4. City Affairs

"The Small King insists on pursuing his goal of a grand settlement for the Grorginite Empire to rally the likes of human cities.

But all goblin settlements I have seen that extend beyond a single clan invariably end with tribal in fighting.

I have tried to tell our immortal leader that this can not be managed by will or ambition but by studying the Pools, and manipulating them. So that they yield a form of youngling with a keener, more malleable kind."

Jarl Thrand had chosen a small space for his counsel room. One wall for the ever-open double doors of white stone. Two walls for mirrored rows of squat drawers, each made from grey marble and wrought with old and finicky mechanisms that allowed the weight to roll. A long window served as the last wall and opened onto a wide balcony, fenced by a balustrade that had been etched with swords, stars, shields, and flames.

Jarl Thrand’s entire estate had once housed all together more royal company, but he, like his ancestors, had made no qualms about claiming the holdings of those long dead. The Jarl of Timilir sat at an octagonal table with his three most trusted advisers, each of them facing him, so that two empty seats separated Thrand from his lessers.

It had been wrought of white marble that matched the walls; and layered in ledgers, papers, and drab blankets to stop painful reflections.

It was rare that light found the room though, so several lanterns burned atop the drawers and table, lending hues of red, yellow, and orange to the shades of marble. The light lent ghastly shadows to the four somber faces at the table as well.

A fifth man stood in the room, behind and to the side of Thrand, silent and motionless, his polished armour gleaming with firelight, while his grizzled face remained shadowed.

“Must you stand, Atsurr?” Ekkill asked. A plump man, he sat opposite Thrand, clad in a white-trimmed red-dyed robe that was thick-woven for the winter weather.

Atsurr’s shrug caused a rasp of metal. “My Jarl?”

Thrand raised a withered hand, gesturing his assent. Atsurr strode forward to take the chair at his master’s left. He pushed further back from the table, and drew his sword to lay it across his armoured legs.

Ekkill’s round face pinched in distaste. “Is all this precaution truly needed? I would rather you stand than have your blade ever readied.”

Atsurr grunted as he rose. He returned both chair and sword, and moved to stand behind the Jarl of Timilir.

“What is it you expect to happen?” Ekkill pressed.

Atsurr didn’t bother to look at him. “The unexpected.”

“If the chickens are done clucking,” Fati ventured with a youthful smile, “I would like to give my report.”

He sat to the left of Ekkill, opposite the green-robed spiritualist known as Dragmall.

Fati himself wore plain black clothes that closely fitted his skinny frame. “Am I free to proceed?”

“Go ahead,” Jarl Thrand rasped.

“As a whole, the income from trade tithes remains steady… as do most of the other taxes.” Fati smiled in apology. “Alas, it would seem that the Low King has decided that the Low Lands would be best served paying less coin to Timilir, and as such they have requested exemption or a return of revenues gathered. It should also be noted that our own cropland has yielded less than expected, so we were more reliant upon purchasing grains… which the Low King saw fit to raise the price for. Coupling that with the diminishing yields from our mines… mostly brought on by the persistent abductions from the kobolds—”

Jarl Thrand raised his hand, then turned his spiritual adviser. “Dragmall. What course of action, if any, do the gods suggest we take with the kobolds?”

Fati and Ekkill exchanged impatient glances, both surprised when the spiritualist quickly cleared his throat.

“None.” Dragmall cupped his fleshy fingers on the table. “They assure me this issue will resolve itself.”

“And what do they make of this new criminal element, the…”

“Crooked Teeth,” Atsurr finished for Thrand.

“Ah,” Dragmall sighed. “Now there is a simple question that begets muddled answers. That alone would leave me to believe that they are not ordinary criminals.”

“Is that really your answer?” Atsurr snapped. “They are snatching folk off the open street by day, from guarded homes at night, without warning or witness… leaving behind bags of bloodied teeth. Who here is so deluded as to believe that we have been dealing with petty thugs?”

“Merely a preamble,” Dragmall murmured. He reached under his green hood, scratching at his head. “There is a shared fear among the stars and spirits, but I see and speak to them as if through a haze. I can hear only one answer clearly, that of Muradoon… not words but echoing laughter.”

Atsurr stared down at the spiritualist. “You expect death then, Dragmall?”

“We have already had death… but, yes, I do not expect it to end soon… or ever.”

“So,” Thrand’s voice dripped with venom, “the Low King wishes me to bow at his feet lest he nip at my heels. The kobolds are beneath the city itself, stealing our miners, and now I have a band of lunatics on the open streets, exchanging tax payers for teeth.” He sighed in frustration. “What news from the Midderlands?”

Fati spread his palms across the table. “Your step son has requested more—”

“More,” Thrand echoed with hate. “What a waste of a daughter to get a son such as him. What news from Vendrick?” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Forget it, I can see it plainly by your face.” He took a long breath. “Before we discuss answers to unpleasantness… is there any good news?” He narrowed his sunken eyes. “Any at all?”

“We have arrested a messenger,” Atsurr said. “He came to the gates wishing to deliver a message, but refused to tell it to anyone other than you. I planned to press him into giving answers rather than granting an audience.”

Jarl Thrand turned to the armoured man. “Is there some reason this was not raised with me?”

“It happened not long ago.” Atsurr sighed. “You were on your way to this meeting.”

“I see.” Jarl Thrand faced his counselors. “You can all take a short break.”

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***

Saxi kept at a close step behind his armoured escort. Jarl Thrand’s Estate was even larger than it appeared from the city streets. He had a hard time telling the marble rooms and corridors apart. He feared that he would end up lost and, when someone finally found him, that he would once again be mistook as a threat.

Saxi had very much come to regret his promise to deliver the message face to face.

He should have passed it on at the gates instead of pressing the guards. He thought that they would be elevated and honourable, for they stood guard on the loftiest structure in Timilir and served the venerable Jarl Thrand. But there was an unsettling mood of oppression to the place, and Saxi understood when he arrived that there were violent men standing behind the ornate gates, cruel faces hidden behind gleaming visors.

Saxi had paid little notice to where he was going, but he had crossed into darker corridors, those closer to the huge rock that jutted over the stone city, leaving all the shacks of the slums and the southern sides of richer houses in shadows.

He realised his hand was resting on the knife at his belt, so let his arms swing at his sides. The guard ahead of him remained silent, metal rattling with each brisk stride.

Saxi slowed to a stop now they came to a small lantern-lit room of marble.

“Wait here.” Atsurr glanced back. “I will call you in.”

Saxi smiled, dipping his head. He dreaded delivering his message, but assured himself for the dozenth time that he was a messenger and as such safeguarded by the gods. Sweat trickled down his neck, remembering being hauled through the estate gates, at sword point, and being locked in a room. “‘Isolated enough for a long stay,’” Saxi thought. “What did he mean by that?” He frowned. “Was he threatening torture?”

“Come in!” Atsurr ordered.

Saxi hurried forward, realizing this wasn’t the first time the man had asked.

He bowed low as he came into a room of white marble walls and grey marble drawers. A gaunt old man sat straight-backed at an otherwise abandoned eight-sided table, his posture the only thing about him that spoke to wealth or position.

Saxi took a moment to reconcile the living corpse as the Jarl of Timilir. He offered a second, deeper bow. “Your audience humbles me, good Jarl. I am the messenger Saxi, and have never before stood in such honourable company.”

The Jarl of Timilir scowled. “Stand straight and deliver your message.”

“I bring word from Jarl Gudmund—”

Jarl Thrand raised his hand. “Say again?”

“I bring word from Jarl—”

“Once more… just the last word.”

“Jarl…?”

“Yes.” Thrand nodded. “There is no Jarl Gudmund. So who sends this message?”

“Gudmund of Horvorr,” Saxi offered. “His Jarlship is addressed in the message.”

“Oh.” Jarl Thrand grinned, his sunken eyes turning hateful. “Atsurr… throw this fool from the balcony.”

Saxi confusedly smiled, but his mirth lapsed when the armoured man strode forward. “I… I am a messenger!”

Jarl Thrand yawned. “Yes… the messenger Saxi as I recall.”

“Forgive my humour, good Jarl,” Saxi said, “but this jest sits poorly with me.” He stepped backwards now the guard approached. “I simply wish to deliver my message and leave in peace!” He thudded into an unyielding drawer, wishing that he had fled straight through the main doors. “Jarl Thrand!”

“Yes…?”

“I…” Saxi’s words failed him. He sat cross-legged on the floor.

Atsurr stood above him. “You have soiled yourself, messenger.”

“Again?” Saxi hissed, embarrassment mixing with terror to leave him bewildered. “I am a messenger! You must allow me to deliver my message, by laws of all the regions, the cities, and the gods!”

“Ah,” Jarl Thrand muttered, “but then you have brought a message from a man who does not exist. And so those protections become equally insubstantial.”

“Jarl Gudmund does exist!” Saxi insisted, even as Atsurr dragged him across the floor. “He has thrown off your stewardship on the grounds that you failed to support him during his war with the goblins. He is coming here, to Timilir, to tell you that to your face. He demands compensation,” Saxi pressed. “And he will accept no less than your youngest daughter’s hand in marriage!”

Atsurr dragged the messenger up, shoving him against the balcony doors.

They shuddered open to a bright and bitter noon. A shrill wind whipped into the small room, causing a mad chorus of rasping and flapping as papers and ledgers stirred to life.

“Wait!” Saxi was thrown onto the hard marble. “He swore to the gods that he would avenge me! Jarl Gudmund will avenge me!”

“If he comes here,” Atsurr growled, “he will follow you.” He hauled the messenger up, and twisted his head to avoid the smaller man’s knife. The blade screeched against steel and snapped. “Muradoon guide you, messenger.”

“Please—” Saxi’s legs struck the balustrade. He glimpsed a pitiless gaze, a lantern-lit room of marble, and etchings of battle in stone.

The wind whipped him now he fell, his clothing snapping about his flesh, beyond the wet patch that clung between his legs.

Saxi wanted to think, to say or do something, but he all he managed was a stifled scream. He closed his eyes, thinking the fall would be long, but then he smashed into something that almost seemed to yield.

He waited with a breathless fear for the agony to come, for Muradoon to take him, but all he felt was a rocking motion while rough lines pressed into his aching skin.

“Greetings!” came an enthusiastic call.

Saxi slowly opened his eyes. He could see bottom of the balcony above him. He rolled to face slums below, rickety shacks and desperate people walking among constant shadows, seen between the bristling lines of thick rope.

A gust swept into his side. Terror gripped him now he started to swing.

“I hadn’t meant it for a bed,” a melodic voice mentioned. “Here, take my hand.”

Saxi raised his eyes to see a glove reaching from darkness. “Am I dead?”

“Netted, by the look of things. I suppose you owe your life to whoever rigged it.”

Saxi only then understood his surroundings, hanging preciously in a robust net, beside a shadowed window. He managed a confused murmur before he retched.

Tendrils of bile and chunks of flesh twisted down through the ropes, soon to land on the heads of folk in the shaded slums a hundred feet below.

The robed stranger frowned down at his gloved hand, newly traced by spittle. He laughed a laugh that doused the messenger with cold fear.

“What do you want?” Saxi managed, grimacing. He sniffed and coughed.

“Nothing at all.” The man’s bright blue gaze did not waiver. He lurched forward, grabbing the messenger under his shoulders. He hauled him up from the net, without care or concern for the man’s wriggling and screaming.

Saxi still struggled even after he had landed on the hard ground. He stopped, composing himself while he took deep breaths. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I… thank you. You saved me, but I was worried I would fall. They threw—”

“From the balcony, yes, I suppose they must have. I didn’t save your life… as I said it was the work of whoever rigged the net. I was simply here to clean this room.”

“Oh.” Saxi squinted at his surroundings. The room was small, shadowed, and pocketed with cobwebs. A single set of tracks led across the stone floor, miring a thick layer of dust that had been blown clear near the windy window. “You don’t seem to have made much of a start.”

The robed man chuckled. “I don’t deny it. Would you like me to show you the way clear of this place?”

Saxi searched the shadows, his youthful face creased with concern.

“There are tunnels… ways to leave without the guards seeing you. You need have no fear of Jarl Thrand.”

“Oh.” Saxi seemed to calm somewhat. He frowned up at the robed man. “Your name?”

“Soon to change.” The robed man offered his hand. “We should hurry.”