“All my life I've heard about it. Magesmithing, Sazin's blade, the First Sword... It is known through many names, like the many yet different and empty accounts of a long lost tale. Me? I believe it's nothing more than an allegory. The chosen is the blade itself, the Sword. It is the embodiment of courage, dedication, and strength – an incorporeal weapon, with the purpose of slaying one sort of demons, those that lurk in the human mind.

-Alleged words of a previous hero”

* * *

Demnir

The early evening sky had shades of orange and purple, and it coloured the many exotic plants in a dusky tint. Under a fig tree, lord Vierodel sat in the grass, playing a tune on his harp, the languid melody echoing in this vast courtyard turned into leisure gardens by a previous lord.

“Ah, my esteemed guest,” the young noble called out to Demnir once he noticed him. “You came.”

“Naturally,” he replied with a bow. “One does not refuse an invitation to dine with your lordship and the lady Atricia.” Rather, it was about time. I was growing bored in this palace.

Vierodel got to his feet, had a servant put away his harp, and invited Demnir to walk with him toward the terrace. Jade earrings swayed with each of his steps. “Forgive me, I am still unsure as to what we should call you. A lord? A sir?”

The merchant chuckled and shook his head. “Whatever titles I might have held in a past life, I left them behind.” He gave Vierodel a knowing smile, leaving its meaning to the Vieran's imagination. “Demnir will suffice, my lord, though you're free to call me however you wish.”

“Then lord Demnir it is, for I feel the mundane title of merchant doesn't do you justice. I've heard pleasant things about you since the other day.”

“Ah, yes. Captain Flavo has been most appreciative of my work.”

Vierodel nodded. “Indeed, but what a surprise... A glaring and silent man like him, I expected he'd give you quite a bit of trouble, at least.”

And trouble he gave me. Captain Flavo had not bothered to hide his reticence and his displeasure, and was quite eager to criticise some of Demnir's devices. But when it was time to argue about one particular engine, it only took a detailed mention of how gruesome the consequences would be for the attackers, for the meddlesome Flavo to turn into an assertive interlocutor. The craftsmen that were summoned to the palace, though, merely paled and kept silent, and deep down they were probably glad to be on this side of the walls. Vivid descriptions of melting flesh can have all manner of impact...

“What can I say? In the end, we simply came to an understanding,” Demnir explained nonchalantly. “I do not blame him for his initial distrust, however. On the contrary, my nights would be troubled if I knew that the captain of the city-watch lacked a cautious and wary mind.”

“Well spoken!”

They arrived at the terrace, made of polished slabs, and servants led them to their chairs in front of a table made from white wood, under a roof of foliage. It wasn't cold yet, but brasiers had been spread around the table. A woman in her thirties was seated there already, sipping wine from a gilded cup between her painted lips, head resting languorously against her palm as strands of dark hair fell artfully on her shoulders and shone with a purple gleam. She watched her guests with eyes that appeared dreamy at first, but under these heavy eyelids, Demnir felt an attentive stare.

“Mother, this is my good friend, lord Demnir of Callir. My lord, this is lady Atricia of Ocia.”

Atricia held out her hand, which the merchant eagerly kissed. “A pleasure,” he said, conspicuously gazing at the sapphire she wore at her neck, and the cleavage of her pale pink dress held together with golden pins. She was certainly wearing it for this very purpose, and not indulging her would come off as pretentious or even suspicious.

“Likewise.”

Her voice was full of mirth, and Demnir found the aromas of cinnamon, vanilla and roses in her perfume. There would be no need to pretend that her company was a delight for the senses – even the soft skin of her hand tasted sweet. Her breath, however, had a the distinct scent of sleep-grass.

“But did I hear right, lord Vierodel? I suppose we're good friends from now on.”

“It must be so. I wouldn't introduce anything less than my good friends at my mother's table, of course. Though it doesn't necessarily mean I trust said friends.” Vierodel and Demnir both had a good laugh, while the lady only smiled before pouring herself more wine from a glass carafe.

“Shall we eat, then?”

The servants brought plates and bowls and pots of roasted fish meat and beef ribs soaked in wine, mushrooms fried in butter, crimson shrimp and lobster, oysters served with white wine, and whatever that bright blue octopus was.

Demnir only bothered himself with a cup of red wine for now, not touching his food as he eyed the Vierans beginning their diner. The red grapes, rich and fruited, must have come from one of the finest Daeli vineries – partnership with the kingdom of Dael evidently came with many boons. Speaking of Daeli gifts, he wanted to ask about the little princess, and why she wasn't dining with them, but he figured it would sound intrusive.

“Still,” he said, “as I told you earlier, my lord, you're much wise not to trust a foreigner like me. Cautiousness seems to be one of your virtues.”

“Wouldn't you say the same of you?” lady Atricia inquired, bending forward as to better show a daring smile and an ever more daring sight of her chest. For sure, she was amongst the most beautiful women he had ever met, but he was well aware of the game she was playing. He played along and stole a glance. “Is poisoning perhaps a common occurrence in Callir? We Vierans wouldn't ruin the food in such a way, mind you.”

Demnir laughed at the irony of her question, though it was lost on her. “You'd be surprised... However, forgive me. I always eat lightly in the evening, else it keeps me from working during the night.”

“I'd expect nothing less from you,” Vierodel said. “A bright mind such as yours cannot be cultivated through a life of leisure and idleness.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Oh, but I find enough leisure in smithing weapons and earning silver, worry not.”

“If you absolutely mustn't eat, then perhaps we could bother you with some of our finest plants.” Atricia of Ocia snapped her fingers, and two slaves, one old woman, one young girl, each brought a small jar containing enough sleep-grass and poppy juice to sleep for an entire week.

They smoked with pipes carved in bone, and Vierodel honoured them with an anecdote about how these bones once belonged to a lion he had himself hunted. A spear through the heart, or so the story went. Demnir did not take his word for it, more interested instead in the glances the younger slave was giving him. Whether she thought she was discreet, she really wasn't, and it bothered him to the point where he had to throw her a cold stare.

“Leave us,” Vierodel ordered her. “You are bothering our guest, don't you see? My apologies, lord Demnir.”

“It's quite alright,” he reassured, and this time it was his turn to steal a glance as she ran away. “Am I perhaps a strange sight?”

“I'd wager she heard your Callirian accent, and as a Callirian slave herself, well...” Demnir nodded silently and puffed the opium.

“My lord, my lady,” he then said, staring down the carved pipe and taking a most arrogant tone to make himself sound like a bragging drunk, “as a dealer of luxury goods, I really must introduce you to something worthy of your wealth and standing. There, I'll make it my duty!”

“A jest, surely?” said Atricia of Ocia as she smiled pleasantly. “I know no finer poppy than this one, and its juice is distilled by a master chemist we brought from the Summer Dominion.”

“Oh, I don't doubt it, my sweet lady, but it isn't poppy I'm talking about.” Atricia shifted in her seat and her son raised a brow. “You know me as a merchant, but I back in Callir I was also something of an apothecary, and I know a little bit of herbalism and potion-making. As you guessed, both the church and the nobility there have a taste for deadly beverages, and circumstances brought my attention toward these matters. While I studied plants that could induce deep slumber or cause excitement, I came across interesting discoveries...”

“My, you are a man of many talents.”

Demnir raised his cup as thanks for Atricia's praise. “With the right amount, some plants can stop even the worst panic attacks and put at ease any insomniac, while others can turn the laziest coward into the bravest beast, lusting for flesh or blood, craving for ways to spend his energy.”

“I should like to see one of my slaves under such a spell,” Vierodel said jokingly.

“And your soldiers, my lord,” Demnir said, a finger raised, “should they become lukewarm or reluctant when comes the time to face the enemy.” Lord Vierodel squinted his eyes ever so slightly, and the merchant knew that he was already considering the possibility, or even fearing it.

“Surely you aim to ruin us by selling these precious potions, in addition to those siege engines of yours,” lady Atricia pointed out, filling what must have been her fifth or sixth cup of western red.

“I wouldn't hope for less,” Demnir jested. “Banter aside, if by making this horrible siege business an enjoyable experience for your ladyship, I can also become even richer... I'd be a fool to complain,” he concluded with a shrug.

“Speaking of siege...” While Vierodel's tone and expression seemed serious, his mother's face was hidden behind the cup of wine she was busy emptying. “Fishermen have sighted unknown sails approaching from the west, and we received reports of troops crossing our borders. Mercenaries, mostly.”

“The time to face the enemy might come sooner than we thought,” Atricia said, her cheeks a bright red, and her voice too indifferent for such an issue. She appeared to be quite drunk, though she might have been acting like Demnir. “Will your little toys be ready for use, Demnir of Callir?”

“I surmise they will, my lady. Your family has been kind enough to give my master craftsmen and my slaves a bigger workshop than they could have hoped for.” He offered to fill the lady's cup once more, and she thanked him with a nod. “Day and night, the coals have been lit, the steel hammered against the anvils, and the wood cut, shaped, mounted, nailed.”

Nelvel had been overseeing the production and making sure that the craftsmen had no time for idle chatter. Because Nelvel's company was somewhat useful, he had considered giving the job to Samaar, but the pirate was more likely to drink ale with the smiths, bring whores for the carpenters, and make the chemists brew more ale...

Dessert was served, sweet pears and peaches, but Demnir ate none of it. They spoke of lighter subjects and amusing tales, and the sky was black and starry when the merchant excused himself. “There is work to be done, and the gods would curse me if I delayed it because I enjoyed your company too much,” he had explained.

He walked the silent corridors of the palace, looking through the arched windows and wandering on the balconies. The city down there was covered in the cold and silvery glow of the moon, but the faint yellow lights of torches and brasiers shone in the streets and alleys. The most illuminated parts of the city were the walls, and Demnir could see the occasional patrol in the distance, pairs of dark dots, when they would walk near one of these large brasiers. He observed the shadows of the towers, the gates, the fortifications that circled the many red-tiled houses before closing around the port, the foundations sinking in the murky waters – all these things he had already studied time and time again during his short stay in Ocia. He knew where his catapults would be, where his ballistas would be aiming, where his trebuchets would be loaded. Both the ones he sold to the mercenaries, and those he sold to Ocia.

It was obvious that neither lord Vierodel nor lady Atricia would trust him anytime soon. They were probably still wondering which side he really stood in, and what were his goals. The charming mother trying to seduce him was proof enough – in all likelihood, she hoped to gain him to the Vieran cause with all manner of promises. And she was wise indeed, as for some men, glory and silver were never enough, as long as flesh and sex were missing.

Demnir had almost forgotten, for a moment, that they looked more than fifteen years apart. He filled his lungs with the windy air, a welcome change from the spiced perfumes of the palace. He had drank too much and eaten too little. An insignificant price for tonight's gains. His hand slipped inside the collar of his red doublet, took out a small bottle, and drank a few drops of its contents. The strychnine-based potion would keep him from falling asleep too quickly.

He returned to his room to lay on his bed and read a few pages of Euronel's Study of Western Military and Statecraft, a rare manuscript he had been lucky enough to find on a market in Akilne. If his hunch was right, as it always was, then he would need to learn all he could about the monarchies across the Middle Sea... where a handful of players were already involved in a game of absurdly high stakes.

Two soft knocks at his door interrupted his reading. He went to open it and was met with a little girl in the plain clothing of slaves. The Callirian girl from earlier. “What is it?”

“Err... master Vierodel sent me.” Her voice was shy, her hair tucked behind her ears had been dyed with red-gold henna, and she had the face of a mouse. “So that you could pray to Viera and honour her tonight...”

Demnir stood there, arm against the door, frowning. Did the fool perchance think I was interested in her solely because she was also from Callir? Else she was here to spy on him. The girl must have mistaken his frown for impatience, as she entered the room with her eyes fixed on the ground. He closed the door behind him, and kept studying her. She was a child indeed, younger than Rina. Eleven, twelve at most.

The girl walked around the room and commented on the books, the painted vases, the fabric of the curtains, the view from his windows. Words empty of emotion save for nervousness, but Demnir noticed something else.

“Your accent is most peculiar,” he said, a faint smile creeping up on his face. “Whoever taught you to speak with a Callirian accent did a fine job, but you won't fool native ears.” A look of surprise on her mousy face confirmed his suspicions. Someone here probably thought a Callirian girl would be useful if Ocia was to welcome important guests from Callir... Not important enough to deserve a real, native one, though. “Where were you born, child?”

She glanced sideways and bit her lips. “Here, m'lord.”

“Ah.” He walked toward her, slow and soft steps on the polished slabs. “You must know the palace well enough to wander by yourself, yes?” She nodded. “Perhaps you even know of its little secrets. You'd take hidden doors, dark tunnels and narrow stairs, like a little mouse, to sneak in the kitchens or to meet and please people in all manner of places. Or maybe to steal jewellery from them once they have honoured the goddess and fallen asleep?”

She gave another nod, but she must not have liked where the conversation was going, because despite her revulsion and her displeasure the next thing she did was getting undressed. As if it would stop him. Demnir put back the pins that held her clothing on her shoulders.

“I've no interest in little girls like you, child.”

“...But master Vierodel-”

“-doesn't care whether I use you or not. He would probably not care either if I threw you over the window for my own amusement, little mouse.” He paused and waited for her to finally look him in the eyes. “What is your name?”

“Lysme.”

“Have you ever dreamt of a different life, Lysme? A better one. A life where you wouldn't have to warm the bed of plump lordlings and wealthy old men.” The red-haired girl gave a hesitant nod, as if she was ashamed that she had ever dreamt of something else. “Why don't I buy you, little mouse? That way you will no longer have to do these things, and you won't have to worry about lord Vierodel's expectations.”

Lysme muttered something, perhaps her thanks, perhaps a prayer, perhaps a refusal. But Demnir did not really care and gave her his best smile. “Of course, I am still a merchant. Nothing is ever free, and you will give me a precious thing of yours in return.”

“What... what do you want?” she muttered, clearly wary of this bargain.

“Your eyes and ears, Lysme, sneaky little mouse that you are.”