Parity - Chapter 3

Greogor Andros, the honourable mayor of the populous port of Tevros woke up in a particularly foul mood. Then his day only got worse. To begin with, he had a mother of all hangovers, caused by the last evening’s meeting with lieutenant Avarro, the freshly appointed commander of the port coastal defences. Despite very favourable circumstances, namely an all-expenses-paid visit in the private room of the “Lady Blossom’s” bathhouse, with all the joys of the flesh provided, the man proved to be, well… stiff. Just not in the expected sense of the word. All he did, all night long, was "tasting". First the most expensive wine there was, then the luscious nibbles and morsels imported all the way from Usterl, served in the most exquisite vessels. And ignoring everything else on offer. Which obviously haven’t made him receptive to Greogor’s courtship. On the contrary, the man was closed up tighter than Steland's ports and the Mayor ended up knowing even less about the soldier and his secrets than before the orgy started. Worse still, Greogor, who was slightly more discerning about the quality of the alcohol, and less about the quantity,  inadvertently spilled some of his own confidential information, thus the entire endeavour could be considered, to put it mildly, an unmitigated disaster which ended up with the first massive headache on the following day.

  His personal servant woke him up at an unvihrsly time, almost full two candles before noon, saying that his presence is urgently requested in the city hall. Thus he crawled out of bed - after a long massage session of course - then allowed his servants to dress him up in his representational silks and softest velvets, and finally left. After all, the townsfolk needed to see that their esteemed leader was taking his duties seriously. From time to time.

In truth, he should have been up and getting ready anyway, since he had a meeting scheduled with none other than the Duke himself, and even such a well placed and powerful imperial official like Andros needed some time to prepare, especially when healthy profits were on the agenda. This time however he had a nagging feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.

   In the light of all this, the halfer-long commute from his mansion on the outskirts to the city itself proved to be additionally cumbersome. The carriage swayed and rumbled on the dirt road, turning the post-alcoholic headache into a special kind of torture, and frequently occurring potholes certainly didn't help. The trip proved to be so bad that he was almost beginning to regret diverting most of the city's road maintenance budget towards 'representational expenses'.

He obviously expected more headaches. There were always some decisions to make and lazy employees to punish. However there was one potential problem, which stood out today as the most troublesome, and he fully expected it to be the main reason for the urgent summons: two Black Ships from Steland docked a couple of days back. The problem wasn't the islander gold, nor the exquisite trinkets they brought along, especially those made from the near mythical islander steel, which the city's merchants loved and coveted. The blacks were also more than keen to purchase wine by the crate, cloth in whole dozens of bales and grain by the tun. No, the problem lay with the fact that the islander sailors had a habit of making a royal mess of every whorehouse, tavern and public house in the docks, a mess which was inversely proportional to how close they were to the home port. And Tevros was, in a grand scheme of things, the farthest port that Stelanders frequented.

As city walls drew near, Greogor for the umpteenth time considered the periodic dilemma, whether the islander money was really worth the trouble. Just thinking of the sort of mess he’ll have to deal with this time filled him with dread. At best there was a brawl or two, without casualties. At worst… some Stelanders were arrested and thrown into jail, or Arneg forbid, killed. Such an incident would only exacerbate existing political tensions between the two nations, and the finger of blame would be pointed right back at Greogor.

Then again, maybe it was a mere firestorm or perhaps the Duke decided to come early. Surely not the imperial tax collector!

The carriage finally pulled up at the town hall, mercifully preventing the mayor from conjuring up even worse scenarios. He disembarked hastily, slamming the door and berating the driver for being late. Two guards at the main gate barely managed to stand to attention as he stormed past them, practically running up the stairs and barging through the doors into the corridors leading to his office. Corridors, which were laden with decorative knick-knacks, trinkets and novelty items from the entire continent. Small statues and vases on tall marble pedestals. Skins from exotic animals. Ornate frescoes, which he himself ordered to be painted by a famous master ‘whatever-his-name-was’ from Usterl. For a significant reimbursement.

He must have seen these decorations so often that they became invisible to his mind. Or perhaps his mind was already occupied with something else. He opened the door to the waiting room and stopped dead at the doorstep. It became plainly obvious that this day will undoubtedly turn out to be… eventful.

There were four people in the room. His assistant, a lovely girl named Alicia, whom he… interviewed, on multiple occasions, was sitting at her desk and glancing at him with this pained look which conveyed a very sincere “I’m sorry, I tried” kind of message. Two local merchants occupied one end of the waiting couch, clearly feeling out of their element and keeping their distance from the last person in the room: a tall, olive-skinned man, wearing well tailored clothes. Greogor looked him up and down, noting joerg breeches inserted into high riding boots, and a richly embroidered doublet with puffed sleeves. The clothes seemed well made but also well used and currently covered in dust. He sat on the other end of the couch, perfectly still, so much so that his face seemed to be carved in marble. Marble, which someone carelessly damaged with a chisel. If Andros remembered correctly, the nasty, jagged wound on one of the man's cheeks wasn't there when they first met. The man also didn’t seem to consider it fitting to leave his weapons at the gate. How he got this far without being disarmed or at least stopped and questioned, remained a mystery.

-”I has't a complaint.” - spoke Beorg to no one in particular, but implicitly directing his words at Greogor. His voice bore a tone of absolute authority.

There was a short silence as everyone present seemed to hold their breaths. Alicia discreetly cleared her throat.

-”Oh! Mister, uhh… McKeone! Tis at each moment an honour to meeteth thee.” - replied the mayor, scrambling in panic to remember this man's particulars - “I shall fain respondeth and taketh immediate action.  Prithee…" - he gestured towards his office - “...aft'r thee.”

If Greogor's memory served him right, he first met this ‘Beorg McKeone’ just a few weeks prior. The man introduced himself as a banker or merchant or agent of sorts, somehow connected to the Zerstbank. The Zerstbank. Supposedly. Greogor considered this a ‘likely story’. He came to Tevros as an archeologist, which the official considered an 'unlikely story', since, for one, archeologists with no ties to the Church were extraordinarily rare, and in his mind - almost indistinguishable from common grave robbers, and two: he came armed to the teeth and very, very well equipped. At first Greogor wanted to simply throw the nord out, as he would do with just about any suspicious, Divinul-worshipping outlander from Vihrs knows where. Tevros, a sizable port city, had this effect on people - they constantly came and went, seeking fame and fortune, and all of them, without fail, had very important businesses. Besides, matters such as this man’s were handled by… well, someone else really, certainly not the mayor. 

But then, this McKeone pulled out an impressive collection of official letters from very important people both within and outside the Empire. There was enough purple ink and red wax there to warrant immediate attention. Whoever this man was, he certainly and without doubt made it clear that whatever he wanted was to be provided. Without delay.

Thankfully, all he wanted were some permissions to do something irrelevant, somewhere irrelevant, far away in the wilderness, dozens of kimers south, in the middle of nowhere. Greogor, quietly thanking Arneg, the daemon of luck, that it wasn't anything more troublesome, hastily issued, signed and sealed the papers, and the man left. Both his office and his attention.

But that was then. And now was now. He came back. It had ‘problems’ written all over it. With big, bold letters. The mayor sighed, then entered his office, right after his guest, gesturing towards Alicia that he will be unavailable for the foreseeable future.

Their steps resonated over the marble floor and reverberated from marble-and-granite walls of the room they just entered, creating an impression of a much larger chamber than it really was. There was a massive ebony desk in the middle of the room, facing the door and positioned precisely to be the first thing any suppliant would see. A throne-like chair decorated with ornate sculptures all over, stood behind the desk and then behind that there were three humongous, arching, opaque, stained glass windows. These were facing south, and so it was actually quite cool inside, for the northern Sorres that is, but if necessary, one could always use the gift to spin a fan on the ceiling. Two sofas near the walls, a few chairs in front of the desk and rows of cabinets lining the walls completed the selection of furniture.

Greogor quietly closed the doors and then rushed towards one of the cabinets. He opened it, revealing a collection of crystal decanters filled with a variety of liquids, then took two ornate glass goblets and put them on a tray, strategically placed on one of the shelves.

His guest in the meantime found his way to, and then sat on, one of the chairs in front of the desk. Just like the last time he was here, his face didn't show any discernible emotion, and especially not the shock and awe which the mayor was hoping for. Most petitioners were usually overwhelmed and impressed with the interior, but not this foreigner. He coughed quietly.

-”Mr McKeone, can mineth inviteth thee to the 1583 vintage of Tar'nberg Dremin?”

-”Fain.” - responded the man in a manner which was rather infuriating. He seemed to be one of those arrogant bastards who speak with no tone or discernible accent. Conversing with ones like him was like talking to a wall and his manners apparently haven't improved since his last visit either. Greogor sighed and quietly considered getting rid of the nord even before the talks started… only there was this little issue of all those perfume infused and wax sealed letters, an implicit threat of stench that would arise if this nord simply disappeared without a trace.

The mayor shot a longing look at the wooden box containing his 'secret ingredient' then sighed again and poured the rich crimson liquid into the goblets. He took the tray and carried it himself to the desk. Once seated in his throne, he gestured to Beorg to take one of the goblets. The nord extended his hand and then visibly hesitated before finally picking up the vessel. It could have been just an ordinary reaction of a man faced with a choice, but Greogor soon noticed a very faint, but characteristically metallic scent. It became obvious that this man just used some sort of hexergic talent and equally obvious which one it was.

The mayor reached for the other goblet and took a sip, suddenly glad that he didn’t just try to get rid of the nord in a more direct way. The outlander just used a minor hex. One that checked if his drink was not laced with poison.

-”Doth thee wisheth f'r aught else bef're we starteth?" - he asked with a forced smile - "Nay? Valorous, then I'm all ears. What seemeth to beest the issue?”

Beorg took a sip of the Dremin, and nodded with appreciation. There were still no identifiable body language or emotional clues in his behaviour.

-”Me and mine own associates w're harass'd by a band of vigilantes.  A Novikov Agency.”

This name sounded familiar…

-”Twice.” - continued McKeone - ”We has't suff'r'd losses in health and mat'riel.  We eke dispatch'd eight memb'rs of the hath said gang in self-defence.”

Greogor smiled broadly and put on his well practised honeyed tone.

-”I am truly s'rry to heareth yond. I shalt immediately dispatch the most cap'ble men to findeth these… what didst thee calleth those folk, ‘novikovs’? …yes, and punisheth those folk to the full extent of the Gesterat Law. Anon, if 't be true yond is all…"

-”Th're is nay needeth, Mr Andros." - interrupted the Nord - "Novikovs art but a factual extension of thy militia in the south'rn areas of thy province. Eith'r thee yourself 'r one of thy sub'rdinates madeth a dealeth with those folk. I gath'r t is a ingraft thing h're.”

The mayor scratched his chin theatrically.

-”P'rhaps, p'rhaps.  Th're art many branches to our local gov'rnance.” - he leaned over the desk, trying to look menacing - “What, prithee, doth thee wanteth, assuming thy case is truthful?”

-”Full coop'ration.”- Beorg sipped a bit of his wine - ”From the local gov'rn'r. Thee.”

-”What doth thee imply?”

-”The lett'rs, which thee p'rsonally sign'd and sealed, has't given me expressive p'rmission to op'rate within the designat'd area.  Those lett'rs guarante'd full protection from any criminal element, protection, I might addeth, did provided by representatives 'r sub'rdinates of thine office.”

- ”So? How is yond relevant?” - Greogor shifted his tone to a more dismissive one.

Beorg almost sighed and then imperceptibly changed his tone to a one used by a father patiently explaining why his child cannot put their hand into the burning oven.

- ”Because the novikov 'rganisation acts on thy behalf. And we w're harass'd by the novikov 'rganisation. Which, by extension, maketh us harass'd by thee. Yond is an insultingly d'rect breach of contract I hadst with thee. Not only wast the protection not did provide, t wast actually thy people who is't w're disturbing ours. As such, I shalt require compensation.”

Greogor's face became red with fury. It was another practised move, and one he was quite proud of at that. It looked very convincing.

-”Baseless sland'r! This is prepost'rous! Wend hence betimes, bef're i calleth mine own s'rvants!”

Silence befell the room. The mayor seemed fuming, while Beorg… not so much. He calmly took another tiny sip of the wine.

-”Thee shall honour our agreement.”

Greogor exploded, his face became even redder than before. He dropped all pretence now and switched from the pompous sounding Received Imperial language to the much more direct Cammona tongue.

-”Who the fuck do you think you are!? Barging in here! With your trumped up charges, false accusations and ridiculous demands! I will have your liver on the plate!"

He took a deep breath to shout for the guards, but the nord interrupted him.

-”Too soon to feign outrage. Mr Andros.”

Instead of a shout Greogor made a long hissing sound, surprised and dumbfounded at such impertinence. Impertinence, and, let's face it, accuracy of this otherwise quite innocent observation.

-”I recognize…" - continued McKeone, quite unfazed - "...that you intend to call the guards and complain about me being here to kill you. I am, after all, armed."

The man used a monotone voice, looking not at his interlocutor but somewhere behind him, but he spoke in a way that put weight behind every word. Greogor felt somewhat deflated but on the other hand even more infuriated. He wasn't used to being treated this way. No, come to think of it, he had never been treated like this! He now stood up, pointed his finger at the nord and opened his mouth to finally, once and for all, put this upstart in his place.

He didn't manage even half a word.

-“Shut up. Sit down. Listen" - barked McKeone. Greogor Andros, this seasoned veteran of much political fighting, obediently closed his mouth, lowered his arm and slumped back in his chair as if some invisible hand pushed him. Deep inside he was both boiling with rage and, simultaneously, was fairly confounded with such display of brazenness. But then he once again remembered the papers. And mustered enough self-control to stay quiet. For the time being.

Beorg tilted his head very slightly, bringing to mind a picture of a hawk looking over a tiny sparrow. He then continued as if nothing happened, in his usual tone bereft of emotions and most intonation.

 -”Good. We are both going to benefit from your patience. Now. You will dispatch twenty men of local militia to the archeological site, coordinates of which are already known to either you or your minions. Give them enough supplies for a week and orders to shoot any member of Novikov gang on sight. They are there to secure the dig site and provide protection for my associates, who are very valuable to me, thus if anything unfortunate happens to them, and I stress this, anything, then I shall personally make your life living Feot. Understood.”

The mayor seemed frozen in place, looking at the nord with wide eyes and a shocked expression. How dared he talk like this! How dared he come here. Making demands. Treating the mayor, the mayor, the second most important person in the province, like some personal slave!

But… on the other hand, and this was crucial, a man like this must have powerful people backing him, if he can make demands in such a manner. But who? The Duke? The Emperor? Vihrs? Greogor didn't have a clue, but one thing was certain: this man was no small fish. The mayor only now recognized that he made a critical error in his judgement and now it was time to pay the due taxes on this lapse.

-”Good.”- continued the guest - “You shall also issue an iron letter that grants me, and whomever I bring along, a free passage to and from your local portal. No checks, no customs, nothing. I will collect it within one candle.”

For the first time in forever, Greogor found himself at a loss of words. He swallowed heavily, his precursor's apple bobbing up and down, and then just nodded, slowly and deliberately.

-“I am glad we understood each other.” - the nord put his goblet back on the desk and stood up - “Remember. Protection for my people by your militia. Iron letter for a passage through the network portal.”

-“Yes, Mr McKeone, certainly. I will issue orders and prepare the requested documents immediately." - replied the mayor in a hoarse, resigned voice.

Both men looked at each other for a short while, before Beorg leaned on the desk and added, in a sort-of confidential tone.

-“Your new lieutenant is known to mingle and frolic with his subordinates. I think you know exactly what this means. Consider this information as payment. For the wine." - he turned around but seemed to hesitate for a moment - "Fifteen eighty-three. Battle of Porves. I recall. It was a really interesting year.”

The nord then exited the office calmly, walking out casually as if he didn't just have a blazing row with the imperial official, whereas Greogor remained at his throne for some time after that, defeated, mulling over McKeone’s parting words whilst playing with his goblet. It dawned on him, too late perhaps, that forces which are far above his already substantial station do occasionally turn up on his doorstep and it’s best to not get in their way.

He needed something to strengthen up and stop the hands and knees from shaking, so he drank the remainder of wine in one quick swoop. Then McKeone’s still half-full goblet drew his attention.

-“Might as well.” - he muttered to himself - ”Wouldn't want it to go to waste.”

Greogor Andros, the honourable mayor of the populous port of Tevros woke up in a particularly foul mood. Then his day only got worse. To begin with, he had a mother of all hangovers, caused by the last evening's meeting with lieutenant Avarro, the freshly appointed commander of the port coastal defences. Despite very favourable circumstances, namely an all-expenses-paid visit in the private room of the Lady Blossom's bathhouse, with all the joys of the flesh provided, the man proved to be, well stiff. Just not in the expected sense of the word. All he did, all night long, was "tasting". First the most expensive wine there was, then the luscious nibbles and morsels imported all the way from Usterl, served in the most exquisite vessels. And ignoring everything else on offer. Which obviously haven't made him receptive to Greogor's courtship. On the contrary, the man was closed up tighter than Steland's ports and the Mayor ended up knowing even less about the soldier and his secrets than before the orgy started. Worse still, Greogor, who was slightly more discerning about the quality of the alcohol, and less about the quantity, inadvertently spilled some of his own confidential information, thus the entire endeavour could be considered, to put it mildly, an unmitigated disaster which ended up with the first massive headache on the following day. His personal servant woke him up at an unvihrsly time, almost full two candles before noon, saying that his presence is urgently requested in the city hall. Thus he crawled out of bed - after a long massage session of course - then allowed his servants to dress him up in his representational silks and softest velvets, and finally left. After all, the townsfolk needed to see that their esteemed leader was taking his duties seriously. From time to time. In truth, he should have been up and getting ready anyway, since he had a meeting scheduled with none other than the Duke himself, and even such a well placed and powerful imperial official like Andros needed some time to prepare, especially when healthy profits were on the agenda. This time however he had a nagging feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. In the light of all this, the halfer-long commute from his mansion on the outskirts to the city itself proved to be additionally cumbersome. The carriage swayed and rumbled on the dirt road, turning the post-alcoholic headache into a special kind of torture, and frequently occurring potholes certainly didn't help. The trip proved to be so bad that he was almost beginning to regret diverting most of the city's road maintenance budget towards 'representational expenses'. He obviously expected more headaches. There were always some decisions to make and lazy employees to punish. However there was one potential problem, which stood out today as the most troublesome, and he fully expected it to be the main reason for the urgent summons: two Black Ships from Steland docked a couple of days back. The problem wasn't the islander gold, nor the exquisite trinkets they brought along, especially those made from the near mythical islander steel, which the city's merchants loved and coveted. The blacks were also more than keen to purchase wine by the crate, cloth in whole dozens of bales and grain by the tun. No, the problem lay with the fact that the islander sailors had a habit of making a royal mess of every whorehouse, tavern and public house in the docks, a mess which was inversely proportional to how close they were to the home port. And Tevros was, in a grand scheme of things, the farthest port that Stelanders frequented. As city walls drew near, Greogor for the umpteenth time considered the periodic dilemma, whether the islander money was really worth the trouble. Just thinking of the sort of mess he'll have to deal with this time filled him with dread. At best there was a brawl or two, without casualties. At worst some Stelanders were arrested and thrown into jail, or Arneg forbid, killed. Such an incident would only exacerbate existing political tensions between the two nations, and the finger of blame would be pointed right back at Greogor. Then again, maybe it was a mere firestorm or perhaps the Duke decided to come early. Surely not the imperial tax collector! The carriage finally pulled up at the town hall, mercifully preventing the mayor from conjuring up even worse scenarios. He disembarked hastily, slamming the door and berating the driver for being late. Two guards at the main gate barely managed to stand to attention as he stormed past them, practically running up the stairs and barging through the doors into the corridors leading to his office. Corridors, which were laden with decorative knick-knacks, trinkets and novelty items from the entire continent. Small statues and vases on tall marble pedestals. Skins from exotic animals. Ornate frescoes, which he himself ordered to be painted by a famous master whatever-his-name-was' from Usterl. For a significant reimbursement. He must have seen these decorations so often that they became invisible to his mind. Or perhaps his mind was already occupied with something else. He opened the door to the waiting room and stopped dead at the doorstep. It became plainly obvious that this day will undoubtedly turn out to be eventful. There were four people in the room. His assistant, a lovely girl named Alicia, whom he interviewed, on multiple occasions, was sitting at her desk and glancing at him with this pained look which conveyed a very sincere I'm sorry, I tried kind of message. Two local merchants occupied one end of the waiting couch, clearly feeling out of their element and keeping their distance from the last person in the room: a tall, olive-skinned man, wearing well tailored clothes. Greogor looked him up and down, noting joerg breeches inserted into high riding boots, and a richly embroidered doublet with puffed sleeves. The clothes seemed well made but also well used and currently covered in dust. He sat on the other end of the couch, perfectly still, so much so that his face seemed to be carved in marble. Marble, which someone carelessly damaged with a chisel. If Andros remembered correctly, the nasty, jagged wound on one of the man's cheeks wasn't there when they first met. The man also didn't seem to consider it fitting to leave his weapons at the gate. How he got this far without being disarmed or at least stopped and questioned, remained a mystery. -I has't a complaint. - spoke Beorg to no one in particular, but implicitly directing his words at Greogor. His voice bore a tone of absolute authority. There was a short silence as everyone present seemed to hold their breaths. Alicia discreetly cleared her throat. -Oh! Mister, uhh McKeone! Tis at each moment an honour to meeteth thee. - replied the mayor, scrambling in panic to remember this man's particulars - I shall fain respondeth and taketh immediate action. Prithee" - he gestured towards his office - ...aft'r thee. If Greogor's memory served him right, he first met this Beorg McKeone' just a few weeks prior. The man introduced himself as a banker or merchant or agent of sorts, somehow connected to the Zerstbank. The Zerstbank. Supposedly. Greogor considered this a likely story'. He came to Tevros as an archeologist, which the official considered an 'unlikely story', since, for one, archeologists with no ties to the Church were extraordinarily rare, and in his mind - almost indistinguishable from common grave robbers, and two: he came armed to the teeth and very, very well equipped. At first Greogor wanted to simply throw the nord out, as he would do with just about any suspicious, Divinul-worshipping outlander from Vihrs knows where. Tevros, a sizable port city, had this effect on people - they constantly came and went, seeking fame and fortune, and all of them, without fail, had very important businesses. Besides, matters such as this man's were handled by well, someone else really, certainly not the mayor. But then, this McKeone pulled out an impressive collection of official letters from very important people both within and outside the Empire. There was enough purple ink and red wax there to warrant immediate attention. Whoever this man was, he certainly and without doubt made it clear that whatever he wanted was to be provided. Without delay. Thankfully, all he wanted were some permissions to do something irrelevant, somewhere irrelevant, far away in the wilderness, dozens of kimers south, in the middle of nowhere. Greogor, quietly thanking Arneg, the daemon of luck, that it wasn't anything more troublesome, hastily issued, signed and sealed the papers, and the man left. Both his office and his attention. But that was then. And now was now. He came back. It had problems' written all over it. With big, bold letters. The mayor sighed, then entered his office, right after his guest, gesturing towards Alicia that he will be unavailable for the foreseeable future. Their steps resonated over the marble floor and reverberated from marble-and-granite walls of the room they just entered, creating an impression of a much larger chamber than it really was. There was a massive ebony desk in the middle of the room, facing the door and positioned precisely to be the first thing any suppliant would see. A throne-like chair decorated with ornate sculptures all over, stood behind the desk and then behind that there were three humongous, arching, opaque, stained glass windows. These were facing south, and so it was actually quite cool inside, for the northern Sorres that is, but if necessary, one could always use the gift to spin a fan on the ceiling. Two sofas near the walls, a few chairs in front of the desk and rows of cabinets lining the walls completed the selection of furniture. Greogor quietly closed the doors and then rushed towards one of the cabinets. He opened it, revealing a collection of crystal decanters filled with a variety of liquids, then took two ornate glass goblets and put them on a tray, strategically placed on one of the shelves. His guest in the meantime found his way to, and then sat on, one of the chairs in front of the desk. Just like the last time he was here, his face didn't show any discernible emotion, and especially not the shock and awe which the mayor was hoping for. Most petitioners were usually overwhelmed and impressed with the interior, but not this foreigner. He coughed quietly. -Mr McKeone, can mineth inviteth thee to the 1583 vintage of Tar'nberg Dremin? -Fain. - responded the man in a manner which was rather infuriating. He seemed to be one of those arrogant bastards who speak with no tone or discernible accent. Conversing with ones like him was like talking to a wall and his manners apparently haven't improved since his last visit either. Greogor sighed and quietly considered getting rid of the nord even before the talks started only there was this little issue of all those perfume infused and wax sealed letters, an implicit threat of stench that would arise if this nord simply disappeared without a trace. The mayor shot a longing look at the wooden box containing his 'secret ingredient' then sighed again and poured the rich crimson liquid into the goblets. He took the tray and carried it himself to the desk. Once seated in his throne, he gestured to Beorg to take one of the goblets. The nord extended his hand and then visibly hesitated before finally picking up the vessel. It could have been just an ordinary reaction of a man faced with a choice, but Greogor soon noticed a very faint, but characteristically metallic scent. It became obvious that this man just used some sort of hexergic talent and equally obvious which one it was. The mayor reached for the other goblet and took a sip, suddenly glad that he didn't just try to get rid of the nord in a more direct way. The outlander just used a minor hex. One that checked if his drink was not laced with poison. -Doth thee wisheth f'r aught else bef're we starteth?" - he asked with a forced smile - "Nay? Valorous, then I'm all ears. What seemeth to beest the issue? Beorg took a sip of the Dremin, and nodded with appreciation. There were still no identifiable body language or emotional clues in his behaviour. -Me and mine own associates w're harass'd by a band of vigilantes. A Novikov Agency. This name sounded familiar -Twice. - continued McKeone - We has't suff'r'd losses in health and mat'riel. We eke dispatch'd eight memb'rs of the hath said gang in self-defence. Greogor smiled broadly and put on his well practised honeyed tone. -I am truly s'rry to heareth yond. I shalt immediately dispatch the most cap'ble men to findeth these what didst thee calleth those folk, novikovs'? yes, and punisheth those folk to the full extent of the Gesterat Law. Anon, if 't be true yond is all" -Th're is nay needeth, Mr Andros." - interrupted the Nord - "Novikovs art but a factual extension of thy militia in the south'rn areas of thy province. Eith'r thee yourself 'r one of thy sub'rdinates madeth a dealeth with those folk. I gath'r t is a ingraft thing h're. The mayor scratched his chin theatrically. -P'rhaps, p'rhaps. Th're art many branches to our local gov'rnance. - he leaned over the desk, trying to look menacing - What, prithee, doth thee wanteth, assuming thy case is truthful? -Full coop'ration.- Beorg sipped a bit of his wine - From the local gov'rn'r. Thee. -What doth thee imply? -The lett'rs, which thee p'rsonally sign'd and sealed, has't given me expressive p'rmission to op'rate within the designat'd area. Those lett'rs guarante'd full protection from any criminal element, protection, I might addeth, did provided by representatives 'r sub'rdinates of thine office. - So? How is yond relevant? - Greogor shifted his tone to a more dismissive one. Beorg almost sighed and then imperceptibly changed his tone to a one used by a father patiently explaining why his child cannot put their hand into the burning oven. - Because the novikov 'rganisation acts on thy behalf. And we w're harass'd by the novikov 'rganisation. Which, by extension, maketh us harass'd by thee. Yond is an insultingly d'rect breach of contract I hadst with thee. Not only wast the protection not did provide, t wast actually thy people who is't w're disturbing ours. As such, I shalt require compensation. Greogor's face became red with fury. It was another practised move, and one he was quite proud of at that. It looked very convincing. -Baseless sland'r! This is prepost'rous! Wend hence betimes, bef're i calleth mine own s'rvants! Silence befell the room. The mayor seemed fuming, while Beorg not so much. He calmly took another tiny sip of the wine. -Thee shall honour our agreement. Greogor exploded, his face became even redder than before. He dropped all pretence now and switched from the pompous sounding Received Imperial language to the much more direct Cammona tongue. -Who the fuck do you think you are!? Barging in here! With your trumped up charges, false accusations and ridiculous demands! I will have your liver on the plate!" He took a deep breath to shout for the guards, but the nord interrupted him. -Too soon to feign outrage. Mr Andros. Instead of a shout Greogor made a long hissing sound, surprised and dumbfounded at such impertinence. Impertinence, and, let's face it, accuracy of this otherwise quite innocent observation. -I recognize" - continued McKeone, quite unfazed - "...that you intend to call the guards and complain about me being here to kill you. I am, after all, armed." The man used a monotone voice, looking not at his interlocutor but somewhere behind him, but he spoke in a way that put weight behind every word. Greogor felt somewhat deflated but on the other hand even more infuriated. He wasn't used to being treated this way. No, come to think of it, he had never been treated like this! He now stood up, pointed his finger at the nord and opened his mouth to finally, once and for all, put this upstart in his place. He didn't manage even half a word. -Shut up. Sit down. Listen" - barked McKeone. Greogor Andros, this seasoned veteran of much political fighting, obediently closed his mouth, lowered his arm and slumped back in his chair as if some invisible hand pushed him. Deep inside he was both boiling with rage and, simultaneously, was fairly confounded with such display of brazenness. But then he once again remembered the papers. And mustered enough self-control to stay quiet. For the time being. Beorg tilted his head very slightly, bringing to mind a picture of a hawk looking over a tiny sparrow. He then continued as if nothing happened, in his usual tone bereft of emotions and most intonation. -Good. We are both going to benefit from your patience. Now. You will dispatch twenty men of local militia to the archeological site, coordinates of which are already known to either you or your minions. Give them enough supplies for a week and orders to shoot any member of Novikov gang on sight. They are there to secure the dig site and provide protection for my associates, who are very valuable to me, thus if anything unfortunate happens to them, and I stress this, anything, then I shall personally make your life living Feot. Understood. The mayor seemed frozen in place, looking at the nord with wide eyes and a shocked expression. How dared he talk like this! How dared he come here. Making demands. Treating the mayor, the mayor, the second most important person in the province, like some personal slave! But on the other hand, and this was crucial, a man like this must have powerful people backing him, if he can make demands in such a manner. But who? The Duke? The Emperor? Vihrs? Greogor didn't have a clue, but one thing was certain: this man was no small fish. The mayor only now recognized that he made a critical error in his judgement and now it was time to pay the due taxes on this lapse. -Good.- continued the guest - You shall also issue an iron letter that grants me, and whomever I bring along, a free passage to and from your local portal. No checks, no customs, nothing. I will collect it within one candle. For the first time in forever, Greogor found himself at a loss of words. He swallowed heavily, his precursor's apple bobbing up and down, and then just nodded, slowly and deliberately. -I am glad we understood each other. - the nord put his goblet back on the desk and stood up - Remember. Protection for my people by your militia. Iron letter for a passage through the network portal. -Yes, Mr McKeone, certainly. I will issue orders and prepare the requested documents immediately." - replied the mayor in a hoarse, resigned voice. Both men looked at each other for a short while, before Beorg leaned on the desk and added, in a sort-of confidential tone. -Your new lieutenant is known to mingle and frolic with his subordinates. I think you know exactly what this means. Consider this information as payment. For the wine." - he turned around but seemed to hesitate for a moment - "Fifteen eighty-three. Battle of Porves. I recall. It was a really interesting year. The nord then exited the office calmly, walking out casually as if he didn't just have a blazing row with the imperial official, whereas Greogor remained at his throne for some time after that, defeated, mulling over McKeone's parting words whilst playing with his goblet. It dawned on him, too late perhaps, that forces which are far above his already substantial station do occasionally turn up on his doorstep and it's best to not get in their way. He needed something to strengthen up and stop the hands and knees from shaking, so he drank the remainder of wine in one quick swoop. Then McKeone's still half-full goblet drew his attention. -Might as well. - he muttered to himself - Wouldn't want it to go to waste.