Chapter 6
Negotiations
"So, this was Regoro's flagship?" Illyen asked, glancing over at Clario Berys, the harbormaster of the Purple Harbor.
The black-haired port captain nodded slowly as he ran his fingers through his thick, curly black beard. "Aye. This is the Pyrella, the pride of his fleet. Named after his wife, I believe," he replied as he stared up at the vessel bobbing next to the pier.
Illyen folded his arms over his chest as he turned to gaze at the ship as well. Despite his lack of knowledge about merchant vessels, he recognized it as a carrack, as it shared the same design as the other four vessels in Regoro's fleet. Three masts rose from the deck at the fore, aft, and center of the ship, with two sails hanging from each large pole. Like its sisters – and most Braavosi ships – its hull was painted violet, and its furled sails were likewise dyed a deep purple. Illyen noticed, however, that the Pyrella was about thirty feet longer than the other four vessels that Regoro owned, which he supposed should be expected of his uncle's flagship.
"And you mentioned that he favored this ship above all the others in his fleet," Illyen commented as he stared up at the enormous vessel. When Clario nodded, he asked, "Whatever happened to the first vessel he commanded?"
"Sold to another captain, most likely," Clario shrugged. "From what I've heard, his first ship was a simple cog, and a rather shabby one at that. It's hardly a surprise that he would want to obtain a superior ship as swiftly as possible. Cogs are cheap as far as ships go, so common merchants favor them, but they are also smaller, more difficult to pilot, and can only carry a fraction of the cargo of a carrack."
"Also, if memory serves, he did not own this ship during the war with Pentos," a voice to Illyen's left remarked. He glanced over at Horio, who was leaning heavily on his cane and gazing up at the enormous ship as well. "I believe he tended to favor smaller, swifter ships. It would have been rather difficult to run a blockade in a large vessel like this, after all. I would reckon that he did not obtain this ship until long after he had amassed his fortune." He then smiled faintly. "Still, he must have been rather fond of it. A man does not name a ship after his woman unless he cares for both very deeply."
"I see," Illyen said softly as he turned back to the ship, tapping his fingers against his bicep. "So… what sorts of repairs do you believe need to be done?"
Clario shook his head. "It's difficult to say without a thorough inspection" he admitted. "However, all five of his ships have been languishing in the harbor for nigh on a year now. That sort of neglect takes a toll on ships, even if they are not being sailed. As such, I suspect that we would need to check them for wood rot, to make certain that they are still seaworthy. We will also need to search for leaks, scrape the barnacles off of their hulls, and clear them of vermin. A good washing and a fresh coat of paint wouldn't go amiss either," he added with a shrug.
"Very well. And the cost?" Illyen repeated, clenching his teeth as he braced himself.
"As I said, it is difficult to say without inspecting the ships first," the harbormaster shrugged. "However, it will likely range anywhere from ten to fifty titans per ship, depending upon the sort of damage they've suffered."
Illyen winced as he turned back around to stare up at the ship looming above him. He might be able to repair one or two of the ships with funds from his personal account, but all five would bankrupt him, even before he had hired a crew to sail them… and more importantly, found goods to sell in the first place. While he knew that having even one ship – much less five – was a blessing for any merchant, he was annoyed that even owning them was a drain on his already meager finances.
"Wonderful," he muttered under his breath. "And I should follow your recommendations for repairs, regardless of the expenses, yes?"
"Unless you want them to sink," the harbormaster retorted sardonically.
Illyen sighed as he folded his arms tightly over his chest, digging his nails into the fabric of his doublet. If he intended to use these ships for… anything, then it seemed that he would need to request a loan from the Iron Bank. He did not relish the thought of putting himself into debt, as unlike his uncle's debt, the bank would almost certainly refuse to waive his payments on a personal loan. Having seen how crippling being indebted to the bank was for his uncle, he was loath to borrow even a single coin, but he was starting to doubt that he had any choice in the matter.
Horio noticed that Illyen was scowling, and appeared to guess his thoughts. "If you'd like, I could lend you the coin needed for repairs," he offered gently.
Illyen glanced at him, and for a moment, he was sorely tempted to accept. However, he sighed and shook his head. "No… thank you, but I shall find a way to manage," he declined politely. After all, I don't want to rely on the charity of others forever, he added silently to himself. He needed to start finding his own solutions to his problems.
Horio frowned slightly, then shrugged and replied, "Your decision, Magister."
"In any case, that is only assuming that there is damage. Perhaps fortune will smile upon you, and little work will need to be done," Clario added.
"Very well. Might I schedule an inspection, then?" Illyen asked.
"Certainly. It will cost you twenty ladies per ship," Clario replied, referring to the smaller iron coins that were used for somewhat lesser purchases in Braavos – equivalent to silver pieces in most other realms.
Illyen exhaled through his teeth and nodded. "As soon as possible, if you'd please," he replied with a grateful smile as he pulled out his coin purse and counted out a few titans, then handed them over to the harbormaster.
"Of course. Will there be anything else, Magister?" Clario asked as he pocketed the coins.
"Not at the moment. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must be on my way," Illyen added, glancing apprehensively up at the rising sun with a grimace. "If I don't hurry, I'll be late for an appointment with the Prestayns, and I cannot afford to insult them."
"Ah… yes, Lady Prestayn did mention wanting to speak with you at the funeral, did she not?" Horio asked, placing both hands on his cane and leaning forward.
"Indeed. Which is why I must beg your forgiveness for leaving so abruptly," Illyen added. He did, however, pause to turn and bow his head. "Thank you for your time, Harbormasters."
"Not at all, Magister," Horio replied with a chuckle, waving after him. "Fortune smile upon you."
Illyen nodded, then turned and quickly made his way down the street, making a beeline for the Long Canal. As the name suggested, it was one of the longest waterways in Braavos, and also one of the busiest. More importantly for him, however, was the fact that the Prestayns' manse was located along the banks of the canal, which made the journey rather straightforward.
Upon reaching the nearest entrance to the canal, he climbed into a boat and paid the ferryman a small fee. When Illyen announced his destination, the man gave him a look of surprise, though when Illyen insisted, he began paddling them down the canal without further complaint. Illyen fidgeted on the edge of his seat throughout the ride, until they reached a small set of stairs leading out of the canal, which the boatman docked beside and motioned for Illyen to exit.
As he emerged from the canal, Illyen took a moment to stare, awestruck, at the Prestayns' manse. Though he had been inside the opulent Otherys manse several times, the Prestayns managed to dwarf even that impressive structure. The manse seemed more akin to a castle, with tall, square towers rising along the western bank of the canal, utterly dominating that section of the skyline. Private guards dressed in polished silver armor patrolled the walled entrance to the palace, and the common folk passing by gave the structure a wide berth, though a few could not help but pause and gaze up at it in wonder and envy.
Illyen exhaled slowly to calm his nerves as he looked down and began making his way towards the front gate. When he had first inherited his manse, he had worried that his new residence would not be considered adequate when compared to the most powerful noble families in Braavos. Now, faced with the sheer size and majesty of the Prestayn manse, he realized that he needn't have worried. Short of purchasing his own small city, he'd never had a prayer of competing with families like the Prestayns in the first place. In fact, the only family that might rival the Prestayns were the powerful Antaryons, who, incidentally, had their own similarly gargantuan manse situated on the opposite bank of the Long Canal, almost as a challenge to their rivals.
Illyen hesitantly approached the twenty-foot-high iron gate of the manse, clutching a scroll tightly in one hand as he did. The two guards flanking the entrance to the manse eyed him suspiciously as he drew near, and when he was within a few dozen feet of the manse, they crossed their halberds to deny him entrance, though thankfully they did not point them at him. Illyen quickly held the scroll out to them as his heart began to pound.
"Good day," he said anxiously as one of the guards took the scroll from him. "I am Magister Illyen Telerys. I was invited by Lady Baena Prestyan to-"
"Ah, yes. You are expected," the guard who had taken the scroll interrupted. He nodded to his companion, who immediately pulled his halberd back, and the first guard handed the paper back to Illyen. "If you would please follow me?"
The guard quickly led Illyen through the gates and down a cobblestone path through a colorful garden, past carefully trimmed rosebushes and ripening fruit trees. Illyen had never seen so much greenery in his life. He had thought himself fortunate to share a single oak tree with five other magisters, yet the Prestayns were able to maintain what seemed a small, private forest. How much wealth did they have? And, given that, what possible use could they have for him?
Illyen felt his stomach beginning to knot as the guard led him towards a small grove of apple trees, which surrounded a large fountain that was carved to resemble a pair of dolphins leaping past each other, with water streaming from their open mouths into a pool below. Surrounding the fountain were bushes of rare blue winter roses, which Illyen had not even realized could grow in Braavos. Standing beside the fountain, however, was not Lady Prestayn, but a tall, lean man, roughly middle-aged, with thin streaks of grey running through his otherwise pitch-black hair, and wearing a black, sable-trimmed coat over his silk clothing. He kept his back to them until the guards were about fifteen feet away, at which point he turned and folded his hands behind his back.
"Magister Illyen Telerys, my lord," the guard announced.
Lord Prestayn narrowed his grey eyes disdainfully at Illyen, running one hand along the short beard that covered his chin and jawline. After letting out an audible scoff, he then turned to the guard and nodded.
"Very good. You may go," he stated. As the guard bowed and turned to walk away, Illyen felt a wave of prickling heat wash over him. He had expected to treat with Lady Prestayn, rather than the patriarch of the Prestayn family. Not only had he been caught off-guard by the unexpected change in who he was meeting, but while women usually regarded him favorably, he tended to have far less success with men. Already, he feared this meeting was going to go poorly.
An awkward silence hung in the air between him and Lord Prestayn for several long moments as the older man scrutinized him. From his expression, he seemed displeased by something – perhaps his dress, or perhaps merely the fact that Illyen was standing in his garden at all.
"You're late," Lord Prestayn announced curtly, startling Illyen out of his thoughts.
Illyen kept his face carefully neutral, despite Lord Prestayn's accusation, but internally, he was both confused and taken aback. "My apologies, my lord," he said softly. "However, I was informed that you wished to speak with me an hour before midday. If I'm not mistaken, I am a half-hour early-"
Lord Prestayn glared at him, and the rest of Illyen's sentence died in his throat. He felt like a mouse being stared down by a snake. He was certain that he was, in fact, early for the meeting… but then he realized that it mattered little. Rather, he began to suspect that Lord Prestayn was toying with him, trying to throw him even further off-balance before negotiations even began. He was clearly asserting his authority over him, both by flaunting his wealth and power – holding the meeting in his garden, for instance, surrounded by plants that likely did not grow anywhere else in Braavos – and then all but daring Illyen to argue a meaningless point, to give him an excuse to end the negotiations there due to his impudence. Lord Prestayn knew Illyen needed his support, and he seemed to be signaling that he would control the meeting, or there would be no further discussion. Thus, Illyen decided that he had three options – he could simply leave now and immediately lose the patronage of one of the most powerful men in Braavos, he could continue arguing and be forcibly evicted from the manse… or he could accept that he was in a weak position and simply manage as best he could.
"My apologies, my lord," Illyen finally said in a deferential tone, inclining his head contritely. "I shall be more mindful of the time in the future."
Lord Prestayn frowned deeply and folded his arms over his chest. Illyen felt bile rise in his throat. For some reason, rather than mollify him, Illyen's deference seemed to displease him even further. He did not seem angry per se, just… disappointed. Disgusted, even.
"I shall be blunt with you, 'Magister,'" Lord Prestayn said slowly, practically spitting Illyen's title as he wandered over to inspect one of the winter rosebushes. "I only agreed to meet with you today because my mother insisted. You somehow managed to charm her at your uncle's funeral, and she pressed me to speak with you, so I decided to humor her. You, however, do not interest me. You are a second-generation magister, hardly more than a commoner, and your uncle was… shall we say an odious man." He glanced at Illyen out of the corner of his eye, to see his reaction to the insult. When Illyen continued to gaze at him with a neutral expression, however, he frowned faintly and continued, "Thus, I expect little from this meeting… but I shall nevertheless allow you the chance to impress me."
"And I am grateful for the opportunity," Illyen replied in as sincere a tone as he could manage, inclining his head politely.
His response seemed to soften Lord Prestayn slightly, and he nodded as he turned to face Illyen directly. "Very well. What do you know of my family?" he asked.
"I know that you are among the most powerful families in Braavos," Illyen replied immediately. "You are frequently one of the leading candidates in the succession for the seat of the Sealord whenever the matter arises, and your wealth is rivaled only by a few other houses in the world – the Lannisters, the Hightowers, the Rogares, the Antaryons-"
"So you know what anyone who has spent a week in Braavos knows," Lord Prestayn interrupted coldly, narrowing his eyes. Illyen felt a lump form in his throat as the lord let out a heavy sigh. "But you are not incorrect. And as one of the wealthiest families in the world, with partners throughout both Essos and Westeros, there is little that we do not possess, and that which we do not, we can acquire swiftly. As such, allow me to ask you simply – what can you offer us?"
Illyen felt an uncomfortable prickle running down the back of his neck. "W-well… my uncle did not leave me any particular means of producing goods-" he began.
"Hardly unexpected, given his reputation as a thief and a brigand," Lord Prestayn sneered.
"But… I do have a fleet of five ships-" Illyen continued feeling sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
"But no goods to trade," Lord Prestayn pointed out.
"I… well, no-" Illyen admitted.
"Do you captain any of your ships?" Lord Prestayn pressed.
"I… I am not a sailor…."
"Have you at least hired any captains, then?" The edge in Lord Prestayn's voice grew harder.
"Not yet-"
"Then what use are you to us?" Lord Prestayn concluded coldly. By this point, he was glowering furiously at Illyen, his eyes practically slits. Every word he spoke was dripping with disdain.
Illyen felt his chest tightening, and he forced himself to take a slow breath. "Forgive me, my lord," he said quietly. "I have only recently inherited the title of Magister, and I still have yet to take stock-"
"I have no time for your mewling excuses!" Lord Prestayn bellowed suddenly, causing Illyen to jump with surprise. "When you received your title, did you spend every moment you possibly could preparing yourself to become a merchant?!"
Illyen glowered indignantly. "I have tried-!"
"Yet clearly you did not prepare enough," Lord Prestayn countered sharply. He sighed heavily, then flicked his hand. "We're finished. It's clear to me that you will be of no use to us, so there is no point in discussing this further."
"But-!" Illyen protested.
"Guards!" Lord Prestayn called, ignoring Illyen's plea. A pair of guards came around the corners of the hedges and walked up behind Illyen. "Magister Telerys is prepared to leave. Please see him out."
Illyen flinched as the two guards flanked him, but before they could begin escorting him out, he said slowly, "Very well. If… in a month's time, may we-?"
Lord Prestayn cut him off with a venomous glare. "If, in time, you prove yourself an adequate merchant, then perhaps we might speak again," he said tartly. "As it stands, though, I expect the dragons to return before that happens. Begone, 'Magister,'" he spat.
Illyen felt his stomach sink as Lord Prestayn turned away from him, acting as though he was not even there. The guards loomed behind him, and though they did not reach out to seize him the way they might a commoner, one of them did pointedly sweep his arm towards the gate. It was clear that while they did not want to forcibly remove him, they would do so if necessary.
Illyen decided not to force their hand. Lowering his gaze, he turned on his heel and quickly made his way out of the garden and towards the front gate of the Prestayn manse. The guards shadowed him the entire way, until he had exited the compound, whereupon they shut the gate behind him with a heavy clang. Illyen stared at the manse over his shoulder for a long moment, then sighed deeply and slowly began trudging away from the palace, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
As he made his way back to his own manse, he tried not to think about the disastrous meeting. He would consider how and why he had failed later, but for the moment, he needed a distraction, or else he feared he might empty his stomach. Unfortunately, he had cleared his schedule for the day, and thus had nothing else to occupy his attention. At first, he considered spending the rest of the day writing his play, but he quickly dismissed that idea. He was too distraught and distracted, and he knew that anything he wrote in his present state of mind would inevitably be of such poor quality that he would have to revise it later anyways. After considering it for a short while, he realized that he just wanted a drink… and there was only one place he wanted to visit.
Once he arrived at his manse, he quickly made his way towards his room. Mattheus began to ask him about how the visit went, but one look at Illyen's ashen face silenced him. Instead, he simply announced that he would be available if Illyen required his service. Illyen managed a weak smile and a soft word of thanks, then he vanished into his room and began stripping off the rich clothing he had been wearing. He changed into a simple brown jerkin over a white shirt – to better blend in with the commoners, as he had little interest in drawing attention at the moment – and then began making his way back out of the manse. Before he left, he paused briefly to inform Mattheus that he would be away for a while. His steward accepted the announcement with a solemn nod, and an assurance that supper would either be cooking or waiting for him when he returned. Illyen thanked him sincerely once more, then left his house and made his way back down the street.
As it was midday, he had few reservations about openly traveling the busy streets of Braavos on foot. In his nondescript clothing, he was able to blend into the crowd without issue, and he found himself relishing his anonymity as he headed for his next destination. However, whereas before he had traveled deeper into the heart of the Purple Harbor, he was now heading straight for a more raucous, vibrant part of the city, where exotic scents, exotic tongues, and exotic dress quickly became increasingly commonplace.
It was a relatively short walk to the Ragman's Harbor, and by the time he arrived, his throat was uncomfortably dry. He welcomed the feeling, however, as it would make it that much easier to drown his disappointment. He wandered along the docks of the Harbor until he spotted the familiar burgundy and green hulk of the Grapevine floating next to one of the piers. As he climbed aboard, he noticed, to his surprise and relief, that it was completely devoid of customers. Saera was leaning lazily against the counter, idly rolling a set of bones, though her pretty, freckled face lit up immediately upon spotting Illyen approaching her.
"And my day just improved!" she announced cheerfully, sweeping the bones into a leather bag as Illyen drifted over to her. Her smile faded almost immediately, however, upon seeing his ashen-faced expression. "Though it seems yours is going poorly," she added more soberly. "Apricot wine?"
"Please," Illyen sighed as he sank into one of the stools. Saera nodded and quickly ducked under the counter to retrieve a clear bottle filled with amber-colored liquid, which she poured into a clay goblet. As she went to put the bottle away, though, he stopped her. "I may end up draining the rest of that, by the by, so if you wouldn't mind leaving it out…."
Saera raised an eyebrow as she set the bottle on the countertop, then folded her arms on the hard wood. "I haven't seen you this distraught since the Dome failed to sell a single ticket to 'The Jester's Last Dance,'" she remarked. "Do you wish to discuss what happened?"
Illyen briefly considered refusing, but upon seeing her earnest expression, he found himself telling her about his meeting with Lord Prestayn. Saera listened quietly to him as he explained what had happened, and when he finished, she tilted her head, peering at his face as he took a long swig of the sweet, heady wine.
"I see. Would you like my advice, then?" she asked.
Illyen peered at her over the rim of his goblet, then lowered it and nodded. "Please. I would welcome it," he said softly.
Saera nodded. "Then I shall be blunt with you. It is little wonder that Lord Prestayn dismissed you as he did, considering that you essentially insulted him."
Illyen frowned deeply, looking up from his goblet with a perplexed expression on his face. "Truly?" he asked in a low, indignant voice. "He practically had me thrown from his manse, yet you claim that I insulted him?"
Saera nodded as she picked up the bottle of wine and poured a bit of it into another goblet for herself. "Admittedly, he needn't have treated you so callously," she conceded as she picked up the goblet and swirled it around. "But I implore you to consider it from his perspective. He is the patriarch of one of the most powerful families in Braavos. Undoubtedly, he is very busy, and I would not be surprised if I were to find that he regularly treats with kings and princes from across the world. Nevertheless, he set aside precious time in his day to meet with you, a new magister from a nameless house, simply to appease his mother's whim. Yet you arrived at his manse utterly unprepared. You admitted that you had nothing to offer him as a trading partner, which made the entire meeting a waste of his time – time which he could have spent with much more important clients. In essence, you made a fool of him. I can hardly fault him for being so furious with you."
Illyen narrowed his eyes as he gazed down at his wine glass. "I see," he muttered. "Though it's not as though I requested an invitation to his manse. The offer was extended to me-"
"It was. However, in hindsight, it might have been better to refuse," Saera replied simply.
"That would have been an insult in its own right," Illyen pointed out.
"True," Saera conceded. "But at least you would not have made your own weakness so blatantly obvious. Now, whoever asks Lord Prestayn about you will learn that you have naught to offer, and thus will not bother seeking you out on their own. They will also be told that you are an incompetent fool who made a farce of a meeting with one of the most powerful families in Braavos. Thus, I maintain that it would have been better if you had declined the invitation altogether." She ran her finger along the lip of her goblet, then added absently, "Though, thinking on it, perhaps this is for the best. I suspect that any deal Lord Prestayn brokered with you would have been weighted heavily in his favor. At worst, you could have been essentially indentured to him. So… perhaps you suffered a blow, but avoided a blade."
Illyen sighed heavily and rested his chin on his arm, staring forlornly at his goblet. "I shall arrange a celebration, then," he grumbled bitterly. "That still does not change the fact that I have nothing to offer."
Saera tilted her head. "You mentioned that your uncle left you a few ships, did he not?"
"He did. But without goods to trade-" Illyen began.
Saera shook her head, her violet curls bouncing against her shoulders. "You do not need to trade goods yourself. Those ships alone should be more than enough to provide you substantial income," she replied.
Illyen frowned as he lifted his head up. "How do you mean?" he asked.
Saera raised an eyebrow at him, staring at him as though he was a lackwit. "Truly?" she asked drily. "Illyen, merchants will pay shipowners handsomely to transport their goods for them. It is not uncommon for them to hire ships to ferry their products to other ports, whether for a single trip or for a set length of time. You can make a handsome profit if you own even a single ship, much less a half dozen."
Illyen blinked at her, then frowned and tilted his head. "Yes, but… I am no sailor myself, nor do the ships have crews…."
Saera smiled faintly as she brought her goblet to her lips. "Captains and sailors are not particularly costly," she assured him. "I know for certain that there are a number of sailors in taverns and inns throughout Braavos who are waiting for a shipowner to hire them, and many are desperate enough for work that they would accept even a modest wage. Often, their pay is factored into each trip, and it's rarely more than a quarter of the total profits. What's more, some of the noble families would actually prefer that their own captains command loaned vessels. If you were to secure their patronage, you may not even need to pay your own crews."
"Indeed?" Illyen asked, his expression brightening.
Saera nodded and grinned at him. "In fact… if you are willing, I would like you to lease one of your ships to me." Illyen's brows rose, and she explained, "My first mate has been eager to captain his own vessel for the past year, but while I am a successful trader and moderately wealthy in my own right, I cannot afford to purchase another ship. I also do not feel comfortable asking other shipowners in the Free Cities to loan me one of their vessels, especially since some of them have a reputation for trying to enslave crews that strike bargains with them, often through predatory loans." She leaned a bit closer, so their faces were inches apart. "I would, however, feel comfortable asking you to lend me one of yours. Slavery is outlawed here in Braavos, and while the Iron Bank is harsh, it is also fair, so I am comfortable negotiating a contract backed by them." She then smiled fondly. "Furthermore, I trust you."
Despite himself, Illyen felt a wry grin spreading across his face. "And you know that I'm desperate," he pointed out sardonically.
Saera shrugged. "Yes, and I shall shamelessly take advantage of that fact," she admitted blithely. Then she softened her tone and added, "But rest assured, I want any contract between us to be fair to us both, as I wish to maintain your friendship."
Illyen's smile broadened. "I concur," he agreed quietly, before pushing himself back slightly. "Though… you mentioned that you have a captain in mind, but as for a crew…."
"You needn't concern yourself with that. Half of my men can transfer over to your ship, while the other half will remain here under my command," Saera said easily. "I know some of my crew are growing increasingly restless the longer we remain anchored here, but I would like to stay for as long as possible. The coin is good, and I feel safer here than anywhere else in Essos. If you were to loan me one of your ships, the men who are eager to shove out again can do so, and I can continue to sell wine throughout the Free Cities while simultaneously remaining here in Braavos. Thus, everyone is satisfied."
Illyen blinked. "I see…." he said slowly.
"And since I was the one who suggested this idea to you, and I am even providing my own crew, I trust that you will offer me a low price for borrowing one of your vessels, naturally," Saera added, a cheeky grin spreading across her lips.
Illyen rolled his eyes. "There it is," he muttered. Letting out a soft sigh, he then replied, "I will discuss it with my banker first, but rest assured, I will make you a very fair offer. Bear in mind, though, that I am trying to relieve my debts so that I can retain my title."
"Of course, I understand that you have your circumstances. Just bear in mind that I have mine as well," Saera countered. She smiled faintly, but Illyen noticed the steel in her voice.
"Duly noted. In any case, I'm pleased that I at least have one interested party," Illyen said, deciding to change the subject. He rested the knuckle of his index finger on his chin as he looked away, pondering. "I do also have an invitation to meet with House Forel, so I might be able to persuade them as well. The question now, though, is who else might be interested in borrowing my ships. Though since I've offended the Prestayns, I'm concerned none of the other major families will be interested…."
Saera stared at him blankly. "Are you… simply thinking aloud, or are you actually oblivious about whom you should be asking?"
Illyen turned his attention back to her, frowning. "I'm sorry?"
Saera scowled, and before Illyen could react, she suddenly reached across the bar and lightly smacked him across the side of the head.
"Agh!" Illyen cried indignantly. The blow didn't hurt, but it did startle him. "What was that for?!"
"Don't be an imbecile!" Saera chastised him. "Are you not friends with a scion of one of the most powerful houses in Braavos?! Ask Balerion if the Otherys family will consider doing business with you!"
Illyen lowered his hand from his head, then looked down into his half-empty goblet. "I have considered that, mind you," he said slowly. "What's preventing me from asking, though, is that Balerion once told me that one of the reasons he became friends with me was because I didn't try to exploit him and his familial connections the way others have."
"And you're concerned that doing so now will ruin your friendship with him?" Saera asked in a gentler tone.
"I am," Illyen admitted.
Saera nodded. "Well… it is true that you might," she agreed. Illyen frowned as he looked up. "However, you must also ask yourself if it is worth losing a friend if you gain a valuable trading partner instead. If you wish to be a successful merchant, you must accept that relationships may become strained, especially when two parties are both pursuing profit. That should not discourage you from approaching his family, though. If you are truly such close friends, then your friendship should endure a simple request."
Illyen looked down into his glass thoughtfully. Though he wasn't able to refute Saera's words, he was still concerned. Nevertheless….
"Very well," he sighed, looking up again and managing a faint smile. "I shall heed your advice, then, and see if Balerion might arrange a meeting with his family."
"A wise decision," Saera said, grinning, before taking a sip of the wine. She then grimaced and added, "I cannot fathom how you enjoy wine this sweet."
"You make it," he pointed out drily.
"For others. That does not mean that I enjoy every vintage that we produce," Saera countered as she set the glass down. She then gave him a coy look. "You can finish mine, if you wish."
"I may," Illyen replied evenly, eliciting a chuckle from Saera. He grinned in reply, then added in a more serious tone, "And thank you for your advice."
"Not at all," Saera replied, waving off his thanks. "Besides, I'm benefitting from this arrangement as well." A sly smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "And as I said, I expect you to offer me the cheapest loan possible."
"Certainly. No more than six thousand titans a month," Illyen replied with a smirk of his own.
Saera scowled, then reached across the bar and pulled his cup away from him. "No more wine for you. You're clearly drunk enough." She then laughed and danced out of the way as Illyen playfully threw himself halfway across the bar in an effort to snatch the goblet back from her.
Though he was quite familiar with the Otherys manse, Illyen had not been so nervous about visiting it since he had first approached Balerion with a request to sponsor his work. If anything, he was even more anxious this time, as he now felt he had far more to lose if the audience went poorly.
To his relief, Balerion had received his request to arrange a meeting with his house rather evenly, if a bit coldly. Illyen remembered how Balerion had studied him silently for a few long minutes, before quietly agreeing to ask his relatives if Illyen might speak with them.
"However, while I can schedule a meeting for you, once the negotiations begin, I cannot help you," Balerion had cautioned him, giving him a pointed look. "Friends though we may be, I am still more loyal to my family than I am to you. I will not work against them to secure you a more favorable deal."
Illyen, however, had simply been pleased that Balerion had not viewed his request as a betrayal. If anything, the courtesan seemed mildly surprised that it had taken Illyen so long to ask this favor. Perhaps it was simply a facet of noble society that Illyen had to grow accustomed to – the idea that even one's closest friends were constantly seeking to use their connections to better their own position. It was just one more indication of how much of a novice Illyen was to the game.
Illyen sat uncomfortably on a plush couch in the entrance hall of the manse, nervously running his fingers over the silver threads inlaid on the deep viridian coat he had chosen to wear. He had made certain to arrive over an hour before his appointment with the Otherys family, so that they could not accuse him of tardiness the way Lord Prestayn had. Unfortunately for him, that meant that he was left to wile away the time with nothing to occupy him. Occasionally, one of the Otherys family would pass by him in the hallway, but they barely spared him a glance. That, however, he was used to – only Balerion had ever shown him any particular interest. If anything, their indifference to him helped to calm him, as it was a familiar reaction that, ironically, made him feel even more at home.
After waiting for over an hour, an elderly female servant finally arrived to properly usher Illyen into the manse. He was led down the lavishly decorated hallways towards a door in the back corner of the second level of the palace. The servant pushed open the door and bowed to Illyen before stepping aside and allowing him to enter the room.
Illyen slowly stepped inside the room and allowed himself a moment to take in his surroundings. The cinnabar-colored room was dominated on two sides by large bookshelves, while the third wall had a trio of large, arched windows that allowed the pale sunlight to stream in. The wall he had entered from was decorated with four rich tapestries, and the door was flanked by a pair of marble statues, one nude male and one female. In the center of the room was an enormous round table made of solid oak, with at least a score of chairs surrounding it. Illyen's eyes widened when he saw who was waiting at the table. Sitting with her hands folded before her was Lady Bellenora Otherys, otherwise known as the Black Pearl of Braavos.
Bellenora's violet eyes bored into Illyen as his heart began pounding. The Black Pearl was arguably the most beautiful courtesan in Braavos, if not the world. Bravos were known to challenge those who insulted her to duels to the death, and she commanded a legion of fawning suitors eager to fulfill her every whim. Though she was in her fourth decade, her age was barely apparent, save for faint lines near the corners of her eyes, which only served to make her look even more distinguished and noble.
"I… good day, my lady," Illyen stammered as he folded his hands behind his back.
Bellenora's pretty lips curled upwards in an amused smirk. "You did not expect to be meeting with me, I presume?" she asked smoothly. "The question is written all over your face: why is a courtesan meeting with you? Did you think me merely a pretty face? That I do naught but spent my days lounging on plush couches in the arms of wealthy men?" She chuckled. "I am the matriarch of our family, young Magister Telerys, as my mother was before me. I have a hand in every venture we engage in… especially with regards to commerce. Thus, if you have a proposal, you will present it to me."
Illyen could only gaze at her in stunned silence. She had caught him completely off-guard, and now he was uncertain how to react. An awkward silence lingered between them for several long moments, until finally, her eyes narrowed with annoyance.
"You may sit," she said in a clipped tone, motioning to one of the chairs across from her.
Illyen felt his mouth go dry, and he inclined his head politely before hastily slipping into one of the chairs. "First, I wish to thank you for agreeing to meet with me," he said softly.
"I did nothing," Bellenora replied shortly. "I am fulfilling a request from my beloved nephew, nothing more. He claims that you may be of some use to us, and it is only for his sake that I am willing to hear you out. If you've something to say, then speak."
Illyen winced, and he could feel his stomach sinking again. Her tone was almost exactly the same as Lord Prestayn's – impatient, disdainful, and dismissive, as though she had already decided that he had nothing to offer her. Once again, he felt as though he had waded into waters that were too deep for him to tread, and he was now on the verge of drowning. He began to wonder if this meeting was going to end the same as his meeting with the Prestayns'. Surely, this was a mistake. She would not be interested in a scant few ships, and he had little else to offer her. He was no merchant.
As that thought crossed his mind, however, he suddenly thought back to Regoro's funeral. He had impressed Lady Prestayn not with his financial acumen, but with his charm. Perhaps he was approaching this all wrong. It was true, he was no merchant… but he was a mummer. He may not be a skilled tradesman, but he could act as though he was. He could assume the role of a merchant. To that end… what would a merchant say? What lines would convince Bellenora that it was in her interest to work with him?
"As I am certain Balerion has informed you, I recently inherited the title of Magister from my late uncle," Illyen began, keeping his voice as calm as possible. "You may or may not be aware of his reputation, but he was a fine sailor, and he left me in possession of a fleet of ships."
"I am aware," Bellenora said shortly, drumming her fingers on the table and raising an eyebrow. "Do you wish to sell them to me, then?"
Illyen laughed softly. "Tempting, my lady, but no," he replied as smoothly as he could while his heart was pounding in his throat. "I do wish to loan them to you, however. Your house has trading partners all across the world, yes? Surely, then, a few additional ships in your fleet could only be a boon to you."
Bellenora scoffed. "Do you believe that we require your services?" she asked.
"Require? Certainly not," Illyen replied easily. Bellenora raised an eyebrow. "But that does not mean that you should dismiss my proposal. After all, allowing me to loan you my ships would be far cheaper than purchasing new ones."
"Only for a few months, at most," Bellenora pointed out. "Any longer and it becomes more costly to borrow your vessels than to simply buy our own. Thus, such an arrangement is only beneficial to us in the short term. Yet, you appear eager to secure a long-term partnership."
"Well, I would certainly enjoy working with your house for as long as possible," Illyen replied, forcing another chuckle. "However, if you merely desire a temporary arrangement, then so be it. My next question, then, would be whether you would prefer that the fee for transporting goods be determined before each trip, or if you would rather I loan you my ships for a set period of time."
Bellenora rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin up on the palm of her hand. "You seem to be presuming that I will accept," she countered coolly. "Tell me, are your ships even crewed?"
Illyen felt his smile tighten involuntarily, and a bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. "I first wished to discuss whether you wanted me to provide a crew," he dodged. "I understand if you would prefer to rely upon your own men, especially since I would then be compelled to offer you an even lower price."
Bellenora's eyes flashed. "So you have no crews, then," she concluded tartly.
Illyen hesitated for a fraction of a second, before replying quickly, "Rest assured, it would not be particularly difficult for me to hire sailors. I simply wished to discuss it with you first, before I spent additional coin unnecessarily."
The shadow of a smile pulled at Bellenora's lips, though Illyen suspected that it was only because she was allowing him to see her amusement. There was a hint of condescension in her expression as well. "Answer me this, then, Magister," she said in an icy tone. "Why should we work with you? You are a clearly desperate neophyte magister with few assets, and your uncle had a notorious reputation. Accepting you as a partner might even stain our house's good name. We have little to gain from such an alliance, so why should we bother?"
Illyen inhaled slowly. The Black Pearl's words stung all the more because of the truth behind them, and he could not refute them. However, he had anticipated that she might ask a question like this, and had already prepared an answer.
"My lady… I am not my uncle," he said firmly. "I cannot change the past, and I am well aware that those whose ire he earned will be slow to forgive my house, if ever. Furthermore, I do not possess his skills. I am no sailor, so I could never navigate a vessel through a blockade and extort the citizens of an exotic port."
"You are not inspiring much confidence," Bellenora interjected drily.
"Even if I could, however, I also lack the desire to do so," Illyen continued, ignoring her interruption. "I am averse to conflict, and am loath to make enemies. Thus, I would prefer to forge strong alliances with reputable houses, where both parties can benefit."
Bellenora tilted her chin upwards. "I see. Then we will happily accept your submission as our vassal," she stated imperiously.
Illyen recognized her attempt to vex him, and he countered by chuckling faintly. "An alliance, my lady," he repeated. "Based upon mutual respect. Certainly, I acknowledge that House Otherys wields far more power than I could ever hope to attain, but that does not mean that I will kneel before you in surrender and submission. I wish to work with you, if you are amenable to such an arrangement. If not… then it is a pity that we could not come to an agreement."
Bellenora stared at Illyen silently, her violet eyes boring into his. Illyen held her gaze, however, even as he felt his breathing becoming shallow. He wondered if he had overstepped, and had instead managed to insult her by demanding that he be treated as her peer.
"You have much to learn, young Magister," she said coolly. "For one, you should not have made it obvious just how precarious your position is. It was evident from the start of this meeting that you are desperate for a partnership. You also should have ensured that your ships were fully crewed before we began this discussion, in case I wished to begin shipping my goods tomorrow. You are painfully honest, both about your intentions and your weaknesses, and in truth, it would be far too easy for me to exploit you however I pleased. I could easily secure an outright predatory contract for my house if I wished." Then, to his surprise, she began to smile. "Though I must confess, I actually find it refreshing, even charming, in a naïve sort of way."
Illyen blinked. "My lady?" he asked hesitantly.
Bellenora sat back in her chair and laced her fingers together over her stomach. "My sister recently met with a merchant from the Westerosi port of Gulltown. They are offering shipments of iron ore in exchange for some of our textiles. As such, we find ourselves in need of an additional ship or two, and we were already in the process of seeking out captains who were willing to sail across the Narrow Sea on our behalf when you approached us." She lowered her chin slightly to gaze at him intently. "If you can crew at least two of your ships within the next week, we may discuss a contract."
Illyen felt his heart leap at this news, and he struggled to keep his relief from showing on his face. "Very well," he agreed immediately.
Bellenora considered him for a few moments, then added, "I shall also offer you a word of advice. If you intend to ship goods on behalf of others, then rather than asking the other noble houses, it would be wiser for you to seek out independent merchants. They will be far more interested in borrowing your vessels, and thus you will be in a stronger position to dictate terms favorable to you. Approaching other noble houses makes it appear as though you are begging for their coin."
"I see. But… I still must make coin as well. Will common merchants be able to afford the costs of shipping?" Illyen asked apprehensively.
"If they cannot, they will inform you of such, and you need not deal with them," Bellenora explained. "If they can, they will be eager to work with you. Furthermore, this way, you hold leverage over them, not the other way around. The noble houses already possess the means to transport their goods, and though it is a certainty that they can afford your prices, they also most like have little need of your services. Therefore, while they do have more coin to spend, they will also be less inclined to tolerate higher fees than independent merchants. Dealing with commoners also means that you will be able to essentially make your own merchant-vassals, so to speak, as opposed to you vassalizing yourself to the greater houses. That, Magister, is how you will increase your house's wealth and prestige."
Illyen bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, then nodded slowly. "Then… thank you for your advice. I shall certainly heed it," he said softly.
Bellenora nodded. "If we are to forge a long-term partnership with one another, then I also benefit if your house expands. Thus, it behooves me to ensure your success as a merchant." She smirked slyly. "And it indebts you to me." Illyen swallowed hard, but then Bellenora's expression softened. "You may also consider it thanks for penning such a fine tribute to my mother. I have seen your play, and I rather enjoyed it. I can understand why my nephew is quite fond of you."
An embarrassed grin spread across Illyen's face, and he glanced away. "Well… I enjoyed writing it. The first Black Pearl was a fascinating woman, and even if Bale – pardon me, Balerion – had not endorsed it, I still would have liked to perform the play for its own sake." He then looked back at Bellenora and added, "Though I must say, although I never met her, I am certain that even her beauty and charm paled in comparison to yours, my lady."
Bellenora raised an eyebrow. "You needn't flatter me, Magister. I have already accepted your proposal," she said drily, though Illyen did notice a hint of an amused smile tugging at her lips. Then, abruptly, she pushed herself up. "Now, I am afraid that I have other appointments."
"I understand, my lady," Illyen replied, pushing himself up as well and inclining his head. "Then with your permission, I shall take my leave."
"Of course. Safe travels," Bellenora replied. She waved her hand, and a pair of guards stepped into the room to escort Illyen out of the manse.
Illyen followed the men out the door and onto the darkened streets of Braavos. The crescent moon was already looming overhead, barely providing any more light than the dim street lamps lining the road. The streets were also nearly empty, save for one or two passerby who kept their heads down as they hurried to make their way back home. Though evening had been when Illyen had arrived at the Otherys manse, he had not realized just how late it had become, and he quickly started making his way back to his own manse.
He felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest, now that he had at least a prospective contract with the Otherys family. He would still need to finalize the details with Bellenora, however, and to hire crews for his ships. In truth, he expected the latter to be the easier of the two tasks. If Saera was to be believed, there were entire taverns full of sailors seeking work, and if he relied on his uncle's prior contracts-
"Telerys!" a voice suddenly boomed behind him. Illyen felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he turned around to see a lone bravo standing in the middle of the street, dressed in a bright yellow doublet and scarlet trousers, his face half-covered by a wide-brimmed hat with a thick white plume. His gloved hand was resting on the hilt of his slender sword, and a dark grin flashed from under the thick, tangled mass of brown hair that covered the lower half of his face. "Hold! I seek satisfaction!"
Illyen's heart began to pound as the man stalked towards him, and he quickly glanced around to locate the nearest guard as he slowly backed away. He had been challenged by bravos before, usually over his work as a playwright, but somehow this felt… wrong. For one, bravos typically traveled in pairs; if they were going to issue a challenge for a duel, they wanted a second to witness their deeds, and to avenge them if they fell. Furthermore, almost never challenged nobles, magisters, or keyholders, as the upper echelons of society had numerous ways of exacting revenge. Also, the bravo had addressed him as "Telerys," rather than "Illyen," the name he had been using throughout his career as a playwright, and most of the bravos who challenged him in the past had taken issue with one of his plays. Had word of his elevation to magister truly spread so quickly? Or was there another reason he was being addressed by his surname?
"I'm afraid that you will find no satisfaction," Illyen shouted, still backing away from the bravo. "I have no weapon, and thus will not answer your challenge."
The bravo's sneer widened as he drew the slender blade from its sheath. "So much the better for me, then!" he cried.
Illyen's eyes widened with terror. One of the few codes that all bravos obeyed was that they never attacked anyone who was unarmed, as there was no glory to be found in simple murder.
Clearly, this man was no bravo.
Immediately, Illyen spun on his heel and began dashing away from the man. His attacker let out a wild laugh, and a moment later, Illyen could hear heavy footfalls echoing off the cobblestones behind him. His heart pounded in his ears as he raced down the empty streets, not daring to look behind him for fear that doing so would slow him down.
The straight street before him was empty, which was both a blessing and a curse, as there were no other people to slow him down, but there was also no way to lose his pursuer in a crowd. The one or two people he passed by watched him curiously, but made no effort to stop the bravo chasing after him. Though Illyen could hardly blame them for not wanting to involve themselves, he began wishing that he might encounter another bravo or two eager to answer the challenge of the man brandishing his sword behind him.
As he approached a turn in the street, Illyen abruptly changed direction, his boots skidding slightly on the slick stones. Behind him, he heard the man swear as he almost lost his balance as well. For a moment, the footfalls fell silent. Then, suddenly, something flew past his ear. Illyen felt his blood freeze as the small knife clattered across the ground in front of him, having only narrowly missed striking him in the back of the head or the shoulder. Though he had been starting growing tired, he suddenly found a second wind, and sprinted down the empty street before him with renewed vigor.
However, the longer he ran, the more his stamina began to fail him. His legs started to feel heavy, and his lungs were aching. Worse, the footfalls behind him seemed to be getting closer. Still, through a gap in the buildings, he spotted the tall oak tree that marked the plaza where his manse stood. If he could just make it there, he knew the watchmen guarding his manse would protect him.
The heavy panting behind him suddenly became louder, and Illyen spared a glance over his shoulder to see that the man was only a few feet behind him. A dark laugh gave him a split-second warning, and Illyen dodged to his right just as the man's slender blade pierced the air behind him. Its gleaming point narrowly missed slicing through his velvet jacket, and the empty thrust threw the man off-balance. Illyen took off again before the man could recover, racing for the entrance to the plaza while trying desperately not to think about how close he had come to being skewered.
Ahead, in the shadow of the oak tree, he spotted a pair of guards lazily wandering the plaza with bored expressions. When they spotted Illyen running towards them with the man on his heels, however, they immediately pushed themselves up and drew their weapons. Illyen gasped for air as he readied himself for a final sprint, but as he did, the footfalls behind him faded. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the "bravo" had stopped at the entrance to the plaza. As the guards ran towards him, yelling for him to halt, he glared up at Illyen and drew his thumb across his neck before turning and retreating away from the plaza before the guards could catch him.
Illyen stumbled over to a bench at the base of the tree and collapsed onto it. His legs were shaking, his lungs were burning, and his heart was pounding in his ears. His skin was covered in a cold sweat, partially from exertion, and partially from utter terror. As he struggled to catch his breath, a chilling thought surfaced in the back of his mind. Evidently, whoever had assassinated his uncle had not merely held a grudge against Regoro, but against anyone bearing the Telerys name… and Illyen was their next target.
Illyen shifted to lean forward on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees. He then buried his face in his hands as he took deep, gasping breaths, struggling in vain to stop the terrified tremors wracking his body as he stared at the exit to the plaza through the gap in his fingers. Part of him had hoped otherwise, but now he was unable to deny the horrifying fact that his uncle's assassin was still out there, waiting for him… and he still had no idea who they were.