“The womb screamed – and there was fire. The earth shook, and stone sunk in the waters. Some say the Grey goddess of envy destroyed the Old Temple because she was jealous of Viera's grace. Her nefarious desire turned into a curse that still afflicts unfortunate sailors to this day. Witnesses of that spell seldom forget the screams the cursed ones make when they tear apart each other's skin and flesh, as if they've all become murderously envious of everyone else's beauty.

-traveller”

* * *

Nelvel

Nelvel stopped and glanced at the facade of the building. Tall and large, made of beige stone, one could have guessed that it was an inn. Only, erotic tapestries on the walls and ceilings could be glimpsed at between the purple curtains of the windows. The stone carvings depicting the naked goddess, exposing her holy bosom with the most charming smile, were another detail hinting at the building being a temple of Viera rather than an inn.

“That's the place,” Nelvel concluded. “The Tainted Temple.”

“Hmm.” Demnir dismounted and stood before the door, arms crossed. Today, he was wearing his usual doublet made of crimson velvet, with a black half cape over one shoulder. “I wouldn't know about the temple, but for sure the air is tainted over here.”

Nelvel shrugged as he handed over the reins of the horse to some stable boy. “Doubtless the temple itself, and its priestesses, are also dirty. People call it an inn, but it's one of the most popular brothels in Akilne.” They could hear the music coming from inside, and the incense wasn't enough to hide the scent of opium, sweat, and lust.

“Not one of the most elegant-sounding, in any case,” Demnir muttered before entering.

You're the only one who expects honour from slavers and elegance from brothels, Nelvel mocked silently, as he wouldn't dare giving voice to his mockery.

Inside the brothel, the melody of the harp and the muffled moans of pleasure coming from upstairs allowed very little uncertainty regarding the purpose of this place. In case people still mistook it for an inn, somehow. The soft, filtered light illuminated the flesh of the courtesans with a reddish pink glow – just enough to let the customers see what was meant to be seen, and to obscure what was meant to be paid for. Demnir had a word with the slave that came to greet them, while Nelvel was left alone to his observations. He spied through the curtains of a room, and his eyes glanced around, sizing up the customers.

I know Samaar is a sailor of sorts but...

A hairy one-eyed man gulping cup after cup, his legs crossed on the table, a gorgeous blonde whispering something in his ear while her hand disappeared somewhere under the man's belt. Some baldy letting his fingers wander inside the transparent tunic of another pleasure slave, a stoic young girl who didn't seem to mind the many horrible scars on her customer's skull, despite having said skull being rubbed against her chest. Groups and groups of tough-looking men, sailors, pirates perhaps... Anyone of them could have been Samaar.

Before long Nelvel wasn't observing the brothel's guests, but its hosts. A cute girl, probably his age, smiled at him from a balcony. Lovely dark hair, and fair skin that seemed to glow in the dim purple light. She bent over the balustrade, put a leg forward, almost giving him a sight of her parts underneath her sparse clothing. As his eyes were fixed up there, trying to see through that damn shadow, Nelvel felt his breeches were getting too tight.

“Don't let your eyes wander around,” Demnir said, his chilling voice waking him up from a sweet dream of flesh and moans. I wish I had Neral's blessed vision, the slave complained in his mind as he reluctantly looked away from the delightful priestess on the balcony and followed the noble.

A servant girl slowly led them deep inside the brothel, where the music was getting louder, along with the mirthful laughter of women and the rough voices of sailors. They passed a few corridors, slipped between a few curtains, and eventually reached a room with dancing girls and drinking men. The servant whispered a couple of words in Demnir's ear as she pointed toward a table where a lone man was seated. She quickly disappeared after that, and they made their way toward the table. Dodging slaves bringing cups of wine, and the staggering drunkards that emptied said cups.

“I hear there's a very pious sailor who visited every temple in Akilne,” Demnir said as he neared the table. The man, quite tall even though he was currently sitting, had messy dark hair flowing from his head, and made his white teeth shine from under his thick beard. He wore ample linen and leather that didn't hide well the musculature underneath.

“I made these lovely priestesses chant all manner of prayers,” Samaar said at last, with smiling eyes. “Pretty songs and prettier screams even, which could make Viera blush. Please, do have a seat, Demnir the Callirian,” he added, motioning for the empty chair in front of him with his bronze-coloured hand.

Demnir sat, his back facing the dancers. The slave couldn't help but gape at the nimbleness and flexibility of these girls. The flexibility of their legs, and much more... He turned his head and was met with Samaar's amused stare.

“The lad would also like to meet these singers, I reckon. Or is it the dancers?”

“He's easily impressed,” Demnir said nonchalantly, a hint of judgement in his eyes. Nelvel had never felt so embarrassed – his master was perhaps two years younger than him, had all the freedom in the world and enough money to enjoy it, yet managed to keep a perfect composure in this absurdly tempting place.

“And you're not,” the sailor replied, now staring at the noble. “People seldom display that sort of nonchalance when they sit with me. And kids your age usually don't even dare to look in my direction.”

Demnir barely cared to hide his arrogant smile. “Oh, but I precisely came here to be impressed, as a matter of fact. The talk is that you've travelled everywhere around the world, navigated through dangerous seas and heavily guarded harbours.” He laid back into his chair, tilted his head. “The world interests me, and so does anyone with tales about it.”

Samaar chuckled, but it sounded like thunder tearing the skies apart. “Aye, I've travelled. Not everywhere, mind you, but I probably saw more than most men. Been across the Middle Sea, the Grey Sea. Stayed in the ports of the secluded Summer Dominion and the Crescent Isles. Set foot in the southern jungles, and walked the strangest lands I've ever seen in the east.”

“Have you met any hero along the way?”

Nelvel didn't fail to notice the change in Demnir's smile. It was... somewhat eerie. Whether or not Samaar also noticed, there was no hint of it on his face. “Perhaps,” the sailor said, pausing to sip his wine, his eyes following something or someone behind them. A priestess, no doubt. “I thought you'd ask about fairy tales and legends, like the others.”

“Ah, I intend to, of course. Just thought we could start with this.”

“Why don't you ask him about the people he killed?” someone said from behind. Demnir raised a brow, Samaar snorted, Nelvel realised that the sailor's eyes weren't following a charming lady, but some angry drunk man. “Funny seeing you here. Been hearing about you for some time, 'bout how you took it easy and spent your time here with whores and all that.”

“What do you want?” Samaar asked with obvious disinterest in his voice.

The man wore a crooked smile, but it wasn't friendly at all, and his shirt was stained with purple dots, probably spilled from his empty jug. “Did he tell you how he crossed the southern sea? Eh? The brave explorer... Samaar!” he bellowed, and turned around, as if putting up a show for the people in the room. “Left the Vieran cities with five ships, came back with two! Oh, a glorious expedition, for sure! My brother would agree.”

The room was oddly silent now. The dancers had stopped dancing, the customers remembered they had to go home, to their wife and children, if they had any. “Do I know your brother?” Samaar inquired, but Nelvel, and probably everyone else, could already guess where this was going.

“Oh, bet you do. Was from one of your crews. You probably don't even remember his name though. I heard he went mad in the south, when you dumb fuck sailed too close to the Old Temple. Also heard how you cured the madmen. Cured a whole crew of madmen, isn't that amazing? You've got your own way of doing things, eh. Tell us, Samaar, fancy traveller that you are, tell us your way of curing madmen.”

“I cut their throat,” the sailor simply said, putting his empty cup back on the table.

The drunkard pulled out a knife from somewhere and lunged. The empty cup was sent flying, along with a chunk of flesh, and droplets of blood. Samaar barely gave a glance at the bloodied knife that cut through his own finger and got stuck in the wooden table. He grabbed the drunk man by the neck, slammed his head against the table, right next to the knife. The obvious pain caused by his broken nose didn't stop the man from panicking when he saw Samaar's injured hand grabbing the knife and pulling the blade out from the wood. The drunk struggled against the arm pinning him down – he grunted and swung his fists and kicked, until the table was knocked over.

Probably fearing Samaar's wrath, and now on the ground, he tried to crawl away, only to receive the sailor's boot on the skull. Samaar looked down at the man at his feet, then grunted before glancing around. “Get him out of my sight,” he commanded to one of the few who had dared to stay, perhaps hoping to see a good fight. The sailor examined the knife that cut him. Apparently decided to keep it, because he cleaned it.

The drunk, grieving, and now unconscious brother was dragged away, out of the room, and Samaar eventually sat back, observing his severed finger. Demnir hadn't moved at all, still comfortably seated, arms and legs crossed, and simply glanced at the half-broken table next to him.

Samaar called out to a servant girl, motioned for the table and for his empty cup on the ground. “Pour me wine, child. Bring more of that fine grape from the Summer Dominion, that'll do.” The shivering girl obeyed, replaced the table, picked up the cup, and brought a new amphora, while the sailor cut a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around his shortened finger.

Samaar took a single sip from his cup and slammed it back on the table. “It's the wrong one, you fucking fool!” he bellowed, spitting the wine out, his odd calmness suddenly gone. “Don't you dare serving me crap, I said I wanted a bloody Summer wine!”

“My, my,” Demnir said at last, with these amused grey eyes of his. “Don't be too hard on the girl, friend. Are wines from the Dominion so good they're worth getting upset over?”

The sailor clicked his tongue and sighed. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, they certainly are.”

“I'll have a taste too,” the noble decided, nodding to the frightened girl whose shaking hands looked like they could drop the amphora anytime.

“It's on me,” Samaar said. “As an apology for the trouble.”

“No, no, don't bother. It's been most pleasant! We were speaking of heroes, yes?”

Samaar grunted, nodded, fiddled with his aching finger. “...There was a girl in Tehen, in the arena. Had a sword-shaped mark on her hand. Could have been a fake, could have been the real thing, I don't know. She's a killer for sure, though. Never seen someone dance around like that. At first I thought she had red ribbons wrapped around her wrists or something like that. Turns out it was blood swirling around her as she kept cutting down people, over and over... A real dancer, I tell you.”

“It's said that Sazin does like dancers.”

“Heard he likes big swords and blacksmiths the most,” the sailor replied, shrugging. “That's why Sazin's temple, in Tehen, is a giant armoury of sorts. There's isn't a corridor where you don't hear the clashing steel or the sizzling coals. Temples sure are a funny thing, when you think about it. There are some where we pray, marry, hope for better days. Then, in some, we fight and smith, and in others, we sleep. My favourite kind, though, are the Vieran temples, no doubt.”

“Where you can hear the sweetest of choirs and learn that prayers can get fairly unholy.”

“Oh, certainly,” Samaar said with a chuckle. “Well, anyhow. That's all I know about heroes.”

“Hmm.” Demnir tasted the Summer wine that the girl had just poured, and nodded. “Quite good indeed. Perhaps I should buy and sell some.”

“Aye, you could. If you ever travel to the Dominion, come and see me. They export a lot, yet they rarely let foreigners in... but I know places, and I know people. Well, even though I say this, I doubt I'll be coming back in Akilne in the near future. Made enough enemies here during this first visit.”

“Where are you headed next?”

Samaar took a sip and let out a deep, long breath. “...Ocia, perhaps. I've been wanting to see it one last time, and with all the talks of blockade and war, I feel like I should go before it's too late.”

“Indeed, it would be a shame to wait until Ocia is filled with dead bodies and burnt houses.” Demnir said that nonchalantly, but Samaar squinted his eyes. “Hopefully it won't come to that,” he added.

“...Hopefully.”

“Well, I wouldn't want to take too much of your time,” the noble eventually said, getting up. He finished his wine quickly and placed a silver coin on the table. “Especially when your time in Akilne is limited.” As his hand pushed the coin forward, he revealed another one underneath. “I certainly hope to finish this conversation before you leave. Perhaps you could come by to greet us, this time. I'd be delighted to show you my workshop.”

Samaar stared in Demnir's eyes, and the noble stared back. The sailor nodded at last, and as they left, Nelvel heard him calling out for more wine. The slave had been fearing that a bunch of mean-looking henchmen would show up, but there had been no such thing. Famous establishments like the Tainted Temple probably had the protection of powerful people, in which case nobody would ever have the dumb idea of making a commotion here. If Samaar expected trouble later on, he didn't seem worried about it.

What's one more enemy for a guy like him, after all, Nelvel concluded, while he tried to look for the pretty girl he saw earlier now that they were in the entrance hall. Alas, she was nowhere to be seen. He couldn't help but imagine her riding some fat old man, her beautiful hair swaying with each grunt of her customer, whose hairy hands groped her soft, white flesh.

“You look bitter,” Demnir observed once they were outside.

“Maybe I am,” Nelvel casually replied as he readied the horse. The noble mounted and looked at the slave, as if he expected him to say more. “What's your angle with this Samaar guy?” he improvised.

Demnir rubbed his chin. “Ah.”

“Or were you so curious about his stories that you travelled here, endured the filth and the noise, which I know you dislike, only to leave after hearing a couple of anecdotes?”

Demnir had a good, long laugh, after which he spurred his horse forward, knowing Nelvel would follow. “Believe me or not, but I am genuinely interested in his stories. Today's visit was just to see whether I could expect many more opportunities to hear him out.”

Nelvel frowned, as he always did when he felt his master had thought up a new gamble. “Please, explain further.”

“It would be a shame not to take advantage of Ocia being besieged.”

“Aren't you already taking advantage of it?” By selling weapons to the future besiegers, he continued in his mind, knowing it would sound like a complaint if he said it out loud. “You already secured whatever profit you could make.”

“Only half of it. Making money with the Paarese is good. Making money with both the Paarese, and Ocia, that's much better. And I've been meaning to extend this business beyond woodwork and metalwork.” Nelvel said no word, waiting for Demnir to carry on. He didn't like the sound of it, yet he was curious. “I wanted to judge if our new friend Samaar could help us smuggle a few things in Ocia, right before the siege. I gather he's much more than the stateless, ruthless, whore-loving pirate he wants everyone to see him as – but what I think, most of all, is that he's a competent man who wouldn't cause us trouble if we were to bring weapons and rare commodities on board.”

“Wait, bring? On board? We, you said?”

“Why, of course,” Demnir said. “We'll be visiting Ocia soon. There's quite a lot of things we need to buy before then. Rejoice, Nelvel, we'll end up with such a wealth, you'll have no trouble paying as often as you want for that lovely courtesan you seem to have fallen in love with.”