continued from chapter 3.1

The mayor shot a longing look at the wooden box containing his 'secret ingredient' then sighed again and poured the rich crimson liquid into the goblets. He took the tray and carried it himself to the desk. Once seated in his throne, he gestured to Beorg to take one of the goblets. The nord extended his hand and then visibly hesitated before finally picking up the vessel. It could have been just an ordinary reaction of a man faced with a choice, but Greogor soon noticed a very faint, but characteristically metallic scent. It became obvious that this man just used some sort of hexergic talent and equally obvious which one it was.

The mayor reached for the other goblet and took a sip, suddenly glad that he didn’t just try to get rid of the nord in a more direct way. The outlander just used a minor hex. One that checked if his drink was not laced with poison.

-”Doth thee wisheth f'r aught else bef're we starteth?" - he asked with a forced smile - "Nay? Valorous, then I'm all ears. What seemeth to beest the issue?”

Beorg took a sip of the Dremin, and nodded with appreciation. There were still no identifiable body language or emotional clues in his behaviour.

-”Me and mine own associates w're harass'd by a band of vigilantes.  A Novikov Agency.”

This name sounded familiar…

-”Twice.” - continued McKeone - ”We has't suff'r'd losses in health and mat'riel.  We eke dispatch'd eight memb'rs of the hath said gang in self-defence.”

Greogor smiled broadly and put on his well practised honeyed tone.

-”I am truly s'rry to heareth yond. I shalt immediately dispatch the most cap'ble men to findeth these… what didst thee calleth those folk, ‘novikovs’? …yes, and punisheth those folk to the full extent of the Gesterat Law. Anon, if 't be true yond is all…"

-”Th're is nay needeth, Mr Andros." - interrupted the Nord - "Novikovs art but a factual extension of thy militia in the south'rn areas of thy province. Eith'r thee yourself 'r one of thy sub'rdinates madeth a dealeth with those folk. I gath'r t is a ingraft thing h're.”

The mayor scratched his chin theatrically.

-”P'rhaps, p'rhaps.  Th're art many branches to our local gov'rnance.” - he leaned over the desk, trying to look menacing - “What, prithee, doth thee wanteth, assuming thy case is truthful?”

-”Full coop'ration.”- Beorg sipped a bit of his wine - ”From the local gov'rn'r. Thee.”

-”What doth thee imply?”

-”The lett'rs, which thee p'rsonally sign'd and sealed, has't given me expressive p'rmission to op'rate within the designat'd area.  Those lett'rs guarante'd full protection from any criminal element, protection, I might addeth, did provided by representatives 'r sub'rdinates of thine office.”

- ”So? How is yond relevant?” - Greogor shifted his tone to a more dismissive one.

Beorg almost sighed and then imperceptibly changed his tone to a one used by a father patiently explaining why his child cannot put their hand into the burning oven.

- ”Because the novikov 'rganisation acts on thy behalf. And we w're harass'd by the novikov 'rganisation. Which, by extension, maketh us harass'd by thee. Yond is an insultingly d'rect breach of contract I hadst with thee. Not only wast the protection not did provide, t wast actually thy people who is't w're disturbing ours. As such, I shalt require compensation.”

Greogor's face became red with fury. It was another practised move, and one he was quite proud of at that. It looked very convincing.

-”Baseless sland'r! This is prepost'rous! Wend hence betimes, bef're i calleth mine own s'rvants!”

Silence befell the room. The mayor seemed fuming, while Beorg… not so much. He calmly took another tiny sip of the wine.

-”Thee shall honour our agreement.”

Greogor exploded, his face became even redder than before. He dropped all pretence now and switched from the pompous sounding Received Imperial language to the much more direct Cammona tongue.

-”Who the fuck do you think you are!? Barging in here! With your trumped up charges, false accusations and ridiculous demands! I will have your liver on the plate!"

He took a deep breath to shout for the guards, but the nord interrupted him.

-”Too soon to feign outrage. Mr Andros.”

Instead of a shout Greogor made a long hissing sound, surprised and dumbfounded at such impertinence. Impertinence, and, let's face it, accuracy of this otherwise quite innocent observation.

-”I recognize…" - continued McKeone, quite unfazed - "...that you intend to call the guards and complain about me being here to kill you. I am, after all, armed."

The man used a monotone voice, looking not at his interlocutor but somewhere behind him, but he spoke in a way that put weight behind every word. Greogor felt somewhat deflated but on the other hand even more infuriated. He wasn't used to being treated this way. No, come to think of it, he had never been treated like this! He now stood up, pointed his finger at the nord and opened his mouth to finally, once and for all, put this upstart in his place.

He didn't manage even half a word.

-“Shut up. Sit down. Listen" - barked McKeone. Greogor Andros, this seasoned veteran of much political fighting, obediently closed his mouth, lowered his arm and slumped back in his chair as if some invisible hand pushed him. Deep inside he was both boiling with rage and, simultaneously, was fairly confounded with such display of brazenness. But then he once again remembered the papers. And mustered enough self-control to stay quiet. For the time being.

Beorg tilted his head very slightly, bringing to mind a picture of a hawk looking over a tiny sparrow. He then continued as if nothing happened, in his usual tone bereft of emotions and most intonation.

 -”Good. We are both going to benefit from your patience. Now. You will dispatch twenty men of local militia to the archeological site, coordinates of which are already known to either you or your minions. Give them enough supplies for a week and orders to shoot any member of Novikov gang on sight. They are there to secure the dig site and provide protection for my associates, who are very valuable to me, thus if anything unfortunate happens to them, and I stress this, anything, then I shall personally make your life living Feot. Understood.”

The mayor seemed frozen in place, looking at the nord with wide eyes and a shocked expression. How dared he talk like this! How dared he come here. Making demands. Treating the mayor, the mayor, the second most important person in the province, like some personal slave!

But… on the other hand, and this was crucial, a man like this must have powerful people backing him, if he can make demands in such a manner. But who? The Duke? The Emperor? Vihrs? Greogor didn't have a clue, but one thing was certain: this man was no small fish. The mayor only now recognized that he made a critical error in his judgement and now it was time to pay the due taxes on this lapse.

-”Good.”- continued the guest - “You shall also issue an iron letter that grants me, and whomever I bring along, a free passage to and from your local portal. No checks, no customs, nothing. I will collect it within one candle.”

For the first time in forever, Greogor found himself at a loss of words. He swallowed heavily, his precursor's apple bobbing up and down, and then just nodded, slowly and deliberately.

-“I am glad we understood each other.” - the nord put his goblet back on the desk and stood up - “Remember. Protection for my people by your militia. Iron letter for a passage through the network portal.”

-“Yes, Mr McKeone, certainly. I will issue orders and prepare the requested documents immediately." - replied the mayor in a hoarse, resigned voice.

Both men looked at each other for a short while, before Beorg leaned on the desk and added, in a sort-of confidential tone.

-“Your new lieutenant is known to mingle and frolic with his subordinates. I think you know exactly what this means. Consider this information as payment. For the wine." - he turned around but seemed to hesitate for a moment - "Fifteen eighty-three. Battle of Porves. I recall. It was a really interesting year.”

The nord then exited the office calmly, walking out casually as if he didn't just have a blazing row with the imperial official, whereas Greogor remained at his throne for some time after that, defeated, mulling over McKeone’s parting words whilst playing with his goblet. It dawned on him, too late perhaps, that forces which are far above his already substantial station do occasionally turn up on his doorstep and it’s best to not get in their way.

He needed something to strengthen up and stop the hands and knees from shaking, so he drank the remainder of wine in one quick swoop. Then McKeone’s still half-full goblet drew his attention.

-“Might as well.” - he muttered to himself - ”Wouldn't want it to go to waste.”