The Songs of Loss, book one : Armanth

Chapter 1 : The seeker

Evening was shedding its last light on the immense port, which seemed endless, and looked as if it would engulf the whole of Armanth Bay in a forest of masts. Inland, as far as the eye could see over the tightly clustered roofs of the blocks of tall houses, the city-state stretched out, leaping from canals to islets to hills. Built on the lagoon, the city spanned the middle of the Argas River, and sloped gently upwards between gardens and woods to nibble away at the cliff face that acted as a natural rampart for the city's entire northern facade.

Armanth is the largest commercial port on the Mares Saeparent, the Seas of Separation, whose shores are home to the vast majority of Loss's cities and city-states. Armanth is the second largest in the entire northern hemisphere; at least for those on this planet who know that, under the sky still barred by the foggy, bluish immensity of the Ortentia Moon, their world is a sphere.

And so the sun came to die, shedding its last rays on the wooden terrace of an unadorned tavern. A dockers' and sailors' pub, it literally had its feet in the water. At this hour, a faded but bold and not clumsy slave girl was dancing on a sandy dance floor, trying her best to entertain her few spectators. There weren't half a dozen customers to linger over her. All weary from their day's work, they were enjoying the mild evening after a hot, exhausting summer's day. As the day drew to a close, a welcome fresh breeze blew away the pungent stench coming from the city of over a million souls.

Standing on the terrace, nonchalantly leaning against the railing, disdaining tables and stools as usual and probably the only one to show any real interest in the dancer, Jawaad sipped a cup of tea he'd never be able to finish, so vile was it. His customary solitary contemplation, taking advantage of these silences to immerse himself in reflections which, to the dismay of those close to him, could sometimes last an entire day, was interrupted by one of the tavern's drunken customers who, after leaving the counter with a gait that left no doubt as to his condition, joined him on the terrace. He planted himself in front of him after observing him for a good while, capsizing a little on his feet:

"That's quite a piece of jewelry you've got there."

"And?"

Jawaad deigned to leave his thoughts and lifted his gaze from his cup of infamous brew, to survey the intruder. He towered over his interlocutor by half a head, which was quite common for Armanth; he was seen as a tall man. His face bore the features of a dark-skinned half-breed. He appeared to be half Athemaïc, the regional ethnic group, and half Nordic blood; one might have dared to compare him to a dragensmann or a hegemonian. An aura of impassivity and unreadable expressions further accentuated the sort of arrogant nonchalance he constantly displayed. A dark, incisive gaze, a three-day beard and a mane of neat but deliberately messy black hair, loosely held back by a catogan, completed the picture. His deftly feigned languor emanated a hunter's aura; something notoriously feline, clearly evoking the predator. If the Lossyans had been lions and other big cats, he could have been a leopard. One who knows that his strength lies in his ability to strike with a single blow, without mercy or warning.

As a further paradox, his only weapon was a working cutlass laced to his bicep in its scabbard. If Armanthians aren't frequently armed, then they're usually much better than that. He wore sober black clothes: a kilt of thick leather and linen straps over pants, held in place by a wide belt with pockets overflowing with various tools, and a simple vest, discreetly embroidered, open over his bare torso. No one unfamiliar with fabrics and fashions could see the richness or quality of his finery. In the end, the only thing he wore was a pendant the size of a large coin, held by a chain around her neck and which, up close, resembled a complex astrolabe whose pattern would have perplexed any astronomer. The jewel appeared to be made of bright, shining silver, encased in a rose-gold shrine. Clearly, the intruder, drunk as a skunk, was fixating all his attention on the rich finery in question.