“Why do you need me to capture slaves from that island, when I can catch them anywhere else?” asked Gaius Gracchus. He was a short stocky man, with an expanding midriff, and black hair streaked with grey. His hairline was receding from a creased, tanned forehead, above thick black brows and dark eyes. Between those dark eyes was a long nose common for Nevans. He wore a faded, knee-length, red tunic, worn leather belt at his waist, with a whip and short-sword typical of Nevan legionaries attached. Tucked away in a dark corner, he sat deep in conversation, their heads leaning close together, voices low to prevent being overheard.
His companion hid his identity in a deep purple velvet robe, hood up, hanging over his face with the shadow concealing the rest. “If the gold is good, what does it matter? I need you to retrieve them from that location, as I am compensating you for the trip.” He spoke in a manner revealing him as a man of high status, uncommon in this town. “This undertaking is time sensitive. It is imperative that you arrive during the night of Serday week.”
As he glanced around the taproom, the smell of spilled ale with the acrid undertone of stale perspiration washed over him anew. Within the low-ceilinged room, he saw a sparse crowd, standard for mid-week in Disipica, a northern coast port town in the Nevan Empire. The innkeeper’s plump wife attended the few regulars, while two tavern wenches wearing provocative dresses moved among the tables, flirting with male customers. A cluster of Nevan soldiers drank while gambling over dice, their occasional cheers and laments rising above the general din. A solitary bard strummed his lyre, singing songs of love gained and love lost that, while quite pleasant to the ear, went largely ignored by patrons more interested in vice than virtue.
“What about the treaty?” Gracchus’ exasperation was apparent in his hushed voice. “I’m taking a huge risk going near that island, let alone snatching people from there. You do know what they’ll do to us if we’re caught. Have you ever seen someone ‘Become the Dragon’? I have! I don’t wish to experience it for myself.”
After a brief pause, the hooded figure produced a small object from within his robe, passing it across the table. “If that is your concern, drink this if you are captured.”
“What’s this?” Gracchus took the delicate, blue-coloured glass vial, turning it to get a better look.
“Poison. Fast acting, virtually painless.”
His eyebrows raised as a sardonic grin spread across his face. “Virtually, you say.”
“Well, I would presume far less painful than… ‘Becoming the Dragon’, is it?”
He gave the robed figure a long, piercing look. “Why is it so important that I risk my ship sailing there?”
“Your mission is ‘what’, ‘where’, and ‘when’. As for the ‘why’, that is my business. The money I will pay you is equally for how you perform the task as for performing the task itself. Halder nation leaders have their annual gathering, and this year it is Fludavera, the Holvelan capital. As all their rulers are attending, their fleet will probably stay close to the mainland, so they should pose no obstacle.”
“Easy for you to say. You haven’t faced Halder ships before. They’re faster, more manoeuvrable, and they fight like daemons from hell. They believe death in battle is the only way into their gods’ graces. On top of that, each man is a match for at least a half squad of legionaries. I mean, hell, have you ever seen a Halderman? They’re bloody huge! No obstacle, he says. Peh!” The sarcasm was clear in Gracchus’ voice as he glared at him.
“You will be well compensated, I assure you. Two hundred pieces. Twenty now, the rest on completion.”
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“I want at least double, else the risk isn’t worth it.”
“Fine, fine. Four hundred pieces, then.”
Gracchus clicked his tongue, while looking towards the ceiling. Then he looked at the robed figure. “All right! So, forty now, the rest when it’s done.”
The robed figure continued as though Gracchus hadn’t spoken. “I will send a man to your dock with the balance of payment upon completion. Did you receive the crates I sent to your ship? And I trust your crew stowed them discreetly and securely aboard?”
An annoyed expression crossed Gracchus’ rough features, as his voice dripped with sarcasm. “Done and done. And before you ask, no, I haven’t opened them, as per instructions.”
“Good. The contents of those crates include instructions for what to do with them once you are underway. After you have read the instructions, burn them.”
The robed man nonchalantly reached inside his robe and produced a pouch, and dropped it onto the table with a muffled thud and metallic clinking. Gracchus scooped up the pouch, emptying some of its contents into his hand. Several gold coins glinted in the candlelight. Gracchus’ eyes took on a gleam all too common in men wholly seduced by the coin.
His gaze returned to the robed figure as he tipped the coins back into the pouch. Hefting it to gauge its weight, he looked at the robed figure while holding out his other hand. “I said forty.”
Within the robe, his shoulders visibly slumped as he sighed. “We had agreed on the amount prior to our meeting. So, considering I have graciously accepted your arbitrary increase, this deposit shall have to suffice.
“What am I supposed to give my men as an incentive to go along with this job?”
“You’re a clever man. Figure it out. Have a little faith, Gracchus. When I say you will be compensated, you will be compensated. I will ensure you get all that you deserve and more.”
Gracchus fixed him with a baleful stare for a second while stowing the pouch inside his tunic. The robed figure moved to stand, pausing halfway, and fixed Gracchus with a glare that, while he couldn’t see, he certainly felt. He then said, “Make no mistake, should you think to cross me, there is no place you can go that I won’t find you. Perhaps then, I shall see you ‘Become the Dragon’ for myself, hm?”
Gracchus visibly winced, and attempted to conceal it with a wan smile as he inclined his head in acknowledgement. The robed figure stood, turned, and exited the tavern with two plain-looking soldiers discreetly moving to follow. As the robed man and his two guards made their way to the exit, Gracchus stared balefully at the figure’s back, wishing he could plant his sword in it.
He remained seated, nursing his cup in contemplation. Then, downing the rest of his wine, he gathered himself to leave. After calling over the innkeeper’s wife, he passed her some copper coins, and headed to the door before leaving himself.
Outside, Gracchus turned, making his way down the mostly deserted cobble-stoned street, and headed toward the docks. Lining the street were stone-brick buildings containing various shopfronts and businesses reflecting the quiet slapping sounds of his sandaled footfalls back at him. As he moved along the street, his mind wandered, lingering around the myriad ways this job could go wrong. How does he trust a man who won’t identify himself, and who could be so important they would have elite bodyguards?
Although Gracchus was a competent soldier, he only ever attained the rank of legionary sergeant during his time in the legions all those years ago. However, he knew elite soldiers when he saw them. Those men were senate guards, the best in the Empire. He’d seen them once or twice before when he served. Only the mightiest soldiers made their way into the senate guard’s ranks. Their reputation alone was enough to turn fierce men to water.
But four hundred gold pieces. In five years, he couldn’t make that plying his trade. He didn’t like the terms or risks, but the reward sure made up for it. He would just have to make certain he was around to receive it. His mind continued to wander, and before he knew, the street cobblestones gave way to the wooden sleepers of the town wharves. He took a deep breath, the smell of salt water, tar and cured wood a welcome change from the rank smells of the town from which he had just emerged.
The ships of the Neven Empire were single-masted galleys, with banks of oars wielded by galley slaves, caught or purchased and pressed into service. He walked past a couple of small merchant ships and Nevan military vessels before arriving at his ship’s berthing slip. He approached the gangplank, summoning his first mate. “Vannur!”
A muscular man with a shaved head and a prominent, angry-looking scar along the left side of his pale, aged face appeared from astern. He wore a dark blue tunic and sandals. He had a gruff, gravelly voice, the product of a lifetime at sea. “Sir?”
“Ready the ship by morning. We leave at first light.”
“Aye, sir.”