by David Adams
Kozog
Marcelin
Capital of Valamar,
The First Kingdom of Man
Three weeks later
“WELL,” SAID KOZOG AS HE led Brea through the cramped streets of his home city of Marcelin, deftly stepping out of the way of a nobleman’s horse and rider, “at least we got paid.”
Brea had been in a sullen mood since Irondarrow. Kozog was sanguine about the whole thing. Coin was coin; his contract had been fulfilled, and his wounds had begun to fully heal, a process complicated by a stubborn infection. His wound leaked pus in the mornings, which concerned him, although it did not smell of rot and seemed to be on the mend. The pallor it cast over Brea, however, concerned him more.
She had chosen to come with him to Valamar instead of returning to the Freelands. That in and of itself was a strange choice. He had expected the opposite; to return to the Freelands with her, take another contract, and continue their adventures together.
Still, the opportunity to show Brea around Marcelin was worth it.
“The coin was good,” Brea said. “I still can’t believe Banehal paid us in full for a siege that never happened.”
“Paladins do that kind of thing.” Kozog absently rubbed his chest as he weaved his way through the cobbled streets. “Personally, I find it surprising the Irondarrow dwarves were able to crush the siege so quickly, even with the aid of demons, but such things are no longer our concern.”
“Mmm,” said Brea, her tone one of someone truly listening.
Kozog led her towards the well-kept, red-bricked street that was host to his family manor. It stood just as he had remembered it; tall and imposing, with wrought iron gates that were securely locked and barred, well-tended gardens full of fruit and flowers, and with a notice of foreclosure resting at the entrance.
It took him a second to process the addition. It was a heavy canvas parchment nailed to a wooden tripod. He tore it off and passed over it with a barrister’s eye.
It seemed legitimate. The watermark of the Marcelin Lords was thick and ran through the paper, the ink appeared to be of the proper type, and the signature at the bottom was practised and well formed, with no breaks or gaps where a forger may have lifted their quill to verify their work.
“What’s that?” asked Brea.
Kozog scowled and showed it to her. “I am uncertain, but it appears as though my family home has been reclaimed by a debtor’s agency. Strange, as my family has coin to spare and no significant debts.”
Brea briefly scanned the document and then shrugged her shoulders. “So? It’s still yours.”
“Not according to this document. The Lords of Valamar have seized the property for reasons which are entirely unclear.” He squinted, trying to read the glorious, holy fine print. “Something about the church’s authority or some such.”
“That’s not good.” Brea put her hands on her hips. “So, how do we break into the place?”
Kozog glared at her. “We are not breaking into my family home. This seizure notice is legitimate.”
“Right. Well, where to now, o’ fearless green leader?”
He placed the seizure notice back on the tripod and reattached the nail. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “My mother owns several houses in the city, she may have taken residence at one of those. I’m not sure where the staff are. I’m sure she will know.”
“Staff.” Brea’s eyes narrowed. “You mean slaves?”
“I mean staff,” Kozog said. Together they began walking away, down the street. “We pay them. They are free to leave. Staff. Slavery is legal in Valamar but my family keep none.”
That seemed to mollify her. “Why not?” she asked.
Kozog shuffled uncomfortably. “It is…inefficient.”
Brea’s elven features became a storm. “In…efficient? This is an issue of morals! Of keeping innocent women and men in bondage!”
“What if they’re not innocent?” It was a simple question. “What if they are criminals, working to pay off their debts? Do civilised nations not have prisons, and in prisons, is forced labour not commonly a part of a criminal’s punishment? How is this different from state sponsored slavery?”
“The difference is in how,” said Brea. “Forced labour is a legal punishment for crimes. Slavery is taking people who have committed no crime.”
“So we can make slaves of the guilty?”
Brea shook her head, stepping daintily over a pothole as though sensing it with some magical power. “We can have a system of laws and governments that punish people for their transgressions as part of the social fabric of any society, but we cannot have the strong preying upon the weak.”
“The state—and not just Valamar, but all states—have ultimate authority and, despite all appearances, rule through might. If a person disobeys the state’s commands, they are punished, and if they refuse to submit to the punishment, force is employed. The same principle is applied in the Freelands, where the militia protect the people.”
“So really,” said Brea, “all we truly disagree on are the rules of the state.”
Now she was beginning to see. He liked it when he was able to convince Brea of something, it happened so irregularly. Kozog smiled. “Can I get that in writing?”
Brea playfully pushed his shoulder. “Never in three hundred years.”
“I’ll mark my calendar.”
They walked on. The sun fell and the shadows of the city grew long. The first house they arrived at, a tall, narrow suburban structure made of wood and stone decorated with gold filigree, was securely locked and similarly marked with a notice of seizure. As was the second. By the time the third was visited, the city watch were lighting the torches that lined the streets.
“How many houses does your family own?” asked Brea, shaking her head. “And what’s with the gold?”
“Many,” said Kozog. “Property is a stable investment. Many of these have been in my family’s hands since they were built; a hundred years, or more. The filigree is just a way to inflate the value of the property; it makes them seem more ostentatious than they really are. The commensurate increase in value more than makes up for the cost.”
Brea snorted playfully. “Hearing orcs talk of investment and property returns is certainly an odd thing.”
“The population of Valamar contains a number of orcs,” said Kozog. “As well as half-orcs such as myself. It is a city of structure and order; one of the benefits of order is that those who display talent and aptitude may rise through the ranks, acquire wealth, and prosper. Regardless of their race or disposition.”
“As long as they follow the church of Tyranus,” Brea said, a little snappiness creeping into her voice. “And tolerate slavery.”
“Tolerance is accepting the things we do not like.” Kozog sighed, running his hand through his dark hair. His chest ached from all the walking. “I’m tired. There’s one more house in the quarter we could visit, but it is some walk away. We may wish to consider rest.”
“Oh,” said Brea, the ghost of a smile crossing her features. “I’m sure we could bed down together, but all we’ve got is camping equipment. It’d be too intense.”
Kozog stifled a yawn, shrugging off his pack and dropping it down on the street. “If that is your wish, there is a park nearby. It is zoned for public use.” He checked his bedroll, and verified that his tent was bound and wrapped in the centre. “We could sleep there.”
A red tinge developed around Brea’s cheeks. They were far from alone in the crowded city and Brea had left her mule at the docks. Only Kozog had his sleeping gear. “Together? In the same tent? Intriguing.”
“Is it?” He raised an eyebrow. Was Brea too warm in this place? Pinkskins were odd. “Where else would we sleep?”
“Oh, I’m sure we could bed down, and I’d certainly welcome such a thing. However…” A playful smile danced over her lips. “I’m afraid you and me together would be too intense.”
Kozog had absolutely no idea what she was goin
g on about. “What?”
“Yeah.” She sounded it out. “Two-in-tents.”
“I…I don’t get it.”
“Urgh. Of course you don’t.” She leaned forward, her mouth close to his ear. “Listen, I’m wearing my special Freelander undergarmets. If we were going to sleep together…well, mmm. Let’s just say you might like them.”
“I’m not sure that they’ll fit me.”
She threw her hands in the air and whirled away from him, folding her arms. “You’re impossible! Never mind. I’m not going to go to sleep in some filthy city park. Kozog, where is this house of yours?”
Confused, and with no idea of what just happened, Kozog pointed. Brea stomped off down the road in that vague direction.
“Freelanders are crazy,” he muttered to himself, picking up his pack with a soft groan.
