Chapter One: Judgment
"A half-truth is the most cowardly of lies."
A hundred leagues south of Duskport, across the glittering waters of the inner sea known as the Vilhon Reach in a port city called Hlath, stood a man in chains. Shackles, firmly clamped around his wrists and ankles, were attached to chains which snaked across the cool stone floor to iron rings bolted deep into the granite. Runes of binding were etched deep into each shackle and they crackled dangerously as they drove exterior magical energies away.
A mix of braids and dreadlocks hung heavily behind the man like a mass of vines which snaked down his back and around his shoulders. Beneath the ropey hair he wore a black leather vest and beneath that, a red leather cuirass could be seen. Simple dark brown, cloth pants, held up by a length of leather cord and a pair of soft leather boots completed his outfit.
From looking at the man one could have assumed he was used to money. He was stylish. A gold earring hung from the top of his left ear and a neatly trimmed goatee stretched from his upper lip down to a point on the bottom of his chin. He was thin but well muscled and held his six foot frame calmly, almost casually, as if mocking the court which sat on wooden benches around him. His eyes were half lidded, lazy, sleepy. For all his casualness however, he wasn't smiling.
"Salizar Taviano Lomazzo dra Arabar, second child of Moktar Lomazzo and Adriana Calthari nee Lomazo, second eldest of the merchant household Lomazzo dra Arabar, thirty seventh in line to the throne of Chondath..."
Thirty seventh in line to the throne. Salizar blinked lazily up at the magistrate as the silver haired man continued to read his titles. Why did they even bother to mention that? It was about as meaningful as saying he was whatever number of people away from becoming a god. It wasn't going to happen.
"…more commonly known as Salizar Thrift," the magistrate's booming voice concluded.
Gods, Salizar had to work hard not to roll his eyes. In all his twenty three winters he could not ever remember hearing his entire, god awful title.
"You and your companion have been brought to judgment for your crimes against the nation-state of Chondath, and against the merchant household De'Tavier dra Arabar. As dictated by Chondathan law, foreigners will have no voice in a temple of Justice, therefore you will speak for both yourself and Palcoro Ironskull. Is this clear?"
Beside Salizar stood a dwarf in full plate armor, an odd sight in the tropical heat of the Vilhon Reach. The dwarf was short, muscular, and, for all of Salizar's neatness, equally chaotic. Gnarled black hair covered his head before streaming down to merge with his coequally tangled beard which hung midway down his chest and covered the majority of his face. A crooked nose poked out from beneath his extensive facial hair and two beady black eyes glared up at the human judging him.
Salizar cast a sideways glance at the dwarf, Palcoro, who had also been chained and bolted to the floor. He and Palcoro had been through a lot together and Salizar couldn't help but think that it was slightly ironic that they had already reached their end. He opened his mouth to respond but before he could do so the magistrate raised a hand to cut him off.
"Before you answer, know that a priest of Kelemvor is here with us today. He will inform us should your words be untruthful."
To the left of the stone podium on which the magistrate stood was a beefy man in the long clerical robes of a priest of judgment. His black hair was tied in a tight knot behind his head and his jaw was wide as an oxen's. He nodded slightly as Salizar glanced his way.
The frown covering Salizar's face deepened into a scowl. With a priest present he would have to think of ways to tell the truth while meaning something else. It was a daunting task on the fly. He nodded his understanding none the less.
The magistrate returned the nod.
"Firstly," from behind the podium he brought forth an exquisitely wrought elven hand-and-a-half sword with a silver leaf crafted as the hand guard, "is this the blade given to you by the elven sword master, Elewin Tael'Tamraski?"
Salizar looked up at his sword, for it was indeed his sword.
"Aye, the blade is mine."
The magistrate nodded grimly and stowed the blade back beneath the podium. The old man seemed in no hurry to ask his next question and took his time as he flipped through several pages of notes which were splayed across the podium. At length he asked his next question.
"Are you capable of using magic."
Salizar's eyes flickered to the stern priest for a moment and the magistrate cleared his throat.
"Remember, master Thrift, that we will be aware the instant you answer falsely."
The lazy, half lidded eyes flickered back to the magistrate.
"Yes."
"Excuse me?"
Salizar raised his voice so that all the assembled in the temple of Judgment's circular chamber could hear him.
"Yes, I can use magic. I am a sword mage and have trained under Maelin Tael'Tamraski, brother of Elewin Tael'Tamraski."
The extra information wouldn't hurt him any more than the basic truth would. In fact it might even gain him a little breathing room if the magistrate understood that he had control over it.
"And yet you have not registered yourself with the council of magi." The magistrate's voice was stern and his expression was hard. "You do not bear the forehead dot of a registered magic user. Why?"
The young sword mage chewed his lip for a moment before answering.
"I have been out of the cities for some time," he began slowly. That much was true and wouldn't disrupt any spells the priest may have cast over him.
"You have been back for more than a day though," the magistrate interjected, "and still you have not openly declared yourself to the magi. The penalty for underground witchery is death. As a member of one of the twelve merchant houses of Arabar you know this."
Dark, they had him there. He said nothing but maintained his half lidded glare. Whispers flew around the room in hushed undertones but the mood was clear and it was anything but favorable.
The magistrate held up his hand for silence and the room settled. A feeling of tension and suspicion hung heavy on the still air. Once everyone had quieted the magistrate continued.
"Did you, with this elven blade and elven magic, invade the manse of the De'Tavier family?"
The magistrate's words were posed as a question but Salizar could hear the accusation behind the words. He glanced over to Palcoro but the dwarf's eyes were averted. He understood the predicament they were in.
Slowly, Salizar looked back up to the podium, his eyes flickering unconsciously to the thick jowled, Kelemvoran priest before settling on the magistrate.
"Yes."
Whispers once more echoed around the room but instead of quieting them this time the magistrate just raised his voice.
"Did you slay four of house De'Tavier's soldiers?"
"We killed five."
The whispers increased in volume as subdued outbursts broke out and more than one person seated on the benches cast Salizar and Palcoro venomous glares. The young sword mage didn't know any house De'Tavier members by sight but from the way several of the onlookers shook fists and cursed he guessed that he could probably name a few.
"You say this calmly?" asked the magistrate incredulously. The man's silver eyebrows would have disappeared had his hair line not been receding.
Salizar shrugged, "I would not get far in my line of business if I couldn't."
"And what line of business is that," cried a woman in the crowd, unable to control herself, "assassination?"
The lazy eyes raked across the room to fixate the woman and she fell silent.
"Mercenary work m'lady," the young sword mage replied flatly, "my companion and I are sell swords."
"Your occupation," barked the magistrate in some attempt to return order to the stone room, "is of little concern to me."
Salizar's baleful glare shifted back to the magistrate but he said nothing. Likely the magistrate, and possibly the priest as well, had been paid off by the De'Tavier family and would judge them accordingly. Not that the punishment they would receive was misplaced, the sword mage had to admit, it had just most likely already been predetermined. It was the way it was amongst Chondath's elite. As he and Palcoro's crimes had only involved one family, they would probably be handed quietly over to the De'Taviers after the trial, at which point the noble family would provide their own interrogators before subsequently executing the two sell swords. Especially give that he and Palcoro had-
"Is it true," asked the magistrate harshly, his voice rising to nearly a roar, "that after slaying these five guards you slunk into the De'Tavier family's private quarters and slew Marshall De'Tavier in his sleep?"
Now the man was just trying to hype the crowd. Now they were getting to why Salizar and his grizzled dwarven companion were standing in chains. Common soldier deaths could be overlooked; noble deaths could not.
The dreadlocked sword mage smiled serenely up at his captors. "No."
"But your companion did."
Again Salizar shook his head.
"No."
It was technically true and he cast a sidelong glance Palcoro. The burly dwarf matched his look, questioning Salizar with a glance.
The young sword mage just gave his signature, mysterious smile and winked. He was just dragging the hearing on now but with an inevitable execution looming over him, Salizar was beginning to develop a new appreciation for every breath he took.
The magistrate was looking questioningly at the beefy priest of Kelemvor who simply shrugged and nodded, confirming Salizar's claim. The priest looked just as confused as the magistrate.
"Do you know of how Marshall De'Tavier died?" This time there was less accusation and more question behind the silver haired man's words.
Salizar's gaze once again flitted unconsciously to the priest who returned his gaze with a stern and unflinching expression. He would get no help from the man. He sighed dejectedly, his insolent grin finally sliding from his features as he answered truthfully.
"Yes."
De'Tavier curses echoed around the room from family members observing the proceedings Whispers of liar and fabulist could be heard swirling around the hall like agitated ghosts.
The magistrate's expression darkened, "How did the young lord die then?"
The accusatory tone was back.
"He fell from his window ledge," Salizar replied with another serene smile.
In his head he replayed the vision of the De'Tavier family's eldest son fleeing from Palcoro's vicious axe swings. The man had been surprisingly dexterous in his evasions but had eventually found his back to the window. Rather than face the angry dwarf he had opted to jump. Salizar couldn't blame him.
The silver haired lawmen glared suspiciously at him, "And even though you were discovered in his quarters immediately after his demise you still deny you had anything to do with it?"
Salizar looked guiltily towards Palcoro who gave him a gruff nod of understanding. He was out of half truths he could tell and the dwarf knew it. Slowly, he looked back up at the magistrate.
"We may have provided some incentive," the sword mage admitted at length.
Cries of outrage and flagrant accusations assaulted the two prisoners from all sides as the De'Tavier family and their associates unleashed their seething rage upon the sell swords. It was several long minutes before any semblance of order could be restored.
Salizar could feel the hatred and resentment pressing down on him from every side like an oppressive blanket. He had a bizarre desire to flash his mysterious grin, to chuckle, to laugh. If only the rest of the family knew what their son had gotten in to. The young sword mage was sure they would not have been so hostile. He at least wanted the family the family to know that the hit hadn't been personal. Not that it mattered.
The sound of a gavel hitting stone brought Salizar back to himself. The magistrate had finally managed to settle every one down and was now looking sternly down the length of his nose at the two sell swords.
"For both of your crimes against house De'Tavier I find you guilty and worthy of execution," said the magistrate, rising to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at them. "Salizar Lomazzo, for your inability to subjugate your information to the council of magi I also find you guilty and, as decreed by Chondathan law, you merit execution once again."
Salizar's heart sank. He had thought that would be the verdict, expected it even, but it still hurt to hear his final destination spoken so outright. He looked to Palcoro. The dwarf's expression was hidden by his gnarled black beard.
"You will be moved," the magistrate continued, "tomorrow morning by ship to the De'Tavier family residence in Arabar. May Kelemvor judge your souls fairly."
He rose his gavel and slammed it down onto the stone before him.
To Salizar, it sounded like the peeling of a death knell.
Gilliam De'Tavier, patron of house De'Tavier, stood tiredly as he watched the two prisoners dragged out.
He was tired from the weight of years pressing down upon his stooped shoulders and with the added weight of grief, they sunk even lower. His hair was grey, as was his drooping mustache but the twinkle in his eye usually reminded others that the old man still had some spark of life left in him. Today, the twinkle was gone.
"My Lord."
Gilliam looked up to see his manservant, Pharon, standing stiffly with his arm outstretched. The butler wore a snug black doublet with crisp black pantaloons and a felt cap with a feather in it. He had brown hair that was beginning to grey and was combed neatly to one side so that it stuck out from the left side of his cap.
"My Lord," the butler repeated, leaning down to help Gilliam from his seat, "your carriage awaits you."
The old patron rose stiffly to his feet with the aid of the butler's arm and began to shuffle his way to the temple's arched entrance with Pharon's assistance. The buildings architecture mirrored Gilliam's mood; grey and forlorn. No decorations adorned the walls and the masonry work was strikingly bland.
As they exited the vaulted entryway the De'Tavier patron looked up at the sky. It too mirrored his vein. Black storm clouds rolled across the sky, illuminated occasionally by intra-cloud lightning. The tropical storms were common to the Reach but for Gillian, the timing couldn't have been worse. It was as though even the weather sought to symbolize his gloom.
"It will pass, Lord De'Tavier," Pharon said as he gazed up at the roiling clouds.
Gillian hoped he was correct in both cases.
A grand carriage was drawn up before the temple and a crisply clad servant stood beside the open door. The coach was pulled by four beautiful black stallions with golden lace interspersed in their well groomed manes. Lord Gillian and Pharon made their way over to the carriage door where the servant helped to guide the elderly man up the metal step and into the interior of the coach.
Before getting into the vehicle Pharon looked up at the driver. "Back to the manse, as quick as possible."
Before the butler could enter the carriage however, Gillian held out his hand and shook his withered head.
"Take us back to Arabar," the old man wheezed, each word sounding more painful than the last.
Pharon looked upon his lord with concern clearly displayed across his features. "But Lord De'Tavier, your surgeons have said that you are still too weak to-"
"Damn my surgeons," Gillian snarled, some measure of his usual spark returning to his eyes, "I'll see my son's murderers hanged if I have to sit in bed for a month."
Pharon looked as though he wanted to argue but instead he bowed his head in acquiescence and looked back up to the driver.
"To Arabar then."
Satisfied, Gillian De'Tavier eased himself back onto his cushioned seat. He would watch the sell swords die slowly, preferably painfully, for what they had done to his son. Marshall had been his eldest child and most suitable to inherit the De'Tavier family fortune. Marshall had made his father proud.
Yes, thought the old noble as he settled himself for the long ride back to Arabar, he would make those mercenaries scream and beg for death before he killed them.
Then he would find out why his son had died.
Eles Wianar, lord of Arabar, sat upon a shaded balcony overlooking two striped tigers who prowled lazily around the interior of a sun-bleached courtyard. The humid heat did not touch him for around the balcony were runes of magic which held back the oppressive calidity. A decanter of chilled wine sat beside him in a bucket of ice, an expensive rarity in the tropical climate of the Vilhon Reach. Wianar couldn't care less; money was of little concern.
Beside him stood a man dressed in light chain mail and a tunic bearing the colors of Arabar. He had closely cropped hair and a thin mustache which seemed somewhat awkward given his hulking frame. The man, Demarcus Ashby, had barely seen thirty winters but had already risen to the position of captain of espionage and foreign affairs. He had a shrewd intelligence that surprised most and could wield a sword better than the majority of the Chondathian royal guard.
"Two of our agents are well established in Duskport already," said Demarcus calmly, "the other should be arriving within the week."
He had a quiet, deep voice that gave the impression he was trying to calm whomever he was speaking to. A glass of chilled wine sat on the table next to him but it remained untouched. Demarcus was not one to dull his senses.
Lord Wianar did not immediately speak and Demarcus did not press him. They sat in silence for several long moments as the Arabaran lord sipped his iced wine and watched the tigers prowl. Even on the temperate balcony the young captain found himself sweating. The devious Lord Wianar had that effect on people.
"Which gang shall you infiltrate this new agent into Demarcus?" Wianar asked at last. "The Dusk Knives? The Cloaked Ones?"
Demarcus shook his head, "No my Lord. We already have an agent high up in the Dusk Knives and the Cloaked Ones are beyond our reach. We shall send our newest agent to the Red Claws."
"But the Red Claws have already agreed to work with us," noted the lord with an arched brow.
"Exactly," nodded Demarcus emphatically, "all the more reason to keep an eye on them."
A smile spread across the lord of Arabar's face and he nodded approvingly. Demarcus had learned well in the three years since he had taken office.
Down in the courtyard, one of the pacing tigers flopped tiredly into the sliver of shade provided by the high wall of the manse. The animal's ribs could be seen from beneath its glossy fur and a hungry look filled its eyes. Demarcus could see it panting from where he sat and felt a small amount of pity for the beast. It looked hotter than the fourth hell.
"How will you get her unsuspectingly into Duskport?" Wianar asked at length, finally looking over to his captain.
Demarcus stared at his glass of wine intently and for a moment it appeared as though he had not heard.
"She is to be aboard a prison ship destined for Arabar. Her supposed crimes are irrelevant but I have had my agents within the city of shade leak the information to the notorious pirate, Aaron Blackhelm. He will not relinquish the chance for such ripe recruits I think."
The lord of Arabar looked at Demarcus curiously. "And if this Blackhelm does not intercept the ship? What then will you do?"
The big captain shrugged, unconcerned.
"Try again, though perhaps through some other means. The scum of Duskport trust only thieves and killers."
"Only accept thieves and killers," corrected Wianar, "never do they trust."
Demarcus nodded his head in agreement. Duskport was a melting pot of those even other criminal underworlds had shunned. The captain of espionage never could understand how the city continued to function. He aimed to change that, the functioning part at least.
Eles Wianar snapped his fingers and a slave bearing a silver platter with a large, bloody steak came forth. The slave stood silently, staring blankly forward as she awaited a command. At a gesture from Wianar she placed the platter on the table next to Demarcus's untouched cup before giving a slight curtsey and retreating into the darkness of the manse. She was the perfect slave; silent, obedient, and effective.
"How go the preparations for the war?" asked Wianar once the slave had left them.
At this, Demarcus allowed himself to smile and rose to his feet. He picked up the bloody steak from the trey and walked over to the edge of the balcony to look down at the pair of tigers, each trying to avoid the sun as best they could.
"Excellent. Events have been set in motion that cannot be undone. Everything goes as planned."
Lord Wianar also rose to his feet and sauntered lazily over to the balustrade. He looked from the steak in Demarcus's hand, up to Demarcus, then back to the steak with slight disgust as though he couldn't believe the captain was actually holding the raw piece of meat. When he spoke though, the wily lord kept his voice casual.
"What do you expect to happen once everything falls into place?"
Raising his arm, Demarcus threw the piece of meat down into the center of the courtyard. Both tigers froze for a moment as the unexpected treat landed directly between them and they simply stared, first at the meat and then at each other. Simultaneously they lunged forward, massive jaws snatching at the food while giant claws raked at the other. Great swipes from claws opened bloody furrows down the tigers flanks and massive jaws latched on to furry throats. Soon blood covered the sun baked stones of the courtyard as the two starved animals fought and died for the meat.
With a sly grin Demarcus turned back to Eles Wianar and pointed to the two battling animals.
"That."
Authors Note: Any questions? Feel free to ask. Comments? Feel free to share.