Chapter 1
Proposal
219 A.C.
"The ravens have been sent, my lord," Illyen said in a soft voice, keeping his eyes downcast under his mask as he laced his fingers together under his purple cloak. "Soon, all the world will know of Braavos, and its defiance of the mighty Dragonlords of Valyria."
The man in front of him turned slightly to look over his shoulder and gave him a slow nod. "Well done, Ezarro," he replied gruffly, before pausing for a long moment to look him over. "Yet it seems that your thoughts are troubled. Pray, share them with me."
Illyen raised his head and took a moment to steal a furtive glance at the nearest members of the audience, their faces faintly illuminated by the lanterns lining the edge of the stage. All were silent, and to his delight, most had their eyes completely fixated on the mummers before them, evidently enraptured by their performance. Illyen managed to suppress a smile as he lowered his head and reached up to gently touch the edge of the blank white mask that covered the upper half of his face.
"I have been pondering, Sealord… we have worn these masks for so long, concealing our identities for fear of our lives," Illyen said slowly, before looking up to gaze at the man standing opposite him. "Yet now that the hour is hand that we might remove them, I now fear that I no longer know who I was before I donned it. Have I become a new man? Have I remained unchanged? Have I worn this mask for so long that it is who I have become?" He shook his head slowly before letting his hand drop to his side. "I no longer know."
The other mummer, a short, dark-skinned man named Balerion, gazed at him for a long moment, then strode across the stage and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Nor I, Ezarro," he replied softly, prompting Illyen to raise his head and meet his gaze. "Indeed, it may be that wearing these masks for so long has altered the faces beneath. I cannot say for certain." He then raised his hand and touched his own mask, a slight smile spreading across his lips. "But even ere we donned these facades of wood and clay, we were wearing masks. We smiled through grief. We disguised anger with calm. We hid truths beneath falsehoods. And even after we have cast aside these disguises, we shall always wear masks, until we lie in our graves."
"Louder," Illyen muttered under his breath.
Balerion's dark eyes flickered briefly with annoyance, then he raised his voice and continued, "But now, we are free to choose the masks that we wear! Our city is safe, our debts repaid! No longer can our enemies dictate where we live, how we labor, whom we love! Now we may decide which masks to don, and which to discard! We may choose for ourselves the guises that fit our faces best! Shall you wear the helm of a warrior? The veil of a courtesan? The hood of a thief? I cannot say! That is for you to decide, Ezarro, and even I, the Sealord of Braavos, cannot force upon you a mask that you have not chosen!"
"My Lord…!" Illyen exclaimed, his eyes wide.
Balerion gripped his shoulders tightly as the other mummers who had taken part in the play stepped out of the background to form a line a few paced behind them. All were wearing heavy cloaks of purple that concealed their bodies, and their faces were likewise hidden behind pure white masks. "But now, allow me to issue a command. While you need not obey it as a slave, I pray that you shall follow it as my subject."
Illyen straightened up and stepped away, bowing his head deferentially. "Then please, speak your will to your ever-faithful servant, my lord," Illyen replied.
"Come. Join me, my friend, and let us watch the sunrise together," Balerion said. Illyen smiled at him and inclined his head deferentially, then moved to take his place at Balerion's left. Together, they turned to face the audience, and then they stood in silence. After a moment, the peal of a horn echoed through the theater, and the Sealord raised his hand.
"Hark! The Titan heralds the dawn of a new day!" the Sealord cried. "But this is not just any day, my friends! Our years of hiding in the mists have ended! We now walk the world as free men and women, and no one – neither Harpy of Ghis, nor Pureborn of Qarth, nor Dragonlord of Valyria – shall claim you as their thrall! Join me now, countrymen! Cast aside your masks, and show your faces to the world!"
With that, every mummer on the stage lifted their hands and slowly removed their masks to reveal their faces. Balerion was the last to take his off, and when his face was revealed to the crowd, he gazed at his mask pensively for a moment before carelessly tossing it aside to clatter across the stage.
"And now we face the future together… as the free men of Braavos!" he shouted, lifting his fist triumphantly.
There was a momentary pause, and then the heavy velvet curtain fell over the stage. Immediately, the theater erupted into applause, the cheers echoing off the frescoed walls and the hollow, domed ceiling high above them. Illyen turned to Balerion and grinned broadly at him, which he matched. They quickly lined up side-by-side together as the other mummers joined them, and then the curtain raised again. The performers bowed in unison, and the cheers reached a crescendo, the applause ringing almost painfully in Illyen's ears. The owner of the Dome Theater, a portly, balding man named Derro, hurried forward and grabbed Illyen by his hand, then dragged him out in front of the other mummers.
"Playing Ezarro, the author of this play… Illyen!" Derro announced, and the crowd let out another burst of cheers. Illyen felt his cheeks flush slightly, but he bowed again, before slipping back in line as Derro grabbed Balerion and ushered him forward.
"Playing Sealord Uthero Zalyne… Balerion Otherys, the Black Drake!" he continued, to another round of cheers. Derro then went down the line, announcing each mummer and their roles in the play. After about ten minutes, the applause had died down as the audience's interest flagged and their hands grew numb from clapping for so long, but when Derro motioned to the entire cast one final time, the audience managed one last roar of approval. Then the curtain fell a final time and the mummers were free to set about taking off their costumes, while on the other side of the curtain the audience began making their way towards the exits.
As Illyen unclasped the heavy cloak he was wearing and made his way backstage towards one of the large wooden chests where they stored their costumes, Derro swept into the mummers' changing chamber. "Well done, all of you!" he exclaimed, running his fingers excitedly over his thick brown mustache. "Well done! Now, while your performance was excellent, I do have some criticisms. Balerion, you must project your voice more, especially when you are in the limelight. The audience wishes to hear you as well as see you."
"Hmph. They should be grateful for the privilege of merely gazing upon me. I would demand ten times what they paid for their tickets were they to seek an audience with me outside this hall," Balerion retorted drily as he began tying his long dreadlocks into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. "But I shall heed your advice," he added airily as Derro glowered at him.
"See that you do," he growled, before turning to Illyen. "Illyen, you were out of place in the second act, during the fight between Unthero and Aelys. You were meant to be standing under the balcony, not beside the tree. Come, you wrote the script. You should know your position."
"Perhaps I was in place. Perhaps I decided to alter the script. You wouldn't know," Illyen replied cheekily over his shoulder. His response elicited titters of laughter from the other mummers, though when Derro glared at him, he inclined his head. "Understood," he added contritely.
"Gods, send me less insolent mummers," Derro sighed in a long-suffering tone. "If you all so adore comedy, perhaps I should send you lot to Westeros, where you can perform farces instead of plays. No?" he asked, casting a glare around at the others to ward off any other smart comments. "Then be silent when I am instructing you. Now then. Lyssa, your voice broke twice during your aria. If you need water before your performance, mention it. Galeon, mind your steps when you are dancing. I saw you stumble, and I am certain the audience did as well. And Pylos, while you did well for your first performance, you seemed uncertain of your lines. We shall be rehearsing this play again in two days, so take care to memorize them properly before then. Understood, all of you?" he asked, casting his gaze around the room.
There were nods and murmurs of acknowledgement from the others, including Illyen, who had just finished stripping off the purple tunic he wore under his cloak. As he began stuffing it into the chest, Derro pointed to him and added, "Also, Illyen. A member of the audience wishes to speak with you. A magister."
Illyen paused with his arm half-buried in the chest and tilted his head curiously. "Indeed? Did he say what he wanted?" he asked.
"He did not," Derro replied simply. "Only that he wished to have a word with you at your earliest convenience."
Illyen considered the request for a moment as he stood up and rested his hands on his bare hips. This was not the first time a nobleman had asked to see him after a performance. The first merely wished to offer him congratulations, while the second had actually propositioned him, much to his discomfort. That memory sent a shudder down his spine. He was grateful that his fame had allowed him to refuse the request, since his common status certainly would not have. Still, he supposed he should at least greet this magister, as it would be unwise of him to make an enemy of a member of the upper class of Braavos by refusing to even meet with him.
"Very well," Illyen replied with a faint, resigned sigh as he quickly pulled a white linen shirt over his head. "Could you send him in?"
Derro narrowed his eyes. "As though I am your errand boy," he groused irritably. Even so, he obliged Illyen by leaning out the door and muttering to someone, "Please, come inside." The portly director then stepped aside as an unfamiliar man strode into the room.
The magister in question seemed to be in his late fifties, with a close-cropped head of silver-grey hair and a trimmed beard that covered his cheeks, jaw, and mouth. He stood a few inches shorter than Illyen, and his frame was slender, though not overly thin. He wore a long black coat over a dark grey tunic, along with deep brown pantaloons and boots. Atop his head rested a cylindrical hat made of black felt, trimmed with ermine fur. As his bright green eyes fell on Illyen, a grin spread across his face, and he inclined his head politely in greeting.
"Well met. Illyen, is it not?" he asked, extending his hand in greeting.
"I am," Illyen replied, grasping his forearm and bowing his head respectfully. "With whom do I have the honor of speaking?"
"I am Magister Regoro Telerys," the man introduced himself as he released Illyen's hand, allowing his thumb to hook into his pocket instead. "Forgive my intrusion. I merely wished to congratulate you for your performance, and to thank you for crafting such an entertaining spectacle."
"You honor me, Magister," Illyen replied with another deferential bow of his head. "In truth, though, you should also give your thanks to my fellow mummers, who brought the story to life, and especially to those brave souls who founded Braavos centuries ago. Their defiance of Valyria took immense courage. I merely adapted their heroism into a short play, and I fear that I could never truly do their deeds justice."
"Your modesty does you credit, my boy," Regoro remarked, seeming impressed with his response. "Yet it was you who brought the dead back to life tonight, if only for an instant, and that is a remarkable feat in and of itself."
"I thank you for your kind words, Magister," Illyen replied with a soft smile.
"There is no need to thank me for well-earned praise," Regoro replied easily. "I would also like to ask – would you allow me to buy you a meal this evening? I would like to discuss your play in greater detail… and I would also like to make a proposal."
Immediately, the hairs on the back of Illyen's neck stood up, and his stomach twisted. His thoughts flashed to the keyholder that had propositioned him, and he stammered, "M-magister, I am flattered, but you must know that I have no interest in men-"
Regoro frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened with alarm, and then he let out a disgusted scoff. "A proposal, boy, a business proposal!" he cried. "Not a proposition! That… no! Absolutely not!"
Illyen's face flushed crimson, and behind him he could hear the other mummers howling with laughter. Utterly embarrassed, he stared down at the floor for several long moments, trying to ignore the burning in his ears as he attempted to regain his composure, while simultaneously considering the offer. He realized that if he refused now, he would have not only humiliated both himself and the magister, but outright insulted him. He had little choice but to accept. Illyen took a deep, shaky breath, then looked up again, somehow managing to meet Regoro's eyes.
"I beg your pardon, Magister," he murmured. "So long as this is merely a matter of business, then I would be more than glad to accept your generous offer. Would you perchance allow me a few moments to change into more appropriate attire?"
Regoro managed an awkward chuckle. "Of course. Take as much time as you need. I shall await you outside the theater."
Illyen bowed gratefully as Regoro turned and walked back out of the room. Studiously ignoring the lingering laughter of the other performers, he made his way back over to his costume chest to finish putting away his tunic.
"Well now! It sounds as though your magister friend has a delightful evening planned," Balerion remarked in an airy tone from the other side of the room. "Dinner, a moonlit stroll along the canals… you should take care to dress in your finest-!"
Before he could finish his comment, he had to duck as Illyen flung a balled-up shirt at him over his shoulder. Balerion cackled mischievously as he plucked the garment from the floor and tossed it back. "Ah, come now, that shirt should finish the night on his floor, not this one!" he teased.
"You are free to dine with him in my place, if you wish. He claimed to have no carnal interest in me, but perhaps you're more to his liking," Illyen replied blandly as he closed the chest, then walked over to stand in front of a polished silver mirror. "Do you know him, perchance?"
"Do you believe I am acquainted with every magister in the city?" Balerion retorted.
"Are you not?" Illyen replied, glancing over his shoulder. Balerion rolled his eyes, but didn't answer.
Illyen turned back around and took a few moments to inspect himself in the mirror. When he had first been hired, Derro had claimed that Illyen had an ideal body for a mummer. He was generally considered handsome, but not stunningly attractive. His tawny hair could be easily lightened to blond with lemon juice, or darkened to brown or black with soot and ash, and he wore it to his shoulders, so that it was long enough to allow him to assume the role of a longer-haired character – including women, if necessary – but short enough to tie and hide under a hat or a wig. His brown eyes were quite common, and his skin was fair, allowing him to convincingly pass as anything from a pale-skinned Valyrian to a Norvoshi or Volantine noble. His face was usually clean-shaven, though he had recently grown a short goatee and mustache to fit the role of Ezarro, making him look somewhat older and more distinguished. His slender build allowed him to play lithe characters, but could also easily be altered with padding to make him appear more muscular. The only unusual feature about him was his height, as he stood a few inches over six feet, but even then, he was merely tall, not gargantuan. All in all, he could easily play most roles, and Darro highly valued his versatility as a mummer, even before considering his skills as a playwright.
Illyen tucked his hair behind his ears, then walked over to a wardrobe and briefly rifled through it until he found what he was looking for. With a reluctant sigh, he pulled a purple doublet embellished with silver buttons over his shirt. He then cinched a brown leather belt around his waist before pulling on a pair of dark brown trousers and soft, black leather boots. When he turned back around, he noticed Balerion watching him, and he held his hands out. "Your thoughts?" he asked.
"Acceptable," Balerion shrugged. "Purple is a safe enough color, though not as formal as black or dark blue. Then again, you do not wish to over-dress for this meeting. Especially since you do not know what he intends to ask of you."
"Very good," Illyen nodded, before turning to close the trunk. "Might I ask you to see Jyn safely home?"
Balerion raised an eyebrow. "She is two and twenty," he pointed out.
"Still younger than I, and still a maiden," Illyen countered.
"So far as you know," Balerion muttered under his breath.
"Yes, and I do not wish to learn otherwise," Illyen retorted. "In any case, the hour is growing late, and soon the bravos will be taking to the streets. While they may not provoke any man who is not carrying a blade, they are notorious for insisting young women… accompany them on their nightly adventures. So, I am asking you as a favor – will you see her home this evening, since I cannot?"
"Ah, yes, allow me to get skewered by an irate bravo instead, when I insist that she is not to be bothered," Balerion sighed dramatically.
"As though anyone would dare lay a hand upon you," Illyen said drily. "Please."
"…Oh, very well," Balerion grumbled. "You owe me a favor, however."
"I would not be the first, nor the last," Illyen pointed out.
"Indeed," Balerion smirked. Now go, before you annoy the magister any further. And good luck."
"My thanks," Illyen said with a warm smile and a nod of his head. He then turned and hurried out of the back rooms behind the stage and quickly made his way towards one of the Dome's back exits.
The early evening air was quite warm as Illyen stepped out onto the street – he could not recall if the season was summer or autumn – and though night had not quite fallen yet, a light fog blanketed the city, so many of the torchlamps lining the street had already been lit. The orange glow of their flames appeared as hazy nimbuses in the mist, giving the pedestrians regular guideposts to follow, even if the actual light they provided was faint at best. The fog also partially obscured the imposing stone buildings looming above him, so that all Illyen could see were the grim, grey outlines of the towering structures, with thin towers and elegant domes reaching into the golden-orange sky.
Illyen exhaled slowly as he glanced back and forth down the street. As it would soon be time for supper, the roads were crowded with people hurrying back to their homes after a long day of work. As the Dome theater was located near the wealthy Purple Harbor, most of those who passed him by were sailors, dockworkers, and merchants, but here and there he spotted a colorfully-clad bravo, or a banker dressed in a drab brown or grey coat. Illyen briefly scanned the crowd, and though he did not initially spot Regoro, he eventually noticed the older man was sitting on a stone bench with his back to the road, staring pensively at one of the city's many canals. He was absently watching a pair of bankers riding on a small boat piloted by a bare-chested commoner, who was propelling it slowly through the murky grey waters with a single long oar.
Illyen threaded his way through the crowd and came up behind Regoro, clearing his throat as he drew near. The magister turned and greeted Illyen with a warm smile and a nod. "Thank you for your patience, magister," Illyen said with a polite bow of his head. He hesitated, then added with an embarrassed cough, "And… once again, I wish to apologize for-"
"I will not begrudge you for your assumptions, my boy," Regoro assured him with a chuckle as he pushed himself up and stretched languidly. "I did approach you rather suddenly, and I did not clearly state my intentions. I presume that you have had a rather unpleasant experience in the past?"
"Thankfully, no," Illyen admitted. "Though it could have been."
"Well, let us speak of it no further," Regoro said with a note of finality. "You must be hungry, yes? If you would permit me, I would like to invite you to an inn that I am quite fond of. Have you ever dined at the Emerald Lagoon, perchance?"
Illyen's eyes widened briefly. "I cannot say that I have," he admitted. The inn was renowned for its seafood, but was also known to charge exorbitant prices for its meals.
"Then please, allow me to treat you," Regoro offered with another warm smile as he started off down the street. "Shall we?"
"I would be honored," Illyen replied softly as he fell in step beside the magister. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Not at all," Regoro replied easily, folding his hands behind his back as he walked. "Consider it a token of my appreciation for a most entertaining performance." He gazed at Illyen out of the corner of his eye. "And for penning the tale in the first place. You have quite the gift."
"I merely retold a story we all know well," Illyen replied sheepishly. "There is not a soul in Braavos that does not know the Uncloaking of Uthero."
"You did not merely retell it. You expanded upon a rather banal event and made it exciting," Regoro pointed out. "Yes, every citizen of Braavos knows the name Uthero, but by all accounts, the Unmasking itself was not particularly dramatic. From what I have read, Uthero paid off the Valyrians to ensure that they would not seek retribution – and in truth, they seemed to care very little about the fate of former slaves that had escaped centuries ago – and then sent out ravens to announce the existence of Braavos, which elicited no response from the other cities of the Freehold. It was a rather dull affair. To add so many layers of intrigue – evading vengeful Dragonlords hunting slave-liberators on dragonback, negotiating secret deals with corrupt slavers, assassinations by the Faceless Men – you turned the Unmasking into a truly thrilling tale."
Illyen felt his cheeks flush slightly. "You flatter me," he murmured, uncertain how else to respond to the praise.
He and Regoro briefly stepped apart to allow a dockworker carrying a crate to pass between them, before resuming their walk side-by-side. "I was particularly impressed by your inclusion of the coded messages that the liberators sent to one another," Regoro remarked.
"Well, that was not my invention. That actually occurred," Illyen explained, his flush quickly fading. "According to the histories that I read, that was how the ancient Braavosi communicated across long distances, by encoding their messages before sending them to one another via raven. Often, the code involved little more than shifting the letters a few places. It was actually quite simple to decipher, if one knew the trick. However, it was better than sending their notes unprotected, and it was surprisingly effective for keeping their messages a secret from their enemies." He smiled slightly. "Even a simple riddle can be difficult to solve if one has never heard it before, and has not been told the answer."
A mysterious smile spread across Regoro's face. "Indeed…." he said thoughtfully. Illyen's own smile faltered, but before he could inquire about Regoro's thoughts, he suddenly motioned to Illyen's left. "We've arrived."
Illyen and Regoro came to a halt in front of a tall, three-story building situated on the corner of a street, near a bend in one of the canals. Though made of the same grey stone as the buildings around it, its bottom level was open, and carved into elegant arches, supported by smooth stone pillars that lent it an air of elegance that the more practical rectangular buildings flanking it lacked. Inside, Illyen could see wealthy patrons seated at marble tables, being served their dinners on porcelain dishes, while servers walked by carrying steaming trays of food and carafes of expensive wine. The succulent smells wafting out onto the street made his mouth water slightly, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Regoro grinning at his amazed reaction.
"Come," the magister said, ushering him into the building. He led the way to a marble counter, where a middle-aged man dressed in violet finery greeted them. Regoro spoke with him in a low voice, and the man inclined his head respectfully before leading them to the back of the inn. He pushed open a wooden door to reveal a patio, where a number of small, round marble tables were arrayed beside the street, enveloped by a wrought iron fence. Running alongside the edge of the inn was a narrow back road that was connected to the main street, though far fewer pedestrians were using it, affording them a fine view of the canals. The canals emptied into the eponymous green lagoon that separated two of Braavos' islands, and further in the distance, Illyen could just make out the right leg of the Titan of Braavos, the gargantuan stone and bronze giant that guarded the entrance to the city-state. The scents from within the kitchen masked the briny odor of the water, helping to make the small patio that much more pleasant.
The server motioned for them to take a seat, then announced, "If I might make a recommendation – our freshest dish this evening is salmon caught in the Narrow Sea, served on a bed of Yi-Tish rice pilaf and accompanied by a salad dressed with olive oil and herbs."
Illyen, still reeling from the fact that he was even sitting in the inn, stammered, "I… shall take your recommendation, then."
Regoro chuckled faintly, then turned to the server. "And for myself, a bowl of crab chowder. Bring us a flagon of Arbor gold as well."
The server inclined his head respectfully. "Very good, magister. It shall arrive in but a moment."
As the server wheeled around and made his way back into the inn, Regoro turned back to Illyen, an amused smile on his face. "I take it you have never had a meal such as this?" he remarked.
"Not at all. I am not wealthy, nor is my family, magister," Illyen admitted. "We cannot even claim a surname."
"A bit surprising, I must confess," Regoro remarked. "After all, you have earned quite a bit of recognition of late."
"Fame does not equate to wealth, I'm afraid," Illyen sighed. "It matters little how popular my plays are – I am still just a mere mummer. As the owner of the Dome, Derro receives most of the coin generated by our performances, and while he pays us fairly, none of us is given more than a modest wage."
"A pity," Regoro commented softly, leaning forward on his seat. "I would have thought he would have at least offered you a bit more given how popular the Unmasking has become."
"Yes, well… it is my first universally beloved play, it seems," Illyen admitted. "While 'The Black Pearl' was fairly popular, it did draw the ire of some of the bravos who favored other courtesans." He grinned sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. "It is fortunate that I do not carry a blade, as more than one duelist demanded that I answer their challenge at the Moon Pool, and they were quite frustrated when I declined. Fortunately, tempers generally seem to have cooled, but on occasion I do still have to answer to an irate bravo who's had too much wine."
"Is that so?" Regoro asked, his tone sympathetic.
Illyen shrugged. "I have yet to be attacked, at least, so there is little reason to dwell upon what cannot be changed. And while my second play, 'The Three Daughters,' did not stir as much controversy, it also did not garner as much attention. So, I am quite pleased this play has finally proven popular."
"As am I," Regoro replied as their server returned with a silver carafe of wine. The magister took it from him and poured the golden wine into two silver goblets, one of which he offered to Illyen. "So, allow me to toast your success," he said. Illyen responded with a bashful grin as he lifted his cup and brought it to his lips, while Regoro did the same. "Are you drafting another play now?" Regoro added as he lowered his cup.
"I am," Illyen replied as he set his cup down after taking a moment to savor the honey-flavored wine. "Since it appears that my forte lies in stories about the ancient past, rather than the present, I am currently writing a story about the Doom of Valyria." A sly smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "I imagine that most here in Braavos would rather enjoy a tale about the arrogance of the Dragonlords leading to their downfall."
"Perhaps, though I would caution you to take care not to offend those who hail from the other daughters of Valyria," Regoro commented. "Volantine visitors especially might not take kindly to one who slanders their beloved forebears."
"Quite," Illyen conceded. "In truth, I have not yet conceived the characters, nor even the plot itself. I have merely chosen the setting. However, I shall heed your advice." Regoro smiled and nodded, seemingly pleased with his response. There was a brief pause as they both sipped their wine, and then Illyen remarked, "But I feel we have talked of my exploits long enough. What of yourself, magister?"
Regoro raised an eyebrow, amused, as he set his goblet down. "What is there to say about me?" he shrugged. "I am hardly a member of some great house or lineage. In truth, I am newly come into my wealth and title. I was a sailor upon various merchant vessels throughout my youth. Shortly before my thirtieth year, I had the fortune to inherit my captain's ship when he – and most of the crew – were slaughtered by pirates while we were sailing through the Steptstones. Only a dozen of us survived the onslaught before I ordered us to sail directly into a storm. It was a fool's decision, but I thought it better to chance death in the rain than embrace it by surrendering to the pirates." He chuckled lightly as Illyen stared at him, awestruck. "We managed to evade our pursuers and limp to Tyrosh, where we sold what goods we had left and discussed what we would do next. In the end, my remaining crewmates named me captain, as it had been my decision that had saved our lives. Fortunately, our ship was not too badly damaged, and in a mere few weeks, we were sailing the seas once more."
"Did your captain leave you his fortune as well?" Illyen asked.
Regoro shook his head. "What little he owned was still aboard the ship, and he had no family to speak of, else I likely would not have been able to claim his ship for myself. She was a fine carrack called the Cormorant, and I used her to make my fortune." He leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers together on the table as his eyes drifted upwards. "The past two decades have been rather bloody. Between our wars with Pentos, the rebellions in the Sunset Kingdoms, and the plague, there has been a great deal of suffering. However, there has also been a great deal of opportunity for those who were willing to take risks."
"Were you a warrior, then?" Illyen asked.
Regoro chuckled and shook his head again. "No, no. I avoided fighting in the wars themselves whenever possible. However, there was coin to be made by anyone willing to brave the bloody seas to deliver goods where they were needed most. I shall confess that I was daring to the point of recklessness at times, but in the end, I amassed a sizable fortune, which allowed me to purchase a title, a manse, and a small fleet of my own." He grinned slightly at Illyen's expression as he brought his cup to his lips again.
Before Illyen could respond, the server appeared once more, carrying a silver tray laden with food. Illyen leaned back as the server set a porcelain plate before him. A generous slice of grilled salmon, slathered in a white cream sauce, rested beside a bed of rice pilaf, which had been cooked with mushrooms and peas. The server also placed a small bowl to his left, which contained a salad of mixed greens, drizzled with olive oil and fragrant herbs. The scent of the food drew a soft growl from Illyen's stomach, though when he furtively glanced up, he was relieved to see that Regoro did not seem to have noticed.
He picked up his fork and speared the tender fish, which easily broke apart from even that slight contact. As he bit into it, his tongue was assailed by the flavor of the savory herbs crusting the fish, while the white sauce was slightly sour, adding a pleasant tang. Swallowing it, he looked up to see Regoro grinning at him faintly.
"How does it taste?" he asked easily as he dipped his spoon into his bowl.
"It's marvelous," Illyen admitted, pausing to take a sip of the sweet wine in front of him. "I have never had anything like it." As he lowered his goblet, he added in a slightly suspicious tone, "Though… I cannot help but feel as though you are attempting to bribe me in some way. You did also mention that you had a proposal for me. Is this meal perhaps an attempt to sway me?"
Regoro tilted his head back and laughed merrily. "I had not expected you to be so wary, my boy. Though I am also pleased." He took a sip from his own goblet, then leaned forward. "Very well. To business then. But first, allow me to ask you… do you truly not know who I am? Do you not recognize my name?"
Illyen winced at how hurt the magister sounded. "Forgive me, but… should I, magister?" he asked, keeping his tone as polite as possible.
Regoro let out a sigh of disappointment. "I see," he murmured. "Then allow me to properly explain myself. I am your uncle."
Illyen's eyes widened slightly. "Indeed?" he asked, unable to keep the suspicion and doubt out of his voice.
"Well… a distant uncle, I must admit. Your mother and I are… second cousins, if I recall," Regoro amended himself. "To be certain, her name is Nessina, yes?"
"It is," Illyen admitted.
Regoro nodded, seeming relieved. "She and I knew one another growing up, but we were not particularly close, given that we were fairly distant kin. Nevertheless, we are related by blood."
"Very well," Illyen said slowly as swallowed a mouthful of pilaf before bringing another to his lips. "Then, if I may, how does this concern your proposal?"
Regoro smiled faintly as he laced his fingers together and rested his elbows on the table. "If you are willing… I would like to name you the heir to my title and estate."
Illyen's eyes widened, and he began choking on the rice in his mouth. Alarmed, Regoro quickly handed him the goblet of wine, and Illyen downed a few mouthfuls of it until his throat was clear. When it was, he gasped out, "I beg your pardon?!"
Regoro laughed apologetically. "Forgive me," he said, still chuckling. "I did not intend to startle you so. But that is what I wish to propose to you – to name you my heir."
Illyen slumped back in his chair, reeling. "I… forgive me, but… why, exactly?!" he asked breathlessly. "Do you not have any children of your own?"
"I did," Regoro said softly, his eyes clouding. "I am sorry to say that my only son was lost to piracy."
Illyen grimaced. "My apologies," he murmured.
Regoro shook his head. "You could not have known," he said easily. "But as it stands, no, I do not have an heir to my estate. I am also well aware that I am not as young as I once was, and that the day I no longer count myself amongst the living shall come sooner rather than later. To that end, I wish to have my affairs in order, and that includes selecting a worthy successor."
"I… very well, I understand your concerns," Illyen said uneasily. "Nevertheless, I am certain I would make a poor heir. I know nothing of trade! I could not begin to guess the value of a single good…."
Regoro suddenly laughed, shaking his head. "That, my boy, is irrelevant," he said, grinning as he rested his chin on his laced fingers. "The value of anything is simply what the buyer places upon it, and what the seller is able to convince them is reasonable. Tell me, what would you say is a fair price for a goblet of water?"
Illyen hesitated, uncertain of whether this was a hypothetical question, or if Regoro was truly testing his mercantile knowledge. "I… cannot say," he admitted. "There are public fountains throughout Braavos that cost nothing. Perhaps you might be able to convince a fool to spend a single coin?"
"Perhaps," Regoro agreed with a slight smile. "Now, what if I offered you that same goblet of water after you had been wandering in the desert for a week, dying of thirst? Suddenly, you would be far more willing to pay a far higher price for it, yes?"
"I… suppose I would," Illyen agreed.
Regoro nodded. "That is the secret to becoming a successful merchant – to determine what a customer will pay for a commodity, no matter how common or rare, and then convince them that it is in their best interest to accept your price. Knowledge of the market cost of goods does aid one's efforts, certainly, but the ability to read others and to persuade them to accept your terms is the mark of a true merchant. And, in truth, I believe you possess that skill already."
"Indeed?" Illyen asked absently, taking another bite of the salmon. The fish was just as delectable as when he had first tasted it, but he found that his appetite was swiftly fading.
"Aye," Regoro nodded as he dipped his spoon into his soup again and stirred the creamy white broth. "After all, your own profession involves convincing an audience to submerge themselves in a world of your creation. You persuade them that what they see upon the stage is reality." He smiled faintly as he sipped the creamy broth on his spoon. "It is not so different from convincing another to accept a price you have placed upon a good."
"Even so, that does not change the fact that I know nothing of the actual business of trade," Illyen countered. "You said that you were a sailor, yes? I have never set foot upon a ship that was not docked in a harbor. Nor have I ever drafted a contract for goods, bartered with another merchant…."
"All skills that can be taught quite easily," Regoro insisted. "I was but a simple sailor when I first began, and now I can call myself a magister. You shall learn in time as well. What's more, you are already leagues ahead of where I was when I first began. For one, you can obviously already read and write. I could not." He tilted his head slightly. "How skilled are you with numbers?"
"I… know basic arithmetic, though I cannot say that I am particularly proficient at it," Illyen admitted. "I have always been far more skilled with a quill than an abacus."
"I see," Regoro said softly, though his tone not particularly disappointed. "That should be sufficient at first." He paused, noticing Illyen's apprehensive expression, and he smiled warmly as he leaned forward. "I understand that you are concerned. Rest assured, I do intend to instruct you about how to conduct trade. I would not be so cruel as to name you my heir and not teach you the skills required to maintain my estate. I wish for you to succeed, after all."
"Yes, but… I must ask again. Why me?" Illyen said slowly. "We are only distant cousins, yes? Surely there are others in our family that you could have approached with this proposal. Braavos is a city of merchants – is no one else in our line skilled in the art of trade?"
"Surprisingly, no," Regoro admitted. "You are acquainted with Herria and her brood, yes? Her boy, who is a touch younger than you, is a bravo. Do you expect me to leave my fortune to a hot-headed fool who will likely meet his end in a duel over an insult to his mistress' eyebrow? Or what of Delina and her children? They are dockworkers, yes, but as thick as granite. I should know – they are employed by a rival of mine." He shook his head. "No, Illyen. I have considered our other relatives. You are by far the cleverest of your kin, as demonstrated by your success upon the stage. I believe that I could easily teach you to become a merchant, and one day, you could become a magister in your own right." He smiled faintly. "You are a mummer, after all. Perhaps you should merely consider this preparation for another role. This is naught more than another mask to wear."
Illyen frowned deeply as the magister used his own words against him, and he set his fork down on his plate before gently pushing the dish away from him. "And what of my wishes?" he asked curtly. "I did not simply pursue the path of a mummer because I crave fame. I write plays because I enjoy spinning tales and seeing the joy upon the audience's faces as they watch what I have created. Were I to heed your wishes and become your heir, trading would consume all of my time, yes? I would no longer be able to write or perform. To that end, why should I accept your proposal?"
"I never said that you could not remain a mummer," Regoro pointed out calmly. "For one, it is not as though I shall simply surrender my title to you as soon as you accept. I intend to maintain control of my estate for as long as possible, and in the meantime, teach you all you will need to learn in order to inherit my estate when you are ready. What's more, it is not as though you cannot pursue other interests while also seeing to your mercantile duties. Trade continues to flow even when you are not actively involved in it, and when you are not occupied with managing the estate, it is wise to turn your attention to other pursuits. If anything, I would encourage you to continue writing plays and performing on the stage. It would increase your fame, which would in turn be an excellent way to attract additional customers."
Illyen stared silently at the cold remnants of his meal for a few moments, then picked up his goblet and sat back in his chair, gazing out at the canal as he slowly sipped the wine. Admittedly, it was a tempting offer. For most commoners, the opportunity to become a member of the aristocracy was an impossible dream. To live in an opulent manse, to have your whims seen to by fawning servants, to never want for anything… few would even think twice before accepting an offer.
Yet, Illyen had never truly had any dreams of becoming a magister. Certainly, from time to time, he had gazed up at the soaring towers of the Prestayn and Antaryon families with envy, and when rumors spread that the magisters and keyholders had proposed another law to the Sealord that increased taxes or diverted coin from the commoners to their own coffers, he had cursed them and wished he had been allowed a say in the running of Braavos' government. However, for the most part, he was content with his station in life. Though his father did not approve of his decision to become a mummer, he had never regretted it. He thoroughly enjoyed penning tales and bringing them to life on the stage for adoring audiences. What's more, he had never had any illusions about rising above his position. As he had always presumed it impossible, he did not pine for what he could not have. So long as his tales were remembered fondly, he felt that he would have left a lasting legacy, and that was enough for him. Thus, while Regoro's offer was unspeakably generous, he nevertheless found himself reluctant to accept it.
"Would you… perhaps allow me some time to consider your offer?" Illyen asked slowly, turning back around with an apologetic frown.
Regoro smiled sympathetically and nodded. "Of course," he agreed softly. "This is not a decision to be made lightly, and I am actually quite pleased that you did not immediately agree. It shows a great deal of wisdom. Until then, I encourage you to ask me any questions that you might have."
"Well, for one, where do you live?" Illyen asked. "You did not mention that."
"No, I did not," Regoro admitted with a chuckle. As a server walked by, he reached out and touched the man's elbow. "Could you perhaps fetch me a quill, some ink, and a scrap of paper?"
The server nodded and hurried off, returning moments later with the items Regoro had asked for. Regoro quickly scribbled a few lines on the scrap of paper, then handed it to Illyen.
"This is where you will find my manse," he explained as Illyen glanced it over. Written on the paper was a street name, as well as a crudely-drawn map. There seemed to be six houses on the street, and the second from the right was circled. "It is a short distance from the Purple Harbor… and also not far from the Dome theater, so it should be a swift walk for you. You could come in the evening, after you have finished your work for the day."
Illyen nodded as he waved the paper to ensure the ink was dry, then stuffed it into the leather pouch on his belt. "You should expect a visit soon, then."
"I hope that it is to deliver a positive response to my proposal," Regoro replied with a slight smile. "Though if you do decline, I shall not be cross with you. I am well aware how queer this request is, and I wish to thank you for hearing me out. I would not have been surprised had you dismissed me as a fraud or a madman."
Privately, Illyen was still uncertain of the truth of Regoro's claims – even the fact that they were supposedly kin – and he intended to ask his mother in the morning if she was aware of their supposed shared blood. Nevertheless, he let out a low chuckle. "Well, even if it were false, it was at least an amusing tale, and a tempting fantasy," he replied.
"Yes, but there are times when truth can be stranger than fantasy, mm?" Regoro countered. He then waved his hand. "But we have spoken of these matters long enough, and this dinner was meant to be a congratulations on your performance. Would you perhaps care for something sweet to accompany a final goblet of wine? This inn serves a truly delectable honey and cream cake."
Illyen hesitated for a moment, as he had not yet fully regained his appetite due to the shock of all that Regoro had said that evening. However, he felt that refusing would be rude, and the cake sounded light enough that it would not likely turn his stomach. "I would appreciate that," he replied with a faint smile.
"Very good!" Regoro grinned, before pouring the last of the carafe into Illyen's goblet. "And in the meantime, if you would indulge me, I had some questions about the play. For one, did Ezarro truly exist?"
"Unfortunately, he did not," Illyen admitted with a slight grin as he sat back in his chair. "Though I did read a few tales about people like him – former slaves turned liberators who established secret routes which led other escaped slaves to Braavos. For instance, one legend told of a young man, originally a servant in Myr, who would wrap escaping slaves in carpets and transport them in wagons along the dragonroads…."
The pair spent the remainder of the meal chatting about the details of Illyen's play, and how true to history they were. When the cake arrived fifteen minutes later, Illyen was pleased to find that the sweet honey-soaked cake and layers of cream did whet his appetite, and he happily finished the dish before draining the last dregs of his wine. He and Regoro then lingered for another half an hour, until the sun had fully set below the horizon and the sky had started to turn a velvety purple.
At last, Regoro gazed up at the rising moon and let out a soft sigh. "Well… this has truly been a pleasant evening, but I suppose that we should depart." He took a final sip from his goblet, then peered at Illyen over the rim of it. "If you would like to spend the evening, there is more than enough room in my manse, and it is not far…."
Illyen winced uncomfortably. "That is very kind of you, but you must forgive me if I decline."
"Of course," Regoro said with a slight smile as he set down his goblet. From the light tone of his voice, it did not sound as though he was offended, much to Illyen's relief. "After all, you are still uncertain if you can trust me. Your caution is not unwarranted, and again, I consider it a merit. Nevertheless, should you change your mind, my door is always open to you."
"Thank you, magister," Illyen replied with a bow of his head, before pushing himself up from his chair. Regoro did the same, and after taking a moment to stretch, he led the way through the bottom level of the inn and back out onto the street.
As night had nearly fallen, the streets were almost empty, save for a few passerby who were hurrying to their homes, and the occasional swaggering bravo, strutting down the road and gazing back and forth with his hand resting on the hilt of his slender sword as an open challenge for a duel. Illyen and Regoro slipped off to the side as one of the brightly-colored men passed by them and let out a disappointed tut when he saw they weren't armed. Regoro rolled his eyes, then turned to Illyen.
"Before we part ways, I have something for you," he said as he reached into his robes. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a round, dark grey object, which he handed to Illyen.
"What is this?" Illyen asked, holding it up to the light. It appeared to be an iron coin – the standard currency used in Braavos – but oddly, it was circular, rather than the standard square-shaped coins minted by the Iron Bank. On the front of the coin was a face, though in the dim light, he could not make out whose. The back of the coin was emblazoned with a ship, and around the edges of the coin were numbers, separated by lines, below which were clusters of dots.
"A key," Regoro replied with a mysterious smile. When Illyen frowned in confusion, the magister shook his head apologetically. "I cannot explain here, I am afraid. If you wish to learn more, please come to my manse, and I will tell you all you wish to know about it."
Illyen's frown deepened. He disliked this sudden secretive behavior, but he could tell from the resolute look in Regoro's eyes that he would not divulge any more information, even if Illyen pressed him. Sighing, he nodded reluctantly and slipped the coin into his belt pouch.
"Then… perhaps I will speak with you in a day or two," Illyen replied slowly. "Once again, I still wish to discuss this with others and seek their advice, before I accept your offer." As Regoro nodded slowly, he added, "However, it is quite generous, and I am honored and flattered that you hold me in such esteem. In truth, I believe myself unworthy of it, which is why I do not yet feel that I can accept your proposal without reservation."
"I understand," Regoro replied. "And I am willing to wait patiently until you make your decision. Nevertheless, I do not believe I have erred in my choice. You have proven yourself both clever and cautious, which are traits that I had hoped you possessed." He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice. "And… I should tell you now. Should you accept my offer, I would ask you to swear an oath."
Illyen tensed. "And that is?" he asked slowly.
Regoro stepped a bit closer and lowered his voice to barely more than a mutter. As he stared down at Illyen, his blue eyes burned fiercely. "No matter what else might occur, I will ask you that you do all in your power to ensure that my estate does not fall into unworthy hands."
Something in Regoro's fierce tone sent a shiver down Illyen's spine. "And… what would you consider unworthy hands?" he asked, his throat suddenly quite dry.
Regoro let out a derisive scoff. "The Iron Bank, for one," he muttered. He then shook his head faintly and sighed heavily. "Forgive me. As I said, this is not the place to have such conversations. If you wish to learn more – and if you are certain that you do not wish to return with me this evening – then please seek me out as soon as possible. I swear, I shall explain everything to you then."
Illyen gazed at him for a long moment, considering his reply, before finally inclining his head. "Very well. I certainly have questions that I wish answered, so I shall likely speak with you shortly."
"I eagerly anticipate it," Regoro grinned, before reaching up to tilt his felt hat towards Illyen. "Good evening, my boy."
With that, the magister turned and swept away from him, his robes fluttering behind him in the warm breeze. Illyen watched him silently for several long moments until he faded into the fog, and then he leaned against a nearby wall and folded his arms as his mind raced with questions. First and foremost – was he being tricked? He had never heard his mother mention that a cousin of hers was a magister. Could this all be a ploy to lure Illyen to the magister's manse, for some nefarious purpose? That thought sent a shudder down his spine.
However, even as that thought crossed his mind, he began to doubt it. For one, though the proposal was utterly fantastical, Regoro had seemed sincere. After spending years as a mummer and studying facial expressions and vocal tones, he was well-versed in discerning when someone was lying. Of course, he knew that he could still be fooled, but Regoro had seemed honest. Highly unusual, to be sure, but honest.
Even so, Illyen had deep reservations. Accepting the offer would no doubt mean also accepting heavy responsibilities, and he was uncertain if he was willing to. What's more, though Regoro claimed to be a merchant, Illyen did not know what goods he dealt in, with whom he traded… in fact, he knew very little about the man at all. And that, above all else, was what was making Illyen hesitate. Perhaps Regoro had good reasons for his secrecy, but his reluctance to divulge information about himself meant that Illyen had no reason to trust him. True, he had claimed that he would explain more in private, but even that came with the stipulation that Illyen meet with him again. There was not even a guarantee that he would share more information until Illyen became his heir. Surely, only a fool would agree to such conditions.
A warm breeze blew along the street, ruffling Illyen's hair and snapping him out of his thoughts. For now, there was no reason to make a decision. Come morning, he would seek out his mother and ask her what she knew of Regoro. It was late, however, and he suspected that his parents and sister were already asleep. What's more, their house was halfway on the other side of Braavos, and it would be past midnight when he arrived. It would also be wise of him to sleep as well, to allow his mind to settle and sort through the strange events of the evening. The Dome was closer than his parents' house, and there were always beds available in the back rooms for when the mummers needed to stay late to prepare for a performance. He may as well sleep there tonight, he decided.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he turned to make his way back to the theater. However, as he did, he felt a sudden prickling at the back of his neck, and he had the sneaking suspicion that he was being watched. He abruptly turned around and narrowed his eyes to peer through the gloom. Though he saw no one, he thought that he caught a glimpse of a swish of dark fabric just before it vanished into a nearby alleyway.
Illyen's heart began to pound in his throat. He was uncertain if his imagination was merely playing tricks on him, but he certainly was not fool enough to venture into a dark alley to ascertain the truth. Turning back around, he began hurrying down the street at a swift walk, listening intently for footsteps behind him. Thankfully, he did not hear anyone following him, but he did not truly feel safe until he had reached the Dome, unlocked its front door with a heavy iron key, and slipped inside, before locking it again. Even then, as he made his way to the back of the theater to remove his doublet and find an open bed, he could not dispel the fear that had wrapped around him like a cold cloak, and which would continue to haunt him for the rest of the night.