The pair of them managed a somewhat uneventful retrograde to their rented room. Hands nearly too cold to grip the masonry and timbers led to Ulric coming a moment away from falling off the side of the building in his climb but Taipan snagged him and hauled him up into the window. There, they went over their haul.
Ulric couldn't make heads nor tails of it, until his Shadow indicated what the columns meant. From there he realized that they had the dates and times of arrival and departure, loaded and unloaded cargo weights, names, mercantile or private ownership, captaincy, declared crew, all of it for every ship registered here in these logs. Ulric whistled softly. It was the motherload. And this was the slow time of year, he couldn't imagine what a monstrous task they'd have before them if it was peak season.
Say this for the officials in Trachn'ir, they knew who was bringing what into their city. Smuggling would have had to have been a slick operation to get through all this scrutiny. Or. It had to be an inside job. Greased palms and purchased silence to let the smugglers route their traffic through this trade hub would probably fund a man, or Elf, or whatever, quite well.
Now, they just had to search this haystack for a very particular needle. Somewhere in all of that was the identity of the Aes'r slavers. Doubtless, the theft of these logs was going to raise alarm bells in whoever the hell it was that was running this racket and Ulric was now without doubt that it was somebody higher up on the totem pole for the city itself. They'd be taking too many chances with their own skin if they were some low-level middle management trying to squeak through. No, this had the stink of somebody with the final say, with pull enough to be able to wash away any discrepancies to hide their activity. As much as he wished they could get access to the documents scrubbed by their mystery ringleader, he doubted very much that would be possible. If they were smart enough to pull this off, they were smart enough to cover their tracks. The only direct connection he and Taipan would get to the bastard was likely the two handwritten letters, everything else they would have would be circumstantial.
Good thing they weren't planning to hold a trial.
After an hour of going through their catch, the exhausted couple turned in. They'd snag a few hours of well-earned sleep, then make the rounds through the city drumming up information about disappearances amongst the low-borne citizenry, the most likely local targets of their perpetrators. There again, a smart player would be reluctant to shit where they eat, but simple greed would push them to graze lightly, even so. If they were astute, and diligent, they'd turn up something.
*****************Elsewhere, Twelve Hours Later****************
A second table died, where its brother had stood the previous day, smashed viciously into a heap of finely carved firewood.
"FUCK!" Screamed the Ogrand, eyes bloodshot, fury pulsing off his frame.
He stood over the wreck of his newest table, grieving for the smooth finish, the ornate carvings of fish leaping amongst sea spray, and the Aur Squire that had purchased it. That table was a one of a kind. A masterwork of a Melond furniture maker using decades-aged timber from the highlands that came from a tree at least two centuries old, one could tell by the whirled grains. Gone. Like the shipping manifestos. All his enemies had to do was show those in comparison to the ones he'd been submitting and it would raise some very pointed questions from his colleagues in the City Governance meetings.
This time, the thin Wolven beastkin didn't risk opening the door. He'd heard of one of his predecessors getting snatched that way, their head crushed to pulp before they'd realized what was happening. He yelled through the door, "Your Grace? Tell me how I may serve!" and his tail wagged nervously at the prospect of being ordered to present himself physically before his master.
The Ogrand pulled a small splinter free of his hardened skin, barely penetrating despite the intensity of the strike, and straightened his finery before he answered. This sort of thing was beneath him. He was NOT a savage brute lacking restraint, lacking poise, like so many of his kin. He would NOT be murdering his attendant today in a Blood Rage and smearing the corpse across his walls.
"There has been a theft. A gross failure on the part of the dock security, one that will not go unpunished. I will handle that later today, but, for now, I require you to send for my troubleshooters. The ones I have instructed you to, up to this point, pretend do not exist." He called, respecting the wisdom of this newest attendant in not placing himself at hand.
A smart one, was this Wolven. The Ogrand was gratified to have reason to believe that his newest attendant would live long, if he stayed so cautious. He heard the rapid scurry of feet and the scuffle of feet on stairs announcing that his attendant had gone to pass word. Self-control was one thing, but if they were too stupid to have a sense of danger they only aggravated his desire to murder them.
First, he would have that guard flogged and run out of the city. This was the third time the man had been drunk on duty and no amount of blabbered "Drunks with dropped pockets" would save him. As for the thief, that was a harder decision. The Ogrand bull was without a doubt, now, that the Iriel'en scout he'd ordered collected was in the city. His agents had gone through the gate entries and found a Human and an Iriel'en, though neither had been dressed as his reports had described earlier, which meant they knew that they'd been targeted. The same Iriel'en had been sighted entering an inn, she was distinctive, even in a crowd of her knife-eared cousins, with her Human partner, an oddity that, and had disappeared thereafter. Neither had been recorded as checking out of their rooms but some promptly arranged break-ins found the rooms empty. Between that, and now this clear attempt to run down information on his operations, he was going to have to take a more aggressive posture.
For now, the Ogrand had to lean on local muscle and wait for his messages to get downriver. At least the ice remained solid, once breakup started, transport and communication would be dead in the water, very literally, until the large ice floes dispersed. Those would punch holes through a hull and grind its crew to chunks with little trouble; most shipping companies decried the use of a magus to accompany their ships and keep the worst of the ice at bay. At that point, he could not count on assistance from the Morion household arriving timely. He would, however, now be expecting a significant degree of aid within the two weeks it would take them to make the traversal. Lord Morion had ever been a prompt and competent master. Generous when well served, too.
It was times like this when the Ogrand's determined hold on his temper and baser instincts paid greatest dividends. Most of his kin would have been far too proud, too self-assured to have sent such rapid request for aid and would have found themselves isolated, surrounded by enemies, and shortly thereafter destroyed. Not him. He had greater ambitions than being a vagrant chief, leading his harem through the plains and surviving in squalor as most of his kind. No, his intentions were…grander. This entire city would be his within a few short years, his ascent was rapid. Taking hold of the worst elements of the city's crime infrastructure and bending them to his own purposes, plus the liquid capital injection from his slave smuggling operation, had given him a hold on his position that even the most determined political enemies found hard to break. And, if they got a little close to doing so, then a timely mugging gone sour could be arranged to change their attitudes. Trachn'ir was Celestin territory but they wielded soft power. The Ogrand, in a nod to his own heritage, preferred the harder kind and used it like a scalpel.
Now, he had but to wait for his fixers to arrive so that he could make arrangements for dealing with this Brownie infestation into his affairs. The Human was worthless, they didn't even justify the costs of transporting them to markets in Prosper. The Elf though, now that was a catch. Iriel'en were rarely gathered breathing and their scarcity on the slave blocks would guarantee he collected big. Perhaps big enough to swing the majority council vote coming in the fall. Revenue and Trades Master of Trachn'ir was a fine position, but Chancellor of the Exchequer, now that was better. That would gain him the ear of the Greater Houses of Celestin and let him build his contacts within the aristocracy, a thing outside his natural grasp being but a lowly plainsborne Ogrand.
The thought settled his anger over the destruction of his table as he awaited the arrival of his men. One catch team had been ambitious. A mistake. Iriel'en weren't to be underestimated in their element. Here, in the city though, that was his ground and his men would soon have the Elf driven to corner. Where one team had failed, three would suffice.
Now…when his assistant returned, he'd see about procuring a table. Perhaps something Svartalfin. A well-braced number in etched [Truesteel] might better match his higher station anyway. Yes, he'd commission something personally. His coffers would be far more than adequate once this troublesome Knife ear found her way to market. The thought of polished metal curves, gemdust inlays, and gold accents occupied him until his men arrived.
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Ulric followed his Shadow's lead through the city steets, the pair of them had decided that they needed an additional angle besides that of the shipping manifestos. There were, according to the intuition of his partner, six ships that were likely not on the up and up. All privately owned, three from the same family, one lesser House Wicker. These boats never registered cargo, they never brought anything in or out of the city, and, they were always gone no longer than three days, according to the dock records. That each of these boats should leave the city, seemingly without purpose, in the depth of winter, and not be gone long enough to go anywhere in particular was atypical. Taipan was of the opinion that they probably did not sail the entire length of the riverways to Prosper but instead acted to hand off their "catch" to another vessel. It limited the risks that they took and kept their partner off of the registers of Trachn'ir. To Ulric, it sounded exactly like the sort of handoff that drug runners had used back when cartels were running most of the Southern continents.
They had done a bit of sleuthing, casual comments dropped about a 'tragic loss of so many young' while perusing wares in various shops, during some explorative faked trade deals, and while stopping for lunch in various common rooms, and, their fishing pulled in some interesting news: it just so happened that House Wicker was holding funeral rites for two of its own and four more close cousins of the house. A terrible accident on the roads, just outside of Trachn'irm was the rumor. Some monster or another had caught the troop, who had volunteered to help with securing the roads for the upcoming trade season. The timing was impossibly similar. What were the odds that a single household should lose an equivalent number of members as the number of failed ambushers?
It didn't take long before they had a tentative confirmation. A stroll down the docks evidenced that one of the Wicker ships had been made ready to cast off and its skids freshly waxed, as if to make journey. The cold would make the wax coatings brittle and they would flake off, hence only ships that expected to make a run within the day would have such a preparation. The ship left ready was the property of one minor House Wicker's a second son, recently departed, they had learned that afternoon. Bingo. They had an ID on Twice Killed.
Arm in arm, the pair of them were on a wide causeway, the cobbled streets kept well clear of snow and with a mild traffic that Ulric had come to recognize as characteristic of the midday normal crowd. There were even several familiar faces in and amongst the passing forms. Their investigation had taken him across most of the city. Taipan, seemingly, had an insatiable need to walk every street that the city offered which meant that he had been forced to join her. His only consolation to the press of the buildings, the jar of peoples in his ears, was that his discomfort was shared by his partner. Neither of them enjoyed the cosmopolitan atmosphere, though both hid it to keep up appearances.
Ulric had changed in many ways since coming to Varda. Likely only his parents would even recognize him. His distaste for places where peoples flocked together to live on top of each other had not joined many of the predilections he'd discarded.
Currently, he was taking solace in that the movement of peoples, the loose diffusion of the Celestin city, was excellent practice for his [Ceraunoperception]. In the wilds much of his problem was in having trouble picking up signatures of the woody plants, deciphering the minimal inputs across his skin to form a sort of tactile image of the surroundings. The opposite was true of this budding perception; there were so many bodies, loud against his sensibilities that it made distinguishing them difficult. His efforts had drawn him inwards, trusting Taipan to keep them on course. That was how he determined that the two of them were being followed, a pressure had remained almost unmoving upon the back of his neck, a presence that matched their pace too evenly to be accidental and kept religiously to the blind spot of the pair of them and had done so for nearly a quarter Round of the Twins.
Ulric pointed towards a stall, operated by a rather intimidating Sauri. The smells that drifted from this stand indicated that a pungent, almost curry spiced set of kebabs were on offer. Ulric decided that he'd put out feelers for the eventual exports that he'd be seeing from the Ancient glade. His cover as a barbarian merchant wasn't completely for show. At some point, if he lived long enough, he'd need to establish some kind of income flow from the gifts of his fae home. No place to start like a kebab vendor who might be in need of a little extra something to put the starch in the pants of their customers.
"By the way, Taipan, somebody has been following us for about fifteen minutes. Did you pick up on them ?" He asked as they closed in and he caught the slitted eye of the vendor.
Taipan pinched his arm gently, "No, Ulric, and how are you sure of this?!" she hissed into his ear, but with effectively no other indication.
Interesting, so they were able enough to keep from being noticed by his very gifted Shadow. She had abilities that gave her a sort of sixth sense about being tracked or ambushed so it was likely that the follower had some sort of skill or ability that masked them from such senses. An arms race of detect and counter-detect skills facilitated by magical fuckery.
"Ho There friend! Two of your spiciest!" Ulric greeted the Sauri, who grinned a terrifying reveal of sharp teeth guaranteed misery to whatever fell between those powerfully muscled jaws.
They grew them large, these lizardkin, this probably male one was about seven and a half feet tall and layered with muscle. He was almost delicate in his handling of the strips of meat and the jars of spices that he used to prepare a fresh set of skewers, roasting them over a slow flame by setting them in a sort of holster on his tail that waved slowly over the fire.
As the food cooked, Ulric turned back to his Shadow and smiled, whispering answer to her question and covering for their observer to think nothing was amiss.
"I've had my [Ceraunoperception] up since we left our rooms this morning, and there's been a consistent indicator that says somebody has been sitting on top of our blindspot, matching our pace, for too long to be coincidence."
He might as well have told his Huntress mate that Christmas had come early by the awed glee in her expression.
"This is so? You can detect presences without needing to use your eyes now, even in this wash of peoples?"
Ulric didn't bother trying to hide his satisfaction.
"Sure can. You wouldn't believe how aggravating it's been, like poison ivy that moves across your body whenever anybody moves, but I think I got it down now. Hell, I can feel people and animals through walls. No floaty mage fucker gets to blast me through my room again." He assured her.
He watched the wheels turn behind her eyes as she began to incorporate this new information into whatever machinery plots against her enemies automatically. Their food finished before she was ready to reveal to him the place his ability had within her paradigm and he paid the Sauri gladly his two copper squires for the sumptuous things, dripping grease and slightly charred, as all good kebabs should be. The smell that enveloped these spiced meat sticks indicated that their maker was a true connoisseur of the art of flesh and flame.
They devoured the tender meats gladly, it had been a long morning of strolling and gumshoeing. A potent burn began to develop halfway through the meal, and Ulric was reminded of the slow rise of the ghost pepper, which took its time ramping on his palette before delivering full heat. Upon reaching the end of the skewer he was sweating lightly and fully believed that this Sauri was undercharging for such skill.
The vendor expressed some interest in his customers' reactions. He'd used the best pepper blend he had, a complex blend of four different fiery pods dried, ground fine, and mixed to produce a veritable bouquet of spice. The Elf appeared completely unaffected though pleased, which was slightly ridiculous, while the Valin clearly enjoyed and suffered the heat of his skewers. The Sauri took pride in his art, and it was a source of joy when it was as clearly appreciated. After a minute of savoring their food, the Human, reached into a belt pouch and held up a small vial with some dark green powder.
"You are a gift to street food, that was the best I've ever eaten." Ulric praised the Sauri honestly, offering the sealed ceramic vial holding his [Reaper Basil] powdered herb, "Which is why I think I have something that will interest you."
The still novel facial features of this great beastkin were unknown to him, but Ulric thought he knew a man who was curious if he saw one. A great, clawed hand took the meticulously sealed vial delicately.
"This is a product of my homeland, an herb that grows in abundance there and with a potency that I have not yet seen matched, though your spice blend does it a credit. If you are not afraid of your own product, I recommend a small sample. Just a bare pinch, please, if heat is not to your taste." Ulric told the vendor, with that slight challenge that chili heads could never leave unanswered.
A throaty bass humm, that probably would have sent a prehistoric rodent running for its life, accompanied the preparation of another kebab, the tail holding the skewer level with its face as it unstoppered the vial and took a gentle whiff. The creature's muzzle turned to Ulric for a moment in disbelief before it tapped a generous portion of the green herb across the length of the meat skewer, practiced claws resealing the vial and returning it to its owner, who watched with intent as the skewer roasted; the Sauri's tail was, apparently, immune to the heat of the flame.
The Saurid shishkebab chef ate slowly of the, for it, small treat, letting the flavors meld inside its mouth, the earthy bitterness of the herb melding with oils, fats, and char of the meat, and then, the violent heat that ascended. Eyes widening, the beastkin had found, at last, what he'd sought for years. A piece de resistance. Now this, this was a spice. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not he'd been poisoned. Or if he should care, if in this joy was how he was to pass.
Eyes closed, the pulsing burn in his mouth migrated. From back of throat, to tongue, to cheeks. Now, even the hide on top of his muzzle had heated. Exquisite.
Ulric watched to see how his prospective trade item was valued. The news looked good, if tears of pain mixed with joy, falling from the corner of the Vendor's eyes could be taken as evidence. Not hurrying to interrupt, he waited patiently with his partner and kept the sensation of their tail firmly fixed in his mind. It had not moved in the entire time since they'd come to the stall, had not so much as drifted out of place, even though all around him he could track the motion of the nearby peoples going about their business in the Celestin city. No doubt now, they'd been tagged somehow. A problem to be solved later, presently, the massive form of the scaled Jormun rose from its blissful contemplation.
"What is this? And where can I get more of it?" the deep, mellow voice, rumbled softly.
Ulric grinned as he answered, "No name have I ever heard it given but the one I chose when I discovered it in the deepest wilds South and West of Iriel. Quite by accident, you understand, the Deep Woods cousins of my partner here are no friends of Valin, not that I can lay blame for that upon them, but, nevertheless, fortuitous." Ulric bragged, not unreasonably.
"What you have tasted is the [Reaper's Basil] and you may find more of it at your own request when I begin its offer to markets." Said Ulric, slow rolling the Sauri deliberately.
"Consider yourself the first to know it, other than my seemingly immune counterpart. I am on an explorative venture, testing the desire for this and some other goods for my enterprise. You have an interest then." He ended, with a question that was made a statement by its inflection.
The kebab vendor turned its bulk slowly, reaching into the coals of the cook fire, extracting a Sil Knight and holding the cooling silver metal between its claws without notice of the heat of the metal or its hiding place.
Rather safe keeping, putting your coins in a place where only you could get to it unburned.
"A Sil Squire for such a vial as you have on your person. I could manage another three knights had you the available herb now." Declared the Sauri bluntly.
Ulric fist pumped in his mind but kept a merely pleased demeanor.
"This vial is, at the moment, the only processed herb that exists, to my knowledge. I doubt that, even if they knew where it grew, that many would think it anything other than noxious. The raw herb, if you believe it, has an even greater peak to its fire than does the dry." Ulric claimed, to the astonishment and obvious desire of the vendor.
"I will give this vial to you, free of charge, if you would use its contents to show your craft with your peers, to demonstrate how its greatness can be experienced if one has the talent to prepare it suitably. And also, tell your customers and friends that a new export comes from the Iriel'en a year or two from now." Ulric said, evenly, the plan he'd made months ago coming to a fruition of sorts.
The trick to commerce was marketing. Exposure. His problem was that literally no one had ever seen this herb in its current form. If it grew elsewhere than the glade, Taipan had never heard of it and she'd been everywhere that there was to be in Orlethrem. Then what he needed was a demand and he'd only have a demand if there were parties like this Sauri kebab vendor who served a large enough population. Hence, giving away the vial to ensure that it gained notice of the populace of an entire trade port was a no brainer. Taipan restrained her grief at the loss of her secret joy.
The Sauri knew what game was being played. He also knew that he had, Flame's Fortunes, been granted the opportunity to be first amongst his competitors to gain access to this revolution amongst spices. After replacing the coin within his cookfire, he extended a clawed hand instantly, the offer too good to even attempt the traditional observance of haggling.
"By my eyes, it is a bargain struck." Exclaimed the vendor, impressive teeth revealed by its grin.
"Who is it that I must thank for this grand venture?" He asked.
"Ulric Twice Borne." Ulric answered, using the appellative he and Taipan had agreed upon.
Just because they should be completely unknown didn't mean he needed to make it easier than absolutely necessary for anyone to connect a barbarian merchant to the Valin that had recently become [Lord of the Ancient Glade].
"And in whose talented hands have I placed my fortunes to be?" He returned, his hand disappearing into the powerful claws as they shook once, gently.
The Sauri stood tall, his full height and girth even more impressive now.
"My name is Olivander Greytooth, and my hearthstones are yours to sit upon." The creature said, a rumbling friendliness in his tone at some odds with the literal words used to express them.
Ulric nodded, committing that to memory. He'd just taken the first step to maybe not being a hermit living in a carved-out bush cottage for the remainder of his days. It felt good. After all, he had a wife to support and she had expensive tastes in poisoned arrows.
Actually, the reality was not lost on him that Taipan was amongst the least materialistic individuals that he had ever met. She was perfectly happy to live in the forests sleeping under the stars or in travel shelters. Other than travel supplies, he didn't know that she'd ever spent a single coin out of luxury. If it wasn't sharp, wasn't warm, or wasn't going to aid in her past time of silently killing the enemies of her people, she mostly wasn't interested.
That idle thought brought a smile to his face almost as much as the good fortune of meeting this most remarkable Kebab Artisan. With a promise to return in the following year with a far greater supply of [Reaper's Basil] he departed one Olivander Greytooth's stall and proceeded along their intended route through the city.
Now, they had to rid themselves of a certain tagalong.
The pair of them managed a somewhat uneventful retrograde to their rented room. Hands nearly too cold to grip the masonry and timbers led to Ulric coming a moment away from falling off the side of the building in his climb but Taipan snagged him and hauled him up into the window. There, they went over their haul.
Ulric couldn't make heads nor tails of it, until his Shadow indicated what the columns meant. From there he realized that they had the dates and times of arrival and departure, loaded and unloaded cargo weights, names, mercantile or private ownership, captaincy, declared crew, all of it for every ship registered here in these logs. Ulric whistled softly. It was the motherload. And this was the slow time of year, he couldn't imagine what a monstrous task they'd have before them if it was peak season.
Say this for the officials in Trachn'ir, they knew who was bringing what into their city. Smuggling would have had to have been a slick operation to get through all this scrutiny. Or. It had to be an inside job. Greased palms and purchased silence to let the smugglers route their traffic through this trade hub would probably fund a man, or Elf, or whatever, quite well.
Now, they just had to search this haystack for a very particular needle. Somewhere in all of that was the identity of the Aes'r slavers. Doubtless, the theft of these logs was going to raise alarm bells in whoever the hell it was that was running this racket and Ulric was now without doubt that it was somebody higher up on the totem pole for the city itself. They'd be taking too many chances with their own skin if they were some low-level middle management trying to squeak through. No, this had the stink of somebody with the final say, with pull enough to be able to wash away any discrepancies to hide their activity. As much as he wished they could get access to the documents scrubbed by their mystery ringleader, he doubted very much that would be possible. If they were smart enough to pull this off, they were smart enough to cover their tracks. The only direct connection he and Taipan would get to the bastard was likely the two handwritten letters, everything else they would have would be circumstantial.
Good thing they weren't planning to hold a trial.
After an hour of going through their catch, the exhausted couple turned in. They'd snag a few hours of well-earned sleep, then make the rounds through the city drumming up information about disappearances amongst the low-borne citizenry, the most likely local targets of their perpetrators. There again, a smart player would be reluctant to shit where they eat, but simple greed would push them to graze lightly, even so. If they were astute, and diligent, they'd turn up something.
*****************Elsewhere, Twelve Hours Later****************
A second table died, where its brother had stood the previous day, smashed viciously into a heap of finely carved firewood.
"FUCK!" Screamed the Ogrand, eyes bloodshot, fury pulsing off his frame.
He stood over the wreck of his newest table, grieving for the smooth finish, the ornate carvings of fish leaping amongst sea spray, and the Aur Squire that had purchased it. That table was a one of a kind. A masterwork of a Melond furniture maker using decades-aged timber from the highlands that came from a tree at least two centuries old, one could tell by the whirled grains. Gone. Like the shipping manifestos. All his enemies had to do was show those in comparison to the ones he'd been submitting and it would raise some very pointed questions from his colleagues in the City Governance meetings.
This time, the thin Wolven beastkin didn't risk opening the door. He'd heard of one of his predecessors getting snatched that way, their head crushed to pulp before they'd realized what was happening. He yelled through the door, "Your Grace? Tell me how I may serve!" and his tail wagged nervously at the prospect of being ordered to present himself physically before his master.
The Ogrand pulled a small splinter free of his hardened skin, barely penetrating despite the intensity of the strike, and straightened his finery before he answered. This sort of thing was beneath him. He was NOT a savage brute lacking restraint, lacking poise, like so many of his kin. He would NOT be murdering his attendant today in a Blood Rage and smearing the corpse across his walls.
"There has been a theft. A gross failure on the part of the dock security, one that will not go unpunished. I will handle that later today, but, for now, I require you to send for my troubleshooters. The ones I have instructed you to, up to this point, pretend do not exist." He called, respecting the wisdom of this newest attendant in not placing himself at hand.
A smart one, was this Wolven. The Ogrand was gratified to have reason to believe that his newest attendant would live long, if he stayed so cautious. He heard the rapid scurry of feet and the scuffle of feet on stairs announcing that his attendant had gone to pass word. Self-control was one thing, but if they were too stupid to have a sense of danger they only aggravated his desire to murder them.
First, he would have that guard flogged and run out of the city. This was the third time the man had been drunk on duty and no amount of blabbered "Drunks with dropped pockets" would save him. As for the thief, that was a harder decision. The Ogrand bull was without a doubt, now, that the Iriel'en scout he'd ordered collected was in the city. His agents had gone through the gate entries and found a Human and an Iriel'en, though neither had been dressed as his reports had described earlier, which meant they knew that they'd been targeted. The same Iriel'en had been sighted entering an inn, she was distinctive, even in a crowd of her knife-eared cousins, with her Human partner, an oddity that, and had disappeared thereafter. Neither had been recorded as checking out of their rooms but some promptly arranged break-ins found the rooms empty. Between that, and now this clear attempt to run down information on his operations, he was going to have to take a more aggressive posture.
For now, the Ogrand had to lean on local muscle and wait for his messages to get downriver. At least the ice remained solid, once breakup started, transport and communication would be dead in the water, very literally, until the large ice floes dispersed. Those would punch holes through a hull and grind its crew to chunks with little trouble; most shipping companies decried the use of a magus to accompany their ships and keep the worst of the ice at bay. At that point, he could not count on assistance from the Morion household arriving timely. He would, however, now be expecting a significant degree of aid within the two weeks it would take them to make the traversal. Lord Morion had ever been a prompt and competent master. Generous when well served, too.
It was times like this when the Ogrand's determined hold on his temper and baser instincts paid greatest dividends. Most of his kin would have been far too proud, too self-assured to have sent such rapid request for aid and would have found themselves isolated, surrounded by enemies, and shortly thereafter destroyed. Not him. He had greater ambitions than being a vagrant chief, leading his harem through the plains and surviving in squalor as most of his kind. No, his intentions were…grander. This entire city would be his within a few short years, his ascent was rapid. Taking hold of the worst elements of the city's crime infrastructure and bending them to his own purposes, plus the liquid capital injection from his slave smuggling operation, had given him a hold on his position that even the most determined political enemies found hard to break. And, if they got a little close to doing so, then a timely mugging gone sour could be arranged to change their attitudes. Trachn'ir was Celestin territory but they wielded soft power. The Ogrand, in a nod to his own heritage, preferred the harder kind and used it like a scalpel.
Now, he had but to wait for his fixers to arrive so that he could make arrangements for dealing with this Brownie infestation into his affairs. The Human was worthless, they didn't even justify the costs of transporting them to markets in Prosper. The Elf though, now that was a catch. Iriel'en were rarely gathered breathing and their scarcity on the slave blocks would guarantee he collected big. Perhaps big enough to swing the majority council vote coming in the fall. Revenue and Trades Master of Trachn'ir was a fine position, but Chancellor of the Exchequer, now that was better. That would gain him the ear of the Greater Houses of Celestin and let him build his contacts within the aristocracy, a thing outside his natural grasp being but a lowly plainsborne Ogrand.
The thought settled his anger over the destruction of his table as he awaited the arrival of his men. One catch team had been ambitious. A mistake. Iriel'en weren't to be underestimated in their element. Here, in the city though, that was his ground and his men would soon have the Elf driven to corner. Where one team had failed, three would suffice.
Now…when his assistant returned, he'd see about procuring a table. Perhaps something Svartalfin. A well-braced number in etched [Truesteel] might better match his higher station anyway. Yes, he'd commission something personally. His coffers would be far more than adequate once this troublesome Knife ear found her way to market. The thought of polished metal curves, gemdust inlays, and gold accents occupied him until his men arrived.
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Ulric followed his Shadow's lead through the city steets, the pair of them had decided that they needed an additional angle besides that of the shipping manifestos. There were, according to the intuition of his partner, six ships that were likely not on the up and up. All privately owned, three from the same family, one lesser House Wicker. These boats never registered cargo, they never brought anything in or out of the city, and, they were always gone no longer than three days, according to the dock records. That each of these boats should leave the city, seemingly without purpose, in the depth of winter, and not be gone long enough to go anywhere in particular was atypical. Taipan was of the opinion that they probably did not sail the entire length of the riverways to Prosper but instead acted to hand off their "catch" to another vessel. It limited the risks that they took and kept their partner off of the registers of Trachn'ir. To Ulric, it sounded exactly like the sort of handoff that drug runners had used back when cartels were running most of the Southern continents.
They had done a bit of sleuthing, casual comments dropped about a 'tragic loss of so many young' while perusing wares in various shops, during some explorative faked trade deals, and while stopping for lunch in various common rooms, and, their fishing pulled in some interesting news: it just so happened that House Wicker was holding funeral rites for two of its own and four more close cousins of the house. A terrible accident on the roads, just outside of Trachn'irm was the rumor. Some monster or another had caught the troop, who had volunteered to help with securing the roads for the upcoming trade season. The timing was impossibly similar. What were the odds that a single household should lose an equivalent number of members as the number of failed ambushers?
It didn't take long before they had a tentative confirmation. A stroll down the docks evidenced that one of the Wicker ships had been made ready to cast off and its skids freshly waxed, as if to make journey. The cold would make the wax coatings brittle and they would flake off, hence only ships that expected to make a run within the day would have such a preparation. The ship left ready was the property of one minor House Wicker's a second son, recently departed, they had learned that afternoon. Bingo. They had an ID on Twice Killed.
Arm in arm, the pair of them were on a wide causeway, the cobbled streets kept well clear of snow and with a mild traffic that Ulric had come to recognize as characteristic of the midday normal crowd. There were even several familiar faces in and amongst the passing forms. Their investigation had taken him across most of the city. Taipan, seemingly, had an insatiable need to walk every street that the city offered which meant that he had been forced to join her. His only consolation to the press of the buildings, the jar of peoples in his ears, was that his discomfort was shared by his partner. Neither of them enjoyed the cosmopolitan atmosphere, though both hid it to keep up appearances.
Ulric had changed in many ways since coming to Varda. Likely only his parents would even recognize him. His distaste for places where peoples flocked together to live on top of each other had not joined many of the predilections he'd discarded.
Currently, he was taking solace in that the movement of peoples, the loose diffusion of the Celestin city, was excellent practice for his [Ceraunoperception]. In the wilds much of his problem was in having trouble picking up signatures of the woody plants, deciphering the minimal inputs across his skin to form a sort of tactile image of the surroundings. The opposite was true of this budding perception; there were so many bodies, loud against his sensibilities that it made distinguishing them difficult. His efforts had drawn him inwards, trusting Taipan to keep them on course. That was how he determined that the two of them were being followed, a pressure had remained almost unmoving upon the back of his neck, a presence that matched their pace too evenly to be accidental and kept religiously to the blind spot of the pair of them and had done so for nearly a quarter Round of the Twins.
Ulric pointed towards a stall, operated by a rather intimidating Sauri. The smells that drifted from this stand indicated that a pungent, almost curry spiced set of kebabs were on offer. Ulric decided that he'd put out feelers for the eventual exports that he'd be seeing from the Ancient glade. His cover as a barbarian merchant wasn't completely for show. At some point, if he lived long enough, he'd need to establish some kind of income flow from the gifts of his fae home. No place to start like a kebab vendor who might be in need of a little extra something to put the starch in the pants of their customers.
"By the way, Taipan, somebody has been following us for about fifteen minutes. Did you pick up on them ?" He asked as they closed in and he caught the slitted eye of the vendor.
Taipan pinched his arm gently, "No, Ulric, and how are you sure of this?!" she hissed into his ear, but with effectively no other indication.
Interesting, so they were able enough to keep from being noticed by his very gifted Shadow. She had abilities that gave her a sort of sixth sense about being tracked or ambushed so it was likely that the follower had some sort of skill or ability that masked them from such senses. An arms race of detect and counter-detect skills facilitated by magical fuckery.
"Ho There friend! Two of your spiciest!" Ulric greeted the Sauri, who grinned a terrifying reveal of sharp teeth guaranteed misery to whatever fell between those powerfully muscled jaws.
They grew them large, these lizardkin, this probably male one was about seven and a half feet tall and layered with muscle. He was almost delicate in his handling of the strips of meat and the jars of spices that he used to prepare a fresh set of skewers, roasting them over a slow flame by setting them in a sort of holster on his tail that waved slowly over the fire.
As the food cooked, Ulric turned back to his Shadow and smiled, whispering answer to her question and covering for their observer to think nothing was amiss.
"I've had my [Ceraunoperception] up since we left our rooms this morning, and there's been a consistent indicator that says somebody has been sitting on top of our blindspot, matching our pace, for too long to be coincidence."
He might as well have told his Huntress mate that Christmas had come early by the awed glee in her expression.
"This is so? You can detect presences without needing to use your eyes now, even in this wash of peoples?"
Ulric didn't bother trying to hide his satisfaction.
"Sure can. You wouldn't believe how aggravating it's been, like poison ivy that moves across your body whenever anybody moves, but I think I got it down now. Hell, I can feel people and animals through walls. No floaty mage fucker gets to blast me through my room again." He assured her.
He watched the wheels turn behind her eyes as she began to incorporate this new information into whatever machinery plots against her enemies automatically. Their food finished before she was ready to reveal to him the place his ability had within her paradigm and he paid the Sauri gladly his two copper squires for the sumptuous things, dripping grease and slightly charred, as all good kebabs should be. The smell that enveloped these spiced meat sticks indicated that their maker was a true connoisseur of the art of flesh and flame.
They devoured the tender meats gladly, it had been a long morning of strolling and gumshoeing. A potent burn began to develop halfway through the meal, and Ulric was reminded of the slow rise of the ghost pepper, which took its time ramping on his palette before delivering full heat. Upon reaching the end of the skewer he was sweating lightly and fully believed that this Sauri was undercharging for such skill.
The vendor expressed some interest in his customers' reactions. He'd used the best pepper blend he had, a complex blend of four different fiery pods dried, ground fine, and mixed to produce a veritable bouquet of spice. The Elf appeared completely unaffected though pleased, which was slightly ridiculous, while the Valin clearly enjoyed and suffered the heat of his skewers. The Sauri took pride in his art, and it was a source of joy when it was as clearly appreciated. After a minute of savoring their food, the Human, reached into a belt pouch and held up a small vial with some dark green powder.
"You are a gift to street food, that was the best I've ever eaten." Ulric praised the Sauri honestly, offering the sealed ceramic vial holding his [Reaper Basil] powdered herb, "Which is why I think I have something that will interest you."
The still novel facial features of this great beastkin were unknown to him, but Ulric thought he knew a man who was curious if he saw one. A great, clawed hand took the meticulously sealed vial delicately.
"This is a product of my homeland, an herb that grows in abundance there and with a potency that I have not yet seen matched, though your spice blend does it a credit. If you are not afraid of your own product, I recommend a small sample. Just a bare pinch, please, if heat is not to your taste." Ulric told the vendor, with that slight challenge that chili heads could never leave unanswered.
A throaty bass humm, that probably would have sent a prehistoric rodent running for its life, accompanied the preparation of another kebab, the tail holding the skewer level with its face as it unstoppered the vial and took a gentle whiff. The creature's muzzle turned to Ulric for a moment in disbelief before it tapped a generous portion of the green herb across the length of the meat skewer, practiced claws resealing the vial and returning it to its owner, who watched with intent as the skewer roasted; the Sauri's tail was, apparently, immune to the heat of the flame.
The Saurid shishkebab chef ate slowly of the, for it, small treat, letting the flavors meld inside its mouth, the earthy bitterness of the herb melding with oils, fats, and char of the meat, and then, the violent heat that ascended. Eyes widening, the beastkin had found, at last, what he'd sought for years. A piece de resistance. Now this, this was a spice. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not he'd been poisoned. Or if he should care, if in this joy was how he was to pass.
Eyes closed, the pulsing burn in his mouth migrated. From back of throat, to tongue, to cheeks. Now, even the hide on top of his muzzle had heated. Exquisite.
Ulric watched to see how his prospective trade item was valued. The news looked good, if tears of pain mixed with joy, falling from the corner of the Vendor's eyes could be taken as evidence. Not hurrying to interrupt, he waited patiently with his partner and kept the sensation of their tail firmly fixed in his mind. It had not moved in the entire time since they'd come to the stall, had not so much as drifted out of place, even though all around him he could track the motion of the nearby peoples going about their business in the Celestin city. No doubt now, they'd been tagged somehow. A problem to be solved later, presently, the massive form of the scaled Jormun rose from its blissful contemplation.
"What is this? And where can I get more of it?" the deep, mellow voice, rumbled softly.
Ulric grinned as he answered, "No name have I ever heard it given but the one I chose when I discovered it in the deepest wilds South and West of Iriel. Quite by accident, you understand, the Deep Woods cousins of my partner here are no friends of Valin, not that I can lay blame for that upon them, but, nevertheless, fortuitous." Ulric bragged, not unreasonably.
"What you have tasted is the [Reaper's Basil] and you may find more of it at your own request when I begin its offer to markets." Said Ulric, slow rolling the Sauri deliberately.
"Consider yourself the first to know it, other than my seemingly immune counterpart. I am on an explorative venture, testing the desire for this and some other goods for my enterprise. You have an interest then." He ended, with a question that was made a statement by its inflection.
The kebab vendor turned its bulk slowly, reaching into the coals of the cook fire, extracting a Sil Knight and holding the cooling silver metal between its claws without notice of the heat of the metal or its hiding place.
Rather safe keeping, putting your coins in a place where only you could get to it unburned.
"A Sil Squire for such a vial as you have on your person. I could manage another three knights had you the available herb now." Declared the Sauri bluntly.
Ulric fist pumped in his mind but kept a merely pleased demeanor.
"This vial is, at the moment, the only processed herb that exists, to my knowledge. I doubt that, even if they knew where it grew, that many would think it anything other than noxious. The raw herb, if you believe it, has an even greater peak to its fire than does the dry." Ulric claimed, to the astonishment and obvious desire of the vendor.
"I will give this vial to you, free of charge, if you would use its contents to show your craft with your peers, to demonstrate how its greatness can be experienced if one has the talent to prepare it suitably. And also, tell your customers and friends that a new export comes from the Iriel'en a year or two from now." Ulric said, evenly, the plan he'd made months ago coming to a fruition of sorts.
The trick to commerce was marketing. Exposure. His problem was that literally no one had ever seen this herb in its current form. If it grew elsewhere than the glade, Taipan had never heard of it and she'd been everywhere that there was to be in Orlethrem. Then what he needed was a demand and he'd only have a demand if there were parties like this Sauri kebab vendor who served a large enough population. Hence, giving away the vial to ensure that it gained notice of the populace of an entire trade port was a no brainer. Taipan restrained her grief at the loss of her secret joy.
The Sauri knew what game was being played. He also knew that he had, Flame's Fortunes, been granted the opportunity to be first amongst his competitors to gain access to this revolution amongst spices. After replacing the coin within his cookfire, he extended a clawed hand instantly, the offer too good to even attempt the traditional observance of haggling.
"By my eyes, it is a bargain struck." Exclaimed the vendor, impressive teeth revealed by its grin.
"Who is it that I must thank for this grand venture?" He asked.
"Ulric Twice Borne." Ulric answered, using the appellative he and Taipan had agreed upon.
Just because they should be completely unknown didn't mean he needed to make it easier than absolutely necessary for anyone to connect a barbarian merchant to the Valin that had recently become [Lord of the Ancient Glade].
"And in whose talented hands have I placed my fortunes to be?" He returned, his hand disappearing into the powerful claws as they shook once, gently.
The Sauri stood tall, his full height and girth even more impressive now.
"My name is Olivander Greytooth, and my hearthstones are yours to sit upon." The creature said, a rumbling friendliness in his tone at some odds with the literal words used to express them.
Ulric nodded, committing that to memory. He'd just taken the first step to maybe not being a hermit living in a carved-out bush cottage for the remainder of his days. It felt good. After all, he had a wife to support and she had expensive tastes in poisoned arrows.
Actually, the reality was not lost on him that Taipan was amongst the least materialistic individuals that he had ever met. She was perfectly happy to live in the forests sleeping under the stars or in travel shelters. Other than travel supplies, he didn't know that she'd ever spent a single coin out of luxury. If it wasn't sharp, wasn't warm, or wasn't going to aid in her past time of silently killing the enemies of her people, she mostly wasn't interested.
That idle thought brought a smile to his face almost as much as the good fortune of meeting this most remarkable Kebab Artisan. With a promise to return in the following year with a far greater supply of [Reaper's Basil] he departed one Olivander Greytooth's stall and proceeded along their intended route through the city.
Now, they had to rid themselves of a certain tagalong.
