The Old City

0.57: The Merchant's Friend

After a few years, we controlled eighty per cent of the black market. Marek was obsessed with growing his empire, identifying anyone we could bring in to strengthen the network. We found more and more buyers and sellers and really made them into something. By the time of the Occupation, anyone who wanted to sell came to Marek first to pay tribute. They would find no willing customers without his blessing, for nobody wanted to cross the Merchant.

I still cannot believe he is dead.

The First Ring of Soran, five years ago.

"If you're not careful, you might start enjoying yourself."

Firkaan hated that smirk, perfected over time to convey Marek's cocksure attitude and the hint that he saw something more than he did. But the merchant was not wrong. Life in Soran was more pleasant than the one he'd known on the Shiorah. They never worried about water, and he'd finally built a tolerance for seafood, though a taste for crustaceans, those damn bugs of the ocean, never came.

"Whatever would we do if you stopped brooding all the time?"

"You might need to find a productive outlet for that big mouth, for lack of a reliable punching bag."

Marek gave one of his overexaggerated laughs. The bastard.

"I thought you would have left by now. Gone back to the desert or just moved on. I cannot for the life of me understand why you chose to stay, but I appreciate it. We never could have carved a place for ourselves here without your strength.

"One of us takes our debts more seriously than the other."

"You know that I have no creditors."

"And you know what I mean, damn it."

"Surely you get something else out of this. If it were me and I were staying in a foreign city to accomplish someone else's goal, I would have found something worthwhile to keep me here. People only ever look out for their own interests, so yours must have aligned with mine at some point."

Firkaan lifted a pipe and tapped it against his fire crystal, watching sparks jump from the red rock onto the dried celak and those embers lighting it with a warm glow. He waited a moment then puffed on the pipe to keep it going and took a long drag.

"This is my home now. Is it so strange that I just want to enjoy living here, in this foreign place away from the people I grew up with? They never wanted me. They thought I brought bad luck. I always broke things and got into fights. I'd started to think they were right. Misfortune has followed me my whole life, but here, I can forget about it most days."

"That is lunacy. You have brought me nothing but fortune since the day I saved your sorry ass. Do not regret who you are because some small-town hicks bullied you. There is no place in the Silver Bears for a self-deprecating lieutenant. If anything, you are our good luck charm, wolf. I had half a mind to call us the Silver Wolves, but that would have made everyone think you were the Gang Lord, and we cannot have that."

Marek was glaring coldly at Firkaan from the couch, as though challenging him to doubt himself. How could he argue with someone who believed in him like that? He couldn't put up much of a fight, but he wouldn't give in to Marek just yet.

"Changing the name would have cost me an arm and a leg. You are not the type to give that away for free."

"Perhaps not. But I am in a benevolent mood, and you clearly need motivation. Is there anything you would ask of me?"

Firkaan laughed and handed Marek the pipe. "I am a simple man. I already have more than I ever dreamed of wanting. I only want this to continue. I want the Silver Bears to grow, to take over more and more of the First Ring."

The merchant took a drag of the pipe and puffed a few smoke rings. "Very well. But tell me if something does catch your eye. We can make anything happen, you and I."

***

Rooftop near the Rose Path, present day.

Firkaan wiped his eyes, forcing the red away, and focused on Marcus and the prostitute. She confused him. A concoction of foreign perfumes and aphrodisiacs stuffed his nose, but he could still smell her fear. And her attraction to Marcus. However much she tried to hide it, her glands gave her away. He was important to her, and she to him.

Then she had to die.

Firkaan stalked forward. He remembered every hunt from his days on the Horn. He recalled every jeer and stare from those that should have been his community. Then came the words of encouragement from his one friend, as though he'd spoken anew...being saved...being respected and feared, not just feared and loathed...building a home.

The bastards are in my grasp, Marek. I will not fail you this time.

***

Nearby rooftop, the same time.

Timoleon ran his pocketknife along an apple and cut off a slice, which he slid into his mouth. It was a controlled motion to keep all of the sweet fruit's juices inside its flesh.

Control. Patience. Observation. This was how Timoleon approached all aspects of his life.

Will Firkaan win this bout or not? Who is the woman with the new Gang Lord? Where is the rest of his gang?

He had decided not to intervene to help the wolf. He could better assess the other mage, his true enemy, if Firkaan fought to the death. The possibility of losing such a powerful tool bothered him slightly, but the knowledge he would gain was immeasurably more valuable. Already, he had a breakthrough.

Do you recognize that weapon? Timoleon asked.

A powerful voice boomed in his mind, causing him to blink. It felt like thunder, rioting inside his skull. Yet he knew she was trying to be soft for his sake, tempering her curiosity. He appreciated that, but there was only so much an Ancient Weapon could do to subdue its own power.

I do not know him, but he is one of us.

Timoleon nodded, cutting another slice of apple. Another of his suspicions confirmed.

They do not seem particularly capable.

Of course not. They are not compatible. Not like us. That child has no idea how to use him.

Then we should ensure he never learns. He could become quite the threat if he did.