Aralim 120

Aglo the Industrialist was hunched over a desk that wasn’t quite his size, making marks in the midpoint of a rather thick scroll.  At sight of Aralim walking calmly after the Aura into his office area of the Palace, Aglo doused his quill in its inkwell and poured himself a brown whiskey from a crystal jar.  He raised the glass toward Aralim and said, “Ah, Master Ambassador.  Feel free to request something from his Aura if you like.  I’m sure they will be listening extra-vigilantly to this conversation.”

Aralim smirked.  “I don’t think the Aura play favourites.  I know I try not to.”  He sat down on a wooden stool near the bulky man’s desk.  Aglo was built of equal parts muscle and fat, and seemed to equal thrice Aralim’s proportions.  Despite his foreboding presence, he had allegedly hired the assassin Gathim to do Aralim harm—not himself.

Aglo took a sip of his whiskey and tilted himself back from his desk.  “How can I help you?” he asked, with a dry sigh.

“Well…” Aralim began.  After a moment’s hesitation, he went on, “I should say that I ask this without judgment—first, I’d like to inquire if it is true what the assassin said, that you inherited Ovoe’s networks when he died.”

The heavy man inclined his dark visage.  “It’s true, I did,” he said.  Then he looked up and met Aralim’s eyes.  “But it has all been disbanded.  The useful contacts have been passed on to the councillors that should oversee them, and the rest have been killed off or paid to do the killing off.  Ovoe’s plans are now as long dead as he is.”

Aralim had been lied to enough times to not take Aglo’s controlled expression as a sign of truth.  Nonetheless, this was a conversation he needed to have.  “If Ovoe’s contacts have been passed on, how is it that that no one knows anything about this gang situation?”

“At the Emperor’s request, I gave Vanra names,” Aglo said.  He waved a hand dismissively.  “A selection of Ovoe’s local contacts were questioned and, as I’m sure you have already been told, this isn’t them.”

Aralim watched the man sip his drink.  “Not only is it not them, but they don’t know who it is, then?”

“No, and neither do I,” the man said.  His broad shoulders raised.  “Gods, we even questioned Soot.  His criminal connections go far deeper than Ovoe’s.  And even he knows nothing.  Maybe the common superstitions are true—maybe the city is beset by jungle spirits.”

Aralim pursed his lips, unimpressed.  He had heard Soot described before as a strange character on the Second Court.  Despite this, he absently wondered why the Three Courts of Rema employed so many crooks.  He looked to the side at an unmarked map of Numa’nakres stuck to an iron pillar with sap.  “Jungle spirits that hate guards.”

“Indeed.”

“Very well, then.”  Aralim stood up to leave.  Aglo set down his glass of whiskey and reached for his quill once more.  But the Walker paused and leaned on his staff to ask, “One last thing….  Are you and I able to co-exist without the Emperor forcing you?”

Aglo smiled in earnest, flashing uneven teeth as he crossed his burly arms and regarded Aralim.  “I was born on the docks of Old Numa.  I have come further than Greatfather Athanu and I am only 43.  But my name will be lost in the shadows of Tag’na’s history books just like his.  My goal is to emerge.  Your lies of loyalty to my or Ovoe’s cause, and Ovoe’s death itself—these things were unnecessary obstacles.  You and I can co-exist if you want, but if you cross me again…” he trailed off.  “Well, the Emperor insists I leave you be.”

“There’s nothing that I respect more than wanting to emerge via your own power,” Aralim said.  “Just don’t ask me to kill anyone.”

Aglo’s amusement faded at Aralim’s prodding of long-past events.  He raised his glass in what was usually a friendly gesture, but that meant nothing more than a dry “Good-day.”  Aralim kept a blank expression and strode away, his staff clicking across the iron-panelled floor.  With that meeting out of the way, he was feeling much more positive when he emerged into the bright sunlight and noisy commotion of the Iron Palace courtyard.  Lines waiting for the Second and Third Courts watched him come down the steps; a few men and women even waved to him.  He waved back.

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