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“So you received the sword?” Erastos asked him, trying his best to blow a ring with the smoke from his pipe. Alexander frowned. He had not told anyone that he had not bought the sword. How did his friend, upon seeing him walk in with a new sword at hip, not consider that Alexander had bought it himself? Was there something in his newfound swagger which declared ‘generous benefactor’?
“What do you mean?” Alexander asked. The short man smiled his wide, crooked smile, pipe clenched between his yellowed teeth. He crossed his thick arms, folding the large sleeves of his vermillion robes as he did.
“Whatever do I mean?” Erastos asked in response, his face losing all of its intensity as he went back to trying his rings. Alexander, deflated by the response, pursued.
“How did you know?”
“You did!”
“How?”
“Everyone in the Orator’s office knew.”
“Phlaxus?” Alexander asked, his eyes wide. Erastos’ mischievous eyes returned.
“Of course he didn’t tell you. He fancies himself a bit of a mystery.”
“No, there was just a note. How did —” Alexander began, interrupted by a wispy barmaid with different-colored eyes.
“Would m’lord care for some refreshment?” she asked, immediately aware she had interrupted a conversation between two important individuals.
“My apologies, please forgive me,” she offered quickly, turning away.
“No, no, my dear. We simply did not see you approach. Do not abuse yourself on our account. If I had time for another thought, it would have been one of thirst,” Erastos said, fixing a smile he believed was impressively charming. To Alexander’s surprise, she returned a coy smile of her own.
“What could I bring m’lord?” she asked, smiling a nervous smile. She was pretty, in her own way, Alexander thought. Certainly no Alloa.
“I will have a...” Erastos began, drawing out the last word and tapping his finger on his chin.
“Oh, for gods’ sake. He’ll have a double northern with pepper,” Alexander interjected, not wanting to witness this sickening display any longer than he wanted to wait to hear about why Phlaxus gave him a sword.
“Poor sport,” Erastos complained. Alexander gave him an impatient look.
“Alas, my friend is correct. That sounds delicious, a double northern with pepper. Make it four.”
“Four?” Alexander asked, incredulous.
“Six?” Erastos countered, raising an eyebrow.
“No — No, four is fine. Thank you,” Alexander relented, shooing away the barmaid. Erastos was smiling, as ever, his expression one of self-satisfaction. He puffed his pipe vigorously, but found it had gone out. He began to fumble about in his robes for a match.
“Do you delight in my torment?” Alexander asked at last.
“Why are you cross?” Erastos asked, eyes innocent.
“Why did Phlaxus give me the sword?”
“Why the rush? It’s a pleasant story and I wanted to tell you over a drink.”
“I don’t want to wait for the drinks.”
“Do you have such little faith in the girl?” Erastos replied, moving his shoulders in a little triumphant jig as he held up a match.
“Who all has he told about that night?” Alexander asked, for it had just occurred to him that his friend must know the reason for the sword. He doubted Erastos’ superior made a habit out of wanton distribution of heirloom swords.
Erastos held up a few fingers for patience, as he held the small fire over his pipe. He puffed the smoke from the side of his mouth. Alexander bristled. Then, satisfied his pipe was revived, he crossed his arms again and smiled at his friend.
“If you’re so eager, I will tell you. But, you must not interrupt with questions. You know I hate being interrupt —”
“Four double northerns, with pepper,” the barmaid interjected, carefully setting their glasses on the table. She and Erastos shared a smile as she walked away. Alexander nearly crushed his glass in his hand.
“You were saying?” Alexander prompted with as much patience as he could muster, as his friend drank deeply.
“Yes, of course —” the short man stole another drink before beginning proper, “Everyone in the Orator’s office knew he intended to enlist the help of some young Aeolite clerk from the Maejorii to aid the preparation of the statements surrounding the execution. We heard, and this is unconfirmed, that he planned with the General and Ampellus to draw a name from a purse. A purse in which there were to be four coins: one gold draena, for Anetus; one silver draena, for Meletoges; one Nesian bronzepenny, for Johorus; and one Calathean silver, for you. Apparently — and mind you this is all kept very close in the office of the Orator, we all swear on pain of right arm not to disclose any sensitive matters — apparently they drew the bronzepenny.”
Erastos paused for a drink. Alexander, anxious to hear the rest, took a swig of his own. He immediately wished he could spit it out. It was horribly bitter, and the film of pepper on top made it acrid and hot.
“Not for the faint of heart,” Erastos chuckled, watching his friend struggle. Alexander gestured for his friend to continue.
“You know, it pains me that I can’t drink and speak simultaneously. I would have you drink while I speak, so that I might watch,” Erastos replied with a chuckle.
“Be serious, please.”
“I am.”
“Gods above,” Alexander swore, taking another deep swig of the northern. It burned fiercely, but he forced it down. He immediately felt his cheeks begin to warm.
“Soon enough it’ll be water,” Erastos said, nodding. “Alright. Yes, the bronzepenny. So they sent a knocker to the Residences. Choreus swears he saw the knocker — now how he knew which one it was is beyond me — but he swears he saw that knocker, the one dispatched from the house in which you eventually found yourself that night. That knocker was intercepted by a black carriage, which crossed his path in a deliberate manner. Choreus thought this odd, because no one may detain a knocker who is going about his business. Even more intriguing, Choreus said that the carriage was unmarked,” Erastos continued, raising his eyebrow at the last fact.
Alexander immediately thought of that bit of Teura Ampellus and Phlaxus had spoken when he had first arrived at the house. They had said something, which he did not understand fully, but he remembered it included a name. That much was unmistakable. Uterides’ah. He knew enough of Teura to know the “‘ah” signified an action. They said that Uterides had done something. Whoever the man was, he had done something, or — Alexander thought, realizing he didn’t understand the tense — planned to do something, which prompted his hosts to switch to another language to lock Alexander out of the conversation. Could it have been Uterides in that black carriage, setting upon the knocker to change his route. But why? Why would Uterides intervene on his behalf, to give him the opportunity to aid in the speeches instead of Johorus? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t know this man, the name was not familiar to him. Then, a suspicion hit him: perhaps his father had known him. But that was unlikely. His father, Alletheos, had been a wealthy shipping magnate who had eventually climbed from the Graedarite class to Aeolite, but he was far from the highest reaches of that apex people. He would not have known anyone with the power to alter the plans of the Lord Cryer and Orator both, let alone General Rigodeon.
“Listen, if we are to go any further in this conversation — for I see where you’re going with this, don’t think I’m blind — then I must ask you for your utmost discretion,” Alexander began. “We have been friends for what now, four… five years? Never once have you betrayed my confidence, for which I’m supremely grateful.”
They both shared tepid smiles. It was true that Erastos had never betrayed Alexander, that he knew of. He left that part out, but they both understood the implication.
“If I tell you this, you must swear on your honor as an Aeolite that you will not tell another soul,” Alexander continued. Erastos closed his eyes and nodded his head, evidently beginning to feel the strength of the northerns.
“Swear it.”
“Une qui ulure sy Aeolite, fa jerea Ai’ah,” Erastos said solemnly, without a trace of irony on his face.
Alexander did not know the words, but could not ask his friend to repeat without potentially betraying that he could not speak Teura, the language of the Aeolite. Ampellus and Phlaxus had known, or at least suspected, but Alexander stood to lose a great deal if his peers knew as well. So, he nodded in response, his face a picture of satisfaction.
“They mentioned a name...”
“Who?”
“Someone who may have been responsible for the change from Johorus to me. Someone working for powers great enough to alter the decisions of the Lord Cryer and Orator.”
“For gods’ sake now, don’t keep me in suspense!” Erastos barked, drawing attention from some of the other patrons.
“Uterides,” Alexander half-whispered. “I couldn’t hear, but they said something about a man named Uterides.”
“Uterides… hm,” Erastos said, sitting back in his chair. “I don’t know of him.”
The crescendo Alexander had anticipated evaporated before him. He didn’t know how to continue. The whole object of creating this compact with Erastos was to get information about Uterides, to shed some light on this godly creature.
“Oh, don’t be upset. There are many I don’t know. Od is home to millions, thousands and thousands of Aeolite. No one can know them all.”
Alexander only shrugged, taking a sip of his second drink.
“Except perhaps, Ominides. Or Seraxes. Any of the great families...” Erastos mused. He noticed the forlorn expression on his friend’s face and leaned forward.
“Alright, I’ll tell you about the sword. I’ve been selfish with my prying,” he continued.
Alexander looked up at his friend and smiled, raising his drink.
“There he is! It’s an auspicious day! I said, we should be celebrating. There, drink! You have a beautiful sword at your hip, and I have a beautiful woman — ” he paused to pull the passing barmaid close — “at mine! Though, I think we’ve had our fill of northerns. Something sweet for our friend, an Odian red?”
Alexander nodded vigorously, laughing at his friend’s bravado and still amazed his ham-fisted charm had any appeal. Apparently it did, because the barmaid was blushing and feigning attempts at escape. Besides, Alexander decided he hated northerns, who must have been a wretched people to create such a spirit.
“A bottle of the red, and this,” Erastos handed her a silver, “is for the pleasure of your company.” The barmaid’s face became even redder, though Alexander could scarcely see how. She hurried off, even stealing a look back at Erastos.
“Do you hear that, Brank, you old codger?!” Erastos shouted to the barkeep. “That draena’s for her pockets and nau — ” he hiccoughed — “not yours!”
“The sword,” Alexander reminded him politely.
“Oh yes, thank you. Well, Phlaxus sang your praises quite openly in his Office, saying you provided the City with the justification required to properly execute those dogs. He didn’t say what it was, though Choreus and I recognized your hand in the part about how we are not restrained by honor in our actions toward an enemy who refuses honorable conflict. Was that you?”
It was Alexander’s turn to blush. His friend knew of his passion for a pithy turn of phrase, and he was embarrassed to have been spotted so clearly.
“Yes,” he answered. Erastos startled him by banging his hand on the table in triumph.
“I knew it! I knew it. Gods’ it was good. A bit macabre, the execution, but the speech itself stirred the heart!”
“Be quiet!” a man shouted from the opposite corner of the bar. From their vantage point, neither Alexander nor Erastos could see who it was. But, as they were probably the only Aeolites in the establishment, Erastos did not hesitate to respond.
“Stow it!” he shot back. They both waited a few moments, smiling from the drink and the needless confrontation, awaiting a reply. When none came, Erastos continued.
“Anyway, Phlaxus went on and on to a high clerk from the Maejorii, not your acquaintance, I don’t believe, but in any case I didn’t catch his name. On and on about your contribution, about how you exceeded his expectations, and even managed to put Ampellus in his place a time or two.”
At this Alexander laughed openly. He did not know why, but he thought the Lord Cryer a sour, smug fellow and didn’t care much for him at all.
“He said that he had just acquired a shipment of rare artifacts from the Isles, spoils of war which should have arrived decades ago, but the freighter never arrived and they wrote it off as shipwrecked. It turns out the ship merely ran aground on some godsforsaken atoll in the south, and the crew had stowed the treasure in the jungle. Most died of starvation and disease, but another freighter, one of Ominides’, saw a great fire burning on the Isle and came to investigate. They found the crew, who dared not tell of the treasure. The rescuers thought they were simple homesick veterans, gave them a ride back to Od, though it took several years. When they finally returned, they appealed to Phlaxus for a new ship to retrieve the artifacts, and he granted it to them. They were nearly shipwrecked again, but after some deviations and many weeks without wind, stranded in the sea, they arrived back with everything.”
Erastos paused as the barmaid returned with their drinks, she set down the pewter carafe, waiting for another bout of amusement with her flirtation patron. The man merely looked at her with a pleasant smile. She looked confused, turned to walk away, turned back, then strode off.
“Odd gal,” Erastos commented, watching her go. “So Phlaxus, happy with his fat shipment of treasures — which we can assume was half tobacco…” Erastos nearly choked himself laughing at his own joke. “Happy his shipment was finally home, found, among the artifacts, that sword,” he said, pointing at the nautical rapier at Alexander’s hip.
“It’s not only an expensive sword of excellent craftsmanship. It is a Nesian sword, a testament to the conquest of that wretched Isle. Phlaxus even said, though this remains hard to believe, that the sword belonged to an Admiral of the Nesian Navy, and was given as a token of surrender at the Battle of Crestan Bay,” Erastos said, slapping the table once more.
“You jest!” Alexander responded incredulously.
“Oi! Clerks! Be quiet!” came the voice again from the other side of the room. Alexander, filled with wonder at the prospect of receiving such a gift from Phlaxus, a gift which surpassed all expectation of remuneration or appreciation, turned to see who would cry out against their mirth.
“Yes, you!” the man shouted again as Alexander caught his eye. The man cut a striking figure, wiry thin with surprisingly large hands. His narrow face looked pinched, and he had exaggerated lips and chin. His eyes were full of fire, though his face remained perfectly calm. He had shouted only to be heard, not out of anger. Though it was clear he was thoroughly annoyed with the two young Aeolites. What Alexander could not understand was how this man, no matter how desirous of quiet, could muster the courage to abandon his good sense and shout at two obvious Citizens of Od, dressed in the vermillion robes of the Senate. No one dared to interrupt an Aeolite, none spoke with them out of anger or haste, and none, ever, told an Aeolite to be quiet.
“Don’t say something you’ll regret, friend. We’re all having a good time,” Alexander said without a hint of fear, with the haughtiness of one who knows he is above reproach and argument, about whom the whole of the world turns, upon whom no great tribulation ever fell.
“I say again for all present, forced to listen to your braying, be quiet,” the man shouted back.
“Alexander, leave him,” Erastos said, tugging on the sleeve of his friend’s robe.
“What right has he?” Alexander asked, refusing to sit down.
“Alexander, stop. Sit down,” Erastos hissed, forcefully pulling Alexander down into his seat.
“What? He was — ”
“That’s Diaxus,” Erastos almost whispered, eyes wide. He made an effort to shrink himself in his seat.
“I don’t care who he is,” Alexander said, waving away his friend’s concern. He began to stand up again, to look at the man who could be permitted to speak to them in that way.
“Alexander…” Erastos began, pulling his friend down once more, “he has killed more people than anyone I know. He’s a serious man. Don’t say anything else. Don’t look his way.”