Kaelan sat in the dim confines of his makeshift quarters, methodically cleaning assassin's blood from beneath his fingernails with the tip of his dagger. The warehouse still reeked of death despite his efforts to scrub the floor clean—iron and copper mixing with the usual harbor scents of salt, tar, and rotting fish.
The information about the Red Feather tavern rolled around in his mind like dice in a gambler's cup. A white stone on the third table from the door when the deed was done. Simple enough, but the execution? That presented more problems than a Dothraki peace treaty.
He shifted on the uncomfortable crate he'd claimed as a seat, adjusting his weight as he considered his options. What exactly was his endgame here anyway?
First—he could stake out the Red Feather until he identified Henar's steward, but how would he know which patron was the right one? The tavern was popular with merchants, sailors, dock workers, and anyone else with coin for decent wine. He'd be watching shadows and guessing at ghosts.
Second—even if he managed to plant insects on every patron (and coordinating that many bugs simultaneously made his head throb just thinking about it), he had no idea if there was another middle man involved. For all he knew, he'd end up following some wine merchant's assistant back to a counting house.
Third—Henar lived in the affluent merchant quarter, well beyond Kaelan's current range. Even if he successfully identified and tagged the steward, tracking him home would require extending his network further than he'd ever attempted. The mental strain alone could leave him vulnerable for days.
Fourth—and this was the real question—what was the point? Kill the steward? Henar would just hire another. Go after Oros himself? The thought of a thousand venomous scorpions appearing in the man's bed held appeal, but Qarth had Warlocks. Actual magic users who would investigate such an obvious supernatural occurrence with the thoroughness of tax collectors. The last thing he needed was those blue-lipped freaks taking interest in his abilities.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaustion settling over him like a lead blanket. The smart play would be to lay low, rebuild his finances, maybe relocate entirely. But that felt too much like running.
But what if...
An idea began forming—something that felt deliciously devious. What if instead of attacking Oros directly, he went after the man's business? What if he could frame one of Oros's competitors, turn the Spicers Guild's paranoia against itself?
The more he considered it, the more it appealed to him. But first, he needed to identify that steward.
Actually... wait.
Kaelan straightened, a slow grin spreading across his face as a much simpler idea struck him. Why stake out the tavern when he could set the trap himself?
—
The Red Feather Tavern occupied a prime corner in Qarth's merchant district, its crimson-painted walls adorned with golden feathers that caught the evening light like captured flames. Brass lamps hung from ornate chains, casting warm pools of amber light that danced across silk cushions and low tables carved from exotic woods.
The clientele tonight was typical for the establishment—a mixture of successful merchants, ship captains counting profits from recent voyages, and a handful of courtesans whose diaphanous silks and strategic jewelry marked them as high-priced entertainment for the wealthy. The air was thick with the scents of spiced wine, roasted lamb, and the cloying sweetness of lotus blossoms floating in crystal bowls.
From his position in a shadowed alcove near the entrance, Kaelan had an excellent view of the third table from the door. He'd arrived an hour before sunset, nursing a cup of watered wine while his insects did the real work. Hundreds of tiny scouts positioned throughout the tavern allowed him to observe every patron, every conversation, every subtle exchange of coin or information.
The white "stone" he'd placed on the target table was actually a carefully arranged cluster of white moths and pale beetles, their bodies forming a shape that would appear solid from a distance. It was a risk—if someone examined it too closely, the deception would be obvious. But he was counting on the steward being cautious, observing from afar before making any approach.
As the evening progressed, Kaelan watched a parade of merchants and traders flow through the tavern. Most gave the third table barely a glance, but a few seemed to take note of the pale object resting on its surface. None lingered long enough to be suspicious, though—until now.
A man in well-tailored but unremarkable robes had entered ten minutes ago, ordered wine, and was now maneuvering through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone familiar with tavern politics. Mid-forties, Kaelan estimated, with the soft hands and calculating eyes of a professional administrator. More importantly, his attention kept drifting to the third table with the kind of studied casualness that screamed "I'm trying not to look interested."
The man positioned himself at the bar, wine cup in hand, angling for a better view of the table. Kaelan felt his pulse quicken. This could be him.
Through his insect scouts, Kaelan watched the man squint in the lamplight, clearly trying to determine whether the white object was what he expected to see. The steward—for Kaelan was now certain that's who this was—leaned forward slightly, tilting his head for a better angle.
Now.
Kaelan sent a mental command to his carefully arranged "stone." The cluster of insects dispersed instantly, moths and beetles scattering in all directions like startled birds. From the steward's perspective, it would look as if a solid white stone had suddenly... dissolved.
The man's reaction was everything Kaelan had hoped for. His eyes widened, wine cup freezing halfway to his lips as he stared at the now-empty table. He blinked hard, leaned closer, then straightened with the expression of someone who'd just witnessed something impossible.
The steward remained at the bar for another few minutes, nursing his wine while stealing glances at the third table. But his demeanor had changed completely—the relaxed confidence replaced by wariness, even fear. When he finally left, it was with the quick, nervous movements of a man eager to be elsewhere.
Kaelan waited until the steward had disappeared into the crowd outside before rising from his alcove. He dropped a few coins on his table and made his own exit, following at a discrete distance while his insect network tracked his target's movements through the lamplit streets.
Got you, he thought with satisfaction, watching the man hurry toward the merchant quarter's more affluent districts.
—
The morning court of Qarth's merchant princes was already in full swing when the sun crested the city's gleaming spires. The venue was the Garden of Whispers, a sprawling complex of marble terraces and crystalline pools nestled within the shadow of the Palace of Dust. Flowering vines heavy with jasmine and night-blooming cereus created natural pavilions where the wealthy gathered to conduct the real business of the city.
The air shimmered with heat despite the early hour, and slaves with painted faces worked enormous fans of peacock feathers to create blessed currents of cooler air. The sound of falling water from dozens of fountains mixed with the musical tinkle of wind chimes crafted from precious metals, creating an almost hypnotic backdrop to the morning's negotiations.
Oros Henar reclined on silk cushions beneath a canopy of cloth-of-gold, his considerable bulk draped in flowing robes of deep purple shot through with silver thread. Rings adorned every finger—rubies from Asshai, emeralds from the Summer Islands, diamonds from the mines beyond Qarth's reach. His dark eyes, small and calculating in his fleshy face, missed nothing as they surveyed the morning's assembly.
Around him, Qarth's mercantile elite held court in their own fashion. Conversations flowed like honey wine, merchants and nobles trading information, insults, and occasionally actual business. The morning gathering was equal parts theater and negotiation—a chance to display wealth, curry favor, and remind everyone exactly where they stood in the city's complex hierarchy.
"—telling you, the Lyseni are getting desperate," Xallador the Wise was saying, his jeweled goblet catching the light as he gestured. "Three ships lost to pirates in the Stepstones, and now they're offering premium rates for anyone willing to guarantee safe passage. Dangerous work, but profitable for those with the right connections."
"The Lyseni have always been too fond of risk," replied Mellara Qez, a woman whose exposed breast was painted with intricate henna designs that proclaimed her membership in the Tourmaline Brotherhood. "They forget that the gods of sea and storm care nothing for mortal profits."
"Which gods?" asked Balro Hys with a laugh. "The Weeping Lady? The Lion of Night? Or perhaps you've taken up worship of the Drowned God like those ironborn savages?"
"Mock the gods at your peril," Mellara said, though her tone remained light. "The Maiden Made of Light has been generous to my ventures this season. Perhaps because I remember to honor her with appropriate offerings."
The conversation continued its meandering path through politics, profits, and the peculiar blend of hedonism and commerce that defined Qartheen society. Slaves moved among the gathering like beautiful ghosts, offering chilled wine flavored with exotic spices, delicate pastries shaped like flowers, and other diversions for those whose appetites ran beyond simple refreshment.
Oros listened with half his attention while his mind focused on more pressing concerns. The silk trade remained profitable, troubles in Yi Ti had created artificial scarcity that drove prices higher each week. His warehouses were full of the finest fabrics, and every delay in new shipments meant greater profits for existing stock.
But there were complications. Newer complications.
"Speaking of unexpected profits," Oros said, his voice carrying just enough to draw attention without seeming forced, "has anyone else taken notice of this upstart in the harbor district? The one claiming to offer vermin-free storage?"
Xallador snorted dismissively. "Eran Dhasir's whelp? I heard he's charging half-price just to fill his warehouses. Desperation pricing at its finest."
"Perhaps," Oros mused, taking a delicate sip of wine brought down from the distant mountains. "Though I understand several of our colleagues have moved valuable goods to his facilities. Curious, given his father's... reputation."
The mention of Eran Dhasir brought knowing looks and barely concealed smirks from the assembled merchants. The man's fall from grace had been spectacular even by Qartheen standards—a once-respected trader brought low by whispers that he'd murdered his own wife. Legal consequences had been avoided through careful application of gold and influence, but social redemption was another matter entirely.
"Blood tells its own tale," Mellara said with an elegant shrug that made her jewelry chime softly. "Though even a viper's spawn might occasionally prove useful. If the boy truly can eliminate pest problems..."
"How does he manage it, though?" This from Qezza the Golden, whose hair was indeed spun with actual gold thread worth more than most men's houses. "I've had people investigate discretely. No obvious poisons, no cats, no mechanical traps. The insects simply... don't enter his warehouses."
Oros felt his jaw tighten imperceptibly. That was precisely what troubled him most about this situation. Not the competition itself—rivalry was the lifeblood of commerce. But the mystery of the boy's methods, combined with certain disturbing reports from his intelligence network.
"Sorcery, perhaps?" Balro suggested with a theatrical shudder. "Maybe he's struck some bargain with the Undying Ones. Though what a merchant's son could offer the Warlocks is beyond imagining."
"Don't jest about such things," Qezza said sharply. "The Undying Ones have long memories for mockery, and their reach extends further than most realize."
The conversation continued, but Oros found his attention drifting to his own private concerns. When he'd first learned of this new competition, he'd assumed it was simple merchant ambition, some young fool trying to carve out a place in an already crowded market. Easy enough to crush through traditional methods.
But then his spies had brought more interesting intelligence. The boy had done work for Mathos Mallarawan, one of the Thirteen, and not a man known for hiring random street urchins. Something involving lost property and unusual investigative capabilities. The details were frustratingly vague, but suggestive.
So Oros had ordered closer observation. What his people reported back had been... troubling. The boy displayed odd behaviors: standing motionless for extended periods, staring at empty walls as if watching invisible plays unfold. He possessed an uncanny ability to locate lost objects, finding valuable items in places where they had no business being. Most disturbing of all, despite intensive investigation, there was absolutely nothing protecting his warehouses from vermin, no obvious deterrents, no logical explanation.
It was strange enough to potentially interest the Warlocks, and Oros had briefly considered offering them information in exchange for future considerations. But even he recognized some lines that shouldn't be crossed. If the boy possessed capabilities that could strengthen the Undying Ones' influence over Qarth... well, some dangers were too great to risk, regardless of potential profit.
Still, the threat to his business had been real and growing. Competition was always dangerous, but mysterious competition was worse. Better to eliminate problems while they remained manageable.
Apparently, that opportunity had now passed.
Oros became aware of a presence at his elbow, someone standing just close enough to draw attention without interrupting the ongoing conversation about Volantene trade policies. He didn't turn to look, keeping his expression fixed on his wine cup as if completely absorbed in its ruby contents.
"Do not look at me, you cur," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Speak as if commenting to yourself."
Johar's response came equally quiet, words carefully measured: "The signal appeared last night, master. But there were... complications."
Oros felt his blood pressure spike, though his expression remained serenely neutral. Around him, the conversation had shifted to speculation about the Iron Bank's latest policies regarding Essosi lending practices.
"Complications?" he whispered.
"The assassin is dead, master. And I believe our target knows about our involvement."
For a moment, Oros's carefully maintained composure threatened to crack entirely. His first instinct was rage, hot, immediate fury at incompetent subordinates and failed plans. But that passed quickly, replaced by something colder and infinitely more useful: calculation.
So the boy has teeth after all.
Perhaps he should have expected it. The reports from his spies had suggested unusual capabilities, though nothing that seemed overtly threatening. But killing a trained assassin suggested skills far beyond what any merchant's son should possess.
"How certain are you?" he whispered.
"Very certain, master. The... the signal was false. When I approached to confirm it, the white stone simply... disappeared. Someone was watching, waiting for whoever came to check."
Clever boy. Cleverer than I gave him credit for.
Around him, the morning court continued its endless dance of gossip and influence. Mellara was now holding forth on the declining quality of Myrish lace, while others nodded as if textile expertise were their particular specialty. Normal merchants discussing normal business in perfectly normal ways.
But Oros's mind was already racing ahead, calculating new approaches to an unexpectedly complex problem. The boy was dangerous—that much was now clear. But dangerous could also mean valuable, if properly managed.
Perhaps it was time for a different strategy entirely. After all, the most effective way to deal with threatening competitors wasn't always to destroy them.
Sometimes, it was to recruit them.
"Return to your duties," he murmured to Johar. "And arrange for young Dhasir to receive an invitation. Nothing threatening, nothing that suggests previous difficulties. Simply one merchant extending hospitality to another who shows promise."
"Master?" Uncertainty colored Johar's whispered response.
"If you cannot defeat your enemy," Oros said softly, quoting an old Qartheen proverb, "make him your ally. The boy possesses skills that could prove... advantageous. Better to have him working with us than against us."
He raised his wine cup slightly, as if acknowledging some witticism from the ongoing conversation, while Johar melted away into the crowd with practiced invisibility.
Yes, Oros thought, settling back into his silk cushions with renewed confidence. Much better to have such a dangerous young man where I can observe him properly. And who knows? We might both profit handsomely from the arrangement.
For Oros Henar, the music had just changed tempo entirely.
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Well this is the end.
I figured I'd just post this here.
If you're interested in any of my other stories or would like to join the dxscord go to my profile. All links are there.