Once, they had called him the Prince of Merchants, but it was no prince who came to port in the city of Sorkin scarcely a month before the summit the mortal queens had called was to take place. Markus Archeron stood at the prow of the Nesta, wincing as the ship bumped gently up against the dock. His leg had gotten better in recent months, but he still required a cane to walk, and any sharp, unexpected movements were prone to send flares of pain up his side. He voiced no complaint, however; his crew had better things to occupy their time with, and he would soon be off this thrice-damned ship in any case. That thought caused him almost as much pain as his leg. The motions of a ship's deck had once been as familiar to him as solid ground, but ever since his return to power he had been unable to stomach being out on the sea for more than short spurts. This was the longest journey he had undergone in years.
As his crew threw ropes to the dock workers and began to tie up the ship, Markus heard someone approach the prow, their heavy boots loud against the deck. He turned to see Memla standing behind him, one hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword. She was a large woman, heavily muscled and with a blunt, square face framed by black hair that reached to her chin. Her face and arms, visible thanks to her sleeveless tunic, were crisscrossed with scars old and new. "We'll be lowering the gangway in a moment, lord. The dock officials will want to inspect the hold, and of course negotiate the docking fee." Markus could hear her unspoken words clear as day.
"I'll be handling the negotiations," he informed her. "I'm capable of that much, at the very least." He walked past her, leaning heavily on his cane. Memla fell into step behind him. She was a mercenary, well-seasoned in battle and, in Markus' opinion, well worth her exorbitant wages. Initially, he had been wary of hiring her services, but Nesta had recommended Memla personally. How Nesta had come to meet her he was not quite sure, but he knew his daughter well enough to understand that no amount of prying would convince her to reveal information she wanted hidden. The thought of his daughter made him hurt again, though this pain was far sharper than any other. His beautiful, bold, fiercely intelligent daughter who could hardly stand the sight of him.
Shaking off his melancholy, he stepped up to the top of the gangway and waited for the dock official to come up to meet him. Younger, less influential ship captains might be forced to disembark to speak to the official on their territory, but the Nesta was large and well made, and Markus' own finery would leave no doubt as to who was the superior in this transaction. Soon enough, the official made his appearance, striding up the gangway with four dock guards in tow—locknees, Memla called them under her breath, the way mercenaries referred to all those stiff, professional guardsmen whose only combat experience was in breaking up drunken brawls, men who wore clubs rather than swords at their sides. The man stopped before Markus and bowed low at the waist, arms forming an 'x' over his chest in the traditional Desrian greeting. He wore a leather cuirass, greaves and armguards, and a leather helm with a flamboyant yellow plume jutting from the top. The lockness were similarly garbed, though their helms were unadorned.
"Welcome to Sorkin, good master," the man said, rising from his bow. With a start, Markus realized that he recognized the man. He had frequented Sorkin in his glory days, but even so it was a surprise to find someone he was familiar with more than a decade later. "I am port master Tenarim. Might I be graced with your name and the purpose of your arrival here?"
It was a struggle not to wince. Tenarim recognized him—Markus was certain of it. There was only one reason for him to feign ignorance in this manner. Steeling his nerves, Markus drew himself up and declared, "I am Markus Archeron, Lord of shallowbrook and master of the Two Rivers trading guild. I have come to the continent from Prythian in order to take part in the Great Summit, and wish to moor my ship here for the duration of that event."
Tenarim's eyes widened in feigned surprise as the locknees muttered behind him. "Why, master Archeron, what a pleasure it is to see you! The years have changed you. I had not supposed to ever speak with you again, what with your unfortunate accident." He glanced meaningfully down at Markus' leg. "I do hope that your injury does not trouble you overmuch."
"I am faring quite well, thank you," Markus replied, masking his fury behind a veil of cool politeness. "Now, concerning the docking fee—"
"Ah, yes, of course," Tenarim interjected. "I believe that, given the size of your ship, I can rent this berth at a rate of one hundred gold a day." He smiled generously. "A discount rate, for an old friend."
Markus gripped the head of his cane so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Behind him, Memla stiffened. His crew looked on with a mixture of intense interest and apprehension. "I was under the impression that the docking fee was waived for foreign dignitaries on official business," he said at last, somehow managing to control his tone.
Tenarim shook his head sadly. "That is usually the case, yes. However, Prythian is a special case. With no queen over you, any up-jumped beggar can scrape up the coppers for ten swords and style himself lord of whatever he desires. As such, it falls to the discretion of humble servants such as ourselves to discern the true nobility from the pretenders." He smiled. "And unfortunately, my friend, I simply cannot find a reason to allow you to dodge the docking fee."
Markus almost took a step forward. Almost. Maintaining a mask of cool disinterest, he replied, "I'm certain that I can persuade you otherwise. The reinstatement of my title has been formally recognized by no less than twenty of the Prythian nobility. I have the papers to prove it."
"Ah, good, good!" Tenarim's grin sharpened, and Markus suddenly had the feeling that he had walked right into a trap. "Please, gather your documents as quickly as possible. I will wait in my office at the customs building. You may come there when everything is in order." Then he turned to walk down the gangplank once more.
Without thinking, Markus said, "Memla, stop him." Tenarim glanced over his shoulder sharply at the words. Memla obeyed without hesitation. The locknees hurried to intercept her, clubs in hand. Markus almost felt sorry for them. One of the men reached her first; she delivered a blindingly swift punch to his face that sent him staggering back with a cry, blood dripping from between his fingers as he clutched at his nose. The second locknee came at her from the left, swinging the club down at her unprotected head. She batted the weapon aside kicked him in the groin. As the man crumpled to the deck, shrieking, Memla ducked, allowing a blow from the third locknee to whistle over her head, inadvertently striking his only remaining uninjured comrade in the stomach. There was a cracking sound, and the fourth man stumbled backwards, club dropping from his hand. Before the third man could regain his composure, Memla bull rushed him, plowing her shoulder into his sternum and using her momentum to carrying him all the way to the railing and over the edge. The man screamed as he fell into the water below. He came up a moment later, spluttering, and swam for shore. It didn't look as though he would be coming back.
Just like that, it was over. Memla cracked her knuckles and turned to Tenarim, who had watched the proceedings in horror. It only now seemed to occur to the man that he should have used the scant time provided to him to make an escape. He whirled to sprint off the deck, but Memla was faster, and before he reached the bottom of the gangway she had seized him by the collar and was dragging him back up to Markus.
"You are assaulting an official of Desriar," Tenarim snarled. "Queen Anashi will hear of this. She will not tolerate such disrespect!" Memla tossed him at Markus feet, where he crouched on his hands and knees, the mercenary looming over him.
"Really now," Markus replied coolly. One of Tenarim's men groaned on the deck. "Then I'm certain she will also hear of the disrespect you showed to me upon my arrival. Really, Tenarim, did you expect me to allow such blatant insults to go unchallenged? You all but declared me a pretender to my title, which, I am sure you know, is punishable by flogging." Tenarim paled, but Markus wasn't done with him yet. "Given that you were, in essence, actively impeding a foreign noble on pressing business with no other than Queen Anashi herself, it's far more likely that you would be beheaded for your transgressions."
"You wouldn't," Tenarim whispered, looking as though he were about to throw up. Markus almost hated himself for how much he was enjoying this.
"That is entirely up to you, my good man," he said. "Danson, fetch those papers from my office." At his words, the ship's cabin boy scurried off into the hold. "And fetch me a damned chair, as well!" Markus called after him. "My leg is killing me, and I can conduct negotiations sitting down just as well as when I'm standing."
A minute passed in relative quiet. Tenarim's men filed off the ship under Memla's watchful eye, not sparing a glance for their captive commander. Tenarim himself was looking at Markus with fury. There would be a price to pay for this humiliation, Markus knew, but whatever the cost was, he could well afford it. This confrontation would send an important message to former rivals and allies alike; Prince of Merchants or not, Markus Archeron was not a man to trifle with.
Danson returned in short order, bearing a stool in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. He set the stool down, and Markus perched himself upon it, laying his cane across his lap. He took the papers from Danson and glanced over them. He looked over the top of them at Tenarim. "Everything appears to be in order. Let the negotiations begin."