“I wouldn't say Ocia is the city with the largest number of brothels in the world, but it's certainly known to have some of the finest ones. From every town and nation, people who have too much money come to see and experience the pleasures of Ocia. The priestesses here are gorgeous, clean and enthralling, and there's nothing like a cup of Vieran wine or some sleep-grass after honouring the goddess.
-traveller”
* * *
Nelvel
Nelvel awoke at sunrise. He quickly dressed up and was about to prepare breakfast and whatnot for his master, when he remembered they were no longer in Akilne, but had been staying in one of Ocia's inns for the past few days. He would still remember the darkness and the smell of the sewer tunnels they took on a small boat to get inside the city, so they could pay the guards and the harbourmaster before sailing Saamar's ships in the port. The pirate seemed to know his way around, and could easily sneak through the small beaches and cliffs and hidden passages around the port. A real smuggler indeed. Nelvel pinched the bridge of his nose and went to knock at Demnir's door before entering his room.
“Ah, you're up,” the noble said, glancing over his shoulder as he washed his face with water from a wooden bowl. He buttoned a shirt of white silk, donned his doublet over it, put on his half-cape, then turned to face Nelvel, arms spread.
Nelvel observed him, adjusted the cape, and nodded. “And so are you. Shall I go ask them to bring your meal?”
“No, let's break our fast downstairs,” Demnir said. “We're in a hurry.”
“What's the occasion?”
The noble smiled, and it was one of his annoying nonchalant grins. “Haven't I told you? Today's audience day.” Nelvel stood there and frowned, confused. No, you haven't told me. Demnir apparently felt obliged to explain further. “There'll surely be a number of peasants and merchants and lordlings attending, too. I don't want to spend the entire day waiting, so we need to get there early.”
“As you say,” Nelvel concluded, not looking forward at all to a day of standing and waiting. They ate in the inn's main hall, had roasted quail, bread with eggs, cheese, figs and olives. The food was fine and the place itself was clean. Slowly, the hall got more and more crowded, as rich merchants and wealthy travelling families awoke and came to take their meal. These people probably came from farms and estates throughout the city-state, fleeing the countryside for the safety of the walls. Nelvel wondered if it was really wise to spend money on such a high-class inn when they had just arrived, but he figured it wasn't worth bringing it up, and decided to enjoy the food instead.
The palace stood tall on a hill, towers of cream and golden bricks and red tiles, rows of open windows and balconies. The northern parts of the hill turned into a cliff, overlooking the port and the ships. They rode upward – or rather, Demnir rode at a trot while Nelvel walked, as usual. His was the only horse they brought on board, the same fine stallion he had when he took a ship from Callir to Akilne. The horse, the red velvet clothing, the fancy sword, he still had everything. Only, now the noble had added two ships worth of merchandise to his belongings.
“Where's Samaar, by the way?” Nelvel wondered.
On his saddle, Demnir shrugged. “Who knows? Drinking and whoring somewhere in a brothel, I surmise. Ocia is the city of pleasure, after all. It's not like I wished for him to come along, anyway.”
“How so?”
“I'd sooner buy him half the courtesans in the whole city, than have his vulgar pirate face by my side when I'm speaking with the local lords and ladies.”
Nelvel raised a brow. He has a point. A man like Samaar was most useful when one had to deal with thugs, sailors or sellswords, but nobility? Truly, Demnir was probably the only noble who could enjoy Samaar's company. The palace guards wouldn't even let Samaar in. His intuition was confirmed when they approached the gates – the guards, clad in chainmail, with longswords, halberds and pikes in hand, were watchful and cautious. An officer on horseback, purple feathers on his iron helm, was giving out instructions to his men and the visitors alike.
In all likelihood, the guards were looking for Paarese agents that might try to sneak into the palace, but they also took this as an opportunity to kick some drunkards and beggars. “Get the hell away, stinky bastard,” said one, before laughing at a poor old man crawling down the steps leading to the gates.
The beggar got on his clumsy feet, staggered and stumbled toward Demnir and Nelvel, and had to catch the noble's leg to avoid falling. Now that he was close, Nelvel understood why the guards had thrown him away so harshly. Reeking of booze, puke and shit, he smelled so bad, the slave couldn't help but gag. Even Demnir's horse neighed in horror.
“By Viera's tits,” Demnir growled, “old man, let go of me before I also kick you.”
“Viera's tits,” the beggar repeated, shaking his head and at the same time swinging his greasy mess of grey hair and beard. “Why's everyone saying this? Eh? Have an idea? They don't, for sure, they don't,” he said, motioning for the people around. His voice was coarse and hard on the ears, harder perhaps than his breath was for the nose. “Flat as a shield, her chest! My poor goddess... And you,” he whispered, eyes on the noble. “You, you, you, roaming these streets without a worry. You shouldn't be, and yet! Why are you here?”
“Stop your nonsense, old man,” Nelvel said hurriedly, fearing Demnir would do worse than simply kick him. The noble was glaring at the beggar, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword, something mad and eerie in his ghostly grey eyes.
“Foolishness...” The old man grimaced, let out a belch, and fell in silence. Then, for whatever reason, he decided to wobble away as if he'd forgotten them, and he kept muttering again, “foolishness, foolishness,” before finding someone else to annoy. Overhearing the drunk laughter of the beggar and the complaining of whoever he was inflicting himself on, Nelvel glanced at Demnir, and whatever daunting expression he had before, it was now gone.
“I expect we'll find Samaar in a similar state by the end of the day,” the noble said with a smile. “Ocia can do wonders for your health, it seems.”
Nelvel did not comment on the joke. Stable boys came to take care of the visitors' horses, and before long they entered the palace. Some twenty supplicants stood there in the antechamber, waiting for their turn in the hall – waiting to be heard by one lord Vierodel. Lady Atricia's son, I gather. A steward came to inquire about Demnir's name and purpose, and meanwhile Nelvel could more or less overhear what requests were spoken inside, and what answers were given.
Mostly people complaining about the citywatch wrongfully arresting a brother or a son for speaking ill of the nobility, about taverns and inns being too crowded, or about whores being on uncomfortably high demand. That last matter seemed to come up quite often.
“The other day, I've waited two hours until they found me someone! Never happened before. I tell you, m'lord, when brothels can't satisfy customers no more, it's a sign something's wrong in the city, aye, something real wrong,” said a chubby man who had the perfect indecency to bring his plump wife with him. Nelvel couldn't see him from here, but he clearly remembered the couple entering the hall a minute ago. Vieran mores, I guess...
The same melodious voice of the Vieran nobility answered the man. “Thank you for telling me what is wrong with my city. But perhaps your finances are the real issue, wouldn't you agree? I'm told heavy purses easily open the doors of the most serviceable establishments. If you've unburdened yourself of too much silver already, why not find some use for that lovely wife of yours?”
Chuckles and snickers echoed and the man burst out in anger. The wife apparently joined in mocking her husband, for some reason. They began to argue, and the both of them were almost dragged out of the hall by a pair of guards – and now it was Demnir's turn. Nelvel gave him an uneasy glance, unnerved by the whimsical nature of the lord they would have to deal with, but the noble only grinned.
“Merchant Demnir, of Callir,” someone introduced him. Nelvel didn't fail to notice how Demnir wasn't introduced as a lord or a sir – whether it was a rudeness from the steward or a deliberate choice from the noble, the slave didn't know. Now that I think about it, he never talks much about his birth, or even his past. And wasn't he way too young to be called a sir? Unless Callirian knighthood could be acquired before twenty-and-one, which, to Nelvel's knowledge, was unheard of.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Demnir glanced over the room, his eyes stopping on each face present, and Nelvel did the same, more discreetly. Administrators and tax-masters, lordlings, dignitaries, officers. Eventually, he faced the lord seated at the high table, a massive monster of sculpted wood atop a couple of steps, and gave a curt bow. “Greetings, lord Vierodel.”
“Good day,” the lord answered with a nod. He was young, too, had maybe only a year or two more than Nelvel, and with his long hair, his painted lips and his silky robes, he looked quite effeminate. “What is your purpose here?”
“I, a merchant, came to this beautiful city to offer my services, my lord. My trade is most particular, and I trust you'll be interested in it.”
Lord Vierodel's face was unreadable, his eyes dreamy and aloof. Perhaps he was simply bored. “And may I ask, what is it that you sell, merchant Demnir?”
“Why, a helping hand in defeating this city's besiegers.”
He said that flatly, the way one would answer 'blue' when asked for the colour of the sky. The Vierans at the lord's side whispered amongst themselves. One, square jaw and brown balding hair, in gold and dark green robes, rubbed his shaved chin with a hint of curiosity in his eyes. Another, a tall man with a purple half-cape and a cold mean face, scoffed loudly.
“My lord, allow me to explain,” Demnir carried on. Vierodel nodded, and his retainers were silenced with a single hand gesture. “I believe it is no secret nowadays – the negotiations between Paar and Ocia regarding this blockade have long failed, whatever wood and crops left unharvested in the state have been burnt, and masons, blacksmiths and carpenters have been put to work. You're preparing for a siege. And, perhaps you've heard, all across the Vieran states, mercenary companies have started to move, weapon-smiths have been approached, and secret talks are commonplace.”
“One would almost think you're well informed,” Vierodel said suspiciously.
“Oh, you have no idea.” Again, Demnir beamed one of his large smiles. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I myself have been contacted by Paarese agents.”
“Is that so. And have you answered their demands?”
“I must admit doing so. I've provided them with a number of siege engines. It is my profession, after all, but-”
“But today you're speaking to a lord whose enemies you've helped. I could simply ask captain Flavo here,” he said, pointing to the caped and cold-faced wall of a man, “to have his men arrest you and execute you for your crimes. No sane man with your history would come in my city and seek my attention, yet here you are.”
“Yet here I am,” Demnir acquiesced. During this exchange, some new faces had entered the hall through one of the doors in the back, and joined the listeners from afar. A girl and a woman, standing still, and standing out, a bit apart from the rest of the seated retainers. They immediately caught Nelvel's attention. The woman, tall, dark-haired, but pale, and dressed in a manner of clothing that felt familiar. The girl was just a child with clear eyes and light brown hair, and while her dress was of Vieran origin, she herself certainly wasn't. Foreigners, he thought. He glanced back at the tall woman, and it made sense – her grey doublet was a Daeli attire, he remembered seeing it on the other side of the Middle Sea. For some reason, he was reminded of a jousting tourney he had watched with his father, long ago, when he was still young and free. When his father was still alive, wandering the world, learning about languages, cultures, and history.
Not bothering to question why a woman would wear a knight clothing or a sword at her waist, Nelvel stared at the young girl instead. Is she the Daeli princess we've heard of? She held herself with grace and elegance, but there was none of the scorn and haughtiness he'd expect to see on the expression of a young, sheltered princess. Whatever her thoughts were, she hid them well and her face was entirely likeable. All the more reason for Nelvel to dislike her.
“If I may, my lord,” Demnir said, “I ask that you hear my story. Then you'll decide whether to remove my head or to consider my offer.”
“Very well.”
“I come from Callir. You must know about the events that happened there, so you won't be surprised to learn that I chose to leave rather than stay and get dragged in a pointless conflict. We might not see many heads roll in Callir, but there's plenty of slit wrists and bloodied daggers. I sailed to Akilne, where I settled and built a business from scratch. I was very proud of it, and as a weapon-smith, I was starting to have a bit of a reputation amongst the polite society. Then, as I told you, I was approached by a mercenary company.
“Truth must be told, my lord, I had yet to know about their true intent, and I assumed they would be warring against Callir. I had lost my affection for this place, and had no reason to deny these customers my services.” A few whispers and laments echoed in the hall. Apparently, abandoning one's homeland was not the honourable thing to do, but Nelvel knew this story here was probably a web of lies. In any case, some parts were clearly false.
“The city-states of Viera have been kind and good to me, so when I learned that these mercenaries were planning to use my inventions for a far more terrible purpose, I was drown in guilt and I cursed my fortune. Be aware, my lord, that my creations aren't the run-of-the-mill siege machinery. The pride I take in my work is well-deserved, and I gather it is the reason they contacted me in the first place.”
“Then what did you do, once you knew they planned to siege Ocia?” said Vierodel, who seemed to have found interest in this story during the short periods of time he wasn't busy playing with his hair. No doubt he merely saw it as an entertaining tale, rather than a touching confession.
“I tried to revoke my contract with them, of course. They wouldn't let me, they even threatened me when they heard I refused to come with them as an engineer, and before long, things escalated. I had no choice but to flee. You surely have friends in Akilne – ask anyone, and you'll hear about my workshop, and how it is only ash and charred wood now. Before they could also torch my ships, I took my diagrams, my slaves, and what goods I had left, before sailing to Ocia.”
Nelvel frowned. A web of lie for sure – Nelvel had no love for these professional murderers, but Zeron and his men had never been too disrespectful, much less violent. Had Demnir really burnt the workshop, then? I damn hope this is a bluff.
Vierodel pressed a thumb against his painted lips. “So, what is it that you want? Justice?” Despite his age, the lord had the expression of a child ruler who was about to administer justice for the first time, and Nelvel wondered if Vierodel had ever taken seriously his duties as a lord before now.
Demnir flashed a faint smile. The ghost of a smile, certainly, but that could only mean the conversation was going his way. “My lord, I would not consider myself a righteous man, and justice is not what I'm looking for.” He put a hand on his chest. “Revenge, my lord. I came to Ocia in hopes of getting revenge against these Paarese oppressors. Of course, I am a merchant, and a ruined one at that, thanks to those thieves. Restoring my wealth is part of my revenge. My services are costly, but you'll not regret buying them. Paar and their mercenaries are marching on Ocia with a technology you have yet to see, and if I may be blunt, no one here would know how to deal with it better than I could. I would also be surprised if the Callirians did not join in the attack, for I know how much they hate your people. I have a number of devices and contraptions I wish to try out, too. As I said, I'm no charitable soul, but pay me in silver and I'll do my utmost to reimburse you in Paarese heads.”
Vierodel fell deep in thought. Nelvel himself would have probably been convinced by this last speech, had he been in the lord's shoes. Demnir had peeled off a layer of decency and made his greedy merchant character seem like his honest self. Only, thanks to the time he had spent with the noble, Nelvel guessed there were many more layers underneath – but Vierodel and his retainers couldn't possibly be aware of it.
The man named Flavo slipped a couple of words, then it was the man in green and gold who whispered a few lines in the lord's ear. The lord nodded, and after a moment, he addressed Demnir. “Lord ambassador Segheon believes we should give you a chance. I'm inclined to agree – I think opportunists are the most trustworthy people in the world. We'll do as if your last sentence wasn't the only bit of truth in your speech.”
Demnir bowed, and motioned for Nelvel to do the same. “Many thanks, my lord.”
“You must be craving for the comfort of a home, after leaving Akilne the way you did.” Vierodel snapped his fingers and gave a nod to a pair of guards. “They will show you to a guest room in the palace, Demnir of Callir. I'll have captain Flavo and a handful of smiths and carpenters hear out your suggestions this afternoon. I dearly hope, for your own sake, that your craft is as refined as your eloquence would led us to believe.”
Two men in chainmail escorted Demnir and Nelvel inside the palace. They climbed a number of staircases, but the floor they stopped at was probably not that high, when taking into account the height of some of the towers he saw from outside. As they walked, Demnir slowed down and fell back, away from the guards.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly. Nelvel gave him a confused look. “The girl. Is she the princess from Dael?”
“There's a good chance. She's a westerner, at the very least.”
“Hmm.” Demnir rubbed his chin. “The lord is wiser than he looks – or perhaps his advisors are the wise ones. Many wouldn't think twice before making an enemy out of a potential ally simply because they don't know enough about him.”
“That was dangerous. They could have simply seized and tortured you until you told them everything you know.”
“Unlikely,” Demnir said with a shrug. “Have you seen the city? Everywhere, people are complaining about the city-watch arresting innocents. They cannot afford to act like violent tyrants right now, what with rumours and all.”
True. All in all, whatever silver Demnir would have them spend on his merchandise, it wouldn't be too hefty a price compared to the unneeded trouble they'd cause by publicly arresting a merchant – who was simply offering his help as far as everyone was concerned. The nobility of Ocia was richer than rich anyway, they could afford to pay him. Still, they could have taken him in secret. In fact, there was no guarantee they had abandoned the idea...
“You're tense,” Demnir observed. “Stop glancing around, it makes you look suspicious.”
He nodded, though he felt if there was one person deserving to be called suspicious, it was the greedy merchant and his lies. Speaking of lies... “What was that, about the workshop? You haven't really burnt it, have you?”
Demnir let out a sharp laugh, and the guards glanced behind, reproachful looks on their faces. I don't know why I expected him to give a honest answer. Nelvel muttered an insult, too low for the noble to understand, but loud enough for him to know he had been insulted.
“Nelvel,” he said, not mindful of the guards anymore, “I'll need you to ready my tools and send word to our men. I don't know how long we have, so crafting begins tonight. I'll ask lord Vierodel for a decent place where the smiths, carpenters and chemists can sleep and work. And I have a task for Samaar, if you somehow manage to find him in this charming lust-filled fortress of a city.”
“...You're confident they'll let you do your thing.”
Demnir waved his hand with an obnoxious nonchalance. “Oh, but of course they will.”