High above the tangled streets of the ever rising, ever sinking, city of Iberica, wind whipped around the closed hood of Ceeon as he clung to the outer stone wall of the Root Tower. Secured by hooks and spikes, he hung close to a window, straining to hear when this meeting would be over. An appointment with the safe under the desk was well overdue, and surplus cash in powerful hands always brought trouble to the guild. Better to harvest little and often.
Within, lit by a merry fire and a dozen candles, sat the plump and preened Councillor for Vegetable Quality, Export, and Control: Ikor Wetbank. His desk in front was arranged to show his power: letters to and from other councillors, certificates of merit, tasteful and subtle sculptures. Before him, stood upon a plush robe was Trangar, wanted barbarian of the northern plains—naked but for a girdle, cloak, and vicious axe.
“Enough of these trifles Ikor! Do you have work for me and my men? I have not trudged past your sleeping guards to talk about the weather.”
“Please Trangar, sit down. I have not requested you travel through the night at highest inconvenience merely to discuss the weather. Still, protocol must be followed, rituals completed.”
“I care not for your weak ways Ikor, speak your piece or by Talos I will gut you here and make off with your shiny trinkets. A night in the gambling pits with the whores and the drink is already sounding much more appealing”.
Ceeon winced, a dead Councillor is never good business, but at least with warning they could start preparing their bribes and threats to the new hopefuls. The scrape of wood on wood and the crash of papers to floor rang out in Ikor’s desperation to get his materials in order for his proposal.
“Very well if you have evening plans then I will skip the pleasantries. I would like you to make use of certain information—and coin—I am about to impart upon you. Felix, the son of one of my distinguished colleagues, who sits a few rungs above me, will be embarking on a tour of the southern settlements. He wishes to see the world, but from the comfort of his carriage and with the power of his father’s purse. You see, I wish to ensure he has a very good picture of the world, and as such I would like to add to his war chest. I will give you a map of his route and this bag of two hundred stags. While I’ve stated my intentions for these items, I’m sure someone as creative and entrepreneurial as yourself can think of a way to double or triple that purse.”
“You are paying me this much to be a messenger boy?! By Talos, just send one of your shiny men to do it”.
The sigh was audible through the thin window. Ceeon could only marvel that someone was trying to use subtlety upon the mind of Trangar, which was likely already swimming in ale.
“Please Trangar, ponder upon it for more than a second. I wish for the boy to experience the world, good, and the bad. Pray, give him an interesting experience”.
There were no more words, but the sounds a heavy purse being dropped on the desk, and the slam of the door as Trangar left. Ceeon knew he would be able to move soon, but it did not lessen the fire in his joints. Ikor moved across the room to his shrine of Timul, God of fortune and luck.
“Sweet merciful Timul, he had the manners of a pack horse! Still, I believe I got the message across with the language of children. Felix will enjoy his stay with the barbarians while he is ransomed back to his father.”
As Ikor finally left, Ceeon swung onto the sill and picked his way into the room. Safe lightened, but two hundred less than he wished, he made his slow, windy, and miserable way back to the ground. Upon the roof of the stables, he overheard Trangar speaking with his men.
“Two hundred gold to kill a man I would for free! And he has horses and coin of his own. Come, lets us get drunk as babes!”
With a quiet cheer, they all slunk out towards the old quarter.