The Pulver Chronicles – 10. I’m No Fortunate One

It wasn’t until two weeks later that Jackson heard from Voldus Nechido again, in the form of a letter sent by a courier, a young boy maybe ten years of age. The kid was over the moon when Jackson gave him a silver steed as a tip; the latter still had difficulty understanding the value of money in this world.

The letter was written in an excessively formal style, and explained in three paragraphs what could have been told in one sentence: sir Nechido wanted to see Jackson Pulver at Seacrest Castle for dinner in a week. Some of the terms used were so complex and obscure Byron had to translate them in layman’s terms for Jackson to understand them; most of the time, they only served to wrap an otherwise straightforward piece of information in a jacket of pretentious courtliness. I hope I won’t be expected to speak like that, Jackson thought.

No one else was named in the letter, not even Marrmad. The Goblin would probably not like that. Jackson debated not telling him about the invite at all, but that simply felt wrong. Although he still wasn’t sure whether or not he liked Marrmad, they were on the same team; going behind his back would be a form of betrayal. Plus, the Goblin would almost certainly learn about it anyway if Jackson came back with work from Nechido. On top of all that, Jackson preferred to have him by his side when he would go to the castle. The highbrow, the privileged, and the rich were definitely more Marrmad’s people than Jackson’s.

The Goblin reacted pretty much like Jackson thought he would: by sucking his teeth, dropping his pointy ears, and pinching his lips. It was almost comical how offended he looked. Around the table, Durnin, Enita, and Argyro were quietly listening, their eyes going from Jackson to Marrmad. Jowallan was nowhere in sight -which, Jackson thought, might not have meant that they weren’t actually here.

“Sir Nechido invited you specifically,” the Goblin said.

“Yeah.”

“Only you.”

“Well, err, he didn’t say it had to be only me. I mean, he doesn’t mention anyone else in the letter, but maybe I can bring a plus one. Or the whole team, how about that?”

“You would impose the presence of all of us on sir Nechido?” Marrmad raised an eyebrow. “Invite us all to his table?”

Jackson laughed nervously. “If you put it like that… But, I mean, he’s probably got a feast prepared. Not like he’d starve on our account.”

Durnin chuckled and elbowed Argyro. “Aye, how ‘bout it? Ever dined at a Prince Merchant’s table? You’d fit right in.”

Argyro blew air out of her nose.

“No, no, really,” Durnin said. “Wearing a fancy dress, and some makeup.”

The Orc was about to say -or more likely shout- something back, when Marrmad knocked on the table to shut the both of them up.

“All jesting aside,” he said, “sir Nechido may accept one unexpected guest.”

“Especially if that unexpected guest is you,” Enita said with a snarky smile.

“He might even tolerate two,” Marrmad continued, ignoring the remark, “but more would be an egregious breach of etiquette.”

“I was kidding,” Jackson said. “We’ll go, just you and me, like the other time. But, hey, if Nechido gets us some well-paid work, I promise to take you all out to dinner.”

“Careful with that kind of promise,” Argyro said.

“This one can eat her weight in meat in one day,” Enita said, pointing at the Orc.

The impromptu meeting ended shortly after. Jackson slipped the invite in his vest’s inside pocket. He was excited about this. His past two weeks had been quite routine: waking up long after the sun had risen, exercising, playing cards or dice with the others -mostly Durnin and Enita-, taking an afternoon stroll, napping, fencing… It wasn’t unhappy by any stretch of the imagination, but Jackson worried he might grow bored of it. More importantly, he was concerned at times that said routine might take his mind away from certain priorities, such as finding David Schultz and Bonnie Gardner.

On a few occasions, he had tried to get back on their track. He had met with travelers and merchants, and given them a description of his former companions, but to no avail. At the same time, he hung around the marketplace, the taverns, and other meeting places, listening to the rumors, on the off chance that either David or Bonnie had not remained unnoticed; no doubt an outworlder with futuristic technology would attract attention. No such luck, sadly. Nobody seemed to have heard anything that could possibly pertain to either of them, and the fact that news traveled slowly in a pre-industrial world did not help. Ironically, the only rumor of the sort he heard… was about him! It talked of a mercenary, hired by the Inquisition, who had killed a necromant in a duel, after killing scores of his undead foot soldiers. That particular bit of gossip had been met with disbelief by the majority of its audience.

Finally, he had again met with the shaman, Vakdag, the same one he had used before to try and find out David’s whereabouts. Once again, his efforts were in vain: according to the magi, Jackson’s connection to Bonnie was too faint, and the resulting vision was too blurry to be of any help. At least this time, Jackson did not have to pay the Demon. While he was there, Jackson tried to broach the subject of Byron (without actually admitting to anything), but it quickly became evident that the shaman knew nothing of the sort of magic that could tether a soul to another person.

With a sigh, Jackson elected to, once again, put his former comrades-at-arms on the backburner; he simply couldn’t think of anything else to try. His afternoon sword training helped him with that. As he practiced his cleave with a bit more ease than before, he noticed Byron’s was surlier than usual.

“Let me guess,” Jackson said. “You can’t find anything to criticize, this time.”

“I can always find something to criticize,” Byron retorted.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s just… Observing you, I feel like your moves are beginning to look a lot like mine.”

“That might be because you’re teaching me,” Jackson said, sarcastic.

“No, but…” Byron pinched his lips. “Yeah, probably.”

Jackson raised his sword again, ready for the next series of exercises. “What were you going to say?”

“I think it’s not just my teaching.”

“Right, you think it’s because of our connection. Like how we see each other’s memories sometimes.”

“Yes. My abilities do seem to bleed into yours.”

“Well, that’s good. Weird, but good. Don’t want to be defenseless in this world.”

Jackson stepped forward, cleaved, stepped again, slashed upwards, jumped back, then thrusted. He let out a victorious exclamation: this series had been performed flawlessly! Before he could brag to Byron -because how could he not?-, Marrmad pulled the curtain.

“All right, we need to be going.”

“Where?”

“Before we meet with the Prince Merchant, you’ll need proper clothing.”

“What’s wrong with this?” Jackson signed towards his chest, then suddenly remembered he had taken off his shirt for training -and also in case Enita walked by.

“This outfit is adequate for venturing about, but not quite decent enough for dining in high society,” the Goblin said.

Jackson groaned. He felt like he needed more clothes like he needed more cavities.

“That’s what I was wearing last time,” he said.

“Last time, we were not invited. We merely barged in while sir Nechido was enjoying lunch, and he magnanimously allowed us to join him.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Jackson blurted out, repressing an incredulous laugh.

“No, I do not kid about proper manners in good society,” Marrmad retorted. “Please do not argue about this.”

“All right, all right. Let’s go to Baellien’s, then. He has all kinds of fancy shit.”

“That pompous, overpriced fop?” the Goblin said, sneer evident in his eyes. “I think not. We’ll go to my tailor. He knows true quality materials, and he works fast.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Oookay, then.”

Marrmad’s tailor was also a Goblin. Barely even four feet tall, he had a potato-shaped nose, very long nails, and his fashionable clothes smelled strongly of flowery perfume. His name was Nuzsad (pronounced “Noo-shad”), and he had his shop a couple of streets away from the marketplace, away from the busy parts of the city. There was not even a sign on his front.

Once again, Jackson was made to stand still while someone took his measurements. As Nuzsad worked, he and Marrmad had a tense verbal exchange in a language Jackson did not understand or recognize at all. The subject matter seemed to be what would be appropriate for Jackson to wear at the dinner. As each Goblin defended his opinion -whatever it was-, the dialogue went from tense to angry, and their words were soon joined by many hand gestures. It looked almost theatrical, and had the merit of entertaining the idle Jackson.

Eventually, the conversation ended with Marrmad going: “Bah!” and throwing his hands in the air. Nuzsad gave a sharp nod, his facial traits reflecting both the smugness of having won an argument and the contrition of having had to make some concessions. He grabbed some paper and a quill, and made a few notes, before curtly thanking Jackson and showing both him and Marrmad the door.

“That went well,” Jackson said once they were back on the street.

“Quite well,” Marrmad said, ignoring his sarcasm. “Twenty-five steeds for a complete suit, including the broquard coat and the leather shoes with silk lining.” He scoffed. “To think that fool believed you to be a winterer! Anyone with eyes could clearly tell you are a springer. It certainly fits your personality.”

“Uh, thanks?” the young man said, unsure what any of that meant.

Jackson was a little worried he would end up going to the dinner looking like a clown. Six days later, when the new clothes were delivered, he was pleasantly surprised: they were a fashionable assortment of red, green, and pink hues. It was not exactly discreet, but according to Marrmad, it would allow Jackson to fit in quite well at dinner. Another issue was the lack of comfort: the clothes were rather tight, and did not allow much freedom of movement.

The young man continued to believe it was unnecessary for him to dress up like this, and his conviction was reinforced when he saw that, aside from him and Marrmad, there were only two guests at sir Nechido’s table. There was once more a large quantity of meals being served, but of a different variety. It was almost all seafood, mostly fish but also oysters, cockles, mussels…

Sir Nechido was in an excellent mood, which probably had to do with the large bronze cup filled with white wine he held in his hand. To the Prince Merchant’s left was a woman, fourty, possibly fifty years of age. She, too, was quite portly, though a little less so than Nechido. Her graying black hair, balding on the forehead, was half-hidden by some kind of yellow veil, the same color as her dress. To Nechido’s right was an old male Orc, dressed in an ocean blue coat; a dark blue feather hat sat on the back of his chair. A long and large auburn beard covered the lower half of his face and a good portion of his torso, as well as the upper part of his stomach. As Jackson got closer to the table, he noticed the Orc had a sword attached to his belt. While the two others were joking and laughing loudly, he kept a sullen face, his head resting on one hand, and his elbow on the table.

“Finally!” Sir Nechido exclaimed when he saw Marrmad and Jackson. “Sit, my friends, sit.”

“Are we late?” Marrmad said. “Our humble apologies, sir Nechido.”

“That’s quite alright, but had you arrived a bit later, my stomach might not have forgiven you.”

The woman clucked in laughter.

“May I introduce you to my wife,” the Prince Merchant said, designating her with an expansive gesture of the hand. “Lady Jaune Nechido.”

“It is an honor, my lady,” Marrmad said as he bowed to her. Jackson followed his example.

“And this is Hyn Thymos,” Nechido gestured to the Orc, who nodded. “Captain of the city’s militia.”

“I have naturally heard of your reputation,” Marrmad said with a smarmy voice that made Jackson hope nobody saw him roll his eyes. “The city still remembers how you defended us from Jadatyy, the so-called Pirate Queen.”

“Seven years ago,” the Orc grunted. “Apparently, I’ve done nothing worthy of mention ever since.”

Marrmad’s face dropped so quickly and in such a way that Jackson had to hurriedly grab a cup of wine and drown his laughter in it. Nechido’s eyes shone in delight.

“Ah, Thymos!” he said. “Always such a mood. Now then! With the introductions out of the way, let us feast.”

“Hear, hear!” Jackson said.

He didn’t make much manners as he partook in a bit of everything sprawled on the table. Neither did the Nechidos, who quite clearly shared the same love for food, both in quality and in quantity. Only the captain and Marrmad showed restraint; the former did not seem to be hungry at all, and was content with the few sips he took from his cup.

The atmosphere over dinner was surprisingly laid back, for a high society affair. Sir Nechido and his wife did most of the talking -and the joking, and the laughing-, while Marrmad smiled and nodded along, and Jackson mostly stuffed his mouth with food. As to captain Thymos, it seemed his role was purely decorative.

They talked about unimportant subjects: weather, cuisine, local events… The topic of the Days of Gold and Azure came up. Jackson had heard of it a couple of times, first from the tailor and later on the street, but only in passing. This time, the subject was discussed more in depth. As Jackson suspected, it was a celebration, commemorating Atvello’s independence -which coincided with the beginning of summer. From the way sir Nechido and his wife described it, it sounded a lot like Carnival in New Orleans: lots of boozing, lots of partying, and lots of debauchery. In fact, Thymos complained that the militia would likely be working overtime to clean up the streets afterwards -it was essentially the only thing he said during dinner.

Sir Nechido and his wife cheered when dessert was brought. Or rather, desserts. Several pies, two bushels of fruits, and a large plate of small round cakes.

“Hot damn!” Jackson said to himself -well, to Byron- as he was served a big slice of peach pie. “And I thought everyone starved in the Middle Ages.”

“Well, the rich certainly didn’t,” Byron said, looking at the sweets with melancholy.

Jackson stared at him for a moment. “D’you want to take over?”

The veteran blinked. “What?”

“My body. Do you want to take over? So you can enjoy some of that.” He gestured at the dinner table.

“Are you sure?” Byron said, his eyes lighting up.

“I figure I owe you for acting stupid and putting us both in danger. Oh, huh, you have to give it back to me afterwards.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I do want that.”

“Okay. Uh… Do I need to do something?”

“Just don’t push back.”

Byron closed his eyes. The change happened so slowly and gradually Jackson didn’t notice when his body started moving without any input on his part. It was a very strange spectacle: his hands and his head were doing their own thing -or rather, Byron’s own thing-, and he simply watched. In fact, he couldn’t even control his eyes, not even his eyelids. A feeling not unlike claustrophobia rose in his mind, as he began feeling like a prisoner of his own flesh. Fortunately, at this moment, Byron-in-Jackson’s-body put a big chunk of pie in his mouth and started chewing very slowly. The rich and sweet taste offered Jackson a distraction from the fear, even though the sense of taste was not as strong as when he was “in command”.

“Oh my god,” Byron muttered. He took another bite, and ate it faster. “I don’t even remember my last meal.”

“Probably some military ration,” Jackson said. For a second, he wondered if Byron could still hear him. The implications if he couldn’t… well, Jackson really didn’t want to think about that.

“Probably,” Byron answered, lifting a boulder off of Jackson’s stomach.

“Right!” Nechido suddenly said. “I believe everyone is now in a good disposition to discuss more serious matters.”

“Ocean forfend men talk business over the main course,” his wife said. She rose from her seat and added: “I shall retire to my boudoir for the night. Good evening, sirs.”

She raised her hand, and her husband picked it and kissed it, leaving two grease marks on its back.

“I shan’t be long, beloved,” he said.

“Good evening, lady Nechido,” Marrmad said, raising as well to bow to her.

Thymos imitated him, as did Byron-Jackson. The fat lady left the room, followed by one of the two servants.

“As most of you know,” Nechido said, “there appears to be a diseased fish in my school. They managed to get their hands on one of my prized possession” he rubbed a fat index finger over the ring ornating the smallest finger of his left hand “and got it out of my mansion, all without my knowing. I had the matter thoroughly investigated, and I thank captain Thymos for his valuable help.”

Thymos made a “hmph” and quietly ordered a refill of his drink.

“I cry your pardon, sir Nechido,” Marrmad said. “I’m afraid a part of this conversation eludes me. You mean there is a traitor in your house?”

“Yes, indeed. Your young friend helped me discover his existence last we talked.”

“Huh,” the Goblin said, glancing at Jackson. “I see.”

“Anyway, through my contacts and captain Thymos’ work, that traitor now has a name: Olakan Otzando.”

“The Lionfish?” Marrmad pinched his lips.

“Oh, I do so detest that nickname,” Nechido said, wiping his chin with the tablecloth. “And I detest the fact that he’s evidently the one trying to spread it, even more.”

“Who’s Olakan Otzando?” Byron said through Jackson’s lips.

“A merchant,” Marrmad said. “Quite successful. Not enough to be a Prince Merchant, but evidently trying his hardest.”

“I don’t usually mind ambition,” Nechido said. “It is what got me into the Council after all. But I do object to it when one wishes to fulfill said ambition by hurting my interests.”

He blew air between his teeth with a whistling sound.

“Otzando… I suppose it was only a matter of time before he started working against me. But I assumed he would at least have the decency to be open about it, and not stick to the shadows. Not very fitting for the Lionfish.”

“Do you know how he managed to steal your… prized possession, sir Nechido?” Byron asked.

“Through a most mundane -dare I call it: boring- tactic: he bribed one of my house’s servants.”

“I assumed the culprit was flogged for his disloyalty, sir Nechido,” Marrmad said obsequiously.

Jackson shuddered at this. Or rather, he did the mental equivalent of that, as the reins of his body were still in Byron’s hands.

“She would have, had it not been for her very young age…” Nechido sighed. “And the fact that she proved loquacious when interrogated about the theft. Still, she will have to seek her wage elsewhere, from this day forward.”

“So,” Byron said. “You know who stole from you and how, sir. I assume you can’t prove it, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

“You assume correctly, my young friend. Unfortunately, the only proof I could gather will likely not convince the Gilded Council to condemn Otzando. But no matter. It is not retribution I seek -well, not now-, but answers.”

“You want to know why he stole the ring, and how he knew about… the caravan.”

Nechido’s smile lost a bit of its warmth. He turned to Thymos and said: 

“I thank you for joining us tonight, captain. Be sure to ask the kitchen if you wish to bring something home.”

The Orc understood the unspoken message right away. As he stood, he muttered:

“I will hold you to your word, sir Nechido: keep it out of my streets. My tolerance only goes so far.”

As far as Nechido’s generosity goes, I’m guessing, Byron thought. Jackson chuckled, then asked:

“What makes you think he’s on Nechido’s payroll?”

“Educated guess. Corruption exists wherever there’s money and power, no matter the place or the time.”

The Prince Merchant let out a short but loud belch. Marrmad didn’t look shocked or offended; evidently, this wasn’t considered bad manners in this world.

Byron helped himself to another slice of pie -his fourth. As he did, Jackson couldn’t help but notice he couldn’t smell the pie as strongly as he should. And, as Byron dropped his fork to eat with his hands, he realized his sense of touch didn’t work quite right either. The feeling of claustrophobia came back with a vengeance.

Is that how it is for him all the time? Shit! I thought it was frustrating, but that’s a hundred times worse. Except… He can move around like a ghost or a spirit or whatever. Why can’t I? Why am I stuck in my body? The “duh” resonated loudly in his mind like a church bell. Because it’s my body. My soul must be attached to it, or something. His soul is… well, it’s crashing here, I guess. Maybe that’s also why my five senses still kinda work, even though he could just see and hear, and barely smell.

“You are correct again, young man,” Nechido said once the captain was out of sight. “I very much want to know how Otzando could possibly know about the box.”

“And if he knows about its contents,” Byron completed.

“Oh, I would bet a sizable share of my fortune that he does not. More importantly, I wish to know the reason.”

“What reason, sir Nechido?” Marrmad said. The Goblin seemingly felt left out of the conversation, and had jumped at the first opportunity to become a part of it again.

“The reason for those strange actions. Certainly, he aims to better his status and his wealth to the detriment of mine. But what precisely is his plan?”

“How may we help you find those answers, sir Nechido?” Marrmad said candidly.

“Otzando owns a property in Atvello, a few acres of land upon which he built this gaudy manor in which he resides when he’s not at sea. Sadly, our laws state that I cannot simply order the militia to tear the place apart in search of the evidence I’m looking for.”

“But you can hire us to do so discreetly,” Byron-Jackson concluded, as he finished his fourth slice of pie and immediately took a fifth.

“Hey, easy, man,” Jackson said. “I’m the one who’ll feel bloated tonight.”

“You are decidedly quick on the uptake,” Nechido said. “That is precisely what I wish to hire you for. Infiltrate Otzando’s domain, find any and all evidence of his plans against me, as well as of any co-conspirators he may have, and bring it back to me. And, yes, discretion is of the utmost importance on this matter.”

“This will be no easy task, sir Nechido,” Marrmad said, going from affable to business-like in the blink of an eye. “I’m assuming someone as rich as Otzando has mercenaries protecting his mansion.”

“He does, though I don’t know how many.”

“And given that Otzando is no pauper, he will have paid good money for good mercenaries. No mere bandits, this time.” The Goblin’s long-nailed fingers drew circles on the table. “Quite a dangerous assignment. And the need for stealth…”

“Yes, yes,” Nechido said, with a tired gesture of the hand. “Name your price, Marrmad.”

“Six hundred gold oxen. Half upfront.”

“And I thought the Gobliniad forbade greed,” the Prince Merchant sighed. “Very well. Go see my treasurer for your coin.”

“Thank you, sir Nechido. Otzando’s secrets will soon be yours.”

Dismissed by their host, Marrmad and Jackson walked Seacrest Castle’s hallways until they arrived at the treasurer’s office. The treasurer was a tall, skeletal man with almost no hair left on his head, and barely any flesh on his bones. Marrmad exchanged a few quick words with him, and received a bag of money.

“Can I have my body back?” Jackson asked Byron. “Since you’re done eating and all.”

Byron sighed, but nodded his agreement. Transitioning back was an odd, somewhat disagreeable feeling. Sure, Jackson had regained all of his sensations, but that included the less than comfortable ones. All of a sudden, he was very conscious of the fact that his feet hurt, that his stomach was more than full, and that the alcohol drunk over lunch was giving him a bit of a headache. Also, his hands were itchy for some reason. And he was sweating, quite a lot. But it was his body, and he was once again in full control of it; that, at least, felt right.

Before they left the castle, Jackson asked Marrmad: “What’s the Gobliniad?”

“It is the word in Imperial which refers to the Goblin diaspora. Ever since the Reprobation, centuries ago, my people have split into multiple communities, spread over the three continents. Mindful to not lose our identity even as we lived in foreign lands and under foreign rule, we ensured our communities remained tied by one language, one set of traditions, and one moral code.”

“That’d be the language I heard you talk with your tailor, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And that language we’re speaking in, right now, it’s called Imperial?”

“What did you think it was called?” Marrmad said, lowering an eyebrow.

“I didn’t… huh…” Jackson kicked himself for asking that question out loud. 

He had forgotten he wasn’t speaking English -or if he was, nobody had noticed. The mystery of why he couldn’t understand and be understood by the people of this world still preoccupied him from time to time. The weirdest part was that, after a while, he had begun noticing he truly was speaking in a different language. He couldn’t explain that either; it was like some part of his brain had realized it, yet somehow he himself hadn’t. 

With a chuckle, Marrmad explained: “In the Empire, it is referred to as Imperial. A misnomer, I would think. While it is true the language was born in their lands -in Narria, more accurately-, it did so long before the first Emperor was crowned. Several centuries ago, it became the most common language in Varda. It is even spoken in the Hexacracy, although the Six are taking great pains to make their own Hellian language more prevalent.”

“Ah, okay. And what was that about the Gobliniad forbidding greed?”

Marrmad blew air out of his nose. “The code warns against it. A Goblin must only earn what he needs, supposedly. But I ask you: knowing the value of the services you offer, knowing your true worth, is that greed? I think not.”

“What else is forbidden in your code? Murder?”

“I never said it was my code,” Marrmad said. “But, yes, murder is certainly forbidden, though if memory serves there are exceptions to the rule.”

“It’s not your code? You mean, you’re not part of the Gobliniad?”

“I am a Goblin, and I will always be part of my people. It is safe to say, however, that I do not follow our rites as thoroughly as the rest of my brethren.”

“What does that mean?”

The Goblin gave him a look.

“Right, right. No asking about the past.”

Back at the hideout, the Children of Nayros welcomed the new mission with mixed emotions. Enita found it exciting, Jowallan was neutral as usual, Durnin was worried by the task yet enthused by the reward, and Argyro looked unhappy.

“That’s another one you’ll have to sit out of, I’m afraid,” Marrmad said. “This work will require subtlety.”

The Orc grunted, and poured herself another beer.

“Right,” Durnin said. “First of all, we’ll have to observe the place, find out how many people work there, and try to find a way in. I’ll keep an eye on the streets. Jowallan, can you watch the roofs?”

The Cambion nodded.

“All right, so we’ll be doing that for the next two or three days.”

“And I will find out what kind of mercenaries Otzando has hired,” Marrmad said, “and how many.”

“What about us?” Jackson said, pointing his thumb at himself and Enita.

“Be prepared for the job,” the Goblin said. “Keep up your training, choose your gear…”

“Sweet! That’s three days off, then.”

Durnin, Enita and Argyro all chuckled, but Marrmad tutted.

“Kidding. Mostly.”

Even if Jackson had intended to laze around for the next few days, he was pretty sure Byron never would have let him. Training hard was not as important as training regularly, according to him. Miss one day of training, he said, and the next day will feel twice as hard. Jackson almost retorted that he could simply skip the next day as well, but then came to a realization. Serving as his tutor gave Byron something to do. Jackson had walked a mile in his shoes, and while it had thankfully not lasted long, it was enough for him to understand just how difficult that could be.

Jackson wasn’t sure whether he was getting consistently better with his sword -his moves still felt too heavy and stiff-, but his endurance was definitely improving. He could now last for almost an hour without needing a break, and did not drop his weapon a single time during the entire session. Byron noticed that too, and the series of exercises he put Jackson through became longer as a result. When the training finally came to an end, Jackson saw that Byron was about to say something. He smiled, hoping to hear his first compliment on his fencing.

“You have an audience,” Byron said instead.

Jackson bit his lip, but turned to look. It was Enita, sitting on a barrel. Damn, I knew I should have taken off my shirt for this.

“Hey, girl,” he said.

“Hey, boy,” she said, trying to mimic his American accent, with less than convincing results. “You’re becoming quite good at this.”

He smiled at the belated compliment. “I guess sometimes hard work does work.”

“Are you done? You practiced all morning.”

“Yeah, that’s enough for today. I’m getting hungry. Wanna grab a bite somewhere?”

“Good idea. I was going to the marketplace anyway.”

“You gonna buy something for the big job?”

“No, but now that I have some coin, I was thinking of getting a new tattoo.”

“You still have room?” Jackson’s smile grew larger.

Enita nodded. “And I still have stories I’d like to remember.”

“Maybe I should get one too,” he said, inspecting his left forearm. “An eagle. No, a sword. Or an eagle holding a sword?”

“Do eagles mean something to you?”

“Kinda, I guess. Mostly, they’re cool.”

“I suspect they are,” Enita said, confused. “They fly in rather high places, and have a thick plumage.”

“Yeah, no, I meant… Eh, let’s just go.”

Hanging out with Enita put Jackson in a good mood for the rest of the day. Even the fact that his fish cake was burnt on top didn’t manage to bring him down. As the weather grew hotter and drier, Enita suggested they go swimming at the beach. Jackson almost asked if swimsuits existed in this world, but then decided he didn’t care.

The Leylen girl led him to a small, secluded beach outside of the city walls. The beach itself wasn’t much to look at: its sand was not the fine, white sort one would see on postcards back on Earth, and there was quite a lot of algae covering it. That didn’t matter to Enita, who kicked off her sandals and took off her clothes, then sprinted to the ocean, throwing herself in its water with joyful abandon. Jackson quickly imitated her, grunting and swearing as he struggled to take off his boots.

It was high tide, and the water was nicely warm. The sun, reflecting on the surface, made its ripples shine. Seagulls flying overhead and ships sailing off in the distance completed the picture. Yet Jackson paid little attention to this beautiful scenery. All his young male eyes could focus on was the beautiful, naked woman before him. Jackson was amazed at the nonchalant, graceful way she swam. She took to the water like a mermaid. The ocean was like home to the Leylen girl.

Darting her tongue at him, she dared him to catch her. Jackson did not have much practice swimming, having lived away from the ocean most of his life, and the game quickly devolved into Enita butterflying circles around him as he futilely tried to grab her. In any other circumstances, Jackson would have been frustrated enough to scream, but, fortunately, the glimpses he caught of Enita’s chest and, when she took a dive, of her hind quarters, was more than sufficient to keep him motivated.

Jackson kept trying, again and again, and eventually, he managed to grab her by the hips. He was almost certain she had let him win, but no matter. Pulling her closer to him, he stared right into her eyes, brushing her nose with his, and whispered:

“What now?”

“Now… this.”

She pushed her lips against his, softly. Jackson immediately responded by sneaking his tongue in her mouth, and wrapped his arms around her back. He pressed her against him, so hard she yelped.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Though I may not look it, I’m delicate, Greenleaf,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “Treat me like you would a flower.”

I don’t usually fuck flowers, he thought. He embraced her again, this time with a lot more care. His fingers brushed along her spine, from the neck all the way down. She kissed him again, and lifted one of her legs to wrap it around his hips. A smile shone on her face when she felt his nether regions reacting immediately. She licked her lips, and began moving her pelvis slowly, up and down, occasionally drawing small circles. He caught his breath.

“Tease,” he groaned.

“The fasting makes the feasting much more fulfilling,” Enita said.

“Girl, you’ve had me fasting for days, now.”

“So what’s a few moments more?”

He groaned again, but relented. She continued her little dance for a while, regaling in her lover’s frustrated reactions. Then, she lifted her other leg, joining it with the first. Jackson grabbed her halfway between her hips and her butt. She was quite light, partly because of the water. It was fortunate, however, that Jackson was still in his depth. He probably wasn’t a good enough swimmer to carry both of their weights combined.

Enita reached down, grabbing and directing Jackson inside her. Her mouth opened wide, but she remained silent as she descended, inch by inch until she couldn’t go any lower. They started moving, out of sync and a bit clumsily. His moves were short, quick, and a bit rigid; hers were softer, more supple. Jackson found it almost funny how mismatched they were in their lovemaking. Despite that, they found a way to make it work both for themselves and the other.

Just like last time, Jackson wanted to enjoy the moment by making it last as long as he could. And this time, there was nothing to disturb the two of them, save the screamings of a couple of seagulls, fighting over a fish some twenty feet away. Unfortunately, between the hot sun weighing on his back and his shoulders, and the muscles in his legs carrying the both of them, he proved less enduring than he hoped.

“Ah, damnit,” he said.

Enita giggled as she looked down.

“For a woman, that is perhaps the most honest compliment.”

“I’m sorry.”

Enita untangled her legs and dropped in the water, using it to clean herself. She swam around for a bit, while Jackson just stood there, feeling awkward and embarrassed. The sorceress splashed water on his face again to get his attention.

“Come on, Greenleaf. It was still a good bit of fun.”

“You didn’t… change,” he pointed out.

She shrugged. “I don’t always do that. Probably for the best, with all that water around. Let’s go back. My tattoo artist will not be waiting forever.”

Said artist was a very old Leylen woman, with more wrinkles than skin, and who smelled faintly of garlic. True to form, she had had quite a lot of body ink, but almost all of it had become unrecognizable, either due to lack of aftercare or simply aging. Drawings of her work hung on the walls of her shop. Many caught Jackson’s eye.

Jackson had often played with the idea of getting a tattoo, ever since he first saw his “uncle” Jared’s body art. Several times, he even imagined a great one, and where to have it inked. But every time, another, greater idea chased the previous one, and ultimately, Jackson could never commit to a decision.

Enita, meanwhile, had made up her mind very quickly. She asked for three red flowers -azaleas, she said- on the inside of her right forearm, right beneath her raven, then took a seat on a wooden chair, putting her wrist on the arm. The old woman nodded, then took out a stylus with a very sharp end, looking a bit like an elongated thorn. Jackson expected her to produce some kind of ink, but as soon as she placed the stylus on Enita’s skin and pressed hard enough to pierce, a little black dot appeared.

Jackson saw the old woman’s lips move as she began drawing on Enita’s forearm. He couldn’t hear a word, but he knew he was witnessing another form of magic. The artist worked slowly and with precision, without so much as a quiver in the wrist as she dug into the young woman’s skin. Enita leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling and humming a song.

“It doesn’t hurt?” Jackson said.

“She is no common tattoo artist,” Enita said.

“Yeah, I guess not. That’s magic too, huh?”

“Wrighting; a most uncommon form of magic. Although, this is rather a simple form of it. The most accomplished practitioners, I’m told, can create impressive works of art. The animals they paint seem alive; the plants they draw appear to grow.”

“They can make animated tattoos? That’s pretty cool!”

The old woman said something Jackson couldn’t hear, and Enita chuckled.

“What?”

“Um… She said she’d like to tattoo you,” Enita said, and from the way she looked at him, he could tell that wasn’t quite what the artist had said.

“Yeah, I bet she would,” he said with a teasing smirk. “Should I just drop my shirt, or does she want me fully naked?”
The old woman sniffed with disdain, and resumed her mutterings.

“What do you think I should get?” Jackson asked Byron. “I still like the idea of an eagle, but he could be holding an assault rifle.”

“How about Uncle Sam eating an apple pie with Paul Bunyan, mister All-American Hero?”

“I know you’re kidding, but that actually sounds like a cool tattoo. By the way, do you have any? Badasses like you always get inked.”

“A few,” Byron said.

“I knew it! What kind? And where?”

“If you don’t know what to get, I suggest getting nothing,” he said, somewhat harshly.

“Why do you always shut me down whenever I try to know more about you?”

“Maybe because I don’t want you to know more about me. Ever thought of that?”

“Yeah, but why? Like, is it because it’s top secret or something? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you being dead means you’re no longer bound by that. And even if you are, who cares? Who am I gonna blab to, here?”

Byron shook his head, a non-answer Jackson was getting very familiar with.

“Fine, keep your secrets, mister Aloof Badass With A Mysterious Past. I bet your tattoos are not even that cool.”

This brilliant attempt at reverse psychology only resulted in Byron exhaling sharply through his nose before he disappeared. Jackson shrugged. He looked at the drawings of tattoos for a little while longer, and eventually decided… that he would make his decision some other time.

It took most of the afternoon for the tattoo to be done. Afterwards, the artist placed a bandage around Enita’s arm, and gave her what sounded like a series of recommendations in her tongue. Enita paid her, and she and Jackson went on their merry way. It was once again hot and sunny outside as they walked down the street leading to Whitewood.

“Ugh, I’m all sweaty,” Jackson said.

“Summer is close,” Enita said. “The Days of Gold and Azure begin in less than a month.”

“Almost forgot about that. Ever been to one before?”

“Every year since I’ve arrived in Atvello. I never miss it. It would be akin to living in Hastad and missing the Flowering.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I did! Drinking, eating, singing, and dancing, for seven days and seven nights. Sometimes, it gets so rowdy the militia intervenes… and sometimes, it gets so rowdy even the militia gets involved.”

She laughed to herself, her eyes brightened by the memories. Their little conversation was then halted by the irruption of a child. He looked to be just about ten years old, and wore nothing but a pair of burlap pants with a piece of rope in lieu of a belt. His bare feet were almost entirely darkened by dirt, which also stained quite a few parts of his body.

“Message from sir Marrmad!” he said in a squeaky voice.

“What is it?” Enita said.

“Sir Marrmad demands your presence at his place before dusk, lady Enita!”

The urchin was puffing his bare chest and putting on an affable tone that was evidently not his usual manner of speaking, as if he drew a great pride from having been hired as a messenger. Maybe he wanted to earn his coin, or maybe he truly believed the Goblin was a nobleman.

“How did you know where to find us?” Jackson asked.

“I was born on these streets, sir,” the child simply said, his eyes twinkling with amusement like those of a magician asked to reveal his tricks.

“And I do stand out,” Enita said. She pulled a silver coin from her pants’ pocket and slipped it into the child’s hand. “Thank you, lad. Off you go.”

The child did an exaggerated bow, then took off running. Jackson wondered whether Marrmad had called this meeting because Jowallan and Durnin were already done with the legwork. That didn’t take long. Is that good news or bad news?

It definitely didn’t look like good news, Jackson decided when he walked into the Children of Nayros’ headquarters and saw Marrmad pace back and forth, looking agitated. Durnin wasn’t his usual laidback self either, tapping his foot on the floor and scratching his beard while muttering under his breath. Even Jowallan seemed nervous; instead of meditating or reading as they usually did, they stood in the middle of the room, so still they would look exactly like a statue, were it not for their eyes, constantly going back and forth between the two others.

“We’re here,” Jackson said. “What’s going on?”

“We believe we have come up with a plan to enter Otzando’s mansion discreetly,” Marrmad said.

“Aye,” Durnin said. “And a jolly good plan it is!”

“Nice!” Jackson said, pulling up a chair and putting his feet up on the table. As he did, he accidentally knocked over a cup, which was thankfully empty. “Hit me with it.”

Marrmad blinked at the unfamiliar expression, then went on to explain:

“Unfortunately, the Lionfish doesn’t have any travels planned in the near future, meaning he’ll not leave his property.”

“Except for an appointment, an official function…” Durnin said.

“Or for the Days of Gold and Azure,” Jackson intuited.

“Right ye are, lad.”

“Cool. So what do we do? Get him liquored up until he can’t see straight?”

“The richest merchants will meet for a feast at Seacrest Castle on the evening of the first day,” Marrmad explained. “It will last until sundown, on the longest day of the year. Otzando will be there, both for the sake of his reputation and to ingratiate himself with the people he’ll need to become a Prince Merchant. It is our best opportunity -our only opportunity, in fact, before a long while. I’ll be there as well, with Argyro as my bodyguard, to keep an eye on him and warn you should anything happen.”

“Huh-uh,” Jackson said, smirking. “You’ll be munching on canapes and binging on fine wines while we’re doing the cloak-and-dagger thing. Heh. Although, given that you’ll be hobnobbing with nobles and rich assholes, maybe you’re getting the short end of that deal.”

Everyone but Marrmad laughed; even Jowallan seemed to smile. The Goblin huffed, dismissive, and threw a brown square of cloth on the table. Enita unfolded it, revealing a map drawn on one side.

The charcoal drawing was hardly of blueprint quality, but still quite good -better than anything Jackson could have come up with. It showed Otzando’s mansion and its surroundings with a lot of details: doors, windows, trees, bushes, chimneys… The guards’ positions were also shown, along with the paths several took while patrolling. There were a few written annotations, such as: “kitchen”, “stairs?”, and more importantly: “master bedroom”. Jackson looked at the map for a long time, impressed.

“That’s some pretty damn good work,” he said.

“Thank you,” Jowallan said.

“You did this?”

The Cambion nodded.

“I did my share,” Durnin said. “But, aye, our horned friend did the biggest part of the job. Drawn that map almost entirely from memory, they did!” He chuckled. “Quite the brain, they’ve got. Makes you wonder how much has to be in there, eh?”

Jackson and Jowallan’s eyes crossed. Yup. Probably a lot of dirty secrets in there. Including one of mine. And speaking of which, didn’t we talk about trading another secret?

Durnin pointed to a section of the map.

“This is our way in. The guards and the patrols cover almost all of the mansion’s surroundings. But this section of the wall has a blind spot because of that hazel tree. You will have to cross one by one at the right time, but it’s perfect.”

“Totally,” Jackson said. “Plus, free hazelnuts.”

“I’m worried you’re not taking this as seriously as you should,” Marrmad said.

“As am I,” Byron said.

“This is important,” the Goblin said. “Show less levity or you’ll not be part of this one.”

“It’s alright,” Durnin said. “I’m sure the lad’s just joking around because he’s nervous. Isn’t that right, Greenleaf?”

“Yeah! Look, I’m sorry. I can do this. I did good back at the cave, didn’t I?”

“I suppose. However, do understand that, this time, there can be no effusion. If you or anyone else gets spotted, you are to flee at once.”

“I remember what the captain said. We won’t cause any trouble.”

Marrmad nodded sharply. “Very well. Let me recapitulate the whole plan: I and Argyro will be at the castle for the feast, keeping an eye on Otzando. Durnin and Enita will keep watch around the mansion, ready to warn the others should anything occur, or to create a diversion if necessary. Finally, Greenleaf and Jowallan will enter the premises and attempt to find any documents -letters, contracts, or other- pertaining to sir Nechido.”

“And bring them back without any fuss,” Jackson said.

“No,” the Goblin said, wagging his finger. “You and Jowallan will either memorize or copy their contents, but you are not to take anything. Not a single coin! Secrecy is the keyword to this entire task; Otzando must not suspect a thing. Is that clear?”

“Oh, right. That makes sense.”

“Good. We will reconvene on the first Day of Gold and Azure, here, in the afternoon. Keep a low profile, and please do be sober.”

“Have you ever known me to be drunk on the job?” Durnin said with fake outrage.

“I was not targeting you specifically, but come to think of it, yes, I have, once.”

“The Galleon raid? I was poisoned!”

“Yes, the alcohol in which you indulged in large quantities did contain poison, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s thankful he drank so much,” Enita told Jackson. “He got so pissed he vomited most of the poison.”

The comfortable routine which Jackson had been following for the last few weeks continued over the next couple of days. Training (PT and fencing) in the morning, having lunch in the port, lazing around in the afternoon, hanging out with the Children of Nayros in the evening. His nights were mostly peaceful, although on occasions, he would again dream of the visions from the orb, and of the strange woman. 

Out in the city, people began hanging colorful banners in the streets. Additional stalls were built on the market place, along with several stages. New ships of unusual design flying strange flags arrived in the port, carrying passengers and merchandise from even further away than usual. The mood also changed. The people progressively became more lively, more enthused; a new energy seemed to possess them.

Finally came the first Day of Gold and Azure. The festivities started at zenith, when the Gilded Council and several other important personalities paraded through Atvello, from the southern gate to Seacrest Castle. Jackson watched them, standing on top of a pile of crates in Whitewood. A very dense crowd hailed them as they passed by; it seemed the entire city went down on the streets despite the heat. The fact that some of the Prince Merchants were throwing money as they rolled by was probably one of the reasons why. At some point, the already enthusiastic mass of people began cheering even louder. There were exclamations of surprise, delight, worry, and confusion.

“Hey, what’s happening?” Jackson asked some of the folks near him.

“It’s him!” a woman exclaimed. “It’s the Archdemon! He really came!”

“Which one is it?” a boy said. “Which one is it?”

A teenager -his bigger brother, it seemed- picked him up and hoisted him over his shoulders.

“Where is he?” the boy asked, just as Jackson was about to ask the same thing.

“The fifth carriage,” his brother said. “The black and red one.”

Jackson craned his neck, his curiosity peaked. Two carriages passed by, each carrying someone important, along with their entourage, as well as a few armed guards. Then, a larger carriage appeared, pulled by four noticeably bigger horses. It was painted black with a red finish on its edges. Sitting in the back was a Humanoid entirely clad in red clothing, wearing a black mask on their face. Not a single portion of their skin could be seen. They waved a gloved hand at the crowd as they passed by.

It lasted all of ten seconds, then the carriage disappeared behind a street corner. Soon, the parade was over, and the crowd went on with the celebrations.

“But which one was it?” the boy asked again.

“Probably Bakasura,” his brother said. “He’s the richest of the Six. I’ll bet he’s come to talk business and trade with the Council.”

“Bakasura?” someone said. “Bakasura is a really fat bloke. And he has horns. That was Rakshasa for sure. She’s here to buy the bordellos. Everyone knows that.”

“That’s rubbish! The Prince Merchants own the bordellos. They’ll never sell them. A captain would sooner sell his own ship!”

As more people started adding more theories as to who the mysterious Archdemon was, Jackson noticed Byron standing on a crate to his left, biting his thumb’s nail with a very nervous look on his face.

“He saw me,” he said slowly.

“What? What are you…”

“He saw me. The Archdemon.”

“How could you even tell?” Jackson said, frowning. “He was wearing a mask and he was, like, thirty feet away.”

“I’ve been trained to know when I’ve been spotted. My fight or flight instinct kicked in. I have no idea how that’s possible, but that man saw me.”

“Ah… But…” Jackson muttered.

“Come on. For now, let’s just go meet with the Children.”

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