Jackal Among Snakes

Durran stepped into a hovel on the edge of Sethia, leaning against his glaive. Once he passed the barrier, he shut the rickety wooden door behind him. He stood there, breathing heavily, almost as though wounded.

“Did you—” a man’s voice called out, and then the sound of plate boots against wood sounded out as someone moved up to Durran. “What’s the matter? You’re pale. What happened?” the man insisted. He wore a helmet depicting a boar, though most of him was covered by heavy plate armor.

Durran said nothing, merely waving the concerned knight away. “My brain’s on… fire,” he said, shaking his head. “Need to sit.”

He pushed into the room, eventually leaning against the wall. He slid down, sitting. Though the knight stood over him, concerned, Durran’s mind was lost in introspection.

How could he know? My uncle, I’ve never told anyone—not my father, not any of my friends, not anyone. No one knows. No one knows, I’m sure of it. But he does. I’m glad my uncle’s dead—I’m proud I killed him. But no one should know!

Durran could still recall those gray eyes, cold and dead as stone, staring him down. There was a heartless fury in Argrave’s eyes as he rattled off Durran’s deepest secrets one by one. His words had enough accuracy it was as though Durran himself was spilling his secrets. It was a summary of his essential qualities, all from a man he’d never met before.

“What’s wrong with you?” Boarmask insisted, kneeling before Durran. “Is someone in danger? Is the operation… if so, we’ve no time to waste.”

“In your land… can any know your thoughts? Can any see your memories? With magic, faith, I don’t give a damn, can they?” Durran lifted his head, breathing brought under control.

Boarmask said nothing. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Way to answer the question,” Durran growled.

“No, no one can explore your mind,” said Boarmask. “If they can, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“No tales, no myths?” Durran queried hopefully.

“…that’s the realm of the gods, not mere mortals,” Boarmask shook his head.

Durran lowered his head against the wall. “You have no idea how little comfort that brings me.”

Boarmask grabbed the man’s robes, shaking him. “What happened?”

“He knew you,” Durran freed himself of the knight’s grip easily. “And he knew me—way too damned well. Uncomfortably well. Things I’ve never shared with anyone, he knew them like he did them.”

Boarmask stayed kneeling for a moment, and then he sat down. “He knew me?”

“Your name, epithet, whatever. He knew you were at the raid. Not so hard to guess your name, ‘Boarmask.’” Durran settled against the wall, getting comfortable. “Real genius name. Definitely not something a child would conjure.”

“…my old title was much worse,” Boarmask shook his head. “He knew me…? What did he look like?”

“Extremely, uncomfortably tall—could touch the ceiling with his head, that kind of tall. Midnight black hair. His companions were elven. The northern elves. Snow elves, I think you people call them. There was a female with him—one more elf than the southron elves said,” Durran rattled off quickly and idly.

Boarmask looked at Durran intensely. “What color were his eyes?”

“Gray,” Durran said immediately.

“Gods above,” Boarmask raised a hand to his helmet. “Did he seem… sickly to you?”

Durran paused. “He was… uncomfortably thin, yeah,” he confirmed nervously. “Why? Why are you bringing up your gods?”

“The King of Vasquer, Felipe III, has a son named Argrave. Illegitimate.”

“Illegitimate? What in the world does that mean?” Durran questioned, confused. “Is he not a real human? Some kind of freak, half-ghost or something?”

“Born out of wedlock,” Boarmask explained.

“What a stupid thing to call it,” Durran shook his head. “All children are ‘legitimate.’ Whatever—I won’t question your bizarre northern traditions. Get to the point,” Durran waved.

“You asked me…” Boarmask muttered, then continued, “The king’s son matches your description. And he has the same name.”

Durran sat in silence for a second, digesting that, then questioned, “What does that do for us?”

“It confuses me,” Boarmask shook his head. “I don’t know much about him. He allegedly halted an invasion from the snow elves. I don’t know the truth of that, but I do know that he brokered an alliance between two noble houses.”

“You’re speaking a different language right now. These things mean nothing to me,” Durran shook his head.

“Then put it out of your head. I’ll think on it. All you need to know—he’s the son of one of the most powerful men in the world,” Boarmask pointed at Durran. “What did you learn?”

“I learned that we need to talk with Titus,” Durran said. “And I’m pretty strongly inclined to believe that Brium plans on killing my people.”

“Titus told us—”

“Not to contact him except in dire cases,” Durran finished. “This is pretty dire.”

Boarmask considered this, then posited, “Titus may not be entirely forthright, then. He might be our primary deceiver. How well do you know him? Would it be wise to get in touch with him?”

“Titus?” Durran repeated. He rose to his feet. “I know one thing for certain. Titus won’t rest until each and every Vessel is dead or dying. Now I’m thinking that he might be willing to sacrifice anything to achieve that.”

#####

Argrave stepped back inside the inn, glad to be free of Durran. Though he was worried the man might do something foolish, he hoped that their conversation had rattled him enough to help keep his mouth shut and his actions measured.

Though Argrave was half-relaxing at this point, glad to be returned to his room, Galamon stopped him, grabbing his shoulder.

“There are people in our room,” he informed Argrave, staring at the wall which hid the room they’d been staying in.

Argrave took a breath and exhaled. The innkeeper, a non-Vessel woman, seemed to be only idly cleaning her tableware after serving a meal to the others. She did not seem tense or nervous.

After a time of searching, he spotted the only other person in the room. The man stood as Argrave spotted him and walked closer.

“Argrave,” he called out, coming to stand a fair distance away just before a table. Light from the fire burning in the hearth nearby fell across his face.

“Titus?” Argrave questioned incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

Titus, the merchant who’d taken them from Delphasium to Malgeridum, looked no worse for wear than when they had left. As ever, the well-built former southern tribal wore an extravagant set of red and gold clothing. He gripped the edge of a chair, staring at the three of them.

“I believe the gentleman was not expecting to see me again,” he greeted.

Argrave shifted on his feet, the matter of the people in their room still weighing at his mind. That the two were here together—no coincidence, Argrave presumed.

“You were headed for Malgeridum,” Anneliese spoke. “And you work for Mistress Tatia. Why are you here?”

“Madam Anneliese,” he greeted her. “Did you enjoy the—”

“Just answer her question,” Argrave interrupted, feeling annoyed.

Titus shifted, adjusting his grip on the chair. He pulled back the chair and sat. “I came to find you three,” he disclosed, then gestured for them to sit.

Argrave stepped closer but refused to sit. “You’ve found us. What happens now?”

Titus’ gaze jumped between the three of them. “Have I done something to offend?”

“Showing up at the place we’re staying, for starters,” Argrave spoke. “The odd time of your arrival. Let’s skip the preambles, shall we? Why are you here?”

Titus placed his hands on the table, tapping his fingers against the wood. Eventually, he lifted his golden eyes to Argrave and said, “Mistress Crislia, the Lord of Gold, would like to speak to you. She is waiting for you now.”

Argrave felt a chill. He was already involved with a lot of people that he didn’t really want to be involved with, and now another had shown up—not at his doorstep, either, but behind it, already lurking in his room.

“I thought you said you worked for Mistress Tatia,” Argrave crossed his arms.

Titus held Argrave’s gaze. “I never said that.”

“But we asked, and you nodded,” Galamon pointed out.

“I don’t recall ever…” Titus rubbed his hands together.

“I do,” the elven vampire said coldly.

Titus looked up at the giant warrior, then swallowed. “…I admit, I was minutely deceptive. But I never imagined you would become so deeply entrenched in the politics of the Vessels. I did not think—"

“Didn’t think you would ever get caught in the lie?” Argrave interrupted, then sighed. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. Do you have anything else to say, or shall we go?”

“You agree to come?” Titus questioned cautiously.

“She’s waiting in my room. Can’t really refuse her,” Argrave noted. “But Brium has eyes on me. A Vessel named—”

“Yarra won’t be coming, not for a while yet. Mistress Crislia made sure of that,” Titus shook his head.

“You know about that,” Argrave noted. “I’ve got to question your role in all of this.”

Titus had nothing to say to that. He stood up, pushing the chair aside, and then moved to their room.

“…should we go?” Galamon questioned.

He nodded. “Be ready,” Argrave cautioned, following after Titus.

Argrave did his best to recall every detail about Titus. He could recall little—the man was not a major player in the Burnt Desert, at least not in ‘Heroes of Berendar.’ He had vague recollection of a dye merchant with that name, someone that would recolor the player’s armor and weapons. Even of that, Argrave was unsure. Months had passed, and he had nothing to reference anymore—no more wiki to search. Titus was never someone involved with two major Vessels, Argrave was certain of that. This entire thing had come out of left field, and left Argrave feeling very unsteady.

What good am I? Tens of thousands of hours spent on the game, yet variables keep popping up left and right to make sure nothing goes smoothly. Some help I am. Utterly useless, he chided himself.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned quickly.

“Do not think that way,” Anneliese said simply, shaking her head.

Argrave felt a brief wave of emotion, but he collected himself. “You’re mind-reading now? Trying to spook me, make me forget? Very effective strategy,” he commented with a laugh.

She smiled, then pushed Argrave forward. “Go on,” she commanded lightly.

Titus stood at the doorway, holding the door open. Though the innkeeper looked at them strangely as they passed, Argrave made it to the door.

Crislia, the Lord of Gold, sat in a chair at the center of the room. Her features were predominantly elven, and she bore gold in abundance, the same as before. Two Vessels stood just behind her. They had the same features as her—golden hair, vaguely golden skin, golden eyes—yet they seemed more… imperfect, somehow, like reserves.

“The mercenary Argrave,” she greeted. “If that is indeed what you are. I am glad you decided to come without issue. It shows that I am not dealing with someone… unreasonable.”

“If people give reasons, I’m sure to respond with reason,” Argrave said, stepping in slowly and cautiously. “So, what brings you to my humble and temporary abode?”

“Address the Lord of Gold with the respect she is due,” one of the Vessels at her side reprimanded.

“Varia,” Crislia raised her hand, silencing the Vessel. “They come from the north. We cannot expect them to be as couth as we Vessels. I take no offense,” she shook her head. “Please, Argrave, continue as you were.”

“Why are you here?” Argrave repeated, considerably more brusquely.

Crislia paused, staring up. “I am here to discuss the future of Sethia.”