Chapter 5

Funeral

Illyen sat hunched over his desk, running the end of his quill against his lip as he considered the next line in his play. Usually, dialogue came easily to him, but today he was having difficulty slipping into the minds of his characters. Of course, it stood to reason that he would have trouble, as he had other concerns weighing heavily on his mind, but it still irritated him that a task that was supposed to be simple was instead giving him so much grief.

A knock at the door of his cabinet startled him, and he let out a heavy sigh as he set the quill down and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Come in," he called out, uncertain if he was more irritated or grateful for the interruption.

Mattheus strode into the room, carrying a silver platter laden with a copper pot of tea, a porcelain cup, and a small plate of fresh bread, accompanied by a bowl of peach preserves. "Forgive the intrusion, Magister, but it has been four hours since you came in here. I was wondering if you wanted something to eat."

Illyen frowned, then leaned back in his chair to peer out the window. It was raining lightly outside, so he couldn't tell the position of the sun. The silver clouds did seem brighter, however, and as he sat forward again his stomach gave a telltale growl, confirming that he had indeed been locked away in his cabinet for quite a while.

"I suppose that I should," he agreed reluctantly as he lifted his hands above his head and stretched, letting out a soft grunt as he did. Mattheus smiled faintly as he set the bread and cup in front of him and poured the steaming liquid. Illyen smiled faintly to himself when he caught the unmistakable scent of mint in the tea. "Forgive me. I did not notice how late it was."

"There's no need to apologize, my lord. I presume that you are still attempting to decipher Magister Regoro's messages?" Mattheus asked conversationally.

Illyen grimaced and shook his head. "Not at the moment. I chose to set it aside after fifteen different ciphers failed and I started becoming vexed," he replied. He motioned to a stack of papers to his right, sitting one of Regoro's coded letters. "Admittedly, I do have more letters to go through if the code is no more than a shift of the alphabet. However, I am beginning to suspect that it is more complex than that."

"How did you come to that conclusion, if I might ask?" Mattheus stepped away and held the platter in both hands as Illyen lifted the teacup.

"When I was writing codes for my play, I noticed that common patterns would emerge, regardless of the letter transposed," Illyen explained. He paused to take a sip of the tea, then continued, "For instance, certain letters appeared more frequently than others – especially vowels – and double letters were also fairly common." He waved his hand at the stack of papers again. "In this, however, I've found few such patterns, and thus far, every translation has been incomprehensible. If anything, I managed to encode the messages even more thoroughly. Thank you, by the by," he added, lifting the tea with a grateful smile. "This is excellent."

"Barba will be pleased to hear that," Mattheus replied with a warm smile as he referenced his daughter. "She brewed it herself. So, you've abandoned your attempts?"

"Only for a short while," Illyen replied as he set the teacup down and began spooning preserves onto a slice of bread. "I thought that working on my latest play might help soothe my frustration and relieve my headache. I'd hoped it might even provide some inspiration about how to solve this riddle." He motioned to the encoded letter beside his manuscript and let out a soft sigh. "Alas, it seems that I was mistaken."

"Your latest play?" Mattheus asked, wandering around to peer at the paper in front of Illyen as he bit into the bread.

"The tentative title I have for it is 'The Doom of Valyria,'" Illyen explained around his mouthful of bread, pushing the sheets towards Mattheus for him to examine. "Though I have yet to fully decide how the story will progress, I intend to tell a tale about the final days of Valyria, and what might have caused the cataclysm. I may center the story around a dragonlord who escaped the Doom, only to be slain in Lys."

"That seems… tragic," Mattheus remarked with a frown.

Illyen shrugged. "A Braavosi audience will hardly see the collapse of a vicious, slave-owning empire as a tragedy. Perhaps it will serve as a warning about hubris, and about the futility of attempting to outrun the consequences of one's actions. There is basis for it in history – the few dragonlords who escaped the destruction of the Valyrian Peninsula were slain shortly afterwards by the newly-liberated citizens of the former Freehold."

"Save for the Targaryens," Mattheus pointed out.

"Save for the Targaryens," Illyen agreed. He reached over and picked up an ancient, worn book resting on the desk. "I'm basing much of the story upon what I've read in this book. It details the Doom of Valyria, and its aftermath. What's more, it was written a mere thirty years after the Doom, and in High Valyrian no less. It is the closest account I could hope to have of the events, short of witnessing them myself." He smiled fondly down at the book, running his fingers along the leather-bound cover. "In truth, I was astounded to find that Regoro had this in his library. It has proven invaluable for my studies."

Mattheus nodded slowly, then looked up at Illyen. "Forgive me, my lord, but… if I might be so bold?"

Illyen glanced up from the book, his smile fading as he raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead."

"Is this truly the wisest use of your time when you have your uncle's debt looming over you and a mere five and a half months to resolve it?" Mattheus asked bluntly. When Illyen frowned deeply, he grimaced and added, "Forgive me. I overstepped-"

"No, you're right," Illyen sighed as he set down the book and ran his fingers irritably through his hair. "Yes, I am well aware that I am turning in circles and accomplishing nothing. Yet, no matter how hard I think on it, I cannot devise a solution. I am no merchant. I am a mummer, and the stage is all that I know. Short of penning a play that becomes so beloved across the world that it earns me thirty-five thousand titans in half a year, I don't know what else I could do."

Mattheus nodded sympathetically as Illyen brought his teacup to his lips. "What of Regoro's previous trading contracts?" he suggested.

"I've looked them over already," Illyen replied, lowering his cup and leaning back to push open the wooden chest behind him, which he had left unlocked. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and held them up. "Unfortunately, the most recent of these is dated from well over two years ago. I have considered asking Balerion if he knows of any of these merchants, but according to the figures, Regoro was making little profit from them himself, and I doubt I would have any more luck than he." He then sighed and added, "Still, if I can think of nothing else, I suppose it's somewhere to start."

Mattheus nodded as he ran his fingers through his thick beard. "Well… in Westeros, I have heard that impoverished lords occasionally seek wealthy spouses. Perhaps you might do the same. You're not married, are you?"

"I am not," Illyen confirmed. "And admittedly, I have considered it. However, I find that solution even less appealing than simply surrendering my title. For one, there is no guarantee that a wealthy family would even consider allowing me to marry into their bloodline. I have a title, true, but little else. The truly powerful families would have no interest in a bankrupt magister with only a title and a manse I do not even own. Meanwhile, the lesser families would not be able to offer enough coin to fully relieve my debt. What's more, no matter who I married, I would be indebted to them for life, and it is quite likely that I would be forced to defer to them on all financial decisions. I would essentially be an eternally indentured servant. As it stands, I am merely indebted to the Iron Bank for six months. I would rather lose my title but retain my freedom, given the choice," he finished firmly.

Mattheus' eyebrows rose slightly. "Interesting. I know many in my homeland who would not make the same decision. I cannot say if it's because of pride or simple stubbornness, but were you to say the same to my countrymen, you would receive some very strange looks."

"Then it's fortunate that I am not Westerosi, isn't it?" Illyen replied evenly, though he kept his tone light to show that he was not trying to be insulting. He took a moment to swallow the last of the bread, then dusted the crumbs off his hands. "In any case, I suppose the wisest thing to do would be to arrange meetings with some of these merchants that previously had dealings with Regoro. If nothing else, I would like to learn what they sell, and what services he offered them. It might provide me with some ideas about what I could offer."

Mattheus nodded as he reached down and picked up the discarded plate. "Very good, my lord," he replied. "And… if I might make a recommendation? No matter what you decide, it might be wise to leave your cabinet for a bit. Perhaps enjoy a bit of fresh air."

Illyen gave Mattheus a wry look before looking over his shoulder at the rain pattering against the windowpane behind him. "Yes, it is a lovely day for a walk, isn't it?" he asked sardonically. When Mattheus gave him a tolerant smile in reply, he softened his tone and added, "But I see your point. I will heed your advice, once I've completed this page."

As Mattheus gave him a pleased nod, a small figure peeked into the room. Mattheus' daughter, Barba, lingered near the doorway, her small hands clutching the frame as she gazed at Illyen tentatively. At barely ten years of age, she stood a mere four-and-a-half feet tall, and her form was quite slender. She wore her dark brown hair in a single long braid that fell to her mid-back, where it swayed against her plain blue dress, and her deep brown eyes were wide with hesitation as she stared up at him.

"M-my Lord?" she stammered.

Illyen gave her a kind smile as he set his quill down and turned his full attention to her. "You may enter, Barba," he said gently. "And thank you for the tea. It was excellent."

A shy smile spread across the girl's lips as she slipped into the room. "You honor me, Magister," she murmured, looking down at the floor as she curtsied. "I came to inform you that there is a visitor at the door. He claims that his name is Varyn, and that he has a message to deliver."

Illyen and Mattheus traded glances, and then Illyen pushed himself up. "Very well. I shouldn't keep him waiting," he announced. "Mattheus, if you would see him in? I will receive him in the parlor."

"Yes, my lord," Mattheus replied, bowing his head.

Illyen nodded as he started to make his way out of the room, but paused to smile down at Barba again. "Thank you for informing us," he said in a softer tone. "Well done."

Barba's eyes widened with surprise, and she blushed as she nodded furiously before turning to hurry off. Illyen blinked after her, then gave Mattheus a querying look.

"She is unused to being spoken to so gently," Mattheus explained, his tone amused. "Young servants are usually considered beneath notice at best, and a nuisance at worst. Rarely do they receive praise, even when it's deserved." He grinned. "I believe you have just endeared her to you."

"Is that so? Well, good," Illyen replied as he made his way to his wardrobe and pulled it open. "I'd rather my servants enjoy working for me."

Mattheus' smile faded slightly as Illyen pulled on a midnight-blue coat. "A word of caution, however, my lord," he added in a more serious tone. "While we servants prefer a kind lord over a harsh one, you should take care not to get too familiar with us. We are your servants, not your friends, and if other lords believe that you are treating us too favorably, you will lose esteem in their eyes." Illyen gave him a sidelong look, and he added, "It makes us uncomfortable as well."

"I see," Illyen said, inclining his head as he closed his wardrobe. "I shall bear that in mind, then. Thank you for your advice."

Mattheus smiled again and bowed his head. "Not at all, my lord. I shall see Lord Varyn in immediately."

Illyen quickly made his way down the stairs as Mattheus went to go fetch Varyn. When the banker entered the parlor, Illyen was crouched in front of the parlor's fireplace, stoking the fire. Mattheus cleared his throat to alert Illyen, who rose and quickly wiped his hands off on a linen cloth before making his way over to Varyn.

"Well met," Illyen said, grinning warmly as he extended his hand.

"Likewise," Varyn replied, taking Illyen's arm by way of greeting. Illyen noticed that while his coat had been removed on his way in, his head was still wet with rain, suggesting that he had been standing outside for quite some time. "My apologies for arriving without notice."

"Not at all," Illyen replied easily as they stepped apart and made their way over to the heavy leather chairs in front of the fireplace. "You are always welcome. It's not as though I have many guests to entertain at the moment anyways. Might we offer you some refreshments?"

"Ginger tea, if possible," Varyn replied, glancing at Mattheus.

Mattheus bowed his head. "Very good, my lord," he replied, and then he turned and quickly made his way out of the room. Varyn watched him for a moment longer, then turned back to Illyen with a soft chuckle.

"I see that you're settling into your new role as magister," he remarked as he sank into the padded leather of the chair, folding his hands over his portly stomach. "You even re-hired Regoro's previous steward?"

"On the advice of some of my companions," Illyen replied sheepishly. "In truth, I likely would have attempted to manage this estate by myself had they not suggested otherwise. And as Mattheus offered to work for remarkably little pay, I was hardly in a position to refuse him."

"I see. You would do well to retain him for as long as possible. He's a fine servant. Regoro always spoke highly of him," Varyn replied with a pleased nod. There was a brief pause, and then he continued, "However, I did not merely come to exchange pleasantries and see how you are acclimating to your new role. I am here to deliver a message."

Illyen felt his stomach turn slightly at Varyn's somber tone. "Was it so important that you could not have sent a raven?" he asked apprehensively.

"I could, but I wished to speak of it with you in person," Varyn replied as he reached into a pouch on his belt. He withdrew a small, folded sheet of paper, which Illyen opened and briefly scanned. "This is an invitation to Regoro's funeral, which will be held in three days."

Illyen slowly let out his breath through his teeth as he scanned the document. He had feared that Varyn had come to deliver yet more bad news to him. When he noticed that Varyn was frowning at him, he cleared his throat and quickly added, "Forgive me. I thought this might be something more… dire. Thank you for informing me… and for taking the time to arrange it," he added, bowing his head. "I will be certain to attend."

"I should hope so," Varyn replied as Mattheus walked back into the room, carrying a silver tray laden with a carafe of tea and another porcelain teacup. "After all, this will not merely be a farewell to Regoro, but your debut to your fellow magisters."

Illyen's relief was quickly washed away at those words. "My debut?" he repeated.

Varyn raised an eyebrow. "Yes. While word has spread that Regoro named a successor, you remain utterly unknown to them. You have made no public appearances, nor even arranged to meet with any of your peers." A slight smile tugged at his lips. "It has simultaneously made you seem mysterious and aloof."

"That… was not my intention," Illyen stammered. "I've merely been so occupied-"

"I know," Varyn assured him soothingly, holding up a hand. "And many of them likely realize that as well. Furthermore, an aura of mystery can actually beneficial in the short term. However, at the funeral, they will be expecting to meet you, to get a sense of who you are… and how they might use you."

Illyen felt a shiver run down his spine at those words, and he took a slow sip of his mint tea, hoping that the warm liquid might comfort him slightly. When he lowered his cup, he asked in a low voice, "They would politick even at an event as solemn as a funeral?"

Varyn smiled grimly as he gazed into his own teacup. "My boy, such are the worlds of the aristocracy and finance," he explained. "Every event, every gathering you attend from now on, no matter how joyful or somber, will be a trial. Those who attend may truly be there simply to pay their respects, or even to offer their condolences, but do not think for a moment that they will not also watching you closely for openings that they might exploit. Your every word will be scrutinized, your every action judged. You will be entering a den of master thieves, all of whom will be pondering how to steal your wealth or use you as a puppet, and all of whom have been playing this game for far longer than you have."

Illyen swallowed and lowered his cup. "Then perhaps it is best that I do not attend," he murmured.

Varyn blinked, then shook his head and chuckled. "Refusing to attend would be far worse, I assure you. To do so would not only be seen as horribly disrespectful, but outright craven. You would find gaining any respect from your peers nigh impossible, and you would be all but ostracized from that point on." He reached over and laid a hand on Illyen's shoulder. "Forgive me. I did not mean to scare you out of your wits. I merely meant to warn you of what you should expect. Do not allow that to paralyze you with fear and indecision. All you can do is anticipate that they will seek to exploit you, and to prepare yourself for it as best you can."

Illyen could feel his stomach turning with anxiety, but he forced himself to nod before draining the rest of his tea. As he set the cup aside, he sighed and murmured, "I see. Then I should thank you for that much, at least."

"Not at all," Varyn replied easily as he took a long drink of his own tea. When he lowered it again, he asked in a more conversational tone, "Have you perchance had the opportunity to consider how to begin paying off your uncle's debt?"

"Not as of yet," Illyen muttered.

"I see," Varyn said in a low voice. Illyen shot him a sidelong glance. He noticed a strange expression on the banker's face, which made him frown slightly. Though he might have been imagining it, Varyn seemed almost… relieved? Illyen peered at him a bit more closely, but before he could properly examine Varyn's expression, the banker turned back to him and smiled warmly. "Well, I am certain that you will find a solution eventually. After all, Regoro trusted you, and I do not believe that his trust was misplaced."

"I… certainly hope so," Illyen said slowly, still frowning faintly. When Varyn gave him a puzzled look, however, he shook his head and cleared his throat. "In any case, as you said, I should focus on the funeral first. Three days, yes? Where? And how should I dress?"

"It will be held at the Chequy Port beneath the Titan, one hour past dawn," Varyn replied. "If all goes well, we will be able to cast his body out to sea before the Titan roars at midday." A slight smile flickered across his face. "I believe he would have enjoyed that. The sea was always his true love, and to return him to it would be fitting." He then looked back at Illyen and added, "As for dress, I would recommend dark colors. Black, if possible. Do you have anything available…?"

"I believe so," Illyen replied quickly. "As it happens, Mattheus is an excellent tailor. My uncle and I have fairly similar builds, so he has been adjusting some of Regoro's old clothes to fit me. I'm certain that he has at least a few outfits in black."

Varyn let out a soft grunt of approval as he set his cup down. "Very good. Then I shall expect to see you in three days. Once again, it will be held in the morning, so make certain that you have rested well the night before."

"I shall," Illyen nodded as he drained his own cup and smiled faintly. "Thank you once again."

Varyn chuckled and shook his head as he pushed himself up. "Not at all. As I've said, I consider it something of a duty to ensure that you are as prepared as possible to enter the aristocracy. To do any less would be an insult to Regoro's memory."

"Even if it's only for a mere six months," Illyen muttered.

A mysterious smile crossed Varyn's lips. "Well, if you wish to retain that title for a longer period of time, you should endeavor to resolve his debt as swiftly as possible. The Bank is rather unforgiving, especially after it's already shown you a great deal of mercy."

"So I've been told," Illyen murmured as he pushed himself up and inclined his head. "Is there anything else, then?"

"No, I should be on my way. Your steward can see me out," Varyn replied. He paused and reached out to put a hand on Illyen's shoulder. "In the meantime, take care, my boy."

"My thanks," Illyen replied softly, and Varyn nodded, seemingly pleased, before releasing Illyen and following Mattheus out of the room.

Illyen sighed to himself as he sank back into his chair and picked up his empty teacup, staring into it pensively. While he was grateful that Varyn had informed him of the funeral, he was anxious about the fact that he had a mere three days to prepare. After considering it for a moment, though, he sighed and leaned his head back. At least he did not have anything else on his schedule. Aside from his regular rehearsals, there were no performances at the Dome for another five days. He had plenty of time to ready himself.

"Of course, if the other magisters are as vicious as Varyn claims they are, I suppose it doesn't matter how much I prepare," Illyen muttered to himself as he pushed himself up and began making his way to the stairs. He needed to see what he had available in black.

The morning of the funeral was cool and misty, to Illyen's mild annoyance – he always preferred warmer temperatures. Of course, his irritation might have also had to do with the fact that Mattheus woke him well before dawn, so that he had plenty of time to dress himself and make his way to the Titan. He dressed by candlelight, then made his way down the stairs, where Mattheus had already prepared a cup of tea, two warm slices of bread with butter, and a plum for his breakfast.

After quickly downing the food, Illyen left his manse and strode quickly down the narrow street towards the nearest canal. While he was still apprehensive about travelling alone while it was dark – since Regoro's killer still had not been identified, much less captured – he was not as nervous as he had been a few weeks prior. He had yet to be attacked, and the area around the manse was constantly patrolled by watchmen, who had a vested interest in protecting not only him, but the other five magisters who resided in the plaza as well. While he was still cautious about venturing too near the shadows, he was no longer jumping at every small sound whenever he was alone. He could not live in fear forever, after all.

Bobbing in a boat at the bottom of the canal was a lone pilot, who looked as though he had just woken himself. He seemed slightly surprised when Illyen approached him, since few requested his services this hour, but he certainly did not complain when he was offered a handful of small iron coins and asked to sail to the Titan. Illyen usually would have walked to the Chequy Port, but he had considered what Varyn had said about this funeral being something of a debut for him. Magisters did not walk when they had the option to use the canals, and the fee was not so exorbitant that he could not indulge a bit. That, and he had little interest in walking the darkened streets dressed in his finery, which may as well be a beacon for any thief lurking in the alleys at this hour.

As the boat drifted through the glossy black waters, Illyen self-consciously adjusted his outfit, scowling uneasily down at it. He wore garments like this so rarely that he felt as though he was wearing a costume, rather than an actual suit of clothing. His ink-black doublet was made of silk, with a trim of silvery thread along the seams and, with silver buttons. His trousers, likewise, were jet-black, and so were his soft, calf-high leather boots. In truth, he had never worn a wholly black outfit before. It was a mark of nobility, as the magisters and upper echelons of society favored darker clothing. He, however, still preferred the inconspicuous clothing of the common folk, and privately he was glad that it was still dark and the streets were empty. He feared that he would attract curious stares from average citizens, and while he was comfortable with being watched on a stage, he disliked drawing attention when he was in public.

Fortunately for him, the short voyage along the canal was quiet, even peaceful, and he even took the opportunity to half-doze for a short while, until the Titan came into view. By that point, dawn had broken, coloring the mists surrounding them a brilliant orange and turning the water a deep silver. The boatman guided his small vessel to a nearby pier and motioned for Illyen to step off, which he did with a grateful nod and a smile. The pilot shrugged indifferently before reaching into a bag at his feet and withdrawing a hard hunk of white cheese, which he began blithely munching on as Illyen climbed up onto the street.

As he approached a wide pier near the base of the Titan, Illyen noticed that a small crowd had already gathered. Though he did not recognize anyone, Illyen noticed that those gathered were wearing the telltale dark garb of the nobility, indicating that he had arrived at the right place. At a glance, he suspected that there were no more than thirty people, though he spotted a few more approaching from other piers. Even so, he noted that this was a rather small crowd for a funeral, especially for a magister. He knew Regoro had been unpopular, but he would have expected more than a mere few dozen men and women to attend his funeral. How many enemies had he made? How hated was he? In fact, were some of these guests perhaps enemies who had come to gloat over his demise? Or were they merely curious nobles who wished to see how the political landscape had shifted? And most importantly for Illyen, how many had come to meet him?

Illyen exhaled slowly and pushed that thought into the back of his mind as he made his way towards the crowd. Few paid any attention to him as he edged his way past the leather-padded seats that had been arrayed in front of an open casket made of oak. Illyen stopped short when he saw Regoro's face, pallid and lifeless beneath the open upper half of his coffin.

The sight briefly made Illyen's breath catch in his throat. In truth, part of him had wondered if somehow his uncle might have survived – that he had feigned his death, perhaps in an effort to test Illyen in some way, to see if he was indeed a worthy heir. Now, though, he could hardly deny that Regoro was indeed dead. He also felt, to his slight surprise, a wave of pity for the man. While he had only barely known his uncle, and still resented him for practically forcing his title upon him, Illyen certainly had not wished death upon him, and no one deserved to be slaughtered the way Regoro had.

Suppressing a shudder, Illyen sank into a seat at the end of the second row of chairs, trying to avoid attracting too much attention. Fortunately, as before, no one seemed to pay him any mind, and no one asked his business at the funeral. For that, he was grateful – he still didn't know if any of the attendees were friendly or hostile, and until he did, he didn't want to draw any undue notice.

"Pardon me," asked a voice with a lilting accent, startling him out of his thoughts. "May I join you?"

Illyen looked to his left to see an older man with short, graying hair hunched over beside him, leaning heavily on a cane. The reason for the crutch was obvious – just under his black mourning robes, Illyen could see that one of his legs ended in an ornately carved wooden foot, which likely extended up to his knee. Illyen quickly looked up from the man's leg to meet his light brown eyes, and he immediately shifted one seat over to allow the man to sit beside him.

"My apologies," Illyen said quickly, flushing as the man sank into the seat with a heavy sigh.

"Not at all," the man chuckled. "I should apologize for troubling you, but I simply cannot remain standing as long as I could when I was younger." He tapped his wooden foot with his cane, flashing a self-deprecating grin. "Though I did not mean to disturb you. You seemed to be lost in your thoughts, and I cannot help but wonder if you were intentionally avoiding speaking with anyone. Did you wish to remain alone?"

Illyen hesitated. In truth, he would have preferred to, but to say so would be rude. "It's… more that I have not been introduced to anyone here. But I am glad for the company," he replied, not wholly untruthfully.

"I see," the man nodded. "Then allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Horo Sonaryen."

Illyen inclined his head. "Illyen Telerys," he replied softly.

The man's eyes widened briefly, and then he nodded slowly as he settled back in his chair. "Ah. Regoro's mysterious heir," he commented, grinning. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. Though I must confess, I am somewhat surprised that one of the guests we are most anxious to meet is not going out of his way to introduce himself to all present."

Illyen grimaced and glanced away. "I… still am uncertain as to how others will react to me. I wanted to gauge their attitudes before presenting myself to them, especially if my uncle had a poor history with some of these families."

"So you thought to listen in on their conversations first? Clever," Horio praised him with a nod. "Even so, I did not expect you to be quite so reserved. You are a mummer, are you not? Are you not used to the limelight?"

At that, Illyen couldn't help but smile faintly. "When I am on stage, certainly," he conceded. "But who I am on stage is not who I am in public. That, and I was told to remain wary of those that I do not know."

"I see," Horio said softly. "Then allow me to assuage your doubts about my intentions, at least. I am an old acquaintance of your uncle's."

"Indeed?" Illyen asked, tilting his head. "Did you meet him in Pentos? Your accent is Pentoshi, yes?"

"It is, though I am Braavosi by birth," Horio explained with a slight smile. "I traveled to Pentos with my wife when I was young to seek my fortune, and spent over thirty years there. However, though I came to love the city and its people, I always abhorred Pentos' practice of slavery. When Braavos declared war on Pentos ten years ago, I aided my homeland by acting as a spy and saboteur for them, in hopes that our victory would result in the abolition of slavery. I often worked with your uncle, feeding him information about enemy ship positions, empty ports where he could dock, and unguarded routes he could sail." He then let out a bitter sigh. "Sadly, in one of the final battles of the war, I was careless, and a stray catapult stone cost me my leg. My manse was also burned to the ground, and I also feared that Pentos was beginning to suspect that I was a spy for Braavos. Thus, I chose to flee the city shortly before the war ended."

Illyen frowned sympathetically. "It sounds as though you lost nearly everything to help Braavos win the war… and to help my uncle," he said softly.

"One could say that," Horio muttered in a low voice, sounding as though he was clenching his teeth. He then shook his head and added, "Though I did not lose everything. My wife and children survived the war unscathed, which was my greatest fear. And for my service, Braavos granted me a strip of fertile farmland in the Coastlands. They also named me the Harbormaster of Ragman's Harbor, both because I was an able sailor, and because I was used to treating with foreigners from my time in Pentos." He smiled faintly. "Fate casts the bones, and we must make do with the results. I suppose I should be grateful for what I have."

Despite the strained smile, Illyen could still hear the bitterness in Horio's tone. Deciding to change the subject slightly, he asked, "So… you command Ragman's Harbor?"

"I do," Horio confirmed, taking a slow breath and smiling a bit more easily as he noticed Illyen's attempt to change the subject. "It's a fair post. I find Ragman's to be more interesting than the Purple Harbor, as we receive sailors from across the world, rather than just Braavos. It's also the best place to learn rumors about foreign ports, such as which goods are selling well, and in which areas, or what routes are plagued by pirates. It's not dissimilar to what I did in Pentos during the war, and though I'm no longer the sailor I was before I lost my leg, it at least keeps me near the sea." He grinned faintly. "Your uncle made extensive use of my services, actually. He trusted me more than the harbormasters at the Purple Harbor. I'd be more than happy to extend the same services to you, if you'd like."

"Certainly," Illyen agreed, then lowered his gaze slightly. "Well… at least once I have goods to sell. Then I'd be grateful for your assistance."

Horio grinned and opened his mouth to reply, but then he and Illyen noticed that Varyn was making his way to the podium that had been placed in front of Regoro's casket. As the other mourners made their way to their seats, Horio closed his mouth and held a finger up to show that they would speak later. He and Illyen turned to face Varyn as he rested his thick hands on the podium.

"Good morrow," Varyn greeted the mourners, his voice echoing off the hollow stones around him. "I wish to thank you all for attending this most somber event. Today, we must say farewell to Magister Regoro Telerys, one of the most courageous, admirable men that has ever sailed the Narrow Sea." Behind him, Illyen heard someone scoff derisively, but when he glanced over his shoulder, he was met only with a row of stony expressions. "A man who built his fortune from nothing, and whose life was tragically ended by a murderer's blade," Varyn continued, apparently oblivious to the scoff.

Illyen settled back in his seat with his hands folded in his lap as Varyn began speaking about Regoro's life, from his beginnings as a humble sailor to his acquisition of his ship and his exploits as a captain. He extolled Regoro's virtues, praising his bravery and cunning, his skill as a sailor, and his service to Braavos during the war with Pentos.

"Sadly, while Regoro was unquestionably successful on the seas, his life with his family was plagued with misfortune," Varyn continued, gazing out at the audience. "With the loss of his wife and, later, his son, Regoro's home life was often rather lonely. Fortunately, he was ever surrounded by loyal friends, and he was not without other kin. Shortly before he was slain, he named his nephew as his heir – Illyen Telerys." Varyn motioned to Illyen, and before Illyen had time to react, he added, "I would like to invite him to say a few words on Regoro's behalf."

Illyen stiffened, and his face flushed as every eye turned towards him. His heart pounded in his ears as he glared furiously up at Varyn, who stepped away from the podium and motioned for him to take his place. Varyn had mentioned nothing about expecting him to speak! He had hardly known Regoro, and what little he did know of the man was hardly flattering! Yet now he was expected to give a eulogy?!

However, no matter how it infuriated him, the audience now clearly expected him to say something. Silently seething, he pushed himself up and slid past Horio, who shifted his legs to allow him to pass by. His heart was hammering as he made his way to the front of the audience, shooting Varyn a pointed glare as he passed by, though the latter did not seem to notice. Exhaling softly to himself, he stepped in front of the podium, gripping the edges tightly. He briefly scanned the crowd to gauge their reaction to him. Some were intrigued, a few seemed openly hostile, but most simply seemed curious… yet also somewhat eager to see if he would fail. A neutral audience did love a debacle, after all, as it was often more entertaining than a successful performance.

Yet, as he stood in front of the mourners, Illyen found that his heartbeat was already slowing, his body becoming less taut. It was a familiar scene – a rapt audience watching him intently, waiting for him to begin speaking, to entertain them. Far from suffering a bout of stage fright, he found it strangely comforting. The stage was his home; now, all he needed to do was perform.

"Although… although we were kin, I sadly only met my uncle once, and only for a very brief time," Illyen began. Though he was able to keep his expression neutral thanks to years of practice, his mind was working as swiftly as possible to compose a speech on the spot. Fortunately, he also had experience improvising dialogue, and the more he spoke, the more confident he became. "In truth, I consider that both a pity and a blessing. Naturally, I wish that I had been granted more time to speak with him, to learn more about him. In the wake of this tragedy, much of what I know of him is from the stories that I have been told of him. Were I granted another day, even a mere hour, to speak with him once more, I would consider it a priceless boon. None, however, can overturn the will of the Many-Faced God, and thus, sadly, that wish shall never come to pass.

"And yet, though it may seem queer, I also consider the fact that I only knew him for a short time to be a blessing as well. When I first met him, I did not know of our shared lineage. Thus, I was not prejudiced by our bonds of blood, and so I was able to see who Regoro was as a man, rather than as my uncle. And… I shall confess, I was not wholly impressed by all that I saw." That line elicited a few murmurs from the crowd, and one or two titters of laughter. Illyen smiled sheepishly, and he continued, "I was faced with a man who was arrogant, self-aggrandizing, and supremely confident in his ability to manipulate the threads of fate to his whims." A few more chuckles ran through the crowd, and Illyen let them run their course for a few moments before speaking again once they died down. "And yet, in the midst of that arrogance, there was a facet of his personality that was more apparent than any other.

"Varyn has spoken at length of Regoro's virtues. He has mentioned his courage, his cunning, and his skill as a sailor. Yet, though these traits are admirable, I feel they pale in comparison to his most extraordinary attribute." Illyen paused, letting his eyes rake across the crowd, and then he said, "His will. Regoro was a man of utterly indomitable will. No matter his desire – be it a good, a person, or an outcome – he would do everything in his power to obtain it. His will enabled him to captain his first ship after pirates had all but demolished it and slaughtered his crew. It made him bold enough to sail through war-torn seas, to plague-filled lands. It allowed him to rise from a mere commoner to obtain the title of magister and earn a fortune to rival any of his peers." Illyen took a slow breath, then concluded, "And when his line was in danger of extinction, it allowed him to find a solution that would enable him to continue his legacy, even after his death."

Illyen took another slow breath, then looked out over the crowd, taking the time to meet as many eyes as he could. "When Regoro asked me to become his heir, I did not think myself worthy. In truth, I still doubt myself. Regoro, however, clearly thought otherwise. He was a man who would not allow his legacy to be tarnished by a poor heir… and he would not have tolerated indecision and hesitation. I have little doubt that, had he not been tragically slain, he would do all he could to ensure that if I was not already worthy of his title, that I would be made worthy. Therefore, I feel that the best way that I can honor him is to embrace the legacy he has left for me… and in doing so, I hope that his spirit will be satisfied, so that he can rest easy, no matter what awaits him beyond the veil of death."

Illyen exhaled as he stepped away from the podium, inclining his head. After a moment, there was a smattering of applause that quickly escalated into a surprisingly enthusiastic crescendo. Illyen flushed and smiled faintly, bowing his head again, before turning to make his way back to his seat.

As he walked away from the podium, however, Illyen was surprised to note that Varyn seemed… displeased. Strangely, he almost looked disappointed. However, as Illyen approached him, the banker nevertheless held his hand out, and Illyen clasped his forearm. As he leaned in, however, Illyen lowered his voice and hissed furiously, "You might have warned me that you expected me to speak!"

Varyn frowned at him and tightened his grip on Illyen's arm. "My apologies, but I thought it obvious that his heir and nearest kin would be asked to say a few words on his behalf," he muttered back. "I shall endeavor to warn you next time, but in the future, you would be wise to prepare, regardless of if you receive a warning or not."

Illyen scowled at him and gripped Varyn's arm a bit more tightly in return. "I shall bear that in mind," he muttered, before letting Varyn go. The banker glowered at him faintly as Illyen made his way back to his seat, but by the time he returned to the podium, he was smiling again.

"Thank you, young Magister Telerys," Varyn said pleasantly, motioning to him. "Now, as we know, much of Regoro's fame was gained during the wars of the previous few decades. During the war against Pentos-"

"Well said, my good man," Horio whispered to Illyen, his voice drowning out Varyn's speech. "Very eloquent. Did you prepare that?"

"I… I did not, no," Illyen admitted, slightly embarrassed.

A hand touched his shoulder, and Illyen looked behind him to see an elderly lady leaning forward, her lined face a few inches from his. "You are Telerys' heir, then?" she whispered.

"I am," Illyen confirmed quietly.

"I see," she said slowly, her tone thoughtful. "I must say, you seem much more personable and well-spoken than Regoro ever was. I presume that you now control his assets?"

Illyen briefly hesitated, considering whether he should tell mention his debt, but when he saw a cunning gleam in the woman's eye, he decided not to divulge too much information. "I do," he confirmed slowly.

A broad, semi-toothless grin spread across her face. "Very good," she murmured. "I may have use for you. Come to the Prestayn manor in five days. We shall speak of other, less grim matters then."

Illyen managed a weak smile in return, though he couldn't help feeling slightly uneasy. The Prestayns were one of the most powerful families in Braavos, and an offer from them was encouraging, but the way she had phrased it….

"I would speak with you later as well," another man said in his ear, putting his hand on Illyen's shoulder. "If you wish to discuss business, the Forel family would welcome you."

"I-" Illyen began, but then he noticed Varyn glaring at them out of the corner of his eye, even as he continued to eulogize at the podium. Lowering his voice, Illyen quickly replied, "Thank you. I shall look forward to it." He then turned back around, giving the funeral his full attention.

Varyn spoke for another hour, with a few other speakers walking up to the podium to praise Regoro. They were mostly allies of his from his more successful days, though a couple purported rivals also spoke, claiming that while they'd had their differences, they begrudgingly acknowledged Regoro's courage and success. When the last speaker had finished, Varyn once again came to the podium, accompanied by a quartet of men dressed in black, who were standing beside the casket.

"And now, at last, we say our final farewells to Magister Regoro Telerys," Varyn announced. "Please stand."

The audience did as he bade, and Varyn turned back around to lay a hand on Regoro's coffin. "As the sea is where Regoro lived his life and made his fortune – and, I believe, was his truest love – it is only fitting that we return him to the waves. Good men, if you would?" he asked, turning to the pallbearers.

The men took hold of the coffin and lifted it, then carried it slowly to the edge of the pier. Varyn lowered his eyes, and the other mourners did the same. The pallbearers carried the coffin to the edge of the dock, then gently lowered it into the water, before giving it a push. The casket floated atop the lapping waves, drifting slowly towards the Titan, and the exit of Braavos, towards the Narrow Sea beyond.

An uncomfortable prickle suddenly ran along the back of Illyen's neck – the distinct feeling of being watched. He raised his head and glanced around, but for a moment, he didn't see anything, as it appeared that everyone in the vicinity still had their heads lowered. As the uncomfortable feeling grew more intense, he swung his head around to look over his shoulder.

Standing at the back of the crowd was a man, dressed entirely in black clothing like the rest of the mourners, but also wearing a hood and cowl over his head and the lower part of his face. His brown eyes were focused not on the coffin bobbing on the waves, but on Illyen. His intense stare made it seem less like he was gazing at Illyen, and more like he was studying him, taking in every detail of his features. Most unsettling, he was furiously scribbling on a sheet of paper with a fat stump of a pencil. Even when he noticed Illyen watching him, the man didn't flinch. If anything, Illyen thought he saw his cowl move upwards slightly, indicating that he was smirking as he continued to scratch his pencil on the sheet of paper.

A chill ran down Illyen's spine as he slowly turned back around, forcing himself to ignore the man. There was little that he could do about it – and little that the man could do to him as well, surrounded as they were by so many witnesses. Still, he would take care to return home on a well-traveled, heavily patrolled route.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he returned his focus to Regoro's coffin, which was slowly drifting out of sight. Silently, he bid a final farewell to his uncle. Now he truly was the last Telerys, and it was now his duty to settle his family's debts. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Lady Prestayn again. Speaking with her was a good place to start, he mused. His first task, then, was to learn about her family, what they traded in… and what he had to offer that might interest them. After all, he thought wryly, if he was to play a magister and merchant, it was would be wise of him to prepare for the role as best he could.