“Regheon the Wise was a famous Daeli astronomer and a talented architect whose castles are still reputed impregnable today, but let us not forget that he had also been gifted with a keen insight in human nature. His life should be a model for anyone studying the art of diplomacy, as well as the psychological wonders of siege warfare.

-Euronel, Treatise on Warfare and Politics”

* * *

Demnir

He wandered on the ship, the wood creaking with each step. Running his fingers along an oak crate smelling of perfume from the Summer Dominion, stroking with his hand a canvas bag stinking of spices and dried herbs imported from Callir.

“This is taking longer than I expected,” Demnir said as he stepped aside to dodge a pair of slaves carrying a chest bound with bronze.

Walking next to him, Nelvel scoffed and motioned for the merchandise. “This is much more than I expected.” Samaar's ships were indeed quite filled with all manner of things, but Demnir simply shrugged in response.

“It's the least we can do if we hope to make a nice profit in Ocia.”

“It better be worth it,” Nelvel grumbled. “You've already spent most of the money we made with Zeron and the Paarese. Parts for trebuchets, ballistas, and plans for these strange towers of yours... That's a lot of silver.”

As expected from these rogue groups of Paarese agents, they were more interested in plans and instructions rather than weaponry ready for use. Travelling with siege engines isn't just slow and unpractical, it's also as conspicuous as it gets. Conspicuousness was the last thing attackers wanted when they were forced to travel on enemy land.

While Demnir was busy thinking up ways to sell his inventions to the Paarese, rather than being politely forced to accompany them as an engineer, interesting news came from the north. The Vierans had started to cut down the forests around Ocia. Some were even set on fire. Since then, it was quite clear that Ocia was already taking countermeasures for a siege. Taking away the resources and materials that would certainly have been used by the Paarese to build siege engines, was probably just one of the many preparations on the Vieran side.

As far as Demnir was concerned, for now it had simply been a new selling argument his Paarese customers couldn't refute. He had hoped for a larger order, but there was only so many parts Zeron's group could smuggle across the Vieran city-states. Still, it was a lot of silver indeed.

“Yes,” Demnir eventually said with a nod, “it's as you say. It would be a shame to stop here.”

“Should have sticked with selling them siege engines, if you ask me...”

Demnir stopped and faced him. “But I'm not asking you,” he said coldly. The slave was getting a bit too comfortable with his objections lately, and Demnir knew that masters should never let their slaves act too friendly. Lest they forget their place. Seeing Nelvel's frozen expression, Demnir smiled from ear to ear, perfectly aware that it would unnerve the slave even more. “Besides, I never had the opportunity to ask for your opinion. Not a day goes by without you reminding me of your disapproval. I highly encourage you to voice your opinions, but don't test my patience by insisting on matters we already discussed.”

Nelvel muttered something that could have either been an insult or an apology, and they kept roaming the ship, overseeing the slaves loading the merchandise. Nelvel would occasionally receive word from the old Vieric, and then scribble something on his wax tablet.

From luxury goods like rare wines, fine perfumes and costly spices, to the most basic dearies like bread, onions and potatoes, Demnir watched as his recent purchases were loaded on the two ships Samaar owned. The sailor himself was busy instructing his crew, and getting the ships ready. He noticed Demnir and Nelvel, and gestured to them.

“How is it going, then?” Samaar wondered once they had reached him.

Demnir gave Nelvel a glance, and the slave cleared his throat. “We've loaded four crates of Callirian pepper, four crates of Summer spices, err...” He went through his notes, his eyes darting from one tablet to another. “Half a dozen crates of Summer wines, and as many from Tehen and Callir... We're halfway done with the cheese, the perfume, and the-”

“Summer wines,” Samaar interrupted. “Only half a dozen crates? I'd have loaded a hundred or two of these, if I were you.”

Demnir snorted. “I don't plan on getting half the city blind drunk when they're supposed to defend against the Paarese threat.”

“No, you don't,” Samaar replied, staring with his piercing eyes as if he was trying to see through Demnir's mind. “Only the wealthy bastards eh?”

He answered the sailor's stare with a shrug. “Who else? They've got a lot to lose. They'll be under a lot of stress.”

“I wonder who they'll have to thank for that. I've heard that carpenters and smiths all across the city have been busy working on some... heavy furniture. Your name came up more than once.” Truth be told, the same thing probably happened everywhere in the other city-states, and a man like Samaar was surely aware. “It reminds me of that story, with the healer and the cure. Ever heard it?”

“Can't say I have. But I sense I'm about to.”

“There was a healer, in the far east, who settled in a rich town, and got friendly with the locals as the years went by. One day, a terrible disease struck the town, and no matter what they did, the doctors couldn't find a cure. Then the healer, who had already been accepted by everyone even though he was a foreigner, came up with a remedy. Only he claimed there was only so many people he could save with the amount of medicine he had. The town was a prosperous one, as I said, and the richest people were quick to use their wealth to get their hands on the medicine.”

“And so the healer became the richest man in town,” Demnir continued.

“He sure did.” An odd smile crept up on Samaar's face. “But then, just as everyone too poor to afford this limited remedy feared they would die, the disease somehow vanished. What do you think happened next?”

Demnir chuckled and raised a finger. “The people figured they were tricked by the healer.” Samaar looked surprised for half a second, but regained his composure almost immediately.

“Right,” he concluded nonchalantly, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Well, they gutted him in the end.” Hearing that, Demnir simply smiled, but Nelvel was anxiously glancing away. Samaar did not miss that and let out an explosive laugh, startling the slave at the same time. “Well, well, don't mind me. As long as I have my share... 'Twas just a bit of advice from someone who saw it all. The ones who succeed in this business are those who don't hesitate to get every advantage they can.”

“I'm perfectly aware, don't worry about it. Not everybody is as foolish as that healer of yours.”

Samaar gave him another stare, which definitely seemed to be his preferred way of intimidation. Before it could turn into a contest of sorts, one of Samaar's men called him for help. The sailor grunted and left Demnir and Nelvel amongst the crates and the slaves.

“I don't get it,” Nelvel muttered. “Did they kill him because they found out he had more medicine than he claimed to have, or because they felt he should have given it for free?”

“Hmm...” Demnir rubbed his chin, staring into the eastern horizon. From the port, he could see the occasional fishing boat in the distance. Despite the folklore and the legends, it seemed the fishermen were no longer afraid of the grey gods lurking in the sea. And if they are, they're certainly brave. He looked back to Nelvel. “That's one way to see it.”

“How do you see it, then?” the slave replied, almost annoyed.

“...Diseases don't simply vanish. Not suddenly and without explanation, anyway. I think the healer was responsible for the disease. He was a foreigner, wasn't he? And a traveller. He must have had knowledge the town didn't have, and he could have brought something nasty with him. Something only he would know how to cure in this land.”

“The locals would have suspected him, in that case...”

“Exactly, and that is why he waited a few years in order to gain their trust. Once he was a part of their community, he unleashed whatever scourge he could control, and it made him wealthy.”

Nelvel frowned. “Why was he caught, then? Rather, how could he be caught, after all this planning?”

“Maybe because in the end, he couldn't bear to let all these people die just to satisfy his greed. He wouldn't have been caught if he hadn't stopped the disease.”

They walked for a bit in silence, Nelvel occasionally scribbling notes on his tablet. “It's a twisted way of seeing things,” the slave eventually said.

“I think it's a kind one,” Demnir said with a shrug. “At the very end, something got in the way of his greed. Morals, perhaps... Guilt, most likely.”

“Yeah, I wonder if there's anything kind about a man being gutted because he felt guilty about infecting an entire town,” Nelvel mocked, rolling his eyes.

“Well, it's just a story, anyway. Samaar probably came up with it to make a point. The healer failed at the last moment because he was either incompetent, indecisive, or weak-hearted, and our good friend merely hopes I won't do the same mistake because he needs me alive and rich if I'm going to pay him handsomely.”

No matter how amusing or scary this little story was meant to be, it didn't teach me anything new. Demnir never had any intention to let such things get in his way. In the way of profit. He needed money, he needed the power that came with it. He needed a lot, and he needed it quick. Right now, Ocia was the fastest way.

The majority of the profit, however, wouldn't really come from the elite enjoying smoked salt and exotic fruits and whatnot while their city was besieged. The most valuable thing Demnir would be smuggling in Ocia was, without a doubt, his mind – his very specific knowledge of dangerous herbalism and siege engines. Both fields that would certainly find many willing investors in a besieged city filled with rich merchants and nervous nobles...

The heavy crates these poor slaves were getting all sweaty for were merely a bonus. Had Nelvel known that, he'd probably ask, why go to such lengths? Because I can, Demnir would then answer. It was also a way to make him look the part of a regular merchant, in case Samaar failed to smuggle the goods in Ocia and they had to deal with the blockade.

“How thrilling,” he muttered almost joyously. Nelvel gave him a strange look, but said nothing. Still, nothing was decided yet. The Paarese may have bought Demnir's inventions, but unless they put it to use, his journey to Ocia was somewhat meaningless. He had to make sure the Paarese resorted to besieging the city, or at least, bait them into doing so, and he had to make sure it lasted long enough for him to profit. Get every advantage I can. He let out a sigh, and decided to write the letter he had been thinking about for a while. He wasn't eager to involve Rina, especially when he knew she would never refuse him anything, even if it meant getting dragged in a pointless conflict. But in the end, just like him, she would benefit from it. “Fetch me ink and paper, Nelvel.”

The slave complied, took the tools out of a leather pouch. Demnir flattened the scroll atop a wooden crate and began to write. Moments later, he handed it over to Nelvel for waxing and whatnot. “Where should I send it?” Nelvel asked.

Demnir gave him a long, thoughtful stare. Surely, it was better to keep him in the dark about these dramatic and unavoidable developments for now. As good as Nelvel's acting was, Demnir had found that even the best actors often paled against true unwitting pawns. He'll figure it out by himself eventually, but... “You can read it, if you want,” Demnir said, studying the slave's expression. “Then you'll know.”

Nelvel's confusion quickly turned into curiosity, then cautiousness. He perhaps wondered if this was a trick or a trap. Or maybe he felt there was no going back if he decided to read it – and rightfully so. In the end, he never set his eyes on it, instead rolled it tightly and waited for Demnir's instructions.

“We'll not send it, Nelvel. Instead, Vieric shall bring it to Callir in person.”

“...As you wish.”

Vieric would have to be mindful of his accent and his manners, but Demnir was confident the middle-aged slave would manage to give Rina the letter. It wasn't something he could risk Phiramel intercepting, this time, and if Vieric followed his instructions carefully, then it was a much safer option to deliver it by hand.

The Vieran slave also had another important job, one that he would do before leaving Akilne and riding toward Callir while the rest of them would be on their way to Ocia. Nelvel wasn't aware, obviously. He'd surely be against burning down the workshop. He was content with it, after all. That was because Nelvel wouldn't understand the merchant's way. He wasn't fully committed. This act needs to be perfect, and if even the slightest detail can help me convince the lords and ladies of Ocia that I'm on their side... Nelvel and the healer who got himself gutted, they were the same kind. They did things half-heartedly. Demnir, though?

He was a merchant prince.