The Pulver Chronicles – 16. Show Me How To Lie

Jackson’s reappearance before the Children of Nayros caused a lot of fuss. Enita and Durnin ran to him, and bombarded him with questions. Marrmad reined them in, invited everyone to sit at the table, and ordered Argyro to go outside and make sure that Jackson had  not been followed here -in spite of his insistence that he hadn’t. The Goblin poured him a cup of mead. He waited for Jackson to take a couple of sips before talking. Instead of drinking, Jackson blurted out:

“Where is Jowallan?”

He hadn’t seen his Cambion friend anywhere, making his stomach churn in worry. The expression on Enita and Durnin’s faces, combined with their silence, turned that churning into gut-wrenching.

“When you didn’t show up at our meeting spot,” Durnin said, his voice barely above a whisper, “we went to the Lionfish’s mansion, then retraced your steps. Eventually, we… we found his body.”

He took something out of his pocket. It was one of Jowallan’s horns, its root covered in dried up blood. Jackson choked.

“I’m sorry,” Enita said, obviously fighting back tears.

“What the hell happened?” Jackson said.

“We’re not sure,” Marrmad said. His long ears twitched with both stress and sorrow. “Enita thinks it was magic, from the way the horn has been ripped off.”

Jackson slammed his fist on the table, a strangled cry of anguish escaping his throat. That piece of shit! After we saved them…

“What happened to you?” Durnin said. “We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

The young man dropped his head.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit,” he muttered.

“I know this is hard,” Marrmad continued, “but I need you to tell us the whole story. I take it you weren’t with Jowallan when…”

The Goblin let his sentence linger.

“No,” Jackson said, his voice so raspy he didn’t recognize it. “I… I was…”

He exhaled, then took a bigger sip of his mead.

“Start at the beginning,” Enita said, placing a hand on his arm. “Take your time.”

“Yeah. So… We made it inside the mansion, and we looked around for the evidence Nechido wanted. Jowallan found some papers in Otzando’s office about some weird transactions, or something. But they said some things were missing, so we looked around some more. Eventually, we found his bedroom, and there was this secret passage in it.”

“A secret passage?” Marrmad repeated.

“Yeah, there was this chest, and it led to this tunnel to the basement. So, Jowallan and I went down there. He had this whole secret office down there. And there was a cage.”

He succinctly described the cage, and its prisoner. Enita looked shocked when Jackson mentioned the conditions in which the Cambion had been detained, while Durnin groaned with disgust. Jackson went on to mention Jowallan collecting more papers from Otzando’s archives. He then exclaimed:

“Shit, the papers! Did you get them?”

“Jowallan’s belongings were in the alley when we found… a puddle of blood, and a piece of his horn,” Marrmad answered.

Thank God this wasn’t all for nothing, at least, Jackson thought.

“That’s interesting,” Byron said. “The other Cambion wasn’t interested at all in Otzando, it seems, or with what we were doing in his mansion.”

“No,” Jackson thought-said. “I was their only target, apparently.”

Continuing his story, he explains that he and Jowallan agreed to free the unknown Cambion from his prison, by dousing the flame and using Jowallan’s abilities to unlock the door. He continued his narration with the moment when he had fallen under the Cambion’s spell, in the back alley. His throat clogged, and he couldn’t talk anymore.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Enita said, caressing his hand.

Jackson looked at her.

“You couldn’t have known that Cambion would do this,” she explained herself. “You couldn’t have known they would… they would attack Jowallan and you.”

“It was my idea to get them out,” he said with a sad smile.

“You did that because it was the right thing to do,” Durnin said. “I would have done the same thing.”

While he appreciated Durnin saying that, it did not help much with the horrid feeling of guilt that was skewering him. Why? He couldn’t say. It made no sense: as Enita said, it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t killed Jowallan, yet still felt guilty for his death. Marrmad cleared his throat and said:

“So, that creature put you under a spell. What do you remember next?”

Jackson decided to elude the part about dreaming an idealized version of his past. It was, after all, rather private; not to mention it took place in a different world. That would certainly have led to a lot of questions he wasn’t entirely comfortable answering. He certainly didn’t mention living someone else’s memories, and skipped straight to the part where he woke up in an empty house’s basement.

“The spell wore off, I guess, or didn’t work right. I managed to grab my ax and kill them. Then, I came right back here.”

“Are you hurt anywhere, lad?” Durnin said.

“I’m okay. Still a little bit dazed.”

Marrmad was staring at him, scratching the underside of his long nose.

“You said the Cambion called you by name,” he said.

Jackson licked his upper lip. He had considered omitting that detail as well, but had ultimately decided not to for two main reasons. The first one was that this was rather an important detail. It was true that the Cambion was after him specifically; hiding that fact might put the Children in danger. The second one was that he felt like he was lying to them enough, and, after living with them for weeks, fighting with them, drinking with them, sleeping alongside them, Jackson had begun to think of the Children of Nayros as his family.

“Yeah, he did. That took me off-guard.”

“Because you hadn’t told him your name,” Marrmad said.

“I told him my first name, but not my last name. I have no idea how they could have known that.”

“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Durnin said. “The bloke’s dead.” He poured himself some mead, and raised his cup to Jackson. “Jowallan is avenged.”

Jackson brought his cup against his, but then said: “Yeah, but what if there are others after me? That Cambion was probably sent by someone. In fact…” He remembered a detail he hadn’t mentioned before. “Right before they took me down, they sent some kind of message.”

“Sent a message?” Marrmad said, frowning. “How?”

“I’m not sure, some kind of weird smoke. Jowallan told me that was a way for Cambions to communicate.”

“With whom?” Durnin said.

“Exactly,” Jackson said with energy. “Who? Obviously, that Cambion was working with someone. Or for someone. Who sent that guy to kidnap me? How do they know me? What do they want with me?”

The Children of Nayros remained silent for a moment, pondering on those questions.

“Does it truly matter, after all?” Enita timidly said. “Whatever their plan is, it failed.”

“And what if they sent someone else?” Marrmad said. “And if they know of Greenleaf, they probably know about us, as well.”

Jackson was also worried about that. His brothers and sisters knew almost nothing substantial about him that a dedicated enemy could… extract from them, but said enemy might not know that. Worse, there was a possibility that one of them could be used to get to him. At that thought, his gaze ran to Enita.

Ah, hell. Memories of their private moments came back to him. Except that “private” was not really the proper word for it: indeed, they had been quite public about their mutual affection. What if someone had been spying on him during those moments? That someone would no doubt deduce that Enita was important to Jackson.

Judging by his expression, Byron either shared those worries, or had read them in Jackson’s mind through their bond.

“We need to be proactive about this,” he said. “Find the Cambion’s silent partner before they find us -or send another henchman.”

“Agreed. But how?”

“Ask Marrmad what happens to Otzando now that we have the evidence we needed.”

Jackson did so.

“Nechido had Captain Hyn place Otzando under arrest this very morning,” Marrmad answered, “right as he was trying to board one of his ships. The Gilded Council was quite angry that he took such a rash decision before informing them, especially against such a prominent character, but they relented when he showed the details of those transactions you collected.”

“Did they ask how we got those?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Marrmad chuckled, and added: “But they are no fools. There are not many ways those papers could have been obtained.”

“Heh… Yeah.”

“Otzando has to know something,” Byron said. “We need to meet with him, ask him some questions.”

Nodding, Jackson asked the Goblin: “Is there any way I could talk with Otzando?”

Marrmad gave him a knowing look. “Hmm, yes, that could be a good idea. And considering the service we’ve done for Nechido, I believe I can convince him to let you meet that man.”

“Alone,” Byron said. Jackson relayed once again. 

The Goblin visibly ticked. “That… could prove much harder. Anything the Lionfish has to say, Nechido and the rest of the Council will want to hear, I’m sure.”

That made sense, unfortunately.

“That won’t do,” Byron said. “I doubt Otzando knows you’re from a different world, but even so I wouldn’t trust a stranger with any information he could have about you.”

“Not even Nechido?” Jackson thought-said.

The veteran tutted. “If there’s really no way around it, Nechido would be… fine, I suppose. Still, try insisting.”

“I mean, they can still interrogate him on their own,” Jackson told Marrmad. “All I want is a few minutes with him to find out what he knows about me.”

He could tell from the way the Goblin sucked on his teeth that he was about to say no, so he quickly added: “Tell Nechido I can get him to talk.”

“What?”

“I can get the information they want out of Otzando. In exchange, I just want a few minutes alone with him.”

Marrmad laid back against his chair. Durnin and Enita were looking alternatively at him and Jackson.

“The Council doesn’t need you for that,” Marrmad replied. “They have professionals for this sort of task.”

“Right, well, err… How about…” Jackson hesitated. Byron made another suggestion. “Yeah, how about you tell Nechido that, this way, anything Otzando knows about him that he wouldn’t want the Council to know about, can say between us?”

As soon as he had repeated that, Jackson regretted it; even more so when he saw the peevishness on Marrmad’s face.

“Are you suggesting that I blackmail sir Voldus Nechido, a Prince Merchant and our employer, to get you what you want?”

Jackson glared at Byron. Yeah, Byron. What the fuck? His immaterial friend explained himself; Jackson internally rolled his eyes, but had to agree he made a point.

“It’s… It’s not blackmail, it’s to avoid blackmail. It’s just… That Otzando guy probably knows a lot, and, uh… I mean, we already found out he had one of Nechido’s servants working for him. Maybe there’s another? And what if he found out something? Something one of the other Prince Merchants could use against Nechido?”

“The lad makes a good point,” Durnin said, rubbing his stubble. “Those sharks of the Gilded Council are constantly circling each other, seeking any weakness they can exploit to undermine the others.”

“True,” Marrmad said. “I suppose we’d be acting out of loyalty and concern toward our patron.” With a wily smile, he added: “It makes good business sense, as well.”

Jackson relaxed, then communicated to Byron: “How did you know?”

“What?” the veteran snarked. “That a group of powerful, rich people supposedly working together are behind the scenes a bunch of cutthroats looking to weaken the others to strengthen their own position? Call it a hunch.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Jackson said. “Huh. Guess Otzando wanted to play the same game.”

“Greenleaf? Are you listening?”

The young man flinched. The Goblin had been talking to him, and he had been too focused on Byron to notice.

“Err, sorry. What did you say?”

“We decided to follow your plan. I confess I’m still curious as to why you wish to confront Otzando alone, but as Children of Nayros, we respect your right to keep mum about your past.”

“We assume your past has something to do with it,” Enita said. 

“Thank you!” Jackson said. “And if he says anything you guys need to know, I’ll tell you all about it. You can trust me.”

“We do, Greenleaf,” Durnin said, brotherly patting his shoulder. “Now what say you lot we finish talking business and go out, have a few drinks in Jowallan’s memory?”

“I’m all for that,” Jackson sighed.

The eldest Child of Nayros led his siblings to one of the many taverns in Atvello where he was known by name. This one was called The Kneeling Prince; allegedly, it had been so named when a Prince merchant patronized the establishment, and ended up on his knees after underestimating his fortitude.

Marrmad offered to pay for the first round. Durnin seized that opportunity to order a very pricey liquor he had never tried before. The Goblin grumbled, and shook his head, but paid. He then explained to Jackson that he had received the payment for the last job from Nechido earlier today. Jackson timidly inquired as to what would happen to Jowallan’s share. Apparently, their late sibling had no living relative, or if they did, they never mentioned them. The money would thus be shared between the Children of Nayros.

When the drinks were served, along with plates of cheese, vegetables, and meat, a toast was offered to Jowallan. Every Child of Naryos then told a story about them. Marrmad went first, and told everyone how he first met the Cambion. It was a cold night of winter, under a gibbous moon, when Jowallan approached him right at the back entrance of the Hazy Narrian. Marrmad was surprised, flummoxed even, that the Cambion seemingly knew not only of the Children of Nayros, but also the location of their headquarters. Jowallan would go on to explain that they had been following and observing the Goblin for quite some time, remaining completely undetected all the while. Impressed, Marrmad had still put them through the same kind of test as the other Children, by making them recover a precious jewel stolen by a bandit, which he kept on his person at all times. The task was quickly done, and the brigand was none the wiser.

“Quite a magi he was, our Jowallan,” Marrmad said, and he raised another toast.

“Aye, so many magical secrets lurked in that head of theirs,” Durnin said, his cup meeting Marrmad’s. “Did I ever tell you about that time he turned my saltwine into milk? Righteous Tewiz, I was laughing so hard I forgot to be mad!”

He went on to tell the story at length, punctuating every other sentence with his loud laughter. Jackson only half-listened, his thoughts now occupied with something else. He nursed his drink, swiveling the cup in his hands.

“You’re still blaming yourself,” Byron said. It was not a question.

“Yeah, but it’s not just that,” Jackson sighed. “I know it wasn’t my fault. I do.”

“It wasn’t your fault, but it was your responsibility.”

Jackson gave him a bemused and wounded look.

“I’m sorry,” Byron said. “But it’s the truth: Jowallan is dead as a result of your decision. And that’s a truth you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life.”

“Fuck, you trying to make me feel worse? If so, by all means, keep going.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better or worse, Jackson. I’m just trying to help you understand why you’re feeling like this.”

The young man pursed his lips. As incisive as Byron’s words were, they made sense, somewhat. He had some more mead, but his throat felt clogged, so he let it linger in his mouth until the bitterness forced him to swallow.

“Speaking from experience, huh?”

“Oh yes.”

“How did you manage to do all that? Not all that badass stuff with the shooting, the fighting, and the explosions. I mean, after you had friends die, after you saw all that shit going down, how did you manage to pull yourself together and… go back for more?”

“It’s the job,” he simply answered.

“I guess, but how did you not just…” He hesitated for a moment, looking for the right word. “… Snap?” Byron offered. Jackson nodded.

Byron’s eyes gazed in the distance.

“I wanted to be a soldier,” he said. “All of my life I wanted it. Not a mere soldier, in fact: I wanted to be the best soldier I could possibly be. And from the beginning, I knew that would demand sacrifices. I knew it, although I would only truly realize it later. Sacrificing others, of course, be they subordinates, comrades, or even friends. But also sacrificing certain parts of myself.”

“You mean like your principles?” Jackson asked.

The veteran sighed wearily. “At some point, the mind must either bend or break. I had seen what happened to those whose minds break; I decided it wouldn’t happen to me. So I would let my morals bend, my boundaries expand, and my principles stretch. No matter how far.”

Jackson tried another sip of his drink.

“Tell me it gets better,” he said.

Byron’s gaze grew soft.

“It gets… easier,” he said.

“Suppose that’s something,” Jackson said, almost as bitter as his mead.

“You said it’s not just that. Is anything else weighing down on you?”

Jackson looked at his brothers and sisters. Argyro was now telling her story about Jowallan. Judging by the others’ facial expressions, it was either confusing, ludicrous, or disgusting.

“Jowallan’s share will be distributed to all of us,” Jackson said. “They have no next of kin. No family, no spouse, no kid, nothing.”

“Ah…”

“And that got me thinking: I don’t either. I have no one. If I die tomorrow, there’ll be nobody left to remember me. No one to, like, bequeath my stuff to. Hell, I’m worse than Jowallan, at least they had the Children of Nayros to remember him.”

“They’ll remember you too,” Byron said.

“Yeah, except they don’t know me, do they? They don’t even know my real name.”

“There’s David Schultz.”

Jackson felt guilty that he had almost forgotten about his best friend. Byron was right: if Jackson were to die tomorrow, at least David would remember him. Provided he even heard of his death. Jackson wanted more. He wanted something stronger than friends, some sort of legacy that would survive him. A true family, maybe.

“I’m going to find him, you know,” he said. “David, I mean.”

Byron nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“And Bonnie. She’s got to be alive too.”

And he drank to that. Maybe the alcohol wasn’t strong enough, or maybe he hadn’t had enough yet, but the drinking didn’t keep the bad stuff down like it was supposed to. He glanced at the Children again.

“Do you think they feel the same? As lonely as me, right now? From what I gathered, they’re all here because they wanted to change their lives. For some of them, it’s because they wanted to get away from their past. Enita lost her family. Argyro got that thing with her clan, whatever it is -I heard her and Durnin talk about that. Maybe they get it. Maybe they get what it’s like to be really alone.”

Jackson sniffed.

“But even so, they’re still in their own world, at least,” Jackson went on. “This whole place is a known quantity to them. Me? I still don’t know the name of most of the shit I eat and drink. How’s that for lonely? The one person I could talk to about that, the one person who knew I’m not from this world…”

He raised his glass in the memory of that person, poured some on the floor, then drank the rest; another one down the hatch. Something vaguely feeling like a buzz began to appear in his mind. His friend said nothing, but his face darkened somewhat.

“What? What’s wrong?”

He realized the answer to that one second before Byron spoke.

“How do you think it is for me, Jackson?”

“I…” Jackson mumbled, embarrassed.

“I’ve lost virtually everything I can name. My family shunned me, and wrote me out of both their will and their memories -which is just fine with me. I’ve turned my back on the only woman I’ve ever loved, along with the one cause I believed in. As for the army, all of my records were cleaned so that neither I nor the people I’ve worked with could ever be connected with the events in Sakha. I’ve lost it all. For Christ’s sake, I even lost my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Once you die, Jackson, that’s it for me,” Byron said. His voice had remained even, but a glint of sorrow marred his eyes. “I might as well have never existed.”

That last sentence felt like a jagged knife.

“But… you’re still here,” Jackson said. He had tried to say something reassuring, but it sounded more silly than anything. “I mean… Maybe this isn’t the end.”

“Are you suggesting that I could be brought back to life?”

“Yeah. I mean maybe? There are necromants in this world, right?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Byron said. “But really, I’d rather not get my hopes up.”

“Why not?”

“I’m assuming there’s a reason why necromancy is forbidden to the point where even the word seems to be taboo. “Second Forbidden Art”… Assuming it’s even possible to resurrect someone, there’s got to be a price to pay, and odds are that it’s a very costly or unpleasant one.”

Jackson briefly thought back about the necromant he faced, and the way he had killed Robert Wallace and weaponized his soul. He tacitly agreed with Byron that it was probably best not to trifle with that sort of power. But still…

“I still gotta find some magi who can tell us more about our… situation,” Jackson said. “Maybe while I’m at it, I could look into this, err, side project.”

“Maybe,” Byron said. “For now, let’s focus on Otzando. Do you know how you’re going to handle him?”

“Honestly, I was thinking I’d let you handle him, what with this whole thing being your idea and all.”

“You mean you would give me control of the body?” The veteran looked surprised.

“No, I mean I’d give you control of my body,” Jackson said. “It’d be much easier than this weird three-way conversation I had with Marrmad earlier.”

“Okay, I agree,” Byron said after a moment of consideration.

“Great. Cheers!”

And with that, he emptied his cup. Durnin filled it again almost immediately.

The rest of the evening was very hazy. There were more drinks, some food, and lots of laughter. There might have been dancing too, along with some vomiting. Jackson was still vaguely conscious when he made it back to the headquarters, carried by someone who was probably Argyro.

The hangover the next morning was so strong that even Byron and the supernatural bond he shared with Jackson could not truly alleviate it. Unable to eat anything without feeling a strong urge to vomit it back, Jackson spent the rest of the morning and a portion of the afternoon drinking water and rummaging on his cot, groaning in agony.

It wasn’t until the sun had begun descending in the sky that Jackson recovered enough to leave the headquarters. Still, he elected to do nothing for the rest of the day, even skipping his daily training. He ate with great appetite when dinner was served. The meal had been procured by Durnin, who unsurprisingly had great experience when it came to hangover foods. The mood around the table was still subdued. Jackson noticed Enita glancing at what used to be Jowallan’s seat several times. She didn’t talk much, neither did Argyro, leaving Durnin to carry most of the conversation.

Marrmad reappeared not long before nightfall, after being gone on errands all day. He was wearing his especially fancy clothes, the ones he wore when meeting with the upper crust.

“I have met with sir Nechido earlier today,” he said, confirming everyone’s suspicions. “As expected, your offer was not an easy sell” he nodded at Jackson “but I eventually managed to convince him that this would be in his best interests. In fact, it will advance his interests, should it work. Which it will. Right?”

“Totally,” Jackson said.

“Good. I don’t need to stress that any failure would have adverse consequences not only on your person, but on your brothers and sisters as well.”

“I get it. So when’s it happening?”

“Tomorrow in the morning. I thought it would be better to expedite this -for the sake of my heart, mostly.”

Jackson agreed. Soon after, everyone went to bed. A restful night later, Jackson put on the high-end outfit Marrmad had bought him some time ago, then followed the Goblin back to Seacrest Castle. Once again, they didn’t enter through the front door, using instead a side entrance. Sir Nechido awaited them at the end of a narrow hallway, accompanied by a male Orc wearing a leather armor and a sword in its scabbard.

“All right,” Jackson thought-said to Byron. “Your time to shine.”

The transfer happened, again without notice or sign. Byron took a couple of seconds to get reacquainted with the body, cleared his throat, then approached sir Nechido and took a bow. The Prince Merchant was acting differently from his usual detached, relaxed self. Behind his mask of calm indifference, Byron could sense the stress, the tension.

“Good morning,” Nechido said. “Are you confident you can get that man to talk?”

Brass tacks, Byron thought. He is tense.

“Let’s just say I have experience in that sort of thing.”

“I hope so. I’m putting a great deal of trust in you, boy. Do not disappoint me.”

Byron nodded silently.

He was led by the Prince Merchant and his Orc bodyguard in the castle’s basement, while Marrmad elected to wait in the gardens. Said basement was dark and damp, its corridors only lit by the occasional arrowslit on the western wall. Byron-Jackson could see and hear the ocean through those arrowslits, and deduced that this wall had been built directly in the cliffside. He and Nechido passed by several doors made of black iron bars, all closed, and one larger room that looked to be a guardroom. Nobody crossed their path; Byron assumed Nechido, not wanting any witnesses, had sent the guards away.

They finally arrived at Otzando’s cell, a long way down a dark hallway. The place reeked of… Well, of having been occupied by people for a long time. People who didn’t necessarily have access to bathrooms, or soap. And, unlike the rest of the castle, it was very unlikely that this place was cleaned with any regularity.

The cell was, predictably, darker and damper than the rest of the basement. It was small and cramped, barely high enough for a Human of average height to stand without bumping his head. There was a window, almost as large as a Human head, built near the ceiling. In the poor lightning, Byron could see a few cobwebs in the corners of the room. The only furniture was a wooden plank covered by a stained blanket made out of rough wool, and a bucket.

Otzando was sitting on the plank, his back against the wall. The man, roughly five feet seven, had a gaunt silhouette with outstretched limbs. Short dark hair covered his head. His face was scrawny, his eyes sunken, and his chin prominent although he had grown a goatee which mostly obfuscated that. He was wearing fancy clothes, likely the ones he had for the party a few days ago, but crumpled, torn, and dirtied. Evidently, he had not been compliant when Nechido’s people moved to arrest him -or perhaps those people had not cared to be gentle. Otzando lifted his head and looked at his visitors through the iron bars.

Byron met his gaze. From experience, he could tell the man had never known prison before. He had that signature look of someone who was suffering, and though he was not quite at breaking point, he could see it in the horizon. The veteran saw no sign of abuse or torture on him, but had little doubt that could be a possibility in the near future.

“Karolos will be in the guardroom,” Nechido said, pointing at the Orc. “Call him when you are finished. Please do not take too long.”

Byron-Jackson nodded in acknowledgment.

The Prince Merchant and the Orc walked away. Byron saw a stool in the hallway, grabbed it, and sat on it in front of the cell door. When the sound of the footsteps faded, Otzando asked:

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jackson Pulver,” Byron said.

Jackson ticked a little. It was a strange experience to witness his body, possessed by someone else, introducing himself as him.

Otzando’s eyes widened, and his jaw tensed up.

“Yes,” Byron said. “That Jackson Pulver. It seems you know of me. How is that?”

The prisoner didn’t answer.

“Did that Cambion tell you?” Byron asked.

“You found that creature,” Otzando said. “That figures.”

“Why did you capture them? And why did you keep them alive?”

“Why should I answer any of your questions?”

“For one thing, I’m probably the best chance you have of getting out of here alive, if not the only one.”

Otzando scoffed. “Ah, really.”

“Nechido will of course prefer to keep you in here until you rot, or have you summarily executed, and I doubt the rest of the Council cares about you at all. As to whoever your mysterious benefactor in the Hexacracy is…” Otzando had a very slight reaction at that, just enough that anyone who hadn’t received Byron’s interrogation training would have missed it. “… Do you believe you’re important enough to them that they’ll help you?”

The prisoner scoffed again, but with less conviction.

“Meanwhile,” Otzando said mockingly, “you have my best interest at heart.”

“Not yet,” Byron admitted. “But you can change that.”

Otzando got on his feet, and paced a little, as much as his cell allowed him to.

“Suppose I talk,” he said. “I tell you everything you wish to know, and then some. What’s to keep you from letting me rot in here anyway?”

“You’ll just have to take that gamble,” Byron said.

“I’m not one for gambling,” Otzando retorted.

“Of course you are. Your attempt against Nechido was a gamble, after all.”

“Not at all. I had a plan.”

“Clearly not a good one,” Byron said, tapping one of the iron bars as if to test its sturdiness.

“It was. But some complications happened.”

“Me?”

“For one.”

“Was the Cambion a complication too?”

Otzando ticked. “They shouldn’t have been one. What became of them, by the way?”

“Do you really care?”

The fallen merchant shrugged, but Byron saw through his attempt at faking indifference.

“You’re worried they may have made it back to their friends. No. To their master,” Byron said. He was not asking, but deducing.

“It hardly matters anymore.”

“Are you sure?” Byron lowered an eyebrow. “Whoever that master is, I’m guessing they’re someone powerful. Powerful people, in my experience, do not appreciate that sort of behavior: capturing their people, and torturing them for information.”

Otzando’s gaze became shifty.

“I’m assuming that’s the reason you kept the Cambion alive in that cage.”

When no answer came, once again, Byron decided to try another tactic:

“Not smart, messing with people far beyond your extraction. Not smart at all. Even if you had somehow managed to make your shoddy plan work, even if you had found some leverage on Nechido, what then? Do you think that would have magically conjured you a seat at the Gilded Council? Do you really believe he would have let you in? That man pulls political machinations of a much higher level of sophistication on a weekly basis. You simply don’t measure up. He would have sent the arrogant upstart, the little lowborn that you are back to the impoverished hole where you were born.”

That harangue hit the bullseye. Otzando exploded:

“Arrogant upstart, am I?! Lowborn?! What do you think Nechido is?” He laughed without humor. “The man is of no higher birth than I. If anything, he might be lower. Do you want to know how he is truly related to the Five Families? His great-grandfather had sired a son with his maid. His elven maid. He’s not just the grandson of a bastard, he’s a damned mongrel!”

Byron smiled to himself. Finding the right motivator to get the man talking had not been very difficult. It had been easy to guess, from what he’d been told of the man, that behind his ambitions belied envy, combined with the frustration of having lived his whole life in the shadow of more powerful people. His birth had denied him many opportunities, and he had been made painfully aware of this throughout his entire life. That kind of psychological profile was not uncommon.

“Interesting,” he said. “So you found his dirty little secret -one of them, at least-, and you thought you’d blackmail him in trade for a seat at the Council?”

He already knew better, of course. The information found at his mansion indicated that he sought to destroy the Council. He was merely pushing another button.

“The Council!” Otzando scoffs with such derision that some spittle flew out of his mouth. “I want nothing to do with those self-satisfied ronyons. Even if they could tolerate the likes of me at their table, I could not stand their company.”

“Then why? Why work against Nechido? Why ally yourself with the Hexacracy?”

Otzando shrugged dismissively. It seemed to be his favorite repartee.

“Let’s see,” Byron said. “The war is coming. The Hexacracy is ogling the Southern Marches, so is the Empire. Atvello will play a key role in that conflict, no matter which side it picks. No doubt a sufficiently ambitious person could find a way to use that situation and come out on top.”

The prisoner turned away from him, still not answering.

“Is that it? You swear fealty to the Archdemons, and once the war comes down south, they will give you Atvello as a reward?” He chuckled. “A dog fetching information on the Council for his master, hoping to get a bone. I have to admit, that’s disappointing.”

“I am nobody’s dog!” Otzando exploded, grabbing the iron bars. Releasing them, he declared: “And yes, I was offered to be made sole ruler of the city. But I would have ruled it, not the Hexacracy, not the Archdemons, not even Rakshasa, no matter how much she paid me. And I would have done a much better job of ruling it than any of those liver-eaters. By this trade, I would have guaranteed that Atvello and its people would be spared from the horrors of war.”

Until the Empire laid siege to the city for allying itself with their enemy, Byron thought, but he did not interrupt Otzando’s rant. And I think he’s just confirmed Rakshasa was indeed the one who employed him.

“Do you think the Council cares about that? The war is but a remote nuisance for them. And even once it’ll become a credible threat, all they’ll do is load their riches on their ships and flee to C’fa, leaving the people to fend for themselves.”

“So you were just thinking of the people,” the veteran snarked. “What about that Cambion? Were you detaining him for his own good?”

“No. That was for mine own good. The Cambion was a spy, working on an assignment I wasn’t privy to.”

“An assignment on behalf of the Archdemons,” Byron said. 

“Yes!” Otzando was getting more agitated. All the energy he had building up during his prison stay was coming out. “She was working on something, on my territory, and keeping me in the dark. Thinking I wouldn’t find out. Thinking I would be blindly loyal. But I am nobody’s dog, and neither am I anyone’s fool!”

Debatable, Byron thought.

“Tell me about the ring,” he said.

“The ring?” Otzando repeated.

“The one you had someone stole from Nechido.”

The man raised his chin. “Ah, right.”

“Why steal it?”

“Because my patron ordered it. Why else would I care for that ugly bauble?”

Byron expected the man to elaborate, but that seemed to have been the moment he decided to become laconic. So, he insisted:

“What did Rakshasa want to do with it?”

“I have no idea. She only asked me to steal that particular ring and deliver it to her.”

“You didn’t ask questions,” Byron said with a scoff.

“As I said, I am no fool. Had I asked, she would have lied. I sought the answers myself. According to the person who got me the ring, Nechido would use it as some sort of key.”

“A key. To what? A door? A safe?”

“I don’t know,” Otzando said, frustrated.

Of course, Byron knew the answer to that one, but it was interesting to learn that Otzando didn’t. It followed, then, that he didn’t know about the strange black orb either. The lack of trust between Otzando and the Archdemon he was associated with went both ways, it seemed. That being said, Otzando might not have known, but he once again might have tried to find out. Byron would get back to that later.

“What happened to the ring? Did you give it to Rakshasa?”

The prisoner turned away. “No. It was stolen from me. By the Cambion, I would presume.”

“As part of that mysterious assignment of theirs?”

Otzando shrugged.

“What happened to the Cambion?” he asked out of the blue.

“Why?” Byron countered. “Are you worried their master might come for you?”

“I answered your questions,” he said. “Now answer mine.”

The veteran crossed his arms. “They’re dead.”

A soft breath left the jailed merchant’s body.

“How long was the Cambion in your captivity?” Byron asked.

“Some time. Almost three weeks.”

“Who procured you that flame you used to subdue them?”

“This is Atvello,” Otzando answered. “Anything can be obtained, provided one has the coin.”

“I see. Going back to Rakshasa, how did you communicate with her?”

“I didn’t. She always initiated our communications, through a courier he would send to me.”

“What kind of courier?”

“The kind that did their job, then left without a word.”

“Humans? Demons?”

“Mostly Demons, but it varied. She rarely used the same courier twice.”

“And what if you needed to inform her of something?”

“Then I wouldn’t.”

Byron scratched the side of “his” chin. “So you captured the Cambion to try and figure out what they were doing. Did you find out anything?”

The prisoner pursed his lips, then said: “Bah! I might as well tell you. I didn’t find out much. Another Archdemon had initially tasked them with a mission before Rakshasa changed its loyalties.”

“What Archdemon?”

“It wouldn’t say, loyal as it was to its original master. No amount of bribes or promises, tortures or threats would lessen its loyalty. Hmph. Loyalty is not even the right word at this point. Devotion would be closer; I half-believed the Cambion was under a geas.”

“What the fuck is a geas?” Jackson said, before remembering he couldn’t be heard.

“Do you have any theories as to who the other Archdemon could be, then?” Byron asked.

“The list is short, but no, no theories,” Otzando answered. “I did manage to find something by myself, though, concerning that mission. A name.”

“My name,” Byron said.

“Well, my name,” Jackson said.

“Yes,” Otzando said. “Jackson Pulver.”

“What does an Archdemon want with me?”

“Nothing good, I’d wager.” There was a note of detached amusement in his voice.

“I’m sure you can do better than that.”

The prisoner stepped back slightly, his face half-disappearing in the shadow.

“Actually, I think I answered enough questions,” he said in a huff. “You said you can get me out. You will not obtain any more answers from me until I’m free.”

Byron raised an eyebrow. He agreed the man had certainly answered enough questions. Without a word, he walked away. The Orc -Karolos- was sitting at the table in the guardroom, playing with a handful of dice. Byron told him he was done with the prisoner, and the Orc led him back upstairs, to Nechido.

The Prince Merchant was working in a study, on a long parchment on which he was scribbling with a quill. Karolos left the two of them alone to talk, closing the door behind him. Nechido gestured at a seat, which Byron-Jackson took.

“Did you obtain anything from him?” sir Nechido asked, placing his quill in an inkwell.

“I did,” Byron said.

“So what was he aiming for, then? To be the sole Prince Merchant in the city?”

“Essentially, yes. Destroy the Council member by member, and find himself the only man in power when the war comes to Atvello.”

Amusement glinted in the fat man’s eyes.

“Every war has its traitors, they say,” Nechido commented.

“True,” Byron said. “You were the first he was hoping to remove.”

Nechido scoffed. “By stealing my valuables and attacking my caravans?”

“No, that I believe he did only for profit, or out of resentment. He seems to really detest the Prince Merchants.”

That wasn’t the truth, at least not the entire truth, but it would be believable enough, given the so-called Lionfish’s character. Byron thought of how one of his old mentors would have described Otzando: “a well-balanced individual, with a chip on each shoulder”. That made Jackson laugh.

“His plan towards you involved revealing the truth of your birth,” he said.

He marked a pause to see how the Prince Merchant would react. Would he get angry, worried? Would he fake ignorance? It was a small surprise to see that his actual reaction was to chuckle.

“Aaah. He’s found out, then.”

“He suggested that your lineage was illegitimate.”

“Oh, I’m confident he used a different term altogether.”

Byron nodded, then leaned back in his chair. There was a lull in the conversation as he waited for Nechido to ask further questions about the interrogation. But instead, Nechido said, a malicious smile on his lips:

“Are you not going to ask?”

“Whether it’s true?” Byron said. Nechido nodded. “It’s not my business.”

“But surely you’re curious.”

Jackson certainly was. Byron was mostly indifferent, but under the pressure of his friend, he replied:

“All right, I am. Are you really a…”

He hesitated. Nechido suggested: “A bastard? A mongrel? Yes. Oh, yes, it is true.”

There was no shame in his voice, no waver. If anything, he seemed more amused.

“And you’re admitting to it,” Byron said, “to someone who is almost a stranger to you. If the rest of the Council knew about it…”

Nechido chuckled again, his shoulders shaking. “Oh, but they know! Ever since I entered the Council, my esteemed peers have restlessly sought to find the bones buried in my past, in the hopes to subvert me. How disappointed they were when they realized that, by the time they had found evidence of my bastardry, I too had unearthed their darkest secrets.” 

His chuckle turned into actual laughter. 

“The man propped you up to ask this question just so he could brag?” Jackson said.

“Partly,” Byron thought-said. “I think he also wanted to make it clear that I don’t have any blackmail material here either.”

“Was there anything else he mentioned?” Nechido said, his laughter winding down.

“Nothing substantial. Most of the conversation was him ranting about the evils of the Gilded Council.”

“It figures. Has he named any accomplices?”

“Only one. The Archdemon Rakshasa, just as we suspected.”

“Is that all? Did he really expect to take over the city with a single ally -albeit a powerful one?”

“It appears so,” Byron said. “In spite of what he says, Otzando is not the man with a plan, more of the man in someone else’s plan.”

Nechido agreed with a nod. “A shame, truly. He could have been an interesting ally, had he been more loyal… and more thoughtful in his actions.” He had a dismissive gesture of the hand. “Ah, well. Do tell me, Jackson Pulver: did you obtain what you needed from him?”

The question had been asked nonchalantly, but the man’s eyes had regained their glint of malice.

“I might have,” Byron said. “But it’s too early to tell.”

The obese Prince Merchant did not appear to have expected a more precise answer.

“I see. Good on you,” he said. “Now, then. What say you we leave this dreary place? My lunch awaits.”

They made their way back up to the main floor. Byron politely bid his host goodbye, then gave Jackson his body back as soon as it walked out of the castle.

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