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The Price of Coin
Vel Anir, Year 374 AoC
Nico Du’Raki ascended the final flight of stairs of Vel Aerelos, where he found Councilor Cyvis waiting alone in the Chamber of Valor, as they had named it. The graying man stood across the room at the gaping archway to the balcony overlooking the city, his considerable frame dark against the iron sky.
“How long have you been in the employ of Vel Anir?” the councilor asked over his shoulder, his voice like overloaded wagon axles.
“Six years,” the Valentennian said from the stairs. “Or will be, this eclipse.”
Cyvis shifted, and Nico added in resignation, “...Councilor.”
“And your circumstances here suit you?”
“I am well compensated, yes.”
The old man let a silence settle between them, a tact likely meant to unsettle the northerner. Contrarily, Nico straightened the collar of his longcoat and wandered freely into the chamber, making a point to casually browse the ribbon of pictographs running the perimeter of the stone walls. The histories of valor, depicting sieges deterred and battles over borders, going as far back as Falwood. The Elven war that decimated Vel Anir’s forces and created the beast the city now was.
He came to the vast slab of a table where the High Council made strategy for whatever soon-to-be vassal they were warring with this month. Now, schematics of the city’s interior lay atop the stone.
He noticed voices rising outside beyond the balcony just before the councilor spoke again.
“Your machines have proven efficient enough in protecting the walls and in conquests to the west. We would ensure that you feel…” Cyvis turned to meet his eyes for the first time, “...secure here.”
Secured, he meant. Nico tilted his chin noncommittally.
“Likewise, it is important the Council feels comfortable with an outsider within their circle,” the councilor wen on. “One of my captains recently returned from a voyage to the Gnome’s Head. I asked that he do some digging while there.”
Nico looked up from the table, the first hitch in his nonchalance. Cyvis made a feeble effort to hide his smile.
“When you came to us, you presented as one from a respectable house of Valenntenia.”
Cyvis feigned puzzlement over the implied contradiction. He likely knew the names and trades of Nico’s commoner parents, and was waiting for him to dig his hole deeper.
“Some gears need more grease in order to function within the machine,” Nico admitted.
“Indeed. Though, I imagine, the machine has proven more fruitful than the son of peasants could ever hope for.”
He was right. Though Nico had been well aware of Vel Anir’s reputation before the revolution, the pay had lured him here all the same.
“One must sometimes weigh the price of coin.”
The elder conceded with a nod, gestured him to the balcony, and Nico approached. He glanced up, where circled Valianice, the loyal rook that had become the Valenntenian’s only companion in this place. Far below, the commotion was growing louder in the street, where merchants and tradesmen had gathered, crowding the gate of the keep and held back by a line of guards.
“Some are still unrestful,” Cyvis said, putting weight on his cane – a souvenir from his years in the guard. “They wanted the revolution as much as the Dreadlords. The reformation that softened our ways and created more taxes to fund the Academy. Now they are discontent with the fruits of their rebellion.” His eyes climbed the keep’s walls looming above the crowd.
A figure appeared on the parapet, her dark cloak pinned with a jagged iron badge. An Archon. The few elite, even among the Dreadlords, bestowed their rank for ruthlessness as much as magical prowess. More men followed from the doorway, rolling sealed barrels to the edge of the wall as the guards below held the growing crowd back at the length of their spears.
Nico’s breath caught as he realized the councilor’s intentions.
“We are still testing the scorchlime,” he said, stifling his urgency. “Its reactivity dictates we thoroughly–”
“Then we will skewer two Falwyrms with a single lance.” An edge crept into Cyvis’ voice. “This shall demonstrate the effectiveness of your concoction as well as the austerity of the Council.”
“Councilor,” Nico tried more diplomatically, “I strongly advise we take time to–”
But below on the street, a burly man in a smith’s apron tried his hand at pushing through the guards, knocking one of them to the ground, and cried out when another’s spear tip bit into his shoulder. Protests flared behind him, the crowd pulsing and threatening to become a mob. Nico’s shoulders fell.
Cyvis sent a nod out from the balcony to the commander across the way, and in turn the Archon signalled her men. The guards backstepped through the gate, leaving the crowd to batter the wooden doors with frustrated fists. Behind the doors, iron clanged as the portcullis was lowered.
“Where were you when they came?” Cyvis said. “When the rebels brought war to our thresholds?”
Nico was no warrior, certainly not for a city that saw him as a foreign liability. He remained silent.
The barrels came over the parapet, plummeting to the cobbles amid the would-be rioters with cracking bursts of oaken splinters, spilling forth pale plumes of the scorchlime powder. Nico couldn’t be certain – there was but a flick of the Archon’s fingers – but a gust of wind manifested from nothing, swirling the dust about the gate so that it swallowed the citizens from sight.
The engineer stepped to the railing, pulled to the scene as if fixated on a pack of wolves overtaking their quarry.
Inside the shroud, the protesting shouts choked into ragged coughs. For the moment, they were as if merely caught in a sand storm, the dry grains heavy on their throats. The lime had not yet activated.
The first short shrieks came as some of them stumbled from the cloud, clawing at their burning eyes. The shouts then grew more frantic as the scorchlime began to react with the sweat on their backs and necks. Nico remembered the mishaps at his workbench, the way the dampened paste tore at his skin like angry thistles.
He leaned against the railing, shouted for the Archon to stop this, but when she deigned to look his way, her eyes held such a calm detachment the hairs on his neck stood.
“What do you propose she do for them now?” Cyvis said, fixated on the scene.
The screams now swept down the alleys. They came into view as the cloud began to dissipate – smiths, bakers, mothers – falling to their knees in heaving cries of agony. The powder was deep in their wet lungs now, the caustic activating and incinerating them from the inside out. Dark streaks ran from their noses and down their chins, a scorchlime slurry of blood and sputum.
A trill cawing came from the sky. The rook was plenty sensible to grasp the horror unfolding.
“We bear great expense to train the Dreadlords,” Cyvis began calmly, as if they were enjoying the gardens over tea, and gestured to the Archon. “They owe their existence to the city, and thus, Vel Anir has a say over their future. They may join the guard or the reserves, or…”
The councilor paused as the screams began to drown in singed tissue and fluid, fascinated with the results of his experiment. He then recalled his train of thought.
“Or, if they choose not to serve, they are banished from Vel Anir. Battlemages set free, perhaps to serve other cities.”
It was hardly mercy when the cries below quieted, the people suffocating in their own blood, but many still wheezing breath.
“It is a shame so many of the deserters never make it through the gates and into the world.” Cyvis waited for Nico’s eyes to meet him, to confirm he had heard the implications. The old man shrugged his wide shoulders. “Magic is magic. There will be accidents.”
The councilor left the balcony with his chin high, leaving the threat to permeate in the chamber. He had made his point, and the arrogant engineer finally grasped the precariousness of his contract.
“You lie.”
Nico’s voice was not without confidence. Cyvis halted, his hand hovering just above the stair railing.
“You forget yourself, northerner.”
“The Council does not murder battlemages.” Nico’s eyes darted to the street, where lay the latest work of a councilor. “Not as a practice, at least,” he amended.
The old man turned, slow and seething. Nico faced him squarely, sure of himself now. Val fluttered into the archway, the rook lighting on her friend’s shoulder with a shrill cry, as if joining him for battle.
“The Dreadlords are like any other soldiers. You must upkeep their morale to ensure their loyalty. If it were found out there was no alternative to their servitude, that you killed every one of them that turned down the call, they would revolt.” Nico’s eyes narrowed, studying the councilor’s face for confirmation. “You might manage the quantity and quality, but you do need to let some of them leave the city. You drive out the weaker mages to keep the strong here.”
Cyvis huffed. “Even if you are correct, northman, I would still remind you that you are no Dreadlord. There are no mechanics of your nature to revolt if you turn up missing. You are alone.”
Nico couldn’t entirely hide his smile. Cyvis had walked into the snare.
“Precisely.” He started toward the councilor, sauntering like a pensive philosopher. “I’ll not be so pompous as to compare myself with the force of the mages, but my engines are part of their effectiveness. You said yourself, ‘We bear great expense.’ The Dreadlords are too costly to be replaced, and my designs spare much of that risk. Hence, I am irreplaceable. That is the consensus of the Council.”
“And why would you presume the will of the Council differs from my own?”
“Because you summoned me on this day, as Lord Banick’s son is being married, an event the other councilors are attending. You sought a private audience with me so that you might speak freely.”
Cyvis opened his mouth, but Nico went on, absently producing a crumble of hardtack for Val.
“There’s more. With recent tensions, you knew the extravagant event was likely to cause protest from the taxpayers. You wanted me here instead of at the Banick wedding. You have your experiment and your scapegoat.”
Cyvis shifted to his heels.
“So I do,” the councilor said, any veil of innocence crumbling on the floor. “And who will the Council believe, when they hear that you condoned the use of your scorchlime on the people?”
“That’s where you have me.” Nico gave a polite nod of defeat. “You are a High Councilor, and they’ll not have my word over yours.”
For all his faults, Cyvis was no fool. The engineer’s feigned forfeit wrought worry in the councilor’s face, and he watched closely as Nico produced a thin strip of a scroll from his long coat.
“A post message,” Nico explained as he held up the rice paper, the broken seal a dark ochre like that of Cyvis’, “intercepted before leaving the city, thank the gods. It is addressed to someone in Cerak At’Thul.”
The councilor’s features fell limp, but Nico pretended not to notice.
“Apparently, they have been making shipments to Vel Anir. Children to add to the academy stock. Slaves.”
The rook croaked from his shoulder.
The old man straightened, eyed the scroll. “One word from me, and the guards will have you in manacles and that note in my hand.”
But Nico already held the scroll high, and Val took her cue. The rook flapped her wings, and in a breath, she snatched up the paper and disappeared through the archway.
The councilor searched his face as Nico closed the distance between them, trying to discern the intent there, and learn if the engineer meant to ruin him. Nico’s voice dropped low.
“This business will be marked up as a miscommunication. Going forward, my products will not be implemented without the consent of myself and the Council.”
Cyvis contemplated a long moment before deciding against speaking. Even so, his face contorted to pinch back his tongue, and the councilor shuffled bitterly on his cane down the stairs.
Alone, Nico let out a long breath. He went again to the balcony as the cries of new voices welled in the street, spouses and mothers discovering their loved ones singed to pulp on the cobbles. They reached out to cradle them, but recoiled when the residue bit at their skin.
He’d solved nothing. He had planned to report the scorchlime was ineffective and scratch the project, as he had with two other similarly inhumane substances. Some things were too heinous for even war. Evidently, Cyvis had become wise to his omissions.
The other councilors might disapprove of the incident today, but ultimately it was what Cyvis intended, a demonstration of the scorchlime’s potency. Would the Council keep such a weapon in check if another uprising came? When the mob broke through the doors of Vel Aerelos? The Keep? Cyvis was proof that, even after the blossoming of the new republic, there was still blight holding to the roots.
Val swooped down to him and took her place on his shoulder. Nico took the scroll from her once more, noting the crudeness of the forged seal meant to imitate that of Councilor Cyvis. He unrolled the blank strip, thanking his luck in such a gamble – he’d only suspected Cyvis’ dealings with the slavers of Black Bay.
“Home,” Val croaked gently from his shoulder.
Nico let leaf-thin paper slip from his hand and watched it dance on the breeze, sweeping and lulling down the height of Vel Aerelos before settling on the street below.
Vel Anir, Year 374 AoC
Nico Du’Raki ascended the final flight of stairs of Vel Aerelos, where he found Councilor Cyvis waiting alone in the Chamber of Valor, as they had named it. The graying man stood across the room at the gaping archway to the balcony overlooking the city, his considerable frame dark against the iron sky.
“How long have you been in the employ of Vel Anir?” the councilor asked over his shoulder, his voice like overloaded wagon axles.
“Six years,” the Valentennian said from the stairs. “Or will be, this eclipse.”
Cyvis shifted, and Nico added in resignation, “...Councilor.”
“And your circumstances here suit you?”
“I am well compensated, yes.”
The old man let a silence settle between them, a tact likely meant to unsettle the northerner. Contrarily, Nico straightened the collar of his longcoat and wandered freely into the chamber, making a point to casually browse the ribbon of pictographs running the perimeter of the stone walls. The histories of valor, depicting sieges deterred and battles over borders, going as far back as Falwood. The Elven war that decimated Vel Anir’s forces and created the beast the city now was.
He came to the vast slab of a table where the High Council made strategy for whatever soon-to-be vassal they were warring with this month. Now, schematics of the city’s interior lay atop the stone.
He noticed voices rising outside beyond the balcony just before the councilor spoke again.
“Your machines have proven efficient enough in protecting the walls and in conquests to the west. We would ensure that you feel…” Cyvis turned to meet his eyes for the first time, “...secure here.”
Secured, he meant. Nico tilted his chin noncommittally.
“Likewise, it is important the Council feels comfortable with an outsider within their circle,” the councilor wen on. “One of my captains recently returned from a voyage to the Gnome’s Head. I asked that he do some digging while there.”
Nico looked up from the table, the first hitch in his nonchalance. Cyvis made a feeble effort to hide his smile.
“When you came to us, you presented as one from a respectable house of Valenntenia.”
Cyvis feigned puzzlement over the implied contradiction. He likely knew the names and trades of Nico’s commoner parents, and was waiting for him to dig his hole deeper.
“Some gears need more grease in order to function within the machine,” Nico admitted.
“Indeed. Though, I imagine, the machine has proven more fruitful than the son of peasants could ever hope for.”
He was right. Though Nico had been well aware of Vel Anir’s reputation before the revolution, the pay had lured him here all the same.
“One must sometimes weigh the price of coin.”
The elder conceded with a nod, gestured him to the balcony, and Nico approached. He glanced up, where circled Valianice, the loyal rook that had become the Valenntenian’s only companion in this place. Far below, the commotion was growing louder in the street, where merchants and tradesmen had gathered, crowding the gate of the keep and held back by a line of guards.
“Some are still unrestful,” Cyvis said, putting weight on his cane – a souvenir from his years in the guard. “They wanted the revolution as much as the Dreadlords. The reformation that softened our ways and created more taxes to fund the Academy. Now they are discontent with the fruits of their rebellion.” His eyes climbed the keep’s walls looming above the crowd.
A figure appeared on the parapet, her dark cloak pinned with a jagged iron badge. An Archon. The few elite, even among the Dreadlords, bestowed their rank for ruthlessness as much as magical prowess. More men followed from the doorway, rolling sealed barrels to the edge of the wall as the guards below held the growing crowd back at the length of their spears.
Nico’s breath caught as he realized the councilor’s intentions.
“We are still testing the scorchlime,” he said, stifling his urgency. “Its reactivity dictates we thoroughly–”
“Then we will skewer two Falwyrms with a single lance.” An edge crept into Cyvis’ voice. “This shall demonstrate the effectiveness of your concoction as well as the austerity of the Council.”
“Councilor,” Nico tried more diplomatically, “I strongly advise we take time to–”
But below on the street, a burly man in a smith’s apron tried his hand at pushing through the guards, knocking one of them to the ground, and cried out when another’s spear tip bit into his shoulder. Protests flared behind him, the crowd pulsing and threatening to become a mob. Nico’s shoulders fell.
Cyvis sent a nod out from the balcony to the commander across the way, and in turn the Archon signalled her men. The guards backstepped through the gate, leaving the crowd to batter the wooden doors with frustrated fists. Behind the doors, iron clanged as the portcullis was lowered.
“Where were you when they came?” Cyvis said. “When the rebels brought war to our thresholds?”
Nico was no warrior, certainly not for a city that saw him as a foreign liability. He remained silent.
The barrels came over the parapet, plummeting to the cobbles amid the would-be rioters with cracking bursts of oaken splinters, spilling forth pale plumes of the scorchlime powder. Nico couldn’t be certain – there was but a flick of the Archon’s fingers – but a gust of wind manifested from nothing, swirling the dust about the gate so that it swallowed the citizens from sight.
The engineer stepped to the railing, pulled to the scene as if fixated on a pack of wolves overtaking their quarry.
Inside the shroud, the protesting shouts choked into ragged coughs. For the moment, they were as if merely caught in a sand storm, the dry grains heavy on their throats. The lime had not yet activated.
The first short shrieks came as some of them stumbled from the cloud, clawing at their burning eyes. The shouts then grew more frantic as the scorchlime began to react with the sweat on their backs and necks. Nico remembered the mishaps at his workbench, the way the dampened paste tore at his skin like angry thistles.
He leaned against the railing, shouted for the Archon to stop this, but when she deigned to look his way, her eyes held such a calm detachment the hairs on his neck stood.
“What do you propose she do for them now?” Cyvis said, fixated on the scene.
The screams now swept down the alleys. They came into view as the cloud began to dissipate – smiths, bakers, mothers – falling to their knees in heaving cries of agony. The powder was deep in their wet lungs now, the caustic activating and incinerating them from the inside out. Dark streaks ran from their noses and down their chins, a scorchlime slurry of blood and sputum.
A trill cawing came from the sky. The rook was plenty sensible to grasp the horror unfolding.
“We bear great expense to train the Dreadlords,” Cyvis began calmly, as if they were enjoying the gardens over tea, and gestured to the Archon. “They owe their existence to the city, and thus, Vel Anir has a say over their future. They may join the guard or the reserves, or…”
The councilor paused as the screams began to drown in singed tissue and fluid, fascinated with the results of his experiment. He then recalled his train of thought.
“Or, if they choose not to serve, they are banished from Vel Anir. Battlemages set free, perhaps to serve other cities.”
It was hardly mercy when the cries below quieted, the people suffocating in their own blood, but many still wheezing breath.
“It is a shame so many of the deserters never make it through the gates and into the world.” Cyvis waited for Nico’s eyes to meet him, to confirm he had heard the implications. The old man shrugged his wide shoulders. “Magic is magic. There will be accidents.”
The councilor left the balcony with his chin high, leaving the threat to permeate in the chamber. He had made his point, and the arrogant engineer finally grasped the precariousness of his contract.
“You lie.”
Nico’s voice was not without confidence. Cyvis halted, his hand hovering just above the stair railing.
“You forget yourself, northerner.”
“The Council does not murder battlemages.” Nico’s eyes darted to the street, where lay the latest work of a councilor. “Not as a practice, at least,” he amended.
The old man turned, slow and seething. Nico faced him squarely, sure of himself now. Val fluttered into the archway, the rook lighting on her friend’s shoulder with a shrill cry, as if joining him for battle.
“The Dreadlords are like any other soldiers. You must upkeep their morale to ensure their loyalty. If it were found out there was no alternative to their servitude, that you killed every one of them that turned down the call, they would revolt.” Nico’s eyes narrowed, studying the councilor’s face for confirmation. “You might manage the quantity and quality, but you do need to let some of them leave the city. You drive out the weaker mages to keep the strong here.”
Cyvis huffed. “Even if you are correct, northman, I would still remind you that you are no Dreadlord. There are no mechanics of your nature to revolt if you turn up missing. You are alone.”
Nico couldn’t entirely hide his smile. Cyvis had walked into the snare.
“Precisely.” He started toward the councilor, sauntering like a pensive philosopher. “I’ll not be so pompous as to compare myself with the force of the mages, but my engines are part of their effectiveness. You said yourself, ‘We bear great expense.’ The Dreadlords are too costly to be replaced, and my designs spare much of that risk. Hence, I am irreplaceable. That is the consensus of the Council.”
“And why would you presume the will of the Council differs from my own?”
“Because you summoned me on this day, as Lord Banick’s son is being married, an event the other councilors are attending. You sought a private audience with me so that you might speak freely.”
Cyvis opened his mouth, but Nico went on, absently producing a crumble of hardtack for Val.
“There’s more. With recent tensions, you knew the extravagant event was likely to cause protest from the taxpayers. You wanted me here instead of at the Banick wedding. You have your experiment and your scapegoat.”
Cyvis shifted to his heels.
“So I do,” the councilor said, any veil of innocence crumbling on the floor. “And who will the Council believe, when they hear that you condoned the use of your scorchlime on the people?”
“That’s where you have me.” Nico gave a polite nod of defeat. “You are a High Councilor, and they’ll not have my word over yours.”
For all his faults, Cyvis was no fool. The engineer’s feigned forfeit wrought worry in the councilor’s face, and he watched closely as Nico produced a thin strip of a scroll from his long coat.
“A post message,” Nico explained as he held up the rice paper, the broken seal a dark ochre like that of Cyvis’, “intercepted before leaving the city, thank the gods. It is addressed to someone in Cerak At’Thul.”
The councilor’s features fell limp, but Nico pretended not to notice.
“Apparently, they have been making shipments to Vel Anir. Children to add to the academy stock. Slaves.”
The rook croaked from his shoulder.
The old man straightened, eyed the scroll. “One word from me, and the guards will have you in manacles and that note in my hand.”
But Nico already held the scroll high, and Val took her cue. The rook flapped her wings, and in a breath, she snatched up the paper and disappeared through the archway.
The councilor searched his face as Nico closed the distance between them, trying to discern the intent there, and learn if the engineer meant to ruin him. Nico’s voice dropped low.
“This business will be marked up as a miscommunication. Going forward, my products will not be implemented without the consent of myself and the Council.”
Cyvis contemplated a long moment before deciding against speaking. Even so, his face contorted to pinch back his tongue, and the councilor shuffled bitterly on his cane down the stairs.
Alone, Nico let out a long breath. He went again to the balcony as the cries of new voices welled in the street, spouses and mothers discovering their loved ones singed to pulp on the cobbles. They reached out to cradle them, but recoiled when the residue bit at their skin.
He’d solved nothing. He had planned to report the scorchlime was ineffective and scratch the project, as he had with two other similarly inhumane substances. Some things were too heinous for even war. Evidently, Cyvis had become wise to his omissions.
The other councilors might disapprove of the incident today, but ultimately it was what Cyvis intended, a demonstration of the scorchlime’s potency. Would the Council keep such a weapon in check if another uprising came? When the mob broke through the doors of Vel Aerelos? The Keep? Cyvis was proof that, even after the blossoming of the new republic, there was still blight holding to the roots.
Val swooped down to him and took her place on his shoulder. Nico took the scroll from her once more, noting the crudeness of the forged seal meant to imitate that of Councilor Cyvis. He unrolled the blank strip, thanking his luck in such a gamble – he’d only suspected Cyvis’ dealings with the slavers of Black Bay.
“Home,” Val croaked gently from his shoulder.
Nico let leaf-thin paper slip from his hand and watched it dance on the breeze, sweeping and lulling down the height of Vel Aerelos before settling on the street below.