aid its colony.”

A small, secretive smile played across Moricus’s lips. “I would not set my hopes too high, Mr. Lordling.” With an impatient gesture, he changed the subject. “I must admit, I had not heard of you before your correspondence. I would not have come, but for Chaesim’s insistence of your trustworthiness. You are an information broker, yes?”

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“That’s right.”

“I see. I will keep that in mind. Secrets are a valuable thing. Remind me not to loosen my tongue around you.”

Stephan gave a forced laugh, and the magister moved on. Next, they met a blue-skinned lubbard who wore garb of tastelessly revealing seasilk, the sheer fabric leaving almost nothing to the imagination. He had a collar around his neck, affixed to a delicate gold chain held by another of his kind.

“There you are!” said the first lubbard, smiling a toothy grin, arms spread. “I’d started to think you’d be late to your own party!”

It took Stephan a moment to place who he was talking to, but when he did, he could only give a dazed smile. “Kazzul…?”

“Who else?” Kazzul came in for a hug. The other lubbard—who appeared female—unwrapped some of the chain from her arm to give him slack. He embraced both Stephan and Taira at once, pulling their faces close. “Don’t worry, I won’t break your cover,” he whispered. “It’s a pretty good plan, as shitty plans go.”

He let them go and took a step back, smiling wide.

“It’s, uh, good to see you again,” Stephan said reflexively.

“Why are you wearing… that?” Taira asked, motioning to her throat.

Kazzul tugged at his collar. “Oh, this? It’s just a formality.” His hairless brows shot up. “But where are my manners? This is Ccalonesta Jahwa, daughter of Ard-Ccalon Soszawa.” He motioned enthusiastically to the female lubbard. “In human terms, that means she is more or less the princess of Clan Ivicc.”

Jahwa gave a measured smile. “A pleasure. I will attempt to speak your language,” she spoke in choppy Low Elandran, “but I am fear my tongue is not much practice.”

Taira reciprocated the greeting in Estaroso, likely because the language had a root in Snake Tongue. Jahwa’s face lit up, and she replied in her own language at a blistering pace.

While Taira conversed with Jahwa, Stephan pulled Kazzul aside—as far as his chain would allow—to speak with him privately. “Kazzul, what is this?” he asked, unable to hide his urgency. “Why are you here? Are you this woman’s slave?”

“Easy on the interrogation, man,” Kazzul said. “Firstly, I’m not the ccalonesta’s slave. I’m her consort. Like I said, the whole bondage thing is just a formality. Makes things real kinky in the bedroom, though, eh?”

Stephan could not dignify that with a response, only a vaguely disgusted grimace.

“I did tell you I was leaving to see about a woman, didn’t I?”

“A woman, not a fucking princess!” Stephan hissed.

“Did I forget to mention that detail? Oh, well. I’m not one to brag, after all.” After taking a moment to bask in his own cleverness, Kazzul seemed to realize that Stephan wasn’t finding any of this particularly funny and continued. “Secondly, we’re here because Clan Ivicc caught word of your meeting. I convinced Jahwa that it was worth sending a delegation to sit in on the negotiations. She listens to me, you see.”

“It was supposed to be a secret.”

Kazzul shrugged. “No secret stays that way for long.”

Stephan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So you’re not in danger?”

“Nope. Never been better, actually.”

“Good. You’ll have to explain all this in detail once the council is over. Drinks, my place? You haven’t seen Sweet Devil since I rebuilt it.”

Kazzul grinned. “Sounds like a plan, mate. Sounds like a fucking plan.”

“Attention, everyone!” Chaesim called over the buzz of conversations. “I believe all who intend to come have arrived, so if you please, my men will come around to gather your weapons, and after that we can get seated.”

Immediate and widespread laughter followed that idea. In a room containing some of their greatest enemies, it seemed none of them had any capacity for trust.

Lecco Zaman, leader of the Outlaw Clan, unstrapped his holstered gun and threw it to the nearest home guard as a detachment of them made their way through the chamber. “Have a little faith,” he said. “Now is the time to let go of pride. If we don’t, we embrace death willingly.” He was old and bent, his blue skin pale and lifeless by lubbard standards. His voice, however, was deep and majestic, filling the room without the need for him to raise his voice.

Stephan followed, and Taira after that. In due course, and with a lot of grumbling, all those present handed in their weapons, and the home guards left the room. All but the Golden Son, who still slept, snoring noisily. None dared wake him, so his person went unaccosted.

“Now, then,” Chaesim said. “With that unpleasantness over with, we may get—”

The doors opened again, and a single man entered. Human, pale-skinned, wearing somewhat ill-fitting Ashlandic-style robes that dragged along the floor. He adjusted wide-brimmed spectacles, taking in the room.

“My apologies for the tardiness,” the man said. My name is Armur Armak, representative of the Aiyek Trade Union.” His Low Elandran was good, but Stephan noticed the trace of a familiar accent he couldn’t quite place.

“Welcome,” Chaesim said. “You are just in time. Everyone, please sit.”

And so began the first pirate council of Aiyek.