The week was like most others. It ambled past as Farek attended a meeting with his sisters, spent two days enduring supervision of their trade goods warehouse, and another two counting bank notes—thankfully coin counting was left to his subordinates. The Bank of Soros employed some two thousand individuals in its various departments and Farek was certain that most of his jobs could be handled easily by a trusted supervisor. But that would just leave him more time to waste away with his head over a bar, and he’d rather do his part, if only to the letter of it.
He was surprised on the 18th, when the Mazaar came to visit him at the warehouse. Calling it a warehouse was a little foolish; though goods were stored there, it was more of a collateral bank for dealing with the bustling harbour business more directly. They didn’t handle any shipping, nor did they buy from harvesters and sell to craftsmen. They accepted goods as payment, investment, or storage, kept a good interest on them, and released them to the relevant party when it was time.
Mazaar Jannia Gallendris showed up that day just as Farek was signing the papers to hand over three crates of Numa dyes to their Saanazar buyer, the retainer of one Lord Allakra. Farek’s sister marched in with her three guards, two servants, and a scribe—all her usual parade—and watched Farek complete the deal without saying a word aside from, “Good day,” to the retainer. Once the papers had been signed, Farek accepted a small lockbox of interest from Lord Allakra’s attendant, while their servants marched the small crates out of the warehouse and onto the docks of Soros.
It was a sunny day, thankfully, so one of Jann’s servants was attempting to lean the frame of a shade canvas against the door, blocking the way. The robed man hurriedly stepped aside for the labourers, and Farek looked back at his sister. “Jann,” he said. “Quite a walk down to the slums, isn’t it?”
The Mazaar tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and smiled. “I felt like some fresh air today. I see business is going well? From the sounds of it, Lord Allakra may enjoy our services again soon enough.”
Farek was wearing a dark blue coat today, with auburn buttons and trim; the material was a fine linen, letting it breathe the warm air of Var Nordos, their land. While once Empire Noress spanned as far north as Tempera Bay and Elpan, now it only resided on the island of Var Nordos, a boiling jungle and swampland bordering the Stormy Sea. “Business is business,” Farek told his sister. “What brings you today? Are Simi and Ragar having drama again?”
Jann laughed. She had a distinct nose, one of their bloodline’s normal traits, and shared Farek’s bronze skin closer than their younger sister did. Her guards had given her ample privacy to speak with him, but they all looked up when she laughed. “No, nothing like that. I did receive an interesting letter we should speak of soon though. The Three Matriarchs are making a financial move that could have quite the effect on us.”
“You came all the way down here to tell me that?” Farek asked.
“No, I just wanted Lord Allakra to hear that his affairs were in the best hands,” she said, in her business tone.
Farek ground his teeth together. “I had it handled, sister. But I’ll be leaving now, since the warehouse is in such capable hands.” He grabbed his scabbard from its hook on the wall and buckled it around his waist as she protested his sassy remark.
“It’s politics, Farek. Grow up,” Jann said.
“I would, if you would let me,” Farek snapped, as he brushed by. She could chew on that for a while, trying to figure out what it meant. She was his senior by a year and Mother had rightfully entrusted the Bank of Soros to her on his deathbed, but it was the new Mazaar Gallendris which gave him lowly jobs and didn’t recognize how carefully he observed his expectations and responsibilities to his family.
The sunshine caught him off-guard. Farek was always surprised how much brighter it was when he left the warehouse than when he entered it. Theirs was not the largest building on the waterfront, but it didn’t need to be. Each year, more wealth passed through the door he just had than seventy percent of the doors in this part of the world.
No sooner had he reached the corner of the north-west avenue than he heard shouting from behind him. He spun around in time to see a man dashing his way. “Stop, thief!” shouted a man in an apron behind him, also running. Farek carefully stepped out of the way and the first man sprinted by, followed a moment later by the commotion of the red-faced shopkeeper in pursuit.
If the man had chosen to pay guards or the safety tax, the thief would have already been apprehended by men in armour. No one in Soros helped a man who shouted “Stop, thief!” because that was a poor man.
Once the commotion had subsided, the crowded street resumed its busy march. Farek followed a pair of men in leather uniforms through most of the low town—he assumed they were from one of the larger fishing companies—until they turned off to the south, and he continued east, up the slope of Coin Hill.
Of course, the door of Norrey’s Pub was the next one he entered. Artoc gave him a nod as he climbed the steps. “You’re early today,” the burly man said.
Farek grinned. “Gave my sis’ the slip,” he said.
“Oh, I thought… well, never mind,” Artoc mumbled, and opened the door for Farek. The Prince of Soros paused at the odd comment, but then shrugged and went ahead in.
“Norrey!” he called, as he sat down at the near deserted bar. The Pub had a long room of tables, presently cluttered with chairs and the occasional patron, while the bar ran round the corner of the kitchen and cellar.
Norrey came striding around the corner at the call and grinned, spreading his arms wide. “Farek! It’s good you came early,” he said. He lowered his voice. “He’s here already. Been ordering wine on the half hour and seems content to wait until the former glory.” The last words were an expression concerning the former glory of the Empire and the somewhat negative attitude most had assumed that it would not return.
“He? Oh, damn it. The old man?”
Norrey put on an air. “Gravagan of High Raena,” he said with a chuckle. “He’s around the side.” Whether Farek wanted it or not, his good friend led the way to the other half of the bar.
The bald stranger sat nearby, his stiff burgundy robe folded only so he could sit on a bar stool. He looked entirely out of place until he glanced over at Farek and said, “Good day, Lord Gallendris.” Then he gently lifted his glass of white wine and took a small sip of it.
“Master Gravagan, right?” Farek asked, and sat down on a stool he dragged an extra foot away. He glanced at Norrey and raised his finger to order one beer. Norrey poured it, and then gave the two space. “You said you had business to discuss? I apologize if I brushed you off last week.”
“Think nothing of it,” the old fellow said. “As a wizard, I am well acquainted with patience.”
Farek blinked. “You’re a wizard?” He took a swig of his beer, and then gave the magician his best smile. “I am not and haven’t done business with any declared mage yet…”
“Your mother did, and her father before her,” Gravagan murmured.
“You mentioned something of this last time too,” Farek said. Though he couldn’t imagine this wrinkled old man being alive two generations ago, he had heard of such things. Soros’s financial rival in the west was the Eternal Emperor, of course. “Did you know my parents, then?”
“I did,” Gravagan said. “They provided for me, and I for them. You see, milord, I am a seer also. I would tell you of your future.” He had pushed away his wine and now regarded Farek with folded hands and deep set dark eyes. Despite the wisps of hair and tangled grey sideburns, the old man’s gaze was piercing.
Farek took another drink of his beer, if only to collect his confused thoughts. “So you told my mother and hers of their futures?” he asked. “You were their advisor, then? I have never seen you before.”
Gravagan weaved his head to and fro and said, “Due to the nature of magic, I do not foresee each day, nor invade your privacy, but I can tell you of milestones in your life and the outcomes of your decisions. Farek, you face danger ahead—I seek only to warn you of it.”
Farek couldn’t help but chuckle. “This is all a little unexpected,” he stammered. He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair, forgetting he had bound the length of it into a tail today. “Did my grandfather build this bank, or did he cheat?”
“Cheat?” Gravagan exclaimed, with a smile. “You have it all wrong, friend. I am not making anyone’s decisions for them. I am simply providing the information they may need. The old ruler of Empire Noress had a dozen magicians, as do many leaders.”
Farek shook his head. “Very well, I’ll not tell you not to tell me of my own future…” he said, though he was puzzled. He had been raised to understand that magic was a very real and very important force in the world, but he wasn’t certain what to make of Gravagan’s words.
Gravagan nodded. “Very good. To save your life, you must act correctly in the following two circumstances: first, Lord Thrane of this very city will soon face great peril at the hands of an assassin. You must save his life, Farek, for he will be instrumental to furthering your family and thus your own safety. Later, and I cannot determine how much later, you will stand in a house with a gold dog—I haven’t quite determined this part yet. The dog may have a gold collar, or may be of a tan colour, I’m not certain yet, but I know that you will know it to be time—you must set fire to that house.”
“What?”
Gravagan nodded. “Only one person will die in that fire, not you, not the dog. Only one person will die, the person that will one day kill you.”
Farek leaned back and cradled his beer in one hand. “I’ve burned down a few buildings before,” he admitted with a smirk, “but they were both bars, and no one died, either.”
Gravagan sighed.
“I’ll consider what you’ve said,” Farek said. “I’m not one to decide the future right here and now, but I’ll remember your words. And I’ll look into Lord Thrane’s situation.”
“Excellent,” the magician said. “That is all I can ask of you, milord. Although I haven’t a place to stay in Soros, nor a way of contacting you in the future.” He produced a folded parchment sheet and slid it across the bar. “If you send communication here, I will eventually receive it, but… we are not in Noress-That-Was.”
Farek begrudgingly handed Gravagan one of the coin pouches from his belt. “For your trouble, in coming to see me. This should get you a place to stay in Soros if you decide to stay, a few weeks at most taverns at least.” He replaced the vacancy at his hip with the folded note from Gravagan, without looking at it.
“You’re too kind,” Gravagan said, but Farek just shrugged. He didn’t have anything better to do with his money—drinks in Norrey’s Pub weren’t exactly financially demanding. After a small toast to the future, he watched the old man stumble out of the bar and into the evening. Norrey poured Farek another round.