The morning sun painted Pentos in shades of gold and amber as Jon made his way through the merchant quarter, his practiced eye scanning the faces of potential recruits. Five days in the city had taught him much about reading the subtle signs that separated competent sellswords from desperate fools.
At a tavern called The Silver Anchor, he found his first prospect of the day: a grizzled Westerosi knight whose surcoat bore the faded remnants of what might once have been a noble house's colors. The man's sword arm showed the telltale scars of real combat, but when Jon activated The Sight, he saw the aura of someone whose honor had been sold piece by piece until nothing remained but bitter pragmatism. Useful, perhaps, but not trustworthy.
Jon moved on.
His next stop was the docks, where a group of Summer Islander warriors were seeking passage home after their previous employer had met an unfortunate end in a Myrish brothel. The leader, a woman named Xanda, carried herself with fluid grace. When Jon's enhanced perception focused on her, he saw the steady golden light of someone whose loyalty, once earned, would not easily be shaken. More promising.
"Your captain," Jon said, getting straight to it. "What happened to him?"
Xanda spat into the harbor water. "Fool got his throat opened in a Myrish whorehouse. Thought he could bed three girls and pay for one." She shrugged. "The madame disagreed."
"And his company?"
"Scattered to the four winds when word got out. Hard to collect your wages from a dead man." Her dark eyes studied him. "You looking to hire, or just making conversation?"
"Depends. What do you ask for your bow?"
"Depends on what you're asking me to shoot." She leaned against a dock post, casual but alert. "Dothraki raiders on the plains? Two silver a day and found. But if you're thinking about the Disputed Lands, where good companies go in whole and come out as corpses..." She shook her head. "That's gold, not silver. Assuming I'm fool enough to take such work."
Jon smiled despite himself. "Fair enough. The Merchant's Rest, third floor. Ask for Captain Corvus. We'll talk terms if you're interested."
By midday, his recruitment had netted three more possibilities: a pair of Norvoshi crossbowmen whose mechanical precision impressed him, and a Braavosi water dancer whose blade work was elegant but whose loyalty The Sight marked as questionable. Jon made mental notes to keep watching that one.
Returning to The Merchant's Rest, he found Orbelo coordinating with their new additions. Eight sellswords had joined The Hidden Blade over the past few days, bringing their total to 28. Still short of the thirty-five Jon wanted before leaving Pentos, but growing steadily.
"How go the interviews?" Orbelo asked as Jon entered their common room.
"Like trying to separate gold from pyrite in poor light," Jon replied. "Plenty that glitters, not much that's actually valuable. What about our people? Any luck?"
Garth looked up from where he was fletching arrows. "Found a couple possibilities at the Sunset Gate. Dornish spearmen, claim they're brothers. Good discipline, no obvious vices. Want to meet you before deciding."
"And I've identified a Lyseni sellsail who might suit our needs," Kaelo added. "Experience with both sea and land combat, knows the routes to Tyrosh well. Says she can recommend crew if we need more ship hands."
"Good. Keep recruiting, but be selective. I'd rather have twenty we can trust than fifty we can't." Jon paused, checking the position of the sun through their window. "Speaking of trust, tonight's dinner. Final preparations?"
The next few hours were spent in careful preparation. Jon selected his best doublet, still modest by magister standards, but well-made and clean. He checked his weapons, settling on his sword and a single knife, enough to show he wasn't defenseless but not so much as to seem threatening. Orbelo donned his scholar's robes, while Kaelo chose the practical leathers that marked him as a skilled but professional sellsword.
As the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, they made their way through Pentos's winding streets toward the district where the wealthiest magisters kept their mansions. The cobblestones here were newer, the buildings grander, the very air seeming to carry the weight of accumulated wealth.
Magister Illyrio Mopatis's manse dominated an entire city block, its walls rising like pale cliffs from the surrounding streets. The architecture was a testament to both wealth and taste, ancient Valyrian foundations supported walls of honey-colored stone, while delicate spires and graceful archways spoke of Pentoshi craftsmanship at its finest. Gardens visible over the walls showed glimpses of exotic trees and flowering vines that must have cost fortunes to import and maintain.
The gates were wrought iron worked with intricate patterns, flanked by guards in silk doublets whose weapons were both functional and beautiful. One of them, a lean man with the bearing of a former soldier, stepped forward as they approached.
"Captain Corvus?" At Jon's nod, the guard straightened. "Rolly Duckfield, if it please you. The magister's expecting you and yours. Follow me, and try not to stare too much at the peacocks, they're vainer than most lords I've served."
They were led through gates that closed behind them with the soft whisper of perfectly balanced hinges. The courtyard beyond was a revelation, fountains played among carefully tended flowerbeds, while peacocks strutted across manicured lawns. The wealth on display was staggering, but it was tasteful wealth, arranged by someone who understood the difference between luxury and ostentation.
Jon found himself noting defensive positions almost unconsciously. The courtyard offered clear fields of fire from multiple directions, while the fountains and decorative walls could provide cover if needed. The peacocks, he realized after a moment's thought, would serve as excellent early warning systems, their cries would alert the household to any intrusion long before human sentries might notice.
Clever, he thought. Beautiful and functional.
A second man approached as they neared the main entrance, tall and scholarly, with the ink-stained fingers of someone who spent his days with books and correspondence.
"Master Orbelo," the man said, beaming like they were old friends. "How good to see you again. I am Alek, I manage the magister's correspondence and sundry affairs. And you must be the Captain Corvus."
Jon kept his face neutral. "The magister honors us with his time."
"Oh, the magister is quite curious about you. He does so love meeting interesting people." Alek's smile never wavered. "Come, shall we? He's waiting in his solar, and I fear he grows irritable when his meals grow cold."
The interior of the manse was even more impressive than its exterior. Corridors lined with silk drapes led past chambers glimpsed through half-open doors, libraries with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a music room where someone played a haunting melody on pipes, dining halls that could seat dozens in comfort. The floors were polished marble inlaid with intricate mosaics.
Servants moved through the halls with the quiet efficiency of a well-run household, their clothing fine enough to mark them as highly valued rather than mere drudges. Jon noticed that several bore the subtle marks of weapons training, these were guards as much as servants, though they played their roles with seamless professionalism.
Definitely more than he appears, Jon thought, filing away every detail.
They were led to a chamber that managed to be both intimate and impressive, high ceilings supported by marble columns, walls lined with books and artwork, comfortable chairs arranged around a table set for four. Braziers filled the air with the scent of exotic spices, while wine and delicacies waited on side tables.
And then Magister Illyrio Mopatis entered like a silk-wrapped boulder rolling downhill, and Jon understood immediately why this man had clawed his way to power in a city full of ambitious cutthroats.
Illyrio was huge, a mountain of flesh swaddled in silks of purple and gold. Rings crusted his thick fingers, each gem catching the light, while his forked yellow beard shone with oil and perfume. What hair he had left was thin and pale, plastered across a wide scalp. He looked every inch the pampered lord, yet his small eyes were sharp, always weighing and calculating.
"Captain Corvus!" Illyrio boomed, his voice rich as cream and twice as smooth. "Welcome, welcome to my humble manse. Though I confess, humility has never been my strength." He laughed at his own jest, a sound like silk bags full of gold dragons. "Please, you honor my table with your presence."
Jon activated The Sight as they exchanged pleasantries, and what he saw made him reassess everything he thought he knew about their host. Illyrio's aura was complex, layers of deception and hidden knowledge wrapped around a core that burned with ambition.
"Please, be seated," Illyrio continued, gesturing to the prepared table. "I find business is best conducted over good food and better wine. You'll find I set an adequate table, though I confess my cook may have outdone himself tonight, he's quite competitive with his counterparts in other houses."
The meal that followed was indeed magnificent, dishes from across the Free Cities and beyond, wines that must have cost small fortunes, delicacies that Jon could barely identify let alone pronounce. But throughout the dinner, he found himself studying their host as much as enjoying the food.
Illyrio was a masterful conversationalist, drawing out information about their journey from Braavos, their impressions of Pentos, their experience with different types of contracts. His questions seemed casual, but Jon recognized the technique, each seemingly innocent inquiry revealed something about their capabilities, their ethics, their weaknesses.
Finally, as servants cleared the main course and brought out desserts that looked more like works of art than food, Illyrio leaned back in his chair and fixed Jon with those calculating eyes.
"Now then," he said, leaning back until his chair creaked alarmingly. "Let us speak of why I invited you to sup at my table. I have a problem, Captain Corvus, and problems, as any merchant will tell you, are simply opportunities wearing ugly masks."
"Most profitable work starts with someone else's troubles," Jon replied.
"Ha! Spoken like a true sellsword. Yes, I have cargo that needs to reach Tyrosh. Valuable goods, time is pressing, and I require men with more sense than the usual run of hired swords." He paused to tear off a piece of honeyed bread. "Under normal circumstances, I would simply hire the Golden Company or perhaps the Windblown. But circumstances, as you may have noticed, are far from normal."
He gestured with the bread, scattering crumbs. "Tell me, Captain, have you heard about these sellsword companies that have been vanishing like morning mist?"
"We have," Jon said. "It's been a topic of conversation among the mercenary community."
"Then you understand why the larger companies have been reluctant to accept contracts in that region. They have reputations to maintain, backers to satisfy, long-term planning to consider. The loss of an entire company would be... financially inconvenient for them."
Kaelo leaned forward slightly. "Whereas a smaller company like ours is more expendable?"
Illyrio's laugh was genuine, rich with appreciation for the direct question. "My dear Kaelo, yes, I know your name, I make it my business to know about anyone I might employ, that is exactly the calculation a less intelligent magister might make. But I have not built my fortune by treating valuable assets as expendable."
He set down his wine cup and leaned forward, his manner becoming more intent.
"Here is what I believe is happening in the Disputed Lands: someone, a rival city or an ambitious pirate lord, perhaps even a magister with more gold than sense, is systematically breaking the sellsword companies to disrupt trade routes and seize control of the flow of coin. They strike at the larger companies because destroying them sends the clearest message and does the greatest damage to commerce."
"Which means," Jon said slowly, "that a smaller, less obvious company might actually be safer."
"Precisely. You are unknown quantities, recently arrived, flying no banners that would identify you as threats to whatever scheme is unfolding. You might slip through where larger companies would be noticed and destroyed."
Orbelo set down his fork carefully. "What exactly is this cargo, Magister?"
"Trade goods. Specialty items for discerning customers in Tyrosh. The exact nature is less important than the timing, my buyers are expecting delivery within the next moon's turn, and delays will cost me considerably more than your fees."
Jon studied the man's face, reading the subtle signs that The Sight revealed. Illyrio was telling the truth about the timeline, but there were layers of deception around the nature of the cargo. Not necessarily dangerous deception, merchants often concealed the exact nature of their goods for competitive reasons, but Jon filed it away as something to investigate.
"And the compensation?" he asked.
Illyrio smiled, and Jon caught a glimpse of the shrewd trader beneath the genial host. "Given the risks and the urgency, I am prepared to offer triple the standard rate for a cargo escort to Tyrosh. Additionally, I will provide letters of introduction to certain business associates in that city who may have need of your services. Consider it an investment in a potentially profitable long-term relationship."
Illyrio paused, swirling his wine thoughtfully before continuing. "However, I am prepared to be even more generous should you prove exceptionally capable. If you not only deliver my cargo safely but also manage to identify and eliminate whatever threat has been destroying sellsword companies in the Disputed Lands..." He smiled, the expression predatory. "Well, let us say that such a service would be worth considerably more than a simple escort fee. Say, ten times the standard rate, plus my considerable gratitude and future business opportunities that would make our current arrangement seem modest by comparison."
Jon exchanged glances with his companions. Triple rate was extraordinary compensation, the kind of offer that suggested either desperation or hidden complications. Ten times the rate… that was the sort of promise men killed over.
"We would need to inspect the cargo," Jon said finally. "Not to pry into your affairs, but to properly assess the security requirements."
"Of course. Professionals should understand what they are protecting. I can arrange that tomorrow, if you are interested in pursuing this arrangement."
"We are," Jon said, making the decision. "Tentatively. Pending inspection of the cargo and final discussion of terms."
"Excellent." Illyrio raised his wine cup in a toast. "To profitable ventures and safe passages."
As they drank, Jon found himself wondering what exactly they were agreeing to transport. The Sight told him that Illyrio's cargo was far more significant than mere trade goods, but not necessarily dangerous to them directly. Still, in his experience, the most expensive jobs were usually expensive for very good reasons.
We'll find out tomorrow, he decided. One way or another.