Prologue – Fool’s Gold

“‘Leave the humdrum of Ezdin, come to Forastad, there’s a fortune to be made,’ that’s what you said, wasn’t it?” Josswees snarled, slamming Ravenbeck against the eroded sandstone wall, her forearm exposing his neck to the point of her stiletto blade as thunder rumbled through the sky above. 

“It’d only just risen from the sea, Joss! If we’d come here in a few months’ time, it’d have been picked clean!” Like most of the crumbling buildings here, there was no roof, and rain splashed as it hit Ravenbeck’s round, stubbled scalp. The shine of its fresh shave was lost during weeks in this ruined city. “Look at what we have, Joss. Look.”

“It’s no fucking use if we die here, is it?” Her gaze didn’t leave his grey, bulging eyes, which stared back at her from either side of his bulbous nose. She’d been the fool for following him here. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t add our corpses to the mounds of rotting fish, Ravenbeck. We should never have come here!”

“Joss,” Ravenbeck whispered, eyes flitting between the blade and a torn sack on the seaweed-strewn floor. Gold spilled from the tear, glistening, as though minted only days earlier. “We’re rich!”

A storm hit around midday and carried on hitting, and now, in the dead of night, the wind was whistling through the ruins, and the sea was roaring, battering the island city on all sides. Over the sound of everything, she could hear the clacking of those fucking crustaceans. The sound of a million tiny feet scurrying through Forastad. Despite being cold, soaked through, and with a stiletto at his throat, Ravenbeck was quite chipper—they had enough treasure to live well for the rest of their lives. 

Glow orbs hanging from posts on the street outside were a great idea when the weather was calm, but they swayed like a willow branch in high winds, casting their low light everywhere but where it was intended. Lightning flashed, making everything seem crisp and bright for an instant before the clap of thunder seemed to plunge them into near darkness once more.

“Only if we can get it back to the ships,” Joss growled, her eyes flicking to the door as she sheathed her dagger. The rough wooden door was a recent addition, someone was planning to use this room for something. “I wish this forsaken place stayed beneath the waves.”

“We can do it, Joss! We can do it,” hissed Ravenbeck, still leaning against the wall. “It can’t be far now, a few hundred meters at most.”

Ravenbeck slowly turned his head at the sound of scraping, and a trio of crab-like legs emerged from a two inch wide gap between two stone blocks. More scraping came from the makeshift door. Ravenbeck stifled a cry of alarm, and Josswees silenced it with a filthy hand over his mouth. Around the walls, crabs of every shape and color forced their way through gaps in the ancient stone.

She raised a finger to her lips and crept across the room as the crabs skittered across seaweed and up piles of barnacled rubble around them. A terrific crash from outside made her start. She dodged away from the door as something hit it, splitting a sodden wood panel.

“Out the window, quick!” Ravenbeck scooped up the sack in his strong hands, holding its mouth and the tear together to prevent spilling their loot.

Josswees pulled herself through the small window, landing face-first outside. Rain lashed at her, and she slipped on the seaweed-covered rocks as she tried to stand. Righting herself, she leaned against the wall beside the window, catching her breath. Ravenbeck’s arms shot out of the window, clutching the sack, and she swiped it from him, dropping it to her feet, closely followed by his sword. Bracing one foot against the wall, she grabbed him by the wrists and pulled. He slid through a little, then stopped. 

“I’m stuck, Joss! Pull! Pull harder! I can fe—” Ravenbeck’s eyes widened, and he let out a sharp, pained screech. 

Blood sprayed through his gritted teeth, and he convulsed, his white-knuckled grip like iron. His face twitched and contorted as a scream quickly became a gargling choke, then stopped. Blood poured from his mouth as his bald scalp writhed. His right eyelids bulged, then split to reveal a small, gore-covered crab. It scuttled across his eye and down his cheek, dropping from his chin to the floor beneath as two thick crab legs burst from his mouth. 

Josswees realized she was screaming and recoiled from her comrade before slipping on the seaweed and slamming into the rocks. Scrabbling back on her hands and knees, the glimmering of gold caught her eye, and she dived for the sack, pulling it toward her. A shard of precious, sordalite clinked onto the spilled gold, and her eyes locked onto it. Its magical properties were valuable. So valuable. But Ravenbeck’s sword was now more so. She grabbed it as thunder boomed overhead.

Ravenbeck’s top half dropped from the window, landing with a wet thud as a wave of chittering crustaceans of every size poured toward her. Her boots skidded through seaweed and scraped mussels from rubble as she clambered over it to reach the road beyond. 

Swinging glow orbs gave the crumbling buildings a ghostly appearance, faded and pale against the sharp, flickering shadows around them. Confused and disoriented, she turned this way and that, searching for something recognizable as the rain lashed at her face. The wind howled between the shattered city’s ruined buildings. 

Uphill, to her left, four orbs swayed together. The compound! 

Squinting through the gloom and the rain, she spotted the eye-catching blue glow from an airship’s engines, gently illuminating its hull and the side of a nearby ruined building. Twin masts with furled sails rose from its decks, and the faint silhouettes of people on deck were moving with haste, the ship was preparing to leave. A wooden scaffold supported a boarding ramp that ran up the side of the ship, stopping at a horizontal platform where the gangplank allowed entry and egress onto the ship. Josswees made for the ship and toward the outline of four guards on the street at the bottom of the ramp, barely visible in the shadows. Forastad beggars huddled beneath rough overhangs on either side of the road, the adventurers and explorers who lost everything and couldn’t pay to get home. The coral and seaweed strewn road gave way to sand, then worn stone paving where deep sea detritus had been cleared. Her feet splashed through puddles on uneven stone and even the plink of coins hitting the road couldn’t slow her. Beggars turned at her approach, a few standing and stepping out for a closer look. More coins dropped and figures lurched from the shadows to either side. Gold and sordalite clattered to the stone as she switched her grip and drew Ravenbeck’s short sword—giving the beggars enough pause. She seized those added seconds, sprinting up the road.

The guards moved to stop her approach; their fine mail shone bright in the blue engine light. Helmets with scalemail face coverings had two shadowy slits for the eyes. Two guards adopted firing positions, fingers twitching on triggers while the remaining two shifted uneasily, each gripping the shaft of a long glaive in saturated leather gloves.

“You! Slow down. Can’t you read the figgin’ signs?” The glaive-wielding guard on the right gestured to a crudely painted sign to her right with the spear tip. A flash of light caught it: “Approach with Caution.” 

“Please let me through! We need to leave! The lake! Please!” 

One guard unclipped his face covering, letting it drop to one side of his helm. He was a dark-skinned elemdar, his yellow eyes appearing glowing in the gloom, and stepped toward her, lowering his blunderbuss, its sordalite crystal shimmering red and orange. Born with characteristics of one of the four elements, fire, water, air and earth, strangely magicked with elemental energy, the elemdar always unsettled gave Josswees. This was a fire elemdar, she guessed, as his skin reflected flecks of red in the swinging light. She recoiled from his hand and took a half-turn. The elemdar guard raised a pacifying hand, showing his palm. 

“Easy, love. Forlgrain’s Mercy isn’t due to leave for…” he checked the clock beside the airship, “…three hours. You might fare better with De Vien’s east of here.” Looking the torn sack up and down, he cocked his head. “Be a hell of a journey to make on your own in this weather. Especially with that lot.” He gestured over her shoulder to the beggars fighting over her spoils. 

“It’s not safe! They’re coming.”

The guard unclipped the face mail and let it hang to one side of his helmet. His skin was deep crimson, and his eyes blazed. “We can protect you against the beggars if you want to wait here, but the Mercy’s waiting for the weather to abate.”

“What about them?” Josswees pointed past the beggars.

The elemdar scrutinized the darkness behind her with glowing yellow eyes. After a few moments, he put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. She stiffened but allowed the touch. “Why don’t you pay your way on board and rest until Mercy sets off?”

“There were…” 

They had to be there, but there was nothing. The sea crashed against the side of the island and jets of spray crested the cliffs that fell at the city’s edge. Lightning flashed and for a split second, she saw everything.. “There… there! See?”

The guard followed her gaze. The floor glittered. Flickering every time light caught it, but it wasn’t flickering; it was moving. A living carpet of chitin flowing up the street like a storm’s surge. The hand on her shoulder slid off slowly, and the guard pushed her toward the ship. “On the Mercy! Now!” He yelled before turning to the other guards, “All arms to positions!”

The blunderbusses fired. Long gouts of flame released innumerable balls of white hot magical shot. A swathe of crustaceans exploded with a hiss of steam and a warm gust of burned crabmeat. Josswees turned on her heels and ran for the gangplank. Guards on the boarding ramp took up firing positions, blocking her path. One came to the bottom of the ramp and shoved her aside to take up his position. Beggars, still fighting for loose gold, were lost beneath the chittering mass. One by one they rose, crab-covered hands brushing at their clawed attackers in vain, screaming and gagging as pincers tore strips from them, then filled their mouths with stabbing feet and snipping claws.

Bursts from the blunderbuss put holes in the mass of crabs, but the magazine wouldn’t hold enough charges to kill them all. The second guard swung his glaive, a sheath of golden energy bursting crustaceans before the blade could slice them. They popped and hissed as they flash boiled. Bursts of fire came from the boarding ramp and deck in a rainbow of devastation. Josswees backed away, stumbling into a stack of wooden crates, jarring her elbow and dropping Ravenbeck’s sword. Gold spilled from the sack until she gripped the one remaining crystal through the burlap with white knuckles. 

Overwhelmed, the guards disappeared beneath the undulating mass. Her back against the crates, she watched a giant pincer rise beneath the ship, gouging into its flank and crushing wood to splinters. A second claw rose up, grabbing the prow and pulling it down. As the bowsprit angled toward the ground, the sea of crabs surged, climbing over each other until they reached the ship and swarmed it, burying it beneath their mass. The crew screamed, cries for help echoing through the night as wood crumpled and metal buckled. Spell thrusters misfired, jetting the ship into the ruins. The prow shattered, allowing egress to the chitinous mass while the giant claws dropped out of sight. East, she had to head east! 

Josswees fled, rushing for the alley between the ruined buildings on the opposite side of the street to the airship. Screams and shouts swelled, then faded into the night as she ran—through alleys and avenues littered with seaweed and broken coral, with fish guts, muscles, and mollusks. She had to keep running. She had to get out of Forastad.

Chapter 1 – A Bard Barred

“I didn’t mean it like that! You were laughing!” cried Valdeer. 

The palm of a huge, grey hand grabbed his face, propelling him backwards out of the door. His heel caught on the threshold, sending him crashing to his rump with a yelp. The wind howled past him, and he felt the filthy water soaking into his voluminous, colorful trousers. They would never be clean again. Cold rain hit him, running through his brown curls.

Enraged, the titaran, Arol, gripped him by his jacket’s collar with thick, scarred fingers. Teeth grinding together, he pulled Valdeer’s face right up to his. Valdeer dropped his lute trying to pull himself free of the giant’s grip. Titarans were massive, and Arol was no exception. When he initially stood up from his table, the top of Valdeer’s head just about reached Arol’s nipples. His arms were like thighs, his legs like tree trunks. When he spoke a stink of stale beer and spiced sausage blew across the bard’s face. “That was before yer said me missus was loose.”

“I didn’t… I swear!” choked Valdeer, feet scrabbling on the ground.

“You said she was full of dick,” the titaran drew a fist back.

“I said ‘her pocket was full of knobs,’” he said. “It was a play on w-”

Pain flared in his cheek as Arol’s fist tried to reach the back of Valdeer’s head via the front. 

“I’ll show you a play,” he sneered, his red tattoos drawing an intimidating, jagged line from his mouth to his earlobe across grey-white skin. More tattoos ran from his blue-grey hair down to the bridge of his wide nose.

“Easy, Arol, he’s just a fella with a smart mouth,” the landlord, Smithon, placed a hand on the titaran’s shoulder, gently pulling it back. Despite Arol’s aggression, Smithon was calm, his kind round face framed by a beard of white, and matching fluffy hair. His eyes were always friendly, winning people over with his politeness rather than force or a harsh tongue. He’d taken a shine to Valdeer and had saved him from an angry patron on more than one occasion. “That smart mouth might have a couple fewer teeth now, mind. You know he’s got a tongue quicker than common sense.”

“He’s getting a pasting.” Arol shrugged off the landlord’s hand. “I’ll make him eat that fucking lute.”

Arol’s wife appeared over his shoulder, resting a calming hand on his other arm. “Come back in here, Arol. The little boob don’t know what he was saying. Don’t let it ruin a nice night. His songs are meant to be funny.”

Arol’s face moved too close to Valdeer’s. When the titaran spoke, his bushy mustache tickled Valdeer’s face. “Next time, I’ll twat yer into nex’ week, got it?”

His hand opened, and Valdeer dropped back to the sludgy wet ground. He landed awkwardly, his arm slamming into his lute with a twang. He lay hunched on his elbows for a moment; the lute digging into his right kidney, blood trickling from his left nostril, rain running down his face. The landlord leaned out of the door and offered his hand. Valdeer reached up and took it. 

“I told you to watch what you sing about, Valdeer,” he said. “Some people lose their humor once they’ve had a skinful.”

“His wife’s a chippy. She makes handles for cupboards down on Fuligrith Street. You see? Pocket full of knobs, because she makes handles.”

“And the double entendre is?” Smithon cocked his head.

“Not worth ruining my clothes over,” said Valdeer miserably. His heart sank when he saw the state of his outfit. It would take him months to save up for another set for performances.

“I said you were too smart for those the worse for drink.” The landlord smiled sadly and glanced back through the door. Several broken and upended tables and stools lay around the tavern—a path of destruction, the approximate width of a tossed bard. Smithon shook his head. “I can’t take losses like this, you know? I said so last time. Even with the coppers you pay me, I lose money every time someone takes umbrage to one of your songs. We gave it a shot, but it’s not working out, my lad.”

“What’re you saying, Smithon?” asked Valdeer, reaching down for his lute and cursing under his breath. The strap had snapped.

“You’re barred, son.”

“Damn right I am. The greatest there is,” said Valdeer, smearing dirt into his clothes as he attempted to brush it off.

“No, you’re barred. From the tavern,” Smithon emphasized the double “r,” and it hung in the air. “Gather your things, and sling yer hook. Sorry, lad.”

“Really? Come on, Smith—” He stopped, noting the regret in Smithon’s expression. Maybe he’d come round again in the morning. He had before.

“Go on, get your stuff.”

Valdeer trudged inside for the final time. Around him, faces frowned and glowered. Heads shook. The miserable old sod who was always next to the bellows beside the fireplace leaned forward and spat into the flames, narrowing his eyes at Valdeer. Only one face held no malice, Cherry, half-hidden behind the bar. Her thick, black hair framed a soft, gentle face. She was a beauty and gave him a sad wave, which he returned with a warm smile.

“Don’t forget your winnings!” The cry preceded his upturned tricorn and satchel sailing across the bar and landing on the terracotta floor tiles, scattering coppers and the odd silver piece across the tavern. Valdeer winced and closed his eyes slowly, feeling the familiar sting.

“I’ll help you.” Smithon threw the man a glance of fatherly disapproval before kneeling to the coin pile.

“Don’t bother. Just my hat and my bag,” said Valdeer, “I’ll not scrape coppers off the floor.” 

Outside, a gale picked up, and as Smithon moved from the door to pick up his hat, Valdeer held it open with his worn shoe. If he was going to be cold, then stuff them, they could all enjoy a chill. Smithon scooped up his hat and dusted it off. He rotated it until the tricorn faced the right way, then placed it on Valdeer’s head. Valdeer picked up his near empty satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

“Look after yourself, Valdeer. You’ll find something better than playing your tunes. You’re more than that.”

Valdeer’s lip tightened as he looked into Smithon’s gentle face. “Maybe,” he said, giving him a nod.

Valdeer turned and stepped out into the night, allowing the door to slam shut behind him as he scooped up his lute. Even over the weather, he could hear the laughter inside. The wind hit hard, and he braced against it. Which way to go? It was close to closing time meaning there would be no coin to be made indoors, and no one would rummage for change on a night like tonight, so busking was out of the question. 

An airship’s prow appeared like the sun cresting over a horizon, floating gently into the air from behind slate rooftops at the bottom of the street, before the engines thrust it higher into the sky. On board, another bunch of travelers headed somewhere new. Somewhere no one knew their name. A new start, away from all the bollocks and bullshit. Covered lanterns across the deck of the ship illuminated the underside of the balloon and it glowed orange in the darkness. 

“Maybe one day,” he mused. He pulled his hat down on his head, sank his neck into his collar, and walked up the hill toward his one room lodgings. Hopefully it would be warm enough to dry his clothes a little before the morning.

#

The cruiser Merchant’s Destiny came to a stop alongside the Northeastern Jetty. Deck crew cast lines out from the vessel to waiting dockhands, who tied them off on the pilings. Shafted afternoon rays gleamed off the golden Yukimora figurehead, the androgynous figure proffering a goblet with one hand while the other trailed a long blade. The figure’s unfurled wings covered the top half of the prow and spread amidships. The rest of the cruiser was stained deep green, with a bold white line running along the port and starboard side, just below the bottom of the golden wings. Three swivel guns on each side, two on the stern, and a ballista platform on the prow were all the guns on display, but telltale gun hatches warned of three rows of five additional cannons. Despite them meeting in a trusted location, the visible guns were crewed and ready. Three huge masts supported cream-colored sails, furled up to the boom, hiding the Yukimora crest: a skull with two gold coins for eyes and crossed cutlasses beneath it. It gave off the usual aura of intimidation as any Roshan Cruiser, the mainstay ship for the Cin’darian Empire, but maintained a look of exuberant elegance. The Yukimora were the most powerful of Murgaven’s Conglomerate, and their vessels had become ostentatious with displays of wealth and strength.

“They’ve arrived,” Truelen sneered, watching through the diamond lattice windows of the Murgaven’s Conglomerate meeting room. The panes were identical to those in her quarters aboard the Sunspot, nice, traditional, but too much frame for the size of the panes, and the corners trapped grime regardless of how often they were cleaned. Sure, they could be made into larger panes, but they gave the Sunspot a touch of class. Her finger played with the safety catch on the zap pistol holstered on her hip, its red sordalite crystal faintly glowing from its housing where the breech of a black powder pistol would be. “He’s brought his usual collection of bodyguards and hangers-on.”

The green-scaled drakin, Haveris De Viens, slouched in his chair like a drunken emperor, one scaly leg cocked over its arm, the other under the wide, pentagonal table, tapping the floor impatiently with a long-taloned toe. Large and brutish, the dragon-like humanoid was a blunt instrument, whose thick, swishing tail gave away his mood. He was like most of their kind, arrogant and self-aggrandizing. He shook his head, and the three deep blue feathers swayed in his oversized tricorn hat, perched on his head at a jaunty angle. He always wore one of the hat’s three corners slightly off-center, and it infuriated her more than it should. “If it helps him feel important, let him bring them,” he snorted, gently shaking his golden goblet so that his bangles and bracelets jangled at the wrist of his baggy shirt sleeve. “They can be brought down low alongside him.”

“You’re sure you want to invoke a call for aid? You can’t commit more forces there?” Truelen asked. Her jaw was tight, and the scar that ran from her chin to her ear felt rigid across her face. Her fuzzy reflection on her silver goblet’s side showed it as a blurred pink line, but she knew it was always an angry red against her olive skin.

“It’s not that I can’t handle it,” sneered Haveris. He took a sip of Plunderer’s Cove rum and scowled. She knew he didn’t like it, it was cheap and harsh, but he tried to maintain his brutal image by doing everything the hard way. “I just don’t want to sink more resources into it. It will weaken my position at the table.”

“So will invoking the call.”

“Less so, and the losses won’t all be Makeetan if you’re all involved.”

“You’d rather weaken us all than weaken just one of us?” Truelen chided. She took a sip from her goblet. The rum warmed her throat and then her stomach as she stared at the drakin. Haveris was a blunt instrument, but if he could be directed?

Haveris’s brow raised a little. “Someone like Yukimora, you mean?”

“That’s not what I said,” she replied. He understood perfectly that he had been weakened, and could potentially weaken Yukimora.

Haveris mused on this a while. “You don’t want to risk your assets.”

“Does anyone? It’s why I didn’t go for the contract in the first place. There are easier ways to make coin than exploring an old city that’s risen from the sea. I’m surprised you didn’t expect it.”

“We live and learn,” said Haveris, “I’ve had forces in Forastad for three weeks, and I’ve not suffered losses like it. The rewards are great, but the risks are too great. I have two airships missing, presumed destroyed, one almost beyond repair. Total losses include nearly seven score of marines and equipment. Not to mention spoiled resources.” 

“Spoiled? How so?” Truelen asked curiously.

“They dry out in the sun, and become damp and rot in the shade. Initially, the marines fed off fish that were lying around—they called it the sea’s bounty,” he scoffed. “After a few days, the fish were rotten, and the marines were sick. The smallest of wounds becomes infected. A cut on the hand can turn the arm to a gangrenous stump.”

“Delightful. I would opt for a takeover rather than assistance,” she said, quietly adding, “His loss could be our gain.”

Haveris mused on this as footsteps approached from the corridor and the double doors burst open.

Dyneses Yukimora strode in confidently, deep green frock coat open, black tricorn hat angled forward and perched on his black-feathered head above a set of piercing green eyes only a little lighter than the colour of his ship. He was a ramphasti, one of the more colourful of the avensari – a race of bird-like humanoids – found across the world. The ramphasti sported colors similar to the tropical birds of the southern continent of Hexzedal. His face was serious, weathered with well defined scars, around a large yellow beak with an underside of orange. His yellow neck feathers disappeared into a cream shirt, and his black wings tucked behind his back. They added to his imposing figure, creating a silhouette that none of the others could match. Golden buttons shone, framing his waistcoat and a bandolier containing three extravagant zap guns, one modified, each decorated with gold filigree. Another two pistols were visible at his hips, above the grips of twin cutlasses. He paused at the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a glass of Rumback.

Yukimora moved around the table, eyes on his glass until he placed it before his chair at what Trulen considered the head of the table. She couldn’t be certain if it was the scar beside Yukimora’s beak that gave him the smug, half-smile. Haveris clawed into his chair, visibly bristling at the man’s arrogance.

Removing his sword belt and hanging it over the chair’s back, Yukimora glanced at the wall to her left. “Captain Truelen, are you joining us?”

“Of course,” Truelen said, taking off her tricorn and letting five long plaits unravel down her back. She seated herself equidistant between Haveris and Yukimora.

Yukimora stared at the center of the table for a few moments, gathering his thoughts as two guards leaned into the room, took the door handles, and closed the doors quietly. As soon as they shut, Yukimora spoke. “This is not our usual meeting time, Haveris. I am a busy man and have a great many matters of importance requiring my attention.” He waved his hand—an invitation to proceed.

“It is good to see you too, Dyneses,” said Haveris through gritted teeth. “I called this meeting because I have a problem I feel… unable to resolve myself.”

“Forastad,” Yukimora said, pulling out a coin and tossing it onto the wide, pentagonal table.

Haveris swiped the coin from the table in a scarred, scaly hand, and held it up between two talons, examining it carefully with a beady, yellow eye. His eye narrowed, and he flicked the coin back to Yukimora, who caught it and slipped it into his pocket in one smooth movement. “If you have that coin,” Haveris growled, “…then you know of what I speak.”

“I do,” said Yukimora, before taking a sip. 

As the only human in the room, Truelen had the disadvantage of being less imposing physically, but while Yukimora and Haveris wound each other up merely by being in each other’s presence, they also made things a lot easier for her. For Haveris she was a silent ally, for Yukimora an impartial witness, to herself, a secret plotter.

Haveris’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. “When I was awarded the contract by Murgaven, I didn’t realize quite what I’d bitten off.”

“And now you want help…to chew?”

“I want to pass on the contract to someone… more capable… with more resources.” Haveris said bitterly, sliding a scroll to the center of the table. “An abandoned, lost city sounds simple on parchment, but this… this was another undertaking. I’m putting my contract on the table for anyone who wants it. I will take ten percent as a finder’s fee, the taker can have the rest, less Murgaven’s cut, and I will explain my reasoning to Murgaven myself.”

“You’ll need to,” said Dyneses. “She won’t be impressed if the contract isn’t fulfilled.”

“Hence the splits. I would invoke the call, but my losses have been too great already. It needs someone with resources on a larger scale.” Haveris glanced at Truelen. If Yukimora noticed, he didn’t mention it, though he rarely met anyone’s eye.

“How long have you been there? And how much have you made?” asked Dyneses.

“Three weeks,” said Haveris. “Six hundred and fifty pounds of refined sordalite, similar weight in gold and around half of that in unrefined sordalite and silver. There is more there, but manpower and mobility are my main issues. I’ve lost two ships and enough mariners to affect my operations. It’s not just a pillage or artifact recovery. It’s more of a…”

“Military operation?”

“Aye,” said Haveris. He picked up his flagon and tipped the remaining contents into his mouth, swilling it around a little as he slammed the flagon down on the table.

Dyneses stared at the table just in front of Truelen. “Does this contract interest you?”

“No,” she said, with a single shake of her head. “I don’t mean to sound blunt but I have new trading contracts I need to fulfill. I don’t have the spare resources to launch an operation in Forastad.”

“Either of you interested in a joint venture?” asked Dyneses, eyes flitting to each of them in turn without once meeting their gaze directly.

“Nay,” they replied.

“I will take the contract.” Dyneses reached out and took the scroll. His wings flexed, causing parchments and feathers to flutter. “I can tender out transport to allied merchants, recruit the exploratory manpower from poorer towns and cities, and provide guard and air support for them. Yes. Yes, that should work. I must go. I have much to prepare.” 

Dyneses stood, scooping up the sword belt from his chair’s back as he strode towards the doors. Leaving as abruptly as he’d entered, the Yukimora leader left them in silence, waiting until his footsteps had receded.

When the doors closed again, Truelen spoke. “That couldn’t have gone better.” She eyed Haveris. “I wonder if any of the other Captains would be interested in a greater share of the Conglomerate?”

“Careful, Truelen, that sounds like treachery,” Haveris said, leaning forward and holding out a hand to her. She held it for just a moment, internally wincing at the cold, clammy scales on his fingers.

“When his position is weakened it could be an ideal time to redistribute his business and assets,” she purred. “With the other captains on board, we wouldn’t have so much of the risk, and we could also strengthen our position within the Conglomerate. We would need someone to be the new, stronger partner.”

Haveris’s eye narrowed, and he nodded slowly. She had him. “I think you could be right, Truelen.” He stood and rolled his broad shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and picked his sword belt from his chair’s back. “See what the others think, then we can decide how to proceed.”

“I’ll be discreet,” she said, watching him leave. When the doors closed behind him, she smiled and sipped her rum.