The Astrologies

Chapter 2: Lighthall and Berekker

Lighthall had been disinclined to like the man, but Berekker's demeanor when he arrived five minutes late in Grainger's audience chamber enraged him. The man strode in unapologetically, wearing a smirk that made it clear that he was, for whatever reason, extremely pleased with himself. He did not arrive with his infamous retinue of Islanders-- in fact, he arrived with no protection whatsoever, aside from a dagger at his belt. Lighthall had brought ten men as a show of strength, but found now that they made him look weak. Both merchants were under Grainger's protection, and it was obvious to everybody present that Lighthall's ten men could be dispatched handily if it came to it. A dozen villainous-looking men and women with crossbows stood in the gallery of the torchlit room, and a dozen more brutes with a variety of armaments stood sentry around the room.

After a cursory greeting, had Grainger lounged in silent disinterest while they waited for Berekker, inspecting the sleeves of his silk tunic for nothing in particular. There was only one chair in the room, occupied by Grainger, on a dais at the front of the hall. Throughout the hall were long, unwashed, tables, where Grainger's thieves could gamble and drink themselves into oblivion, though the room had been cleared for this occassion. Lighthall had stood uncomfortably, marvelling at the presumption of the aging thief on his throne. Lighthall was out of his element, among these burgulars and extortionists. He would gladly have delegated this aspect of his work, had there been anybody in his organization worthy of such responsibility. He could sit at a table with the Empire's elite-- the lords and ladies, even the Candle, or the Emperor himself-- and feel charming and respected. At the Poorman's Union though, he was extremely conscious of the scrutiny that he bore. He was being judged, and not favorably, by these men and women who undoubtedly resented his station, all the more so because he had come by it honestly.

When Berekker walked smugly into the hall, Grainger sat forward. Berekker did not so much as acknowledge Lighthall or his men. Instead, he inclined his head slightly toward Grainger.

"We have gone far too long without making each others' acquaintance," Berekker said. The two merchants were forced to stand, like supplicants, at the foot of the dais.

Grainger sneered ever so slightly, but Berekker was unfazed. He put his hand to his belt, and there was a brief commotion among the archers in the gallery.

Berekker held out a sheathed dagger, and said, "I gather your son will be coming of age in a fortnight. Business may take me from Merendir, so I thought I should bring my gift today."

Grainger nodded to one of the men who stood at his flanks, a stubble-faced bruiser in a sleeveless doeskin shirt that showed off his prodigious muscles and tattooed bands in geometric patterns. The man's necklasses and bracelets clattered audibly as he came to fetch the offering for Grainger. Lighthall found everything about this scene thoroughly tasteless.

Berekker continued to fawn. "Your heir will need a good knife, and this is one of the best."

Grainger pulled the knife from the sheath and held it to the light. The blade was milky white and so thin that it nearly disappeared for a moment when Grainger turned it. He brushed his thumb against it critically.

"It was made by a smith named Fil Eirer in the Far East. His skill is unsurpassed in this generation, or in any recent generation. It is made from Yeneshan ore. It will tarnish if it is exposed to sunlight. Its strength will not be diminished, but its value will diminish considerably. It has been at my side for quite a few years now. I trust your son will use it well."

Grainger returned the knife to the sheath without betraying any appreciation of the gift. 

Lighthall smiled to himself. Berekker's attempt to ingratiate himself seemed to have failed.