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Angean curled his lips with astonishment as he watched the crew of Larissa’s Rage stumble off of the trading vessel. By Neia, the old knight thought to himself, that the ship still floats is a miracle. Near half the oars and the smaller sail on the starboard side had been shattered from their blitz past the pirate flagship. On the portside, a comical wreath of fletched arrows coated the hull and spars. Sailors and dock workers were busily dragging out the wounded first, lowering them using the pulleys meant for cargo. Jero had sent out a call for physicians with a broad-shouldered deputy. Those Idranians uninjured enough to walk onto the wooden port knelt and kissed it in relief.
The knight felt a tapping on his shoulder, and he turned around to look down at the person behind him- Rukil, the nervous first-mate of the once proud vessel. “Angean the, uh, the dockmaster wants a word.” They were pale and sweating in the red sun. It blazed high above them, unlike the near-dead, blue sun over Idraheim. “They’re going to bring the constable.”
“Didn’t think we’d meet so soon.” Angean puffed out his held breath. An uncomfortable moment, and the warrior turned. “Where are they?”
Rukil mechanically led the knight down the docks, and Angean greeted the city of Dra’angel for the first time. Buildings straddled the edge of the sandstone port, their flat, white faces dotted with small, circular windows. Estrian people of all stripes gathered all about to gawk and gossip at the once-besieged ship- sailors barely sober enough to lean against salt-weathered walls, merchants cloaked in silk robes and metal jewelry, and sturdy dockworkers carrying balanced baskets on their heads and barrels under their arms. They all slowed to stare at the strangers, who must have seemed so different to their normal travelers. Angean suddenly became conscious that he, and most of the Idranian crew of Larissa’s Rage, stood at least a hand or more taller than the vast majority here, and they were pale as paper in comparison to even the lightest-skinned Estrian. An alien beacon.
The crowd reluctantly parted for Rukil, as they led the Southerner knight down the white boardwalk connecting the stone docks. Eventually, They presented Angean in front of another one of the blocky buildings, but this was framed with bronze filigree. Some symbol- a clenched fist with a red ring around its middle finger- was emblazoned on a banner just above the metal door. A tough man- or perhaps woman? Angean did not know the Estrian binary as well as he should- with a bronze axe by their side stood watch, but grunted and rapped on the door three times. Someone behind the door coughed up a vaguely affirming sound, and they stepped aside. “Go on, then.” The guard grunted in accented Dunespeech- the language common to this part of the desert. Angean nodded, and pushed open the metal door.
The small room was lit by dark red candles and adorned with more beads than Angean had ever seen in his life. Beads covered the walls, ceilings, the open doorway in the back- even the plush chairs and sandstone table were surrounded by a rug of fur embedded with little orbs. Angean was struck by the way they glittered at each other- every bead was made of polished stone or glass, they all shifted noisily with the slightest movement.
“Ah… So you’re the mercenary captain, hmm?” Angean’s eyes darted back to the right side of the table, noticing the deathly thin man leaning against it. The candlelight buried his sickly, yellow eyes deep into their sockets, and his grin parted blood-red lips. His teeth were red needles. “Please, sit down. We are going to get… well acquainted.”
Angean squinted through the flickering light, trying to parse his meaning through the unfamiliar Dunespeech. The carpet shuffled beneath his feet, and all of the beads that surrounded the room shifted as Angean sat down. “Why are the beads… like this?” Angean felt a welling uncertainty as the candlelight flickered off the polished curtains.
The man seemed about to speak, but then suddenly sucked in a draft of air and violently fell into a coughing fit. After he had pulled his head back over his shoulders, his voice cracked through, squeaky and torn. “The curtains? It is a belief that the guilty’s lies do not escape curtains of stone and glass. Yut, our god and first Estrian emperor, would guide the light and sound of the curtains to stifle their falsehoods.” The tethered dots glimmered conspiratorially in the low-light. “It is a place where the guilty can confess without fear.”
And where truths can be silenced without hesitation. Angean bit back on his remark. This was not his nation, and Neia knows that even the most upstanding, Idranian knighthoods sip on courtly corruption like wine. The mercenary looked over the withered man’s blood-red tunic and skeletal, crossed arms. “You are not the constable.” Angean spoke warily, uncertain in his Dunespeech. “A deputy, or watchman of some kind?”
A sputtering laugh dribbled from the man’s lips as he responded. “A constable? By Yut, I would never!” The room glittered as he rested onto his elbows, and the light illuminated his pocked cheeks and grey goatee for a brief moment. “Friends call me the Red Rat. And I do hope we can be friends. Our services will surely complement one another.”
Angean pushed back on the chair a bit. “What in Neia’s name is that supposed to mean? I’m not some cutthroat, ‘Rat’, if that is what you mean imply.” The knight prickled at the thought, placing both hands on the table and making to stand. “You’re just some criminal- by this setup, I should have figured as much.”
“No, no!” The shock in Angean’s movements was reflected in the Red Rat’s sunken face. “I did not imply either of us were out of the law- although your assumption of accusation may belie some small guilt...”
“Keep talking.” The knight growled. “We’ll see just how silencing these curtains really are.”
The man shrunk back in his chair, a hand raised as if to ward off a blow. “You misunderstand!” His words cracked through a sickly cough. “This is how things are done here. I merely seek information- and not that which would incriminate you.”
As Angean leaned against the table, the Red Rat seemed pitiful. He was diseased or sick in some way, and old. His frame shook with effort as he straightened himself in his chair, and the orange stains of some spice or drug dyed his fingertips. Angean closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to lower his tone to trembling civility. “Explain then, quick.”
The Rat’s voice croaked as he tried to straighten his posture. “I am a Venys Kra- or ‘Road Captain’ to commoners. It is my position to know things in this city, about what and who comes in and out. I may sell this knowledge to interested parties- but not, to my knowledge, criminals! Most often, my purchasers are the good priests at the Idraka Temple, or the Coin Princess Agara dra’Angel herself.” He folded his bony fingers on the table before him. “In the Grand Desert, this is a perfectly legal- and necessary- profession, my friend.”
The old knight sat back down, suspicion dripping through his careful words. “I was to meet here with the dockmaster, and the constable. The ship I was on was attacked by pirates.”
“Pirates, you say?” The information broker’s yellow eyes glinted in the low light. “A fine story, if I do say so myself. Let’s hope the constable believes that.” With a flick of his wrist, the man pulled a small, pale-orange leaf from a pouch by his side and placed it on his tongue. The sour smell of the herb filled the small room, and stuck to his breath. “And the constable will be coming soon. As for the dockmaster, well, he has taken sick today and I, good citizen that I am, took up his job today as a favor.”
“So you should know about the metal-clad pirate ships that attacked and murdered the crew of Larissa’s Rage, right?” Angean folded his arms. “They were leaving the port and attacked us well within your city’s view. Who are they?”
The Red Rat looked surprised for only a brief moment, before turning his face down, falsely apologetic. “I am sorry, mercenary, but you must understand how the Venys Kra work. We are not allowed to give away information without something- usually information or coin- in turn.”
Angean sighed. Of course he would want something. He thought to himself, staring daggers through the road captain’s chest. Then, Angean broke the tension between the two with an abrupt scoff. “Fine, ‘Veniskra’.” The soldier’s voice was a whisper in the beaded chamber. “I will play your game. What do you want?”
A slight grin creased the Red Rat’s papery skin as his shoulders relaxed in his chair. “Good for you to see reason,” he said politely. “For the trade- identity for identity. Tell me who you and your ‘sailors’ are, and I’ll tell you about these pirates of yours.” His eyes glittered hungrily as the road captain waited for the information.
Angean rolled his eyes. “I am Angean. An old mercenary from Indan province, south of Purdan.” He said measuredly. “The other sellswords are just as undistinguished.”
“Is that so?” The Red Rat spoke in slow, contemplative bursts, as if gnawing on the mercenary’s words. “You were capable enough to fight past a small coven of manipulators, and kill their pet lanisiri.” His gums parted into a coughing chuckle. “That is fairly distinguished, I should think.”
Manipulators? Lanisiri? Angean tried to shrug indifferently as the new Dunespeech bounced around his head. “That was dumb luck.” He admitted truthfully. “I assume the lanisiri was that crocodile monster?”
The Rat nodded slowly. “Yes, they are quite dangerous beasts from the Red Scar. Few have been spotted in recent decades- and even fewer slain.” He tilted his head forwards, making a show of squinting at Angean’s face.
“What is it?” The mercenary pulled his head back a bit defensively.
“You have quite a strong rusting to your skin, Angean.” The Red Rat said abruptly. “You have been to the blue-equatorial jungles of Daroheim- and you know of Daron crocodiles, furthermore.” He then smiled, pleased with himself. “You’ve fought in those wars in Sandan, haven’t you?”
Angean tried to play off his surprise, but clearly had a tell. The Rat seemed smugly satisfied. Sly bastard. Angean swore internally, then spoke. “Well, you aren’t wrong.” Angean admitted. “Me and my troupe were contracted in a couple of the Crusades to take the territory. The last was one battle too many.” A hint of regret cracked the Idranian’s voice. “One of the reasons we tried our hand at sailing. Fighting never seems to leave us be, it seems.”
The Red Rat greedily drank the mercenary’s dark implications, even as he spoke. “Crusades, eh? So you believe the invasion was just, siding with those zealot Neists?”
“Zealot?” Angean bristled a moment, then forced his retort down. It took a steady breath before he could speak again. “Enough. I have given you more than your fair share, Road Captain. Now tell me of the Sons of ra’Luth.”
A red smile danced across the sick man’s face. “There. We’ll make an Estrian of you yet.” The Red Rat pensively sat back. “Yes, you know their name already. The Sons of ra’Luth. Foreign saboteurs and privateers of Justic stock- but they pay the dock fee. Ah, the Justic folk are a militant people from the White Dunes province. Closest to the dragon territories.” The man added as he saw the unrecognition in Angean’s eyes. “Their grand fortress- the new Fort Justicia- has been in turmoil of recent months, what with their old hierarch dying so suddenly. The Sons get restless when their Fort fails to send them orders- perhaps they attacked your ship out of boredom?”
No, it was planned. Angean thought of the purple mages- manipulators, did he call them?- and he thought of the coordinated trap with the murkings and lanisiri. That was organized, and deliberate. But who were they targeting? Angean furrowed his brow, and a silence fell between the two.
Before either the Rat or the mercenary could break their silence, a rapping at the metal door took both their attention, and the guard who had been stationed outside popped their bald head in. “Time’s up, Venys Kra.” They called out impassively. “Law-bearer’s here.”
The thin man curled his lips in disappointed anger for a moment, then turned kindly to his guest. “Well, Angean, this has been fascinating.” He smiled fakely. “Seek me out again if you need more information. I know this is a strange, new land for you.”
Angean watched the red-robed man levelly as he stepped out of the room. A few muffled words came through the iron door, but then stopped with the Red Rat laughing loudly and shuffling away. A split-second later, the door opened again.
Angean rose from his seat- a greeting in Neist fashion- as another man stepped into the small room. He was tall and tired, with plates of bleach-white leather strapped over his fitted shirt and pants.
The man raised his hand from the mace tied to his belt- “Hold there, woman.” The constable’s voice had a silken tenor, but was tainted by notes of annoyance. “I am to meet the mercenary captain from Larissa’s Rage here. Is he with you?”
The Idranian man blinked confusedly, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.” Angean spoke with careful deliberation. “I think I’m the one you are looking for. Angean of Indan, a pleasure. Torman, not woman.” Though, Angean wasn’t certain of the difference.
The lawman frowned suspiciously. “Not sure what a ‘torman’ is… well, it’s no matter.” He shrugged and sat down where the Red Rat had been perched just recently. “Perhaps something got lost in translation. But let’s skip the pleasantries- I’m sure the Venys Kra gave you an earful already.”
“You’ve no idea.” Angean grumbled.
A flicker of what might have been amusement flashed by the older man’s face. “Oh, I wish I didn’t, really.” The constable then shifted forwards, placing the iron mace between them on a table. Though a sign of aggression back in Idraheim, Jero had warned Angean that laying a weapon out before another was actually a peace offering in the Desert. Still, the riveted rod made Angean uneasy. The lawman looked over the Neist’s shifting expression, then finally spoke. “This’ll only be a moment. What happened on your ship?”
Angean was glad to shift back into conversation, even to such a strained subject. “We were attacked by the Sons of ra’Luth. Three ships, all metal. Mages aboard, too.” His scarred face scrunched in recollection. “You called them ‘Manipulators’, if I heard that right? The three of them we could see were on the flagship.”
“So these ‘Sons of ra’Luth’ were the aggressor?” The constable asked.
Angean nodded his grim affirmation.
The Zabiman seemed to check off a list in the back of his mind, and then proceeded with the next question. “What of the lanisiri body found on your deck?”
“The Manipulators controlled it, to an extent. Used it to board the Larissa’s Rage.”
The constable tsked at the answer, seemingly unsatisfied. “Fine, then.” His brown eyes were held up by dark folds, and they ran over Angean’s tense body as he spoke. “Tell me why a bunch of sailors were armed well enough to survive this attack.”
Angean cut back a sharp remark. “We used to be a mercenary company. Decided it was too bloody back in Netherheim, so we came to Dra’Angel.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You want to know more, take it up with the Rat.”
The constable looked over the foreigner with equal parts admiration and annoyance. “You learn quickly, Neist.” The white leather plates on his shoulders shifted slightly as he shrugged indifferently. “Dra Agara is willing to put a bounty out for these ships, but we can’t do anything about the Justicfolk who might still be in the city. Treaties and whatnot.” He fished around in a pouch strapped on his waist, and produced an eloquently drafted, papyrus writ. Angean couldn’t quite read the language, but recognized it as Old Zabi- the old imperial tongue, before said empire fell to the dragon. “You’re pardoned of any wrongdoing here, though by the Red Hut’s edict we have to fine the ship captain for killing a lanisiri without permit. It’s not my call.” He added when he saw Angean about to object. “Keep that paper on you, and you’re welcome in the empire so long as you mind our laws- there’s a public obelisk in each major square that has the big ones written on it.”
The beaded floor clacked loudly as the tall man stood and hung his weapon by his side once more. Angean followed suit, wobbling a bit as the carpet slipped a little beneath his feet. He turned to the constable. “You have my thanks.”
“It’s quite literally the least I can do.” The Zabifolk man shook his hand warily. “I suggest you head on to the Idraka Temple- its the big, domed building east of here. The ring priests have offered to inter your dead in our dusting pool, if you’d wish. And, you will need to register your artificer’s signifier with them, as well as any other adventurers with you.”
Angean’s heart sunk at the mention of the slain knights. “Right.” He agreed, and nodded a farewell, stepping out of the small office and into the bustling, noisy docks of Dra’Angel.