Chapter 101: Darren's Friend
"You want to ask your friends to introduce us to Governor Illyrio?" Ian guessed.
"No," Darren said, shaking his head. "Illyrio may be a merchant, but he is also the Magister. Ordinary members of the Chamber of Commerce are not qualified for a private audience. The only way to get near him is at his monthly banquet."
"So?"
"I can try to ask my friends if they can grant us a place to attend the banquet."
"Grant us? Can't guests bring their own attendants?"
"At a more noble affair, certainly," Darren explained. "But an ordinary member of the Chamber, or a ship's captain who petitions for entry, can bring only a single companion—female, or even male. Pentos is not as strict as Westeros on such matters."
"So your friend is just an ordinary member of the Chamber?" Ian asked, a little disappointed.
"As for them," Darren said with a sigh, "perhaps they only ever saw me as the son of the lord of Gulltown."
***
"And that is the situation," Darren explained to his friend. "We need an audience with the Magister, so I was hoping you could do me a favor and grant us the qualification to attend Governor Illyrio's banquet in the middle of this month."
"I am sorry, Darren." Talobane sat back in a sofa chair stuffed with horsehair and velvet, his posture radiating arrogance. "I'm afraid it will be difficult for me to help you. The quota for this banquet is exceptionally important to me. It involves the distribution of shares for many of Pentos's trades in the coming month."
"It's just one or two batches of cheese," Darren said dismissively, well aware of the nature of Talobane's business. "I need this opportunity to seek an audience for my king."
"Pay attention, Darren. You are no longer in a position to speak of 'cheese' in that tone," Talobane said, then mimicked Darren's earlier words in a high, exaggerated sneer. "The only reason I tolerated such arrogance from you before was because you were the son of the lord of Gulltown. And now..."
Talobane shrugged. "Gulltown has been seized by the crown, and you," he said, his eyes flicking to Ian, who stood silently behind Darren, "you are no better than..."
He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. For a moment, it seemed he had another thought, and he changed the subject entirely. "And if I'm not mistaken, your ship is gone as well, isn't it?"
"How did you—" Darren began, surprised.
"If you still had your ship, you could have passed the qualification yourself to attend the Magister's banquet. Why would you need my help?"
"I—"
"So, you have nothing at all now," Talobane stated, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. He watched Darren's expression grow increasingly strained. "Why, then, should I help you?"
Watching Darren's abject humiliation, Ian felt a raw urge to slap the smug cheese merchant across the face with a golden dragon and watch him kneel to beg for the chance to give them his place.
But he knew he couldn't. It would not fit the persona of 'Ian Hewen.'
According to his plan, he could not reveal any sign of his true wealth while in Pentos. He had to project an image of powerlessness before Illyrio, to make the Magister feel safe in recommending him to the Targaryen siblings.
Once they had left Pentos and begun the journey to Vaes Dothraki, he would show his fangs. By then, Illyrio would be far beyond his reach.
But until he left this city, he had to hide his resources. Both Illyrio and Varys were masters of intelligence; Illyrio could track his every move in Pentos.
"Mr. Talobane," Ian finally spoke, stepping forward. "I wonder what you would require from us, in exchange for the opportunity to attend this banquet."
Ian could read the man's expression as clearly as a ledger; his eyes screamed 'For Sale'.
"I—"
"Don't rush to deny it," Ian continued smoothly. "From the very beginning, you only said our request would be 'difficult.' Then you emphasized the banquet's importance to you and took pains to remind Darren of his current status. Just now, as you were about to humiliate us further, you held your tongue. If I am correct, you were planning to wait until we were thoroughly disappointed and ready to leave, only to then make your demands with a tone of false charity. Am I wrong?"
Talobane stared, stunned into silence for several seconds. He slowly uncrossed his legs and sat up straight, studying the young man he had initially dismissed as Darren's attendant with a newly critical eye.
"I can see your anxiety," Ian pressed on. "And since you went to such elaborate lengths rather than simply stating your price, it tells me that what you want is either very difficult or very dirty. Or perhaps," he added, "a difficult and dirty job. One that you believe we are perfectly suited to solve for you."
"I must admit, you are very clever," Talobane said, forcing himself to recover from his surprise. "May I ask who you are?"
"Ser Ian," he replied, not yet ready to reveal his new identity. "I am a friend of Darren's."
"Ah," Talobane said, the arrogance vanishing from his face to be replaced by a wide, friendly smile. "Ser Ian! Any friend of Darren's is a friend of mine. And as it happens, I do have a rather large problem on my hands."
His gaze swept over the four knights standing beside Ian before returning to Ian himself. "And you seem to have the force to handle such troubles. And," he added, "the wisdom. If you can help me deal with this matter, I will not only give you my place at the Magister's banquet, but I will also provide you with financial support. Fifty—no, one hundred golden dragons. What do you say?"
"Tell me more," Ian said with a nod.
He certainly had no desire to invite trouble so soon after arriving in Pentos, but he could see no better path forward. If he could secure a meeting with Illyrio by solving a merchant's problem, it was a price he was willing to pay.
As for the hundred golden dragons, the sum itself was trivial to him. But having a 'traceable' source of significant income earned in Pentos would make his future expenses far less suspicious.
"You there! Bring chairs for these distinguished guests at once!" Talobane shouted at his servants, overjoyed at Ian's response. "What are you staring at?"
As a servant handed him a chair, Ian sat. *Dirty work,* he thought, and the image of a certain figure flashed through his mind. If he hadn't needed to adopt a new identity, that man would have been the perfect choice for this kind of business.
***
"Achoo."
"The wind is strong on the sea. You're not wearing enough," Dorian, the Black Falcon, remarked to the mercenary beside him. "Still, I didn't expect you to come with me."
"I don't know what games you're playing," the man grumbled, pulling his cloak tighter, "but you won't find another job that pays sixty gold dragons a month. I have no reason to turn my back on an employer like that."
"No," the Black Falcon agreed, glancing at the other sellswords behind him. "No one does."
*Ser Ian might be worrying for nothing,* he added silently to himself.
---
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