David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

Together, the six were the Merchant Lords of Angelport. Their landholdings were few, not worthy of an official lord title, but they owned nearly every fleet that sailed the great blue, and that made them powerful beyond measure. With power derived from their wealth and ships, not position or birth, Ulrich knew every single one sported a chip on their shoulder and a desire to prove their influence. He himself was no exception. Every meeting of the Merchant Lords was a great clash of egos. For someone like Ulrich, it was also great fun.

“Things have changed since our last meeting,” Warrick said, always one to keep things on task. “First and foremost, we welcome a new man to our table. Listen well, Flint, and ask questions if you must. We do not know how much your father told you of our dealings, and would prefer you to make wise decisions instead of rash, unfounded ones just to hide your ignorance.”

“Thank you,” Flint said, bowing his head respectfully. “I will do my best to be a boon to this council.”

“Keep the cum cleaned out of your ears, and you’ll be a better man than your father,” Durgo said. Ulrich hid his laugh with his palm. Flint flushed red and said nothing. William had been considered one of the more slow-minded merchants, and poorly received by the other five. His death was no great loss.

“Let us not show disrespect to the dead,” Stern said, his harsh tone startling the rest. “Besides, his death is why we’re here. Twice now this man known as the Wraith has struck at us, first my daughter, and now William. What are we to do about it?”

“What can we do about it?” asked Arren, picking at one of his smooth fingernails. “The Keenans have already put out a tremendous bounty, and his mercenaries have scoured every corner of every street. If he’s not been found yet, there’s little we can do to help matters.”

“We are masters of places in Angelport the Trifect doesn’t even know exist,” Durgo said. “I say we put up our own bounty, as well as some of our men. I won’t be losing my head next.”

“We’re ignoring the larger question,” Warrick said, and he squinted in the candlelight. “Why has he targeted us at all? I thought the Trifect perhaps hired him, but then why kill Laurie’s son?”

“What about Ingram?” Flint asked. The others sighed or rolled their eyes, with only Warrick remaining patient.

“Lord Murband’s rule on Angelport is tenuous at best,” the old man explained. “He would not dare make enemies of both us and the Trifect. With just temporary cooperation, we could cast him out with nary a bead of sweat on our brows.”

“Then what of the elves?” Ulrich asked. “Perhaps they wish to weaken our resolve?”

“Perhaps,” Arren said. “But then why kill their ambassador, and maim another outside the city?”

Ulrich shrugged.

“Elves are liars. We have little proof that events transpired as they claim.”

Warrick shook his head, and lifted his hand so the others would pause for him to speak.

“No,” he said. “I fear we have a murderer who owes allegiance to none. He kills elves, Trifect, and merchants alike. In this, he is a greater threat than any other we have faced. He has made no demands, offered no ransoms, and left us guessing his motives. We must have him hunted down and killed. I call for the hiring of skilled men to end this threat. Do any object?”

None did, for despite their bickering, Ulrich knew that a threat against one was a threat against all. It couldn’t be allowed. Warrick called over a servant with a ream of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. He carefully recorded Warrick’s orders, then faded back into the shadows among the walls. As the discussion stalled, Ulrich called for more wine. For some reason, he found himself incredibly thirsty, and the strawberry flavor tasted divine on his tongue.

“Putting aside this Wraith,” Warrick said, “we have another test of our influence. Our men scour the Quellan Forest for Violet, but our casualties increase daily, and the amount brought back is too little for real exportation. We stand at a crossroads. Either we receive significant concessions from the elves, reach an acceptable trade agreement, or abandon the project altogether. Tomorrow we meet with Ingram, the Trifect, and the new elven representative. Come then, we must decide our most profitable fate.”

“Ingram is easily manipulated,” Arren said. “I have no fears there.”

“What of the Trifect?” Durgo asked, looking to the two Blackwater brothers.

“Laurie’s shaken up by the loss of his son,” Ulrich said, stealing a glance at Stern. “I think he’ll side with whatever ends this nonsense the quickest. As for Alyssa…that girl is lightning with tits. There’s no predicting her.”

“And the elves?” asked Warrick.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stern said, looking as if he were forcing himself out of a daze. “Long as we keep the right lords in our pocket, Ingram will never cease encroaching upon the elven lands, sending demands, and putting our people at the brink of war. The elves will eventually appease us, or risk extermination in a long, bloody conflict.”

“And what if they choose war?” Flint asked.

“A good question,” said Arren. “Surely a middle ground would be easier for the elves to accept. We need not grow the Violet ourselves if the elves give it willingly.”

Ulrich shook his head.

“Already we are slaves to the Trifect and their control of the crimleaf,” he said. “We cannot place ourselves in the same position, not if we can help it. Besides, you exaggerate the effect wars would have on our pocketbooks. We’d profit from it, like we profit from everything. Now if you’ll forgive my audacity, I request the right to represent us tomorrow at the meeting.”

“You?” Warrick asked, lifting his bushy eyebrows. “Why is that?”

Ulrich thought of Zusa, and how she would most likely be with Alyssa, or at least nearby.

“Because we need someone who won’t put up with shit from anyone,” he said. “You all know I’m the one for that.”

“Perhaps I would be better for so delicate a matter,” Arren said.

“Shut it, Goldsail,” said Ulrich. “This isn’t a barter, not anymore. It’s time we make demands, and make them realize we control this city. I want my Violet. Once we have it, everything else crumbles at our feet. Ingram, the Trifect, the elves…I won’t risk losing a single scrap of that victory. Put it to a vote, now.”

Warrick shrugged his bony shoulders.

“All who favor Ulrich Blackwater speaking for the Merchant Lords, lift your hand.”

Flint was first, immediately endearing the kid to Ulrich, who of course voted for himself. Two more, he thought, glancing about the table. Arren refused to meet his eyes, which was answer enough. Warrick stayed back, to vote last as he always did. Durgo crossed his arms, not looking pleased at all. Stern finally lifted his hand, and Ulrich tried to hold back his anger at such a delay. How could his own brother not trust him so?

“Will there be any others?” Warrick asked. “Then so be it. I cast my vote for you as well, Ulrich, though I do so with a heavy heart. It is one thing to chase gold, another to be blinded by it. The Violet may bring us wealth unimaginable, but it also may lead us to our doom. Acknowledge that threat.”

“Of course,” Ulrich said, all smiles.

The major issues decided, they closed a few more minor points of contention, then ended the meeting. As Ulrich was heading out, last to arrive and first to leave as always, Flint hurried to catch up with him.

“I’m not scared of war,” Flint said, earning him a raised eyebrow.

“Is that so?” Ulrich asked, a little puzzled.

“I just, I asked back there only because I’m still trying to learn. But I’m not my father. I am not afraid of the elves. No matter what they say, I know they killed my…I have no intention of making deals with those backstabbing monsters. Whatever you need, know the Amours are behind you.”