There’s a faint whiff of a gentleman about Jain, although he is a man troubled by his own demons, and trouble is drawn to him.
Danan. The Third Great Age. 3031.
the horse-drawn carriage window as he watches elegant white villas zip by in a labyrinthine network of twisting, narrow lanes. The capital of Thiel emerges in a sudden burst of radiant midday sunlight. He sticks his head out of the dashing carriage window, the air slapping him with new life and assaulting his senses with the sweet smell of honied rose cakes. He stares with childlike enthusiasm, gawking at the vibrant city life of Thiel.
The Great Market of Thiel swarms with wealthy Thielian’s strolling on pristine chalk-white floors. Thiel’s elite gather in shoaling masses, adorned in colorful silk robes. Their servants parade vibrant umbrellas, shielding their masters from the sun.
Danan rubs his eyes in awe as he gazes to his left, where the Great Palace of Thiel gleams like gold, drenched in honeyed rays of soft sunlight. The world reflects off the palace’s glistening imperial white stone walls. Luminous white marble columns stand tall and majestic, encircling the palace’s immense palatial grandeur.
The Great Temple of The One, the holy sanctuary of devotion, stands imposingly beside the palace. Seven hundred steep steps lead up to the grand podium, upheld by colossal pillars of bright white marble. Danan whispers a prayer.
Lord Varesh lounges in silence. His face is a mask devoid of emotion as he sips from a goblet of wine.
The carriage rolls along a well-maintained road, passing a four-story semi-circular market house. On the ground floor, Thiel’s finest food and drink merchants showcase their wares. Servants buy fresh meat and fish, and their baskets overflow with vibrant vegetables and herbs. The air carries the heady scents of spices, nuts, and dried fruits. Polished stone counters display bottles of sweet wines and golden oils. Danan glances up and notices rows of luxurious boutiques on the second level, where Thiel’s finest merchants and skilled artisans exhibit their creations with pomp. The wealthy customers view exquisite art, jewelry, and silks, while the higher floors hold faculties, guilds, and the Bank of Thiel.
The carriage slows to a steady walk as the throb of the market evaporates into a distant murmur. Wide forums shrink into winding lanes of stalls and opulent white town houses with red gabled roofs. Their wooden shutters restrain the blinding sun from wide-open windows.
Decorous Thielian’s dawdle back to their homes under the shade of bright umbrellas. Men sit and chatter in the shade of awnings, sipping wine and flipping cards as they watch the world go by.
Smooth stone roads turn into rugged and uneven lanes as the carriage rattles and jolts toward the imperial city walls. The enormous concentric fortress is as tall as a hundred men and stands watch over an impenetrable double-layered barrier with legions of royal guards.
The carriage abandons the refined atmosphere of the capital as it exits through the capital’s northern gate. The delightful scent of summer turns into a putrid stench, reeking of everything wrong with the world. Decay and destitution seep through the carriage windows as bright sunlight falls into long, cold shadows.
Lord Varesh sniffs the air, wrinkling his nose as the carriage halts. He opens the carriage door and steps out, skirting a mangy stray dog gnawing on a rotten bone. Danan follows with cautious steps as he enters the repugnant new realm.
The Slaughters, the fetid slum of Thiel.
“This is no place to linger; there are few places more dreadful than The Slaughters." Lord Varesh strides ahead, and Danan scampers a few paces behind, struggling to keep up.
Danan touches both sides of the winding lane at its narrowest point. Dust falls like rain from the collapsing rooftops of decrepit, three-story, rotting timber buildings, leaning on one another, their crooked tips almost touching like precariously stacked cards.
Buckets of water line the gloomy lanes, with stagnant filth rising to the surface, ready to be skimmed for drinking.
They navigate through the slums, striding along the cramped alleyways where inebriated gaggles of men and women bounce from wall to wall. The alley widens into a long, narrow lane dominated by makeshift slaughterhouses, with facades of small wooden shelves teeming with freshly slaughtered meat. Hearts, livers, and lungs nestle between blanched offal, while slabs of meat dangle from meat hooks like morbid decorations, dripping onto the wares below. The butcher's cleavers rise and fall in thwacking symphonies, their sleeves rolled up with blood-stained aprons as they hack meat from bone, trim fat with sharp knives, and crack through ribs. Sides of oxen, pigs, and goats sway on the rusted meat hooks as they are skinned and portioned with brutal butcher’s axes. The stench of briny meat hangs heavily in the summer heat, as the sharp tang of raw meat mingles with the squalor of the cobbled lane. Blood flows like a tide from the butcher’s blocks onto the grimy street. The Slaughter’s lanes flow like rivers, slick with blood, lapping at Danan’s feet. Packs of feral dogs beg for scraps, while the fat rats linger in the shadows, gorging on glorious mouthfuls of glistening, grisly flesh.
Further along the lane, away from the slaughterhouses, the vendors hawk from the filthy roadside.
"Galle fish! Galle fish!”
“Fresh ox tongue, heart, lung, and tripe. As fresh as can be.”
“Pies! Steak and ale, bubble and squeak. Freshly baked pork pies.”
“Broken Bay crabs! Fresh this morning, straight from The Planks.”
The Slaughter’s markets buzz with barter and banter as merchants haggle and patrons protest in search of better deals. Grubby urchins run over the uneven cobbles, splashing through the stagnant pools of water. Feral children, clothed in rags, play and bathe in the open sewers. Out of sight, beggared families huddle in the decaying basements upon broken clay floors, where beneath them, rushing rivers of raw sewage run downhill from the wealthy capital. In the heat of summer, the stench from the basements becomes unbearable; in winter, the stench transforms into frozen beds of piss and shit.
Groups of young boy’s march through the lanes toward the low-town timber mills or to Thiel’s dockland for a life as a runner on The Planks.
Danan stops and glances above him, where ragged clothes dangle above his head, fluttering like bunting, draped from building to building, from the safest and most expensive beds on the third floor, home to the whores; Thiel’s cheapest gutter sluts. The whores brazenly flaunt their overused wares to the streets below from the windows of the dilapidated buildings. Clad in cheap fishbone corsets or gaping silk with well-worn silk stockings, they shamelessly hitch up their skirts, flashing for all to see. Painted faces peer out from behind heavy red curtains, beckoning to passersby with lascivious gestures, giddy giggles, and obvious suggestions.
Whistles slice the air from the looming rooftops, their shrill calls signaling to the gangs lurking below. Danan senses the encroaching crowds, he stops in panic as Lord Varesh disappears from his sight.
A wall of burley thugs surrounds Danan as he turns to run, but he comes face-to-face with a ratty looking lad with two protruding incisors from a twisted grin and an open palm tattoo slapped onto his face. The gang leader bows, removing his woolen hat with an elaborate flourish.
“A single copper, my lord, your tithe for the lanes,” the gang leader declares, eyeballing Danan with a nervous twitch on his right eye. His voice, as rough as sandpaper, with a hint of a lisp.
“He ain’t no lord,” a voice pipes up behind Danan, giving him a shove in the back.
“He ain’t no feckin merchant either,” adds another, spitting a sticky wad of mucoid phlegm onto the cobbled street.
“He still pays,” the gang leader says, staring at Danan, who stands in speechless panic, his eyes darting in search of Lord Varesh.
The thug sighs, picking dirt from this his fifthly fingertips with the tip of his switchblade, addressing Danan as a foreign simpleton. “A copper Drake grants lane entry,” he drawls loud and slow, his rabbit like rotten teeth inches from Danan’s face. “A silver Drake ensures safe passage,” the lad belches. Danan closes his eyes, assaulted by the stench of ale and smoked fish. “A gold Drake makes you untouchable, my lord,” the gang leader steps back, sneering, “by daylight, that is.” The gang laughs as the leader sucks loudly on his teeth.
“Look at him, he’s shaking like a shitting dog,” a gravelly voice banters from Danan’s left.
“Where’s. Your. Coin,” the gang leader says each word with deliberation. “Do. You. Understand. Me?” He shakes his head, addressing the gang. “This one’s simple, lads, probably a mute.” He rolls his eyes, barks a frustrated laugh before noticing Danan’s brooch. “What’s this, then,” his thieving fingers trace the silver Eye of The One in the center of the rose. His eyes widen, he takes a quick step back, and shifts from side to side. “He’s from the house of Varesh.” His hands raise in open apology.
“House of what?” one of the gang members asks, his fat palm-branded face scrunching.
“He works for the mage, you fucking fool,” the leader barks. “You want to be turned into a fat toad or what?”
The gang member frowns, his fat cheeks puffing as his slow mind processes. “Don’t wanna be no toad,” he grumbles, nodding.
“Anyway, he’d probably turn you into a bull’s bollock.” The leader shakes his head with a gross sniffle of snot, "you know the rules. The mage and his lot are off limits.”
The gang nods, edging backward.
“Well then, best get off, ain't ya.” The gang leader steps aside, giving Danan a heavy push to scarper.
Danan takes a shaky step before breaking into a sprint. He weaves through the crowds, struggling to catch Lord Varesh. He stumbles, bends over, panting, and rests his arms on weary legs. He puffs out in dismay and wipes steaming sweat from his flushed cheeks. Hot and bothered, Danan gazes at Lord Varesh, who stands in the hovel’s heart beneath the doorway of the legendary tavern: 'The Rose & Cock,' marked by a lamp-lit sign depicting a proud cockerel in the center of a pink rose.
The Rose & Cock, a notorious tavern where the whores flow as freely as ale, and the clientele is as discerning as the blood, piss, and vomit that stain the walls. A shard of sunlight slices through the tavern’s somber haze as the door creaks open.
“Shut the bloody door,” the burly barman glowers, then reappraises Lord Varesh. “No offense, my lord mage. What can I get you? Whatever your preference, we got it—for a fair price, of course.” He nods toward a woman standing nearby. “This is Violet."
Danan and Lord Varesh turn from the barman to face Violet, who greets them with a welcoming pout. She puckers her lips with a mischievous wink and saunters forward, her ample bosom leading the way. Violet's pale cheeks are blushed with bright peach, and her flirtatious eyes are finely decorated with long double eyelashes with finely tattooed dots resembling crescent moons for her eyebrows. Her flowing red hair is pinned with a pink rose, and a feather headband holds locks of bushed-out curls. Violet's immodest bust is restrained by a one-piece hourglass Thielian corselette, extending well below her hips and flowing into a thigh-length silk skirt that reveals more than enough thigh. Her entire attire is made of finely woven lace, satins, and silks of warming deep oranges and golds. A beauty of a whore, to be sure.
Danan stares at Violet, rendered temporarily mute. He gathers his abashed wits. "Are you sure this is the right place Lord Varesh? It’s far from what I expected,” he mutters, subconsciously adjusting his robe collar, beads of sweat stream down his brow.
Violet, unperturbed, ushers Lord Varesh and Danan to a small candlelit table nestled in a private recess, then signals for two ales. “Give me a nod when you’re ready,” she flounces off, bust bouncing, to a more lucrative task.
“This establishment seems rather dubious." Danan scans the tavern's nooks and crannies, where lanterns lit with flickering candles hang from low roof beams, casting eerie shadows as cards flip and coins rattle on the wooden tables. Raucous banter reverberates through the paper-thin timber walls, and thick clouds of pungent haresh smoke cling to the stale air. The whores hustle, and the hustler’s whore, patrolling the tables throughout the gloomy common rooms. The stench of strong barley ale vaguely masks passing wafts of pungent perfume. Inebriated men gaze at each other with evasive eyes laced with paranoia. Thin webs of light creep into the room through crudely boarded-up windows, blurring the line between daylight and night into a constant existence of dusk and dawn. Made up of reclaimed timber, the entire tavern creaks like a sail ship at sea.
“Granted, it may be a little rough around the edges, but this is where our man does his business,” responds Lord Varesh. “I'm certain some of these fine gentlemen will skin us alive for little more than a whiff of Violet's panties. Keep your wits about you, master monk, and steady on that ale; it’s not only the haresh smoke that conflicts the senses."
They sit in a moment of silence, sipping from pewter tankards of barley ale. Danan does his upmost to avoid any eye contact with the overly curious patrons.
The tavern's raucous hustle suddenly fades into an unusual tranquility as five astoundingly beautiful courtesans emerge from a nearby doorway. In true Thielian high fashion, their hair is dyed grey with tints of blue from the pigment of the lavender flower, held tightly by lace headbands. Their hair is pinned up, save for a few tugs of hair pulled loose at the front. Cherry-red lips pout from flawlessly pale skin with blushed cheeks. Elegantly dressed in Thielian wild silks and lace in contrasting shades of reds, pinks, and creams. Laced-up ruffled bodices with ivory bones fit perfectly. Busts held tight led to nothing but imagination, flowing into ankle-length bustle skirts beautifully embroidered with lace and pearl trims that revealed neither leg nor form. Slender arms don puff sleeves pulled tight at the wrists with matching clutch bags to finish the look with a flourish.
The One, forgive me. Danan, looks away from the courtesan's and up to the heavens, uttering a near-silent prayer.
"Ah yes, divine creatures, are they not?" whispers Lord Varesh, so close to Danan's ear that he can smell his musk perfume. "Don't be so easily deceived by the facades of 'The Baruci'." Lord Varesh licks his lips. "The Baruci are some of the shrewdest social climbers in the kingdom—rascals, to be sure. They bewitch all from royalty to privileged politicians, poets, artists, and philosophers. The Baruci are no ordinary light-skirts. Those fortunate in their looks must also have cunning, guile, and a sound mind. They speak flawless high Thielian and are versed in the sciences, astronomy, and the histories of the thirteen kingdoms. Those who make the final cut are taken to 'The Oasis' to learn the intricacies of court and politics. I can assure you that it takes years of practice to refine the etiquette of the royals and elite. Only then do the Baruci master the arts of pleasure. If the tales are true, let's just say they would make even The One blush." Lord Varesh gives a little chuckle. "The schooling alone costs a small ransom. Of course, it's not just coin in which the Baruci can be acquired; their real craft is in trading secrets, which are easily spilled and paid for excessively. It's true what they say in Thiel: gold conquers all," continues Varesh. "Royals and elites pay a small fortune for these little flowers; their perversions are well catered for. I dare say you'd be surprised at what kings and queens really desire, master monk."
Danan regards Lord Varesh with eyes filled with concern. "You seem rather knowledgeable in these matters."
Lord Varesh nods and says, "Mere rumors and speculation, master monk. However, I can tell you with some certainty that there are only two rules for the Baruci: payment is strictly in advance, and never ever damage one of the Baruci. The last minor noble who got a little carried away was found hung by her own entrails in the royal estate. Dear Lady Eicard was still breathing as her maids stuffed her guts back in."
Lord Varesh then gives an especially tall Baruci a discreet nod, her startling blue eyes returning a subtle blink with the tiniest hint of a smile. The courtesans then leave the tavern in a strut of whirling silks.
Danan's mood darkens as he casts a satiated glance at the cavorting couple on the adjacent table. A young whore squats on all fours, kneeling beneath the table, slurping on the flaccid cock of a befuddled trader. The whore hitches up her skirt, legs spread, as the drunk trader fumbles with his belt.
Danan grimaces and closes his eyes. “How can we be certain he will come?”
“I sent Sir Jain a message after our supper,” Lord Varesh replies.
“May I ask how? Mage craft?” Danan opens a single, inquisitive eye.
“Don’t be absurd. One doesn’t waste their magical force on sending a simple message. I sent Cecil to fetch him.” Lord Varesh takes a sip of stale, warm ale with a grimace.
A crack of light pierces the tavern’s twilight as Cecil struts into the inn, lugging an intoxicated man under his shoulders. Cecil gives a small bow. “My Lord. My apologies for the tardiness. Allow me to introduce Sir Jain of House Adair.” Cecil wipes a single bead of sweat from his immaculate brow. “I must confess, it was an arduous task to find the good gentleman. I found him lying face down in the gutter, drowning in his own vomit.”
“Jolly good, Cecil. Ever the resourceful one,” chortles the now cheerful mage. “This is no place for you, Cecil; wait for us at the carriage."
Cecil nods, then props Jain onto a wooden bench opposite Lord Varesh and Danan. He prances out of the tavern, glancing back over his shoulder with a look of lofty disdain.
Jain winces as he opens one eye. He turns to Lord Varesh, slurring his words. “Who the fuck are you?”
“This is Lord Varesh,” Danan slurs back, much to his own embarrassment.
“The One fuck me dry,” Jain taps into some hidden reserve of coherence. “Lord Varesh, I regret we have not had a recent reacquaintance.”
“That, Sir Jain, is not an unwelcome chance. I seldom venture beyond the inner city to such fine establishments. Now, relax. I dare say you need an ale. Something a little stronger to restore some balance?”
More beer arrives on a clay tray, along with tobacco and a small slab of matte ebony putty.
The barman strolls over, his heavy strides creaking on the rickety wooden floor. “No trouble this time, Jain. The girls spent all morning scraping that bloke off the wall.”
Jain shrugs nonchalantly. He guzzles his ale with several loud chugs. Dark barley beer spills onto his silk shirt, stained with vomit. His faded blue waistcoat hangs matted with filth, its brass buttons all but missing. Charcoal grey trousers, faded on both knees, tuck into chunky, unpolished block heel boots. Jain taps his empty cup on the table with three loud knocks. Lord Varesh signals for three more ales.
“Be a good boy,” Violet whispers as she passes by, planting a tender kiss on Jain’s left cheek. A bright red scar rests beneath Jain’s left eye, and dried blood on his nostrils marks him as a man fond of trouble, or trouble is fond of him.
Jain sets to work. He uses the candle flame to melt the soft dough-like putty into a thick black goo known as ‘haresh’. Once the substance cools, Jain breaks it into small pieces. He grinds the haresh down into a fine powder with a small mortar and pestle. Jain takes a sip of ale, dips his fingertip in some of the powdered haresh, and then rubs it into his gums.
Jain then reaches into his top pocket and retrieves a small, well-worn wooden pipe. He sprinkles more of the haresh into it, lights it, and takes a long pull before slumping against the wall. A relieved whisper escapes his lips. “Ah, there it is. Almost ready, gentlemen.” He reaches into his long, green trench coat and reveals a small vial filled with inky black liquid. He removes the cap and drops a little of the ink into the corner of each eye.
“Drops!” Varesh doesn’t hide his tone of disgust.
Jain’s glassy eyes roll in their sockets as inky black storm clouds gather in his dilated pupils. Cold, black, lifeless eyes like wet tar fixate on the mage and Danan. “Now, fine, sirs. How may I be of service?”
“I am here to hire you. We require a companion to join us on an expedition. Your task will be to ensure our survival at any cost.” Lord Varesh fixes Jain with a firm stare, waiting for his response.
Jain sits unmoving, his inky eyes unblinking, and for a moment, they wonder if he has fallen asleep.
“I believe you have your own household guard for this?” Jain responds tartly.
“My household guards serve in the Kingdom of Thiel. Our business is not in Thiel. Besides, I need only one man, and that man is you,” Lord Varesh asserts.
“Why?” Jain scratches his head.
“Jain Adair. Banished noble, master swordsman, bounty hunter, and a whoring, haresh-smoking, drop addict,” the mage sighs, shaking his head. “Like many, I watched you in the fighting pit. In my life, I have witnessed few as gifted with a blade, and my companions will need protection.”
“I work alone,” Jain responds.
“You will work with companions for the right price, I assume.”
“Tell me, Lord Varesh, what is my price?” Jain responds after some time.
Lord Varesh nods, staring at Jain, no longer playful in his demeanor. “Ten thousand gold Drakes in advance to do as you see fit,” he says, flourishing his hands around the tavern. “But there are conditions.”
“Go on." Jain’s eyes lighten to a shade of charcoal gray.
“You will work with companions whom I see fit, and from this moment forth, you must give up this drop addiction.” Lord Varesh reclines into his chair with dead set eyes.
Jain bellows a howl of laughter, gaffing and slapping his legs. “Too much mage craft has puddled your brain! There is no deal that can meet these demands. Thank you, gentlemen, for such compelling conversation. Riveting indeed. Now, I must ask that we conclude our discussion. I have a date with Violet and some of her talented friends with a bucket of haresh.”
Danan squirms in his seat as Lord Varesh reaches into his gown and produces a rolled piece of parchment, placing it on the table before Jain.
“What’s this?” Jain peers at the mage suspiciously.
Lord Varesh whips his response. “Read it. If you’re unable to digest the words, master Danan here will read it for you.” The mage fidgets in his seat as his patience wanes.
Jain’s eyes widen as he looks at the royal blue wax seal, his hands tremble as he reads, and his confusion turns into a lopsided, bemused grin. “Impossible. I’m banished under the penalty of death.”
“A debt I am owed by the kingdom is repaid. King Adal has agreed to restore your title and estates, along with your family’s status and wealth. You are the last line of Adair. I suggest you make a wise choice. Now, Lord Jain of House Adair, do you accept?”
Jain snatches the candle off the table and spills its red wax onto the worn wooden surface. He dips the ring on his forefinger into the molten wax, and he stamps the writ without hesitation.
“The writ is bound, and we are bound to the writ." Lord Varesh spills more wax and uses the ring on his own forefinger to stamp the writ, so the seals sit side by side.
The mage dumps a large bag of coins onto the table with a heavy thud. “Ten thousand gold Drakes as payment in advance. Tonight, do as you will. Take a good bath and buy some respectable clothes. If I see a hint of drops in your eyes or smell the slightest whiff of haresh, I’ll split you into a thousand pieces and send you to the king in a small box.” Varesh winks at Danan. “My man Cecil will collect you in two turns before the rise of the first sun.”
Lord Varesh gives a loud double clap, beckoning Violet over. He whispers in her ear, and her mischievous eyes light up with a lustful smile. Violet signals to several girls occupied with less endowed patrons.
The whores take Jain by his hand, giggling; they pull him toward a small open doorway leading to a stairwell.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.” Jain disappears through the doorway with an elaborate bow, full of boyish excitement.
Lord Varesh rises, leaving several gold Drakes on the table. He smooths down his robes and then strides out of the tavern.
The nighttime crowd parts in the mage’s wake.
Lord Varesh navigates The Slaughters by reputation alone.