An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  “Hertra Ylir yn Ferral, yes,” Ylir said. “It is a pleasure to welcome you into our humble abode, Lord Barun. May I offer you a drink?”

  Azchai frowned. “Pleasantries will not easily fix this, Ferral. You have made me and my men wait a very long time.”

  “I was not informed of your arrival,” Ylir said, walking over to the cupboard anyway. “As you must have been told, I was away on pressing business in the Kago region and due to some unforeseeable circumstances, was delayed for several days. My master's businesses are complex and take up most of my time.” He poured two glasses of honey-coloured brandy and offered one to Azchai. “If you will? It is not poison, I assure you.”

  “I am inclined to be suspicious now that you have,” Azchai said, but he took the glass anyway and sniffed it. He did not hold it by the stem, as the Kags do, but deep in the palm of his hand, like a cup. “You have strange tastes here in Cael. But this is not entirely unpleasant.”

  “I'm glad you think so. So, my lord, what sort of service might these simple merchants offer you?”

  Azchai smacked his lips. “Simple? Bah! You are either foolishly modest or think little of me. Your Yn Garr's Industries is one of the largest trading companies in this continent and from what I understand you have now set your eyes on Gaspar. I can tell you right now, many of my countrymen are nervous.”

  “That is incorrect. We are not a large company, sir.”

  “Ah, but you do make a hefty profit.” Azchai's eyes twinkled.

  Ylir crossed his arms. It was not the first time a minor lord or another had presumed it their right to force Yn Garr's business in their hand, but until now, no one had had the gall to say it to his face. “We do all right,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Keeps the wine flowing. Good cheese once in a while. I will ask you again, sir—what does Barun need of us?”

  “I wanted to offer a...gesture of good-will. So to speak. You are setting up operations in Gaspar. In the province of Al-ir.”

  Ylir cocked his head. “Indeed. My master had got it into his head that Gaspar might appreciate some of our good Caelian stone.”

  “We have plenty enough stone in Gaspar, Ferral.”

  “And they are beautiful! But there are certain procedures possible with Caelian stone, sir, that—well, you have seen our temples, no doubt? Our alabaster is something that many of your countrymen appreciate and they have expressed, many times, that such buildings in the middle of your desert sands...”

  Azchai banged the glass against the table. “Enough of your prattle. Whatever your purpose, you can't deny that you will encounter opposition. There are hundreds of lords in Gaspar, sir, and most of them do not believe in foreigners. Flaunt your Caelian stone some more and you will find a band of mandraagars streaming through that mountain pass to claim it for themselves.”

  Ylir pressed his lips together. “Oh, I hope we don't get that far.” Did the man think he was threatening a child? Gasparian warrior-mages streaming through the mountain pass indeed. The miniscule tunnel that connected Cael to the sprawling kingdom of Gaspar was made by Yn Garr Industries decades before his time and would collapse from the sort of thunderous marching an army is capable of.

  Azchai seemed to take more from his tone than he intended. The man made an elaborate gesture with his arms and laughed through his thick beard. “It won't, if you accept my offer. You can have my men—as many men as you need for your operations. What my land lacks in splendour I more than make up for in the strength and dedication of my people.”

  “I don't know if we could find any use for goatherds, Lord Barun.” This time, he couldn't hide the sarcasm from his voice.

  Azchai pointed at him. “You overstep your bounds.”

  He tipped his head slightly. “Pardon me. I see you are not used to dealing with honesty.”

  “I'm offering you warriors, Ferral! Warriors to defend your rag-tag group from the inevitable onslaught the warlords will throw at you! Why, K’an Mhagaza himself is probably just waiting for your first big payout before he turns your whole operation upside-down. I know the man, Ylir. I know Gaspar. For a cut of your profit, you can have this knowledge and my support. I am good on my word.”

  Ylir fell silent for a few moments. The man reeked of desperation, which meant, of course, that turning him down wouldn't be easy. Ylir wasn't sure if Yn Garr would appreciate having to give a percentage of their earnings over to someone else, especially on demand like this. There was some sense in the man's words, but his personality left a lot to be desired. The haphazard way he approached the whole situation was not how Ylir liked to do business. Briefly, he considered if running his sword through the man's heart would leave a deplorable amount of blood in his study. Then he realized that even if that had been an option, he had forgotten his sword in Dalna's room.

  Tread lightly, someone had once told him a long time ago. They were words meant for an entirely different thing, but he used them, and got this far.

  “That is a very good offer,” he said at last.

  Azchai's face contorted. “But?”

  He smiled. “But I do not have the final say on this. My master, Yn Garr—”

  “Your little wood elf said she doesn't know when he'll be back.”

  “Jarche is a ka-eng, Lord Barun, a native of Cael, and a partner.”

  “Pah! She is also a woman.”

  Ylir pretended to look at the papers on his desk for a moment. “I will send word to you when he returns and makes his decision,” he said, after the rush of anger—and his desire to throw the man through the window—subsided. “Trust me when I say I will promise to attempt to persuade him in your favour. It makes a lot of sense and I commend you for bringing it to my attention.”

  Azchai stared at him, his black brows knotted. “That's it? That's the best you can do?”

  “At this moment, yes.”

  “Then I hold you accountable for your promise!” The man inclined his head and started to walk out of the study.

  “My lord…” Ylir began.

  “What?”

  “I trust in your discretion in this.”

  “Why else did you think I came here personally?” Azchai snarled. He swore and walked through the doors, slamming it behind him.

  Ylir found his knees again and sat down. He heard shouting downstairs and began sorting through the paperwork, trying to ignore it. Eventually, he glanced out the window and saw the twelve or so group filing out on the road on horseback. He made a point to check on the orange trees to make sure they were still there. Yn Garr had imported them from Dageis, and the last thing he needed was that sort of mess added to his plate.

  It was hours later when Jarche appeared with a bowl of diced potatoes and smoked fish. He hadn't realized it was already suppertime. “This is all the food we have left,” she said, smiling at him. “Unless you're partial to leek and carrot soup?”

  “I'll send someone to restock our pantry.”

  “Already did. Don't bother.” She glanced at the table. “I take it we've got trouble?”

  “As usual. Nothing we can't handle. Get me some fresh parchment and ink, Jarche. I've left my sword at Dalna's and would like it sent here before her husband starts thinking she'd taken up northern fencing.” He grinned. “I'd also like to send a message to Baeddan of Boarshind. After that scandal you made, man probably thinks I'm dead. It's never good when the boss dies, Jarche—remember that.”

  “Funny. I remember teaching you that when I did all the work.”

  Ylir laughed. “And aren't you proud of your student now?”

  Lord Azchai of Barun's visit was quickly shuffled to the furthest corner of Ylir's mind. There was too much work to be done and not enough time, it seemed, to do it right. There was compensation to be paid for the workers' families who died in the accident at Serpentsridge, and bribes to certain Dageian authorities to be diplomatically handled. Last season's profits had to be tallied up so decisions could be made—is it really worth the trouble, honestly, to b
e selling so much Kielian basket-weave to the north?

  And of course, the construction at Al-ir was running into trouble and it had nothing whatsoever to do with Gasparian lords. Their builder, a certain Hamis from Hafod, had defaulted. Thirty thousand ril had gone into hiding with him. Yn Garr's latest letter ordered Ylir to get to Al-ir as quickly as he can to personally make sure the operation doesn't collapse over their heads, and also to get the Boarshind after that fool's tail. It was ridiculous, because Baeddan detested not meeting clients to their face, and Ylir almost certainly couldn't be in two places at once.

  “Do you know what I want?” he demanded of his man Burg as soon as he walked into the room.

  Burg grinned placidly at him, his arms folded over his barrel chest. “Two buxom maidens under a warm blanket on a cold night?”

  “Well, that,” Ylir said. “And a little house on the shore of Gilwin, in Hafod. Where there's padded carriages that will take you to the next town for a bite of roast pheasant with gravy and then back. Do you know that it takes fifty days on horseback to get to Al-ir from here?”

  “Having been the one tasked with bringing that first message to the Al-ir Lord, who by the way is an extremely unpleasant fellow, yes, I am in fact aware. And it's actually sixty days, by my count.”

  “Sorry. I'd forgotten that was you.” Ylir gave an inward groan and ran his fingers through his hair. “I thought for sure I'd have at least until summer. I hate horses.”

  “I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat. Dealing with the Boarshind is tricky business. Oh, I know you'll say Baeddan isn't so bad, and I grant you, maybe he's not most days, but do you know where they pick those men up? The gutters of Cairntown and half the cities in the Kag would be full if not for that group. If you could get some good, honest men to do that work for you instead...”

  Ylir grinned. “And pray, tell me, where we can get some good honest men to track down Hamis Begram and rip his eyes out and—hold on.” He glanced at the missive on his desk. “And cut off his hands and stuff them in his mouth and slice off his tongue, after making sure we've recovered as much of the money as we can. Oh, and parade the poor fool around Hafod without anyone the wiser.”

  “Exactly my point. Why deal with men who don't think twice when told to do something like that?”

  Ylir clicked his tongue. “Come now, Burg, don't tell me you don't want the opportunity to visit your family in Ni'in? I'll send a nice trinket for you to take to your fiancée.”

  Burg shook his head. “Last thing I want is my family learning I'm dealing with the Boarshind. Speaking of which—I delivered that package you gave me. You know, before you disappeared with that woman.”

  “I did not disappear, good sir. I was simply occupied.”

  “Difficult to convince Miss Jarche otherwise.”

  “So he received it then?” Ylir tried to look nonchalant.

  Burg nodded. “He also apparently disappeared the day after.”

  Ylir cursed. “I didn't count on him being so stupid. Lillah Artek and her influence would have protected him a good few weeks at least. Which way did he go? North, back south? West?”

  “None of those. I mean it this time. Disappeared. Poof. Hmm, how shall I put this? Algat's men are baffled. I met a few for drinks. For all intents and purposes, he's gone. They're not quite sure what to do next.” He shrugged. “Did Baeddan ask you to do this thing?”

  “Not your business, Burg, I told you that.”

  “Well, I sort of like to know what kind of chopping block I'm putting my head under.” Burg snorted. “When do you leave?”

  “I don't know. When can I find a horse willing to put up with my nonsense for the next two months? Ah, curse that stupid old man! If only we'd gone with Sogan's Artisans...their builders are competent, I hear. Maybe not so well known, more expensive definitely, but then we wouldn't be in this mess.”

  “Maybe not.” Burg crossed his arms. “I've got an idea, if you're willing to hear me out.”

  “Do tell.”

  Burg approached his desk and grabbed the map from underneath the pile of papers. “Here,” he said, pointing. “Is Al-ir. Here is the port city of Aret-ni. Five days on horseback and you're there.”

  “No Cael passage ship will brave Gasparian waters.”

  “Decommission one of yours. There's one on the docks at Ahrdias right now, waiting to be loaded with what—turnips?”

  “Lumber,” Ylir said. He stroked his short beard. “I suppose we can take the loss, if it's between that and salvaging the Al-ir construction. But our sailors won't hear of it, Burg. That superstitious lot will throw me overboard at the slightest provocation. You can't pay your way out of ignorance.”

  “Oh, yes you can. I happen to know that there are many competent sailors within the Boarshind. There should be a group of them in Ni’in at any given time. Later, you can get the same lot to find this Bergram, and I don’t have to go meet Baeddan at all. We’ll just send a letter.” He gave a smug smile.

  That actually took Ylir by surprise. He looked up and laughed. “Anything to get out of that, huh, Burg?”

  Burg grew sombre. “Baeddan killed my uncle, Ylir. You know I'll do anything for you, but I don't think I'll be able to hold my temper that much.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. Truly, I am.” He pulled the map closer to study it. “If we follow your idea, I can be in Al-ir before the season is done.”

  Burg tipped his head forward. “Glad I can be of help.” He started to leave, and Ylir clicked his tongue.

  “Now, now, Burg, you're not off the hook yet. I'll need you to make the arrangements for me.”

  “Where did you think I was going?” Burg huffed indignantly.

  “And you're still coming with me all the way. I won't let you deal with Baeddan, but if I'm sailing halfway around the continent in a ship full of Boarshind men, I'll need you at my side.”

  “Rats. Any way I can bail out on you?”

  “I don't know,” Ylir said casually. “Have you discovered the secret to teleporting yet?”

  Burg sighed. “I'll get on it then.”

  Ylir folded the map as soon as Burg left and began listlessly sifting through the remains of his lunch. Kefier disappeared. Who could've guessed? The man had left a blazing trail from Cairntown to here. Supposing Algat's men had caught up with him, killed him and dumped him somewhere and then lied about it to Burgois?

  Not your problem, he thought, leaning back against his chair with his fingers over the bridge of his nose. There was too much work to do and he could not afford to spend so much time worrying about little things. He had tried his best; that was all that mattered. He slowly got up, strapping his sword—an elaborately decorated karis he had bought from Dageis a few years back—to his waist and made the long descent to the main hall.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the wolfhound comfortably curled around the rug in front of the fireplace. “Bartleby,” he said. The great dog looked up and thumped his tail.

  The man on the armchair pretended not to notice him. There was a book on his lap. There were always books on his lap, or tucked under his arms, or on the bed beside him while he slept. He was explicitly fond of books and once brought home an entire carriage-full, just because. “I met your man on the way out,” he said, turning a page. “Said something about decommissioning a ship?”

  “I didn't know you would be back so soon, master.” Ylir took the armchair across him and cradled Bartleby's head in his hands. “I was on my way out to send you a message. How was Sorda?”

  “Cold, as usual.” Yn Garr flipped another page, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who, according to the messenger, had been so furious when he learned about Hamis' treachery that he broke off a leg from a table and used it to smash the rest into smithereens. Ylir couldn't read him and he wasn't really sure, at times, if that bothered him or not. He could read most men easily, in contrast. “Gasparian authority is heavy in Aret-ni, I will warn you now. Perhaps you should put aside thi
s inconvenient fear of horses and be more sensible.”

  Ylir flushed. “I was thinking that it might be a good test of my skills.”

  Yn Garr lifted an eyebrow. “You've been practicing, then? Jarche tells me the most you've done is use it on unsuspecting merchants' wives.”

  He smiled at that. “I put an idea into a man's head. It blossomed. He was against it, in the beginning.”

  That got Yn Garr's attention. He closed the book and pressed it against his knee. “Immediately?”

  “It took time, master. Everything takes time.”

  Yn Garr cursed under his breath. “That's not good enough. Your ridiculous turtle's pace is costing me much.” He got up. “You will take Aina's Breath. Not that deplorable lumber ship. That tub won't last a trip to Jin-Sayeng, let alone Gaspar. Yes, Aina's Breath will get you there. She's due to dock within the week for repairs.”

  “And the cargo?”

  “Leave it behind, throw it overboard. I don't care.”

  Yn Garr's tone made him nervous. Ylir swallowed and took great care to keep his voice even. “With all due respect, sir, we were set to make a pretty hefty profit from that. And if we store it in the warehouses some of the goods wouldn't last the winter.”

  “Inconsequential. You know that isn’t the real problem here. We need access to the site, and we need a builder capable of finishing those tunnels before Mhagaza’s mages become aware of what we’re doing. Nevertheless, if it concerns you so much, sell it to the Jins!” He snorted. “Maybe you'll luck out and actually get a good price from those cheap bastards for once.”

  “With all due respect, master—”

  Yn Garr frowned. “I know you enough to know that disrespect is precisely what you mean when you say that.”