Greogor Andros, the honourable mayor of the populous port of Tevros woke up in a particularly foul mood. Then his day only got worse. To begin with, he had a mother of all hangovers, caused by the last evening’s meeting with lieutenant Avarro, the freshly appointed commander of the port coastal defences. Despite very favourable circumstances, namely an all-expenses-paid visit in the private room of the “Lady Blossom’s” bathhouse, with all the joys of the flesh provided, the man proved to be, well… stiff. Just not in the expected sense of the word. All he did, all night long, was "tasting". First the most expensive wine there was, then the luscious nibbles and morsels imported all the way from Usterl, served in the most exquisite vessels. And ignoring everything else on offer. Which obviously haven’t made him receptive to Greogor’s courtship. On the contrary, the man was closed up tighter than Steland's ports and the Mayor ended up knowing even less about the soldier and his secrets than before the orgy started. Worse still, Greogor, who was slightly more discerning about the quality of the alcohol, and less about the quantity,  inadvertently spilled some of his own confidential information, thus the entire endeavour could be considered, to put it mildly, an unmitigated disaster which ended up with the first massive headache on the following day.

  His personal servant woke him up at an unvihrsly time, almost full two candles before noon, saying that his presence is urgently requested in the city hall. Thus he crawled out of bed - after a long massage session of course - then allowed his servants to dress him up in his representational silks and softest velvets, and finally left. After all, the townsfolk needed to see that their esteemed leader was taking his duties seriously. From time to time.

In truth, he should have been up and getting ready anyway, since he had a meeting scheduled with none other than the Duke himself, and even such a well placed and powerful imperial official like Andros needed some time to prepare, especially when healthy profits were on the agenda. This time however he had a nagging feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.

   In the light of all this, the halfer-long commute from his mansion on the outskirts to the city itself proved to be additionally cumbersome. The carriage swayed and rumbled on the dirt road, turning the post-alcoholic headache into a special kind of torture, and frequently occurring potholes certainly didn't help. The trip proved to be so bad that he was almost beginning to regret diverting most of the city's road maintenance budget towards 'representational expenses'.

He obviously expected more headaches. There were always some decisions to make and lazy employees to punish. However there was one potential problem, which stood out today as the most troublesome, and he fully expected it to be the main reason for the urgent summons: two Black Ships from Steland docked a couple of days back. The problem wasn't the islander gold, nor the exquisite trinkets they brought along, especially those made from the near mythical islander steel, which the city's merchants loved and coveted. The blacks were also more than keen to purchase wine by the crate, cloth in whole dozens of bales and grain by the tun. No, the problem lay with the fact that the islander sailors had a habit of making a royal mess of every whorehouse, tavern and public house in the docks, a mess which was inversely proportional to how close they were to the home port. And Tevros was, in a grand scheme of things, the farthest port that Stelanders frequented.

As city walls drew near, Greogor for the umpteenth time considered the periodic dilemma, whether the islander money was really worth the trouble. Just thinking of the sort of mess he’ll have to deal with this time filled him with dread. At best there was a brawl or two, without casualties. At worst… some Stelanders were arrested and thrown into jail, or Arneg forbid, killed. Such an incident would only exacerbate existing political tensions between the two nations, and the finger of blame would be pointed right back at Greogor.

Then again, maybe it was a mere firestorm or perhaps the Duke decided to come early. Surely not the imperial tax collector!

The carriage finally pulled up at the town hall, mercifully preventing the mayor from conjuring up even worse scenarios. He disembarked hastily, slamming the door and berating the driver for being late. Two guards at the main gate barely managed to stand to attention as he stormed past them, practically running up the stairs and barging through the doors into the corridors leading to his office. Corridors, which were laden with decorative knick-knacks, trinkets and novelty items from the entire continent. Small statues and vases on tall marble pedestals. Skins from exotic animals. Ornate frescoes, which he himself ordered to be painted by a famous master ‘whatever-his-name-was’ from Usterl. For a significant reimbursement.

He must have seen these decorations so often that they became invisible to his mind. Or perhaps his mind was already occupied with something else. He opened the door to the waiting room and stopped dead at the doorstep. It became plainly obvious that this day will undoubtedly turn out to be… eventful.

There were four people in the room. His assistant, a lovely girl named Alicia, whom he… interviewed, on multiple occasions, was sitting at her desk and glancing at him with this pained look which conveyed a very sincere “I’m sorry, I tried” kind of message. Two local merchants occupied one end of the waiting couch, clearly feeling out of their element and keeping their distance from the last person in the room: a tall, olive-skinned man, wearing well tailored clothes. Greogor looked him up and down, noting joerg breeches inserted into high riding boots, and a richly embroidered doublet with puffed sleeves. The clothes seemed well made but also well used and currently covered in dust. He sat on the other end of the couch, perfectly still, so much so that his face seemed to be carved in marble. Marble, which someone carelessly damaged with a chisel. If Andros remembered correctly, the nasty, jagged wound on one of the man's cheeks wasn't there when they first met. The man also didn’t seem to consider it fitting to leave his weapons at the gate. How he got this far without being disarmed or at least stopped and questioned, remained a mystery.

-”I has't a complaint.” - spoke Beorg to no one in particular, but implicitly directing his words at Greogor. His voice bore a tone of absolute authority.

There was a short silence as everyone present seemed to hold their breaths. Alicia discreetly cleared her throat.

-”Oh! Mister, uhh… McKeone! Tis at each moment an honour to meeteth thee.” - replied the mayor, scrambling in panic to remember this man's particulars - “I shall fain respondeth and taketh immediate action.  Prithee…" - he gestured towards his office - “...aft'r thee.”

If Greogor's memory served him right, he first met this ‘Beorg McKeone’ just a few weeks prior. The man introduced himself as a banker or merchant or agent of sorts, somehow connected to the Zerstbank. The Zerstbank. Supposedly. Greogor considered this a ‘likely story’. He came to Tevros as an archeologist, which the official considered an 'unlikely story', since, for one, archeologists with no ties to the Church were extraordinarily rare, and in his mind - almost indistinguishable from common grave robbers, and two: he came armed to the teeth and very, very well equipped. At first Greogor wanted to simply throw the nord out, as he would do with just about any suspicious, Divinul-worshipping outlander from Vihrs knows where. Tevros, a sizable port city, had this effect on people - they constantly came and went, seeking fame and fortune, and all of them, without fail, had very important businesses. Besides, matters such as this man’s were handled by… well, someone else really, certainly not the mayor. 

But then, this McKeone pulled out an impressive collection of official letters from very important people both within and outside the Empire. There was enough purple ink and red wax there to warrant immediate attention. Whoever this man was, he certainly and without doubt made it clear that whatever he wanted was to be provided. Without delay.

Thankfully, all he wanted were some permissions to do something irrelevant, somewhere irrelevant, far away in the wilderness, dozens of kimers south, in the middle of nowhere. Greogor, quietly thanking Arneg, the daemon of luck, that it wasn't anything more troublesome, hastily issued, signed and sealed the papers, and the man left. Both his office and his attention.

But that was then. And now was now. He came back. It had ‘problems’ written all over it. With big, bold letters. The mayor sighed, then entered his office, right after his guest, gesturing towards Alicia that he will be unavailable for the foreseeable future.

Their steps resonated over the marble floor and reverberated from marble-and-granite walls of the room they just entered, creating an impression of a much larger chamber than it really was. There was a massive ebony desk in the middle of the room, facing the door and positioned precisely to be the first thing any suppliant would see. A throne-like chair decorated with ornate sculptures all over, stood behind the desk and then behind that there were three humongous, arching, opaque, stained glass windows. These were facing south, and so it was actually quite cool inside, for the northern Sorres that is, but if necessary, one could always use the gift to spin a fan on the ceiling. Two sofas near the walls, a few chairs in front of the desk and rows of cabinets lining the walls completed the selection of furniture.

Greogor quietly closed the doors and then rushed towards one of the cabinets. He opened it, revealing a collection of crystal decanters filled with a variety of liquids, then took two ornate glass goblets and put them on a tray, strategically placed on one of the shelves.

His guest in the meantime found his way to, and then sat on, one of the chairs in front of the desk. Just like the last time he was here, his face didn't show any discernible emotion, and especially not the shock and awe which the mayor was hoping for. Most petitioners were usually overwhelmed and impressed with the interior, but not this foreigner. He coughed quietly.

-”Mr McKeone, can mineth inviteth thee to the 1583 vintage of Tar'nberg Dremin?”

-”Fain.” - responded the man in a manner which was rather infuriating. He seemed to be one of those arrogant bastards who speak with no tone or discernible accent. Conversing with ones like him was like talking to a wall and his manners apparently haven't improved since his last visit either. Greogor sighed and quietly considered getting rid of the nord even before the talks started… only there was this little issue of all those perfume infused and wax sealed letters, an implicit threat of stench that would arise if this nord simply disappeared without a trace.

continued in Chapter 3.2 due to character limit