Aphonion Tales (New posts 6/13, 6/15, 6/19)

[Cerebral Paladin]

The Archbishop of the Sun entered, wearing a relatively simple set of robes. Alistair bowed respectfully, although careful to not show too much deference to the representative of the church. Dame Brionna knelt and kissed the Archbishop’s ring, while Kit simply bowed awkwardly and received a blessing. Mahler hung further back, not seeking a blessing at all.

“I am glad you called for me, Your Grace, for I have matters we should discuss as well.”

“Indeed?” replied Alistair. “We thank you for coming, Your Eminence. We hope to call on the church’s aid in dealing with a new threat that has arisen within the City. Some of our enemies, we believe in league with the Horned Rat, have been distributing vials of plague, trying to get unknowing commoners to break them during the coronation.”

“Plague?” The Archbishop made the sign of the sun disc.

“Yes. Can you call on Glor’diadel to prevent it? My understanding was that plague violated the Compact.”

“It does, but the Horned Rat was not a signatory to the Compact; he came to our area in the multiverse after it was signed. So he can break it, at least temporarily, and we cannot call down the full power of Glor’diadel to stop it as we could if he were a signatory. Still, the guards that the Lord of Light has placed against plague will control its spread and allow a quick response. How many vials of plague have they distributed?”

Dame Brionna answered, “We do not know for certain, Your Eminence, but we have recovered about 300 vials so far.”

“300 vials?” the Archbishop echoed, increduously. “It was their intention to wipe out the entire city, then.”

“I think so, Your Eminence. We also know that they employed twenty assassins from Enclaves to run the distribution.”

“My news is now much less pressing. I had thought it odd enough that it was worth consulting with you, but nothing like a threat to the entire city.”

“We would still be curious to hear your news,” said Alistair.

The Archbishop made a short nod. “Yes. There was a strike against the Merchants’ Temple, last night at Evensong. A single figure attacked, and the Knights of Valor present as guards responded with deadly force. In the opinion of the priest who was present, and who I should note is of a fairly high status in the magical arts, the young man who attacked was in the possession of a dibbuk. They drove it out of the young man, but it escaped and the young man collapsed.”

“Couldn’t the priest bind it?” asked Dame Brionna.

“With preparation, yes. But taken by surprise as he was, he could only drive the demon out of its host, not bind it into a narrow area. And confronted with a priest who could wield great power, the creature fled into the sewers. Truth be told, we suspect that it first possessed the young man in the sewers-- he was of the lowest possible class.”

Kit scowled in anger but held her tongue.

Mahler asked the Archbishop, “Who did the fellow attack?”

“That was perhaps the oddest thing. A young boy, Alonzo, a servant of Lord Davion Aufaugauthala’rim.”

Dame Brionna thought for a moment. “If it had succeeded, could the dibbuk have switched hosts and possessed Alonzo?”

“Yes, it could have. And indeed, if there were a less experienced priest on duty that night, no one would have been any the wiser.”

“Then it may have been an attempt to infiltrate Lord Davion’s household, or even to attack him.”

Alistair rose and called in a page. “Go directly to Lord Davion Aufaugauthala’rim’s residence. Tell him that we believe that a dibbuk attempted to possess his servant, Alonzo, and that he should be on his guard for attacks on either himself or his household, or for efforts to place spies around him.”

 

[Cerebral Paladin]

“Your Eminence, how long will it take you to prepare for the coronation? How quickly could it be done if we had to move the coronation up?” inquired Dame Brionna.

“We’ve been over this,” said Alistair, a tad exasperated.

“Three days. There are certain purification rituals I must perform, as well as the logistical matters that would have to be arranged.”

“Best if you focused on the plague threat for now.”

“Yes, I’ll begin invocations about the plague in the cathedral immediately.”

Dame Brionna persisted. “Your Eminence, what is the significance of the grove where the coronation procession begins?”

“The only mystic significance is the distance. In order for the coronation rituals to have their effect, the rituals must be performed properly and the Archduke must process along a sufficient distance through the lands, performing the rituals as he goes. The grove is sufficiently far from the Cathedral that any procession starting there and taking an appropriate route through the crowds that will gather in the City will satisfy the requirements.”

“But there’s no significance to the grove itself?”

“Only tradition. Which is of course sufficient reason in its own right.”

“Yes, but perhaps not if we expect assassins,” said Dame Brionna. “We could start the procession elsewhere and avoid any ambushes that they’ve laid, at least until we enter the City.”

Alistair smiled. “And we can set up a tarpit at the grove.”

Everyone looked at him in confusion. Finally, the Archbishop asked, “A tarpit, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Sometimes there are open pits of tar. Animals will be drawn in by food that’s fallen in the tar, and then when they try to get the food and escape, they get stuck in the sticky mess and die. So we can set up a ‘tarpit’ of our own, by having a fake procession start from the grove, planning on drawing in any ambushers.”

Mahler looked at Alistair in mock alarm. “I hope you’re not planning on asking me to pretend to be you again.”

“Don’t worry, wouldn’t think of it. I think that Lady Constance might be able to supply us with substitutes for the principals, with spells to contain any attackers and keep them from reaching the real procession.”

Dame Brionna nodded. “And if her creatures are destroyed in the process, no harm done. We’ll need to post actual guards, though, to make it convincing and to prevent the news from leaking. The best we can do is to fill as many of those slots with people who plan on suicide anyway.” Dame Brionna looked at the Archbishop. “Your Eminence, an attack on you is very likely-- our enemies will want to prevent the coronation, and you are one of the two essential participants. I’d like to position a large group of guards around you, and ask that you stay on sanctified ground between now and the coronation.”

“Yes, those both seem like prudent steps. Thank you for meeting with me, Your Grace.”

After he left, Kit cursed openly. “I just cleaned my sewers, and they’re putting demons in them again.” She slipped out to meet one of her people and instructed them to check it out, both in terms of the dibbuk and its host. She told them to find out who the boy was, who he was working for, and if possible to find him and bring him in.

While Kit dealt with that, Dame Brionna went over her daily brief from the city constabulary. It contained a short discussion of the incident at the Merchants’ Temple, although without the information about the dibbuk, and also a special note that all was quiet in Pottersfield. For the first time in days, there were no murders to report.

 

[Cerebral Paladin]

Mahler decided it was time to gather information at the Merchants Exchange a little more directly. The first step was the creation of a new identity, with a safe room in a nondescript room to change guises in. “Mahler” carefully removed the clothes and make-up that made up her everyday disguise as Mahler-- the only appearance her friends at the palace had ever seen-- and carefully constructed her new identity. Female, she decided, and middle-aged and portly, about twenty-five years older than her actual age. She carefully worked the padding into place, and practiced the Enclaves accent and mannerisms she would use. After carefully checking her appearance in a silver mirror, she headed out.

The Merchants Exchange was a large, imposing building in the heart of the Merchants Quarter. The marble construction showed the institution’s wealth, but all of the gaudier signs of its finances were inside. Mahler swept in through the entrance, past the bored looking guards, who looked more prosperous than fit.

A small man crouched over a large ledger sat at a plain desk, just within the building. “May I help you, madame?” he said in a voice that managed to be both bored and unctuous.

“I should hope so. I am Lady Sepulva of Enclaves.”

“Ah!” he straightened respectfully, and drew a quick conclusion from her age. “We heard about your husband’s death and are greatly cheered that you are well.”

“Well enough, I suppose. I wish to take my husband’s seat in the Exchange. The family’s interests must be represented, you understand. I was really just here to visit family, but…”

“Of course, of course. Just couldn’t stay away from the trade.” He nodded knowingly. “That will be 100 silver, for a seat in the third ring as he had.”

“I must pay for the seat? But surely he had paid.”

“Yes, m’lady, but while the seats in the middle and inner circles are hereditary in perpetuity, the outer circle must pay for their seats annually. And they are held only by the individual. Each of the circles is based on proven wealth. While I’m sure your husband could have afforded to buy into the middle circle, he apparently did not view the expense as worthwhile based on the amount of business he transacted here.”

Lady Sepulva sniffed noisily. “Well then. I suppose I must, and we will see whether our business here justifies a change in the future.” She casually drew forth a platinum piece and slapped it down on the table.

The doorman coughed. “I’m sorry, m’lady, but you must pay in silver. I need to count each coin as it enters the box,” he said with a gesture at a sturdy lockbox behind him with a small slot in the top.

Lady Sepulva blustered, but eventually drew out her purse and carefully counted 100 silvers into the box.

The doorman smiled. “Thank you. Now, if you could just sign the membership ledger.” He slid the register across to her, and Lady Sepulva carefully forged a distinctive new signature, with no resemblance to the either Mahler Fife’s or her real signature.

She walked into the great open chamber where the Exchange transacted the business of all of Canberry, and looked around carefully. The independents, not truly part of the Exchange at all but tolerated because of the money to be made trading with them, stood around the wall at the outer edge of the chamber. On the floor of the chamber, the outer circle members of the Exchange sat at their tables. The food merchants, including Lady Sepulva’s late husband when he had attended, faced the east wall. After a quick conversation with the doorman, she crossed to the table where her husband had sat and took his seat.

The entire room bustled with continuous trades. The members of the outer circle bargained with the independents and each other, periodically meeting with a member of the middle circle in their raised area to conclude a major deal. The middle circle members negotiated with each other, shifting around vast amounts of money and commodities, and periodically sent runners down to favored members of the outer circle. The seats of the inner circle, in the highest level of the room some two stories above the trading floor, were shielded from view by heavy marble, with the only entrances through gilded gates in a wrought iron fence. Lady Sepulva assumed that they traded just as actively as the rest of the Exchange, but the only sign was the periodic passage of someone, generally the agent of a middle circle member, through the gate.

 

[Cerebral Paladin]

After a few minutes, a boy approached Lady Sepulva’s table and laid down a wooden chit with a blazon on it. Lady Sepulva glanced at the chit and then stared cooly at the boy. “Yes? Do you have a message for me?”

The boy’s eyes widened in fear and confusion. He gestured back towards the chit and then glanced over his shoulder at the middle circle seats, where a banner with an identical blazon stood next to one seat. As he looked back at Lady Sepulva, apparently hoping that he had conveyed his message, his mouth opened slightly. She startled at the sight within: his entire tongue had been removed.

“Very well, I will go see your master.” The boy visibly relaxed at Lady Sepulva’s words. Hoping that the pattern here was the same as the protocols she had learned as a child in Enclaves, Lady Sepulva made her way up to the seat of the merchant who had summoned her, while keeping one eye on the area behind her.

A heavy-set but clean and very well kept half-orc sat in the seat by the banner. He bowed floridly from the waist as Lady Sepulva approached. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss, but glad to see the seat occupied again. I did regular business with your late husband when he was here.”

“Perhaps I have heard of you?”

“I am Septulos of the Eastern Trade Confederation,” he bowed again, floridly. He then scattered tokens across the table--offering 1 silver 2 copper a head, when 1 silver 5 copper was the going rate. “Two thousand head?”

Lady Sepulva thought for a moment. The price of beef in Canberry had been falling, although it was starting to stabilize of late. It had been declining for years after the fall of the South Kingdoms; beef was a huge export for Canberry, and the tremendous reduction in demand held prices low. Even with the declining prices, and even assuming the worst cattle that could be found, the price Septulos offered was too low to be considered. Which left Lady Sepulva with only one problem: she wasn’t certain what the norms of negotiation were here. Hoping they were not too different from in Enclaves, she reached forward and flipped each wooden chit back over to its unmarked side and pushed them back. “The market is going up, sir. Supplies will not last.”

“In the spirit of memory of your husband…” he tossed down 1 silver and 4 coppers.

Lady Sepulva turned them over again.

“1 and 6, but when you shear your sheep in the fall, a half copper below market per bail.”

This was getting dangerous. That price was reasonable, but “Lady Sepulva” had no cattle to sell and was not too eager to spend the rest of the day covering a short sale. She decided to hedge. “But I must inspect the cattle first. Would you present them for an examination by one of my herders?”

Septulos blinked in confusion. “Inspect them… but my lady, I seek to buy. It is your cattle that we’re discussing, so what need would you have for inspection?” He thought for a moment. “Ah, this must be some new way to try to push my price further, but no more. I have made the bid I will offer. You must either accept it, or leave me to buy my cattle elsewhere.”

They bantered a little further, while Lady Sepulva tried to cover over her error, but reached no deal. She left Septulos with a promise to return if she felt she could accept his offer.

In search of more information, she sought out the doorman. “Tell me, who else deals in beef here?”

“Purchasing, m’lady?”

“No… for the time being, I’m more interested in the competition.”

“Ah, of course. Several of the independents do, although none with herds larger than about 250 head, and some of their cattle are diseased.” He pointed at the cattle-ranchers. “At the other extreme, the factor from the Empire of Tang will make deliveries on any order up to about 40,000 head.” He gestured at a seat in the middle circle. “And then the man with the eye tic in the outer circle sells at a steep discount, with the worst tired out dairy cows in the Archduchy.”

“Thank you. It will take me some time to learn the local merchants as well as I know the ones back home.”

 

[Cerebral Paladin]

“You could hire a page, m’lady. All of the more promising lads around the Exchange would be able to advise you on which merchants are which. We can’t supply your husband’s preference; that’s illegal here. No slaves, no mutilation, no out-and-out abuse. Even the foreign factors who bring their pages with ‘em are forbidden to bring slaves.”

Lady Sepulva thought about the tongue-less boy for a moment; slavery and mutilating pages might be illegal in Canberry, but some of the merchants went awfully close to the line. “Where are the messenger boys looking for work?”

The doorman led her into a room. A cluster of boys, ranging from perhaps seven to teens nearing adulthood, looked up at her, in some cases eagerly, in others appraisingly. Lady Sepulva stepped forward and scattered a few coppers on the table, watching who focused on or even reached for the coins versus who stayed focused on her. Two of the older boys stayed focused on her, clearly more interested in a larger long-term payoff than in getting a quick coin. She pulled them aside and questioned each of them. One of them seemed mostly a guard-type; physically fit and strong, with a certain canniness but no great intelligence. The other was less physically imposing but more intelligent. Lady Sepulva hired Clarence, the more intelligent lad, at 5 coppers a day plus the opportunity to earn bonuses.

“How may I help you, m’lady?”

“I’m still settling in and learning the people in the Exchange while I consider what deals to pursue.”

“Very good. Have you claimed your husband’s letters of credit?”

Lady Sepulva paused. Of course her late “husband” had to have had letters of credit. But she didn’t even know how to go about claiming them. “Could you take care of that, Clarence?”

They returned to the Exchange floor, and Clarence climbed to the highest level, just outside the gilded wrought iron fence barring entrance to the Inner Circle. He waited patiently at the rail and returned about twenty-five minutes later, with an officious man in tow.

The man looked Lady Sepulva over. “Lady Sepulva?”

“Yes? And you are?”

“I am Tharvan, Master of the Exchange. I’m sorry for your loss. I was sad to hear of his assassination.”

Lady Sepulva noted that unlike many of the merchants who had only heard vague rumors of Sepulva’s death, the Master seemed confident of his information and believed correctly that her husband had been killed in the coup in their Enclave. “Yes, it was terrible. But we must go on.”

Tharvan produced a ledger and Lady Sepulva signed for her letters. Most of the letters represented cash, and he gave her 2000 round yellow chits and 50 silver chits, all carefully arranged in a box for her convenience. “And this last letter is for livestock-- 500,000 head, delivered to the Empire of Masque. Do you wish to claim this letter as well?”

“Keep it in the safe for now, I think.”

Lady Sepulva spent the rest of the afternoon taking an inventory of the people in the Exchange. The dozen top merchants and the officials of the Exchange filled the Inner Circle. Only those representing a full merchant on a specific task or those that the Inner Circle summoned could enter their domain. The middle tier consisted of major merchants and permanent factors, but not within the top dozen. Most were factors for other nations, including one from Tang, three from the Sunken Lands, several from Masque, and many from Enclaves, although many of the Enclaves based members of the Middle Circle were not physically present that day. Hanal was conspicuous for its lack of a factor in that circle, whether by happenstance or policy. Lady Sepulva also noted that, in addition to the seats that had banners next to them but no current occupants, there were many that appeared completely vacant. When she asked of Clarence, he mentioned that those were the old South Kingdom seats. They still technically belonged to their old owners, but many of their owners had died without heirs, and even more were broken, without any trade interests left to manage. All told, the hall could hold about 400 merchants, although only 230 or so were present that day. As Lady Sepulva considered the volume of trade that the Exchange carried on, it became clear that this was the central Exchange for all of the trade in Southern Drucien; the only larger exchange on the continent was the Enclaves exchange itself.

 

[Look_a_Unicorn]

Bumpage for a great story- I eagerly devour each update as it comes

 

[Cerebral Paladin]

Thanks, Look a Unicorn! Have some more storyhour to devour!

----
After the Exchange recessed, Lady Sepulva noted Septulos approaching. “Would you care to join me for an ale?” the half-orc merchant enquired. “It would be good to resume our Houses’ social contact as well as our business.”

Lady Sepulva happily accepted, accompanying Septulos to a nearby tavern where many of the merchants went to drink. She noted that several other merchants were already there, but Septulos made his way to a private booth in the back with a proprietary manner-- if he did not formally own it, he did for all practical matters.

After a little light conversation, Lady Sepulva began pumping the merchant for information. “What do you think of the new tariffs? Quite oppressive, I’d say.”

Septulos grunted. “Not too bad for us, but very bad for you since you are north. They can bring goods to us without going through here, but not to you. And they will suffer.”

“They?”

“The refugees. They are just starting to get effective production going, beginning their trade. But the Eastern Cities are not enough to support their growth. With the Canberry market constricted, and even worse the effects on trade with Enclaves and the North… they will be barely above starving. A shame… we could use a better trade partner, but we cannot grow their trade on our own.”

“And it also cuts off some badly needed supplies. You wouldn’t happen to have any interests in rock salt? I know some local interests who would pay highly for a reliable source, free from the tariffs.”

“Hmm. I might be able to help them, at that. But not here. Leave the Exchange at the Exchange. Hear, we drink a jack of ale, and talk. Perhaps we speak of things that influence our trade tomorrow, but we do not trade here today.”

Lady Sepulva smiled and raised her mug in acquiescence. “Have you heard anything out of Brightspan? Raising the tariffs must cost them more than it brings in. Any gossip of the doings there?”

“Not that I’ve heard, no. But there have been… those who steal people.”

“The Noldar,” said Lady Sepulva in a flat, grim tone.

“No! Well, they do steal people, but not who I meant. Coming out of Brighstpan, small groups of people have slipped into the east in the last few years, taking certain children-- those of elven blood. It seems to have ended now. There were diplomatic requests, but the cities of the east do not have large armies, and to attack Brightspan would be to attack Canberry… that would be suicide.”

“I’ve heard that there are those who think that Brightspan may not always stand as well protected by the Archduchy. Would that change things?”

“There would be a desire for revenge. It is not rational to take other people’s children.” Septulos said the last with a sense of disgust, as if irrational behavior that had no financial value was both the most repugnant and incomprehensible thing he could imagine.

 

[Quartz]

More! More!

 

[Cerebral Paladin]

Since you asked for more....

----

Back at the palace, Alistair and the rest of the Archducal Council prepared carefully for their busy schedule. The Duke of Brightspan would be joining them for lunch, and then the Princess of Stormreach would be their guest for dinner. It was hard to say which guest inspired greater feelings of trepidation, though for completely different reasons.

Before the Duke arrived, they carefully planned the luncheon. In addition to the Archducal Council, Princess Cecilia would join them to be certain that they only needed to fear Brightspan’s political loyalty. They also asked Father Waters, Alistair’s father’s chaplain, to join them. If his reputation was accurate, the Duke’s best characteristic was his piety, and a show of faith might have substantial value. Additionally, avoiding the appearance of Alistair surrounded by a crowd of women would help prevent Alistair’s reputation from creating any more problems than it would inevitably.

The guard at the door announced Duke Gary Brightspan as he strode confidently into the room. The Duke was in middle age, and had allowed his waistline to expand with his years, but remained a strong and determined figure. The resemblance to his son was remarkable, even with the heavy beard that the Duke wore. And even for this private function, the Duke wore his cornet that was almost a crown.

“Your Grace, welcome and thanks for attending upon us,” said Alistair.

The Duke of Brightspan bowed his head slightly-- somewhat short of even the bow that an equal deserved, let alone proper respect for his liege-lord. “Your Eminent Grace.”

Alistair’s head dipped, barely perceptibly returning the honor and replying in kind to the insult. “Please join us at the table. We have much to discuss, but that can wait until after we have said grace and begun the meal.”

“Indeed.” The Duke drew forward, handing a large wrapped package to Dame Brionna as he took his seat. While Father Waters stood to say the blessing, the Duke checked carefully that his periapt remained around his neck. But he then bowed his head in reverence for the prayer, repeating along with each familiar invocation of Glor’diadel.

<<Princess Cecilia is thinking the same things about him that we already know,>> Kit sent to Alistair. <<He hasn’t a shred of loyalty to the Archduchy, and his resentment towards you borders on hate. But the prayers are heart-felt, and he’s as nervous about this meeting as we are, or more.>>

<<At least he’s not in league with the demons…>> replied Alistair mentally. As Abigail brought out the first course, Alistair looked directly at the Duke. “Your Grace, we have learned that dismaying things are afoot in Brightspan. There are demons active in your Duchy, including a powerful demon beneath the City, in the catacombs.”

“You know of that?” said the Duke in surprise. “We have been struggling against it for some time, but I would not have thought you would concern yourself. It could only be a distraction for Brightspan if our conflict became open.”

Alistair leaned forward, his face serious. “We know that you have no loyalty to my House beyond fear of our troops. But my House made a commitment to yours when your father swore loyalty. And we will never abandon yours. When you stand against the demons of Borsh’tro, we stand with you, whether you would have our aid or no.”

“My father’s cowardly decision…” The Duke took a moment to gather himself. “Yes, we have been fighting the demons. I have allowed my wife to convince me to let her handle the threat, and her friends have been very effective.” Doubt shadowed his face as he mentioned his wife’s “friends.”

“Yes, we know of her friends. How many of them has she brought in?”

“Nearly a hundred, your eminent grace. And they are effective, even though they are not of the Light. They have managed to drive out some of those who have been causing difficulties, but not all.”

“Why did you not ask the Archbishop for aid?” asked Dame Brionna with a hint of accusation.

The Duke frowned. “I’ve consulted with the local bishop, but we’ve been hesitant to ask for additional church support.”

“Why, your grace?” asked Alistair.

“They have my heir.”

 

[Baron Opal]

Rescuing a man's son does tend to engender a certain gratitude...

And shame, when it comes out that his wife is sending children for infernal abomination summoning.

Pride v. Gratitude, which shall win...?