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.