Jungle rooks were pecking at some shredded bird carcass on one of the nearby shingled eaves. The stairs that Farek descended soon sent the rooks out of sight, but the disguised man could still hear the beck of their beaks and their squeaks. This was one of the lower-income boroughs of Soros and Farek had to keep his wits about him as he stepped over the crossed legs of a bearded, sweat-stained tramp, resting against a wall, and through a veil of gnarled vines that clung to a rotten support beam overhead.
The tattered hood and rough hessian tunic he wore did not help his comfort. Farek would soon be as sweat stained as the homeless man, and his beard was starting to itch. He had grown it out the last few days and purposefully messed it up with his fingers before setting out, into the infamous slum of Debtor’s Down.
Farek spotted a man ahead, walking at the same pace. The man’s brown cloak had a few holes in it, an ill-looking pale stain to the lower left of one shoulder, and a bulge near one hamstring that swished around the point of a sword scabbard.
After realizing that the man was making all of the same turns as he could, skirting the nameless water-well square at the end of Burlan Street, he began to worry he might have a tail. Glancing behind him did not reveal the shady stranger’s partner, and Farek was taken aback when the cloaked man paused at the convoluted branches of an enormous yorta tree.
Farek stopped there too, and the two men regarded each other in the shadow of their meeting place. This was the man sent by House Viotro? His dilapidated clothes hid the point of wiry grey beard, but his skin was clean and his eyes wide. “You wrote the letter,” the man said, quietly.
“I did,” Farek said, hand on his sword hilt.
“I’m one of Lord Viotro’s most trusted servants.” The man looked out of the shadow of the yorta at the nearest vine-strewn residence. Debtor’s Down was quiet this time of day—the evenings muggings and brawls would not begin for several hours yet. He looked back at the disguised lord and asked, “What can we do for you, to confirm our freedom from the difficulties imposed on our House.”
Farek began with a straightforward question. “What do you know of the assassination attempt on Lord Thrane?”
“Only what they say in the city—an employee of Lord Thrane was killed instead of his self.” The man ran a hand down his jawline and tugged his beard. With a bow, he said, “I am not the information specialist, you must understand. I am here to listen to your request and bring it to my masters.”
Farek smirked. “The assassin used a glove that could paralyze people in his way with a touch. Brown leather in appearance. Your sources were good enough to reveal which Lord of Soros was assaulting your fish trade, so they should be good enough to find me the story behind the assassin’s glove.”
“Very well. How should we get this information to you?”
“Leave a sealed letter at the Royal Whale,” Farek said. Despite it being his meeting place with Lord Thrane, the waterfront tavern was an incredible busy establishment for a plethora of upper class citizens of the city.
“It will be done,” the servant said, nervously.
Farek smiled. “Good day then.”
He changed out of his disguise in an alleyway in Coin Hill, between some bushes so as not to be spotted from one of the thousand windows in the mansions built there. House Gallendris was only one of the dozen wealthiest members of Soros living in that district. Upon returning to his home, he was quickly informed that the Mazaar was seeking him. Jannia had apparently gone down to the waterfront warehouse when her messenger had not successfully summoned him.
Farek stopped at Norrey’s next, of course, and quickly downed a beer for his reputation. He couldn’t have Jannia asking him where he had been all day and believing any other story than that he had snuck out from work for a drink. Norrey laughed, but didn’t speak any judgements upon Farek. This was not the first time he had appeared in the middle of a business day, and it certainly would not be the last.
Jannia and he finally connected at the warehouse. As the servants and crate-movers dispersed to give them privacy, his sister took one sniff in his direction and scowled. She didn’t recognize the smell of alcohol with a word, however, and instead called him aside from even her own guards. “Dallan has been working with me more closely to shift the workload a little. I’m planning a few other transitions, but I would like you to take his old position. Head of Finances.”
“I see,” Farek said, bowing his head in thought. On the plus side, he’d have much better access to his own family’s wealth and information, but it also came with increased responsibility—a limiter on his other pursuits. It would also keep him bound to Soros, instead of pursuing Gravagan or even vacation. Despite this, he knew his response, and only delayed his response to give Jannia an impression of seriousness. At last, he broke the silence. “I humbly accept,” he said, and gave her a nod.
“I’m glad. This will be a big opportunity for you, and will really help out my other priorities,” Jannia said. She patted Farek on his arm and winked. “And your allowance will get an increase too.”
It would increase of course, because he would be in charge of the treasury and many of the bank’s accounting matters. Financial transactions and deals were handled by clerks, thankfully, but it would be Farek’s job to oversee all such matters. “Whatever I can do to help out,” Farek said, nodding.
Jannia ran a hand through her dark hair and grinned. “I know you were already out drinking, but your next one’s on me. Let’s head back up the Hill.” Farek glanced around the busy warehouse—three workers were lugging a stack of tanned animal hides toward the door, while a few others were taking inventory of several crates near the wall—and shrugged. He didn’t wait for a second invitation.