The Soft Touch Of Sunlight (Closed)

[Leopold]

The Soft Touch Of Sunlight (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jKVcVioRKMs&feature=relmfu)

2625


Set after Hire & Hire He Rose (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?24013-Hire-And-Hire-He-Rose-(Closed)&highlight=hire+and+hire), and By Rook, Wrath & Ruin (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23980-By-Rook-Wrath-amp-Ruin-(Solo)&highlight=by+rook).

Closed to Of Two Minds (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?17407-Jeren-Silster-(Syrian-DeVries)).

Come, let me speak,
Of times indeed,
Not in spite but as decreed.
Of places unravelled,
Of people dishevelled,
Of a world so soon to bleed.

I try and see,
All of the motions,
Enjoy the sunlit notions.
But I fear,
Through all this fear,
That happiness, it is lost on me.

Fly, fly away,
I will not listen.
My eyes with tears they glisten.
You try with each word
Each time that I’ve heard,
Your attempt with love to seed.

The Preacher's Prayer, by Cydney Oliver.

[Leopold]

Winter was a harsh time on Salvar’s already shattered populous. When the snows started to thicken, and the soft touch of sunlight began to dwindle in warmth and sustenance, the ramshackle ruins of Knife’s Edge became icy tombs for the weak and feeble. As time went on, and more snow fell, the landscape changed dramatically. The needle spires of the multitude of cathedrals and churches throughout the city became nothing more than totems for the hopeless. The grandiose architecture became frosted epitaphs to long faded glory. Inns, taverns, and whore houses found their insides heavily occupied, and fires roared long into the night and through to dawn.

Seated comfortably in a small office on the outskirts of the city, a building which overlooked the eastern wall and the imposing immensity of the Ahyark Mountains, Leopold reflected further on the perilous season of his home from home. Whilst the merchant was all too fond of Salvar’s Ice Wine, its game hunting, and it’s ravaging beauty, he was struggling to find a reason to stay here during the darker days. He was pale enough in complexion without residing in a country where the sun shone for but a few hours of each woefully short day.

“Tell me, Jeren, what you know of the Church of the Sway?” he looked up from the ledger he was immersed in for just long enough to convey his interest in the matter. The newest caravan guard to join the Winchester Rose Trading Company had expressed a keen intellect and enthusiasm Leopold was very glad for in the economic recession of war. “Make no mistake; I am not a man of faith. There is nothing you can say that would offend me that concern the shattered priests of Denebriel’s coven.” He bit his lip, hoping he had not come across too poisonous of riddled with contempt.

In the few short months since Jeren had joined the Company, he had accompanied the Winchesters north into Berevar. There, he had parlayed with the Old Gods, saved Leopold’s life, and gained enough leverage and favour amongst the other guards of the caravans under Leopold’s control to have earned himself a recommendation. Never one to fall sway to praise so soon, Leopold had simply folded up the parchment gingerly, slipped it into his in-tray, and put it to rest. Whilst he was impressed with the man’s dedication both to his work, and to Leopold, there was a long way yet to go before he earned a promotion.

“The Church, Leopold? Might I ask why you ask?” he said flatly. The voice was resonant of a duality Leopold had come to understand in their time together. Syrian was fighting in the innards of Jeren’s mind to put across his own concern. He half wished they were two separate people sometimes or at least, that they had two separate mouths through which to entertain and enthral. “Or should I simply bow and concede to your request,” Syrian clearly sniped. Leopold chuckled at the struggling personalities.

“Now, Syrian, let us not be hasty to be distrustful.” With a sigh, the merchant flapped the cover of the ledger closed. It thudded softly as air was squeezed from it like a bellows before it fell silent. With a grunt, Leopold shunted it forwards, sliding it’s leather bound form over the roughshod edge of the rickety, oak plank desk that served as his office when not in residence in Scara Brae. “I have a new contract I wish to give to you. I want to make sure you are up to speed with the state of affairs here in Knife’s Edge before I do so.” He glared at Jeren’s mysteriously deep eyes. “If you do not wish to answer, I more than understand.” He leant back into his chair which creaked under his weight.

With dry contention, Syrian delved back into Jeren’s mind, leaving the swordsman to his own devices. There was a clear as day grimace on the man’s face as he worked to try and recall what little he knew of the Church. With a flick of his calm hands, he tucked the long, highlighted, and shoulder length back behind his ears and rolled his neck. The journey from the southern steppes that morning had clearly taken its toll. From what little Leopold remembered of their previous day’s work together, the journey had been difficult to say the least.

[Leopold]

“It was the power base behind Salvar’s theocracy before the civil war.” Jeren examined Leopold’s expression for signs of pleasure, acceptance, or mistake. When the merchant only smiled weakly, he fumbled and bumbled to add to his statement. “Lead by the demi-god Denebriel, it was brought down by prominent ‘heroes’ and its presence in Knife’s Edge was shattered.” He tucked back his hair again, and then rested his palms crossed on his lap. Outside of the informality of their first encounter in their interview, there was no glass to cling to with which to stem his nerves, and no wine to sedate his spinning, haunted, and ruptured mind.

“Excellent, that is really all I was looking for.” Leopold pulled open the small drawer to his right, and produced from within a folded piece of standard sized parchment. It was sealed with a red wax circle, stamped with a rose, and scented with Ruby’s favourite lavender perfume. “We get requests for all manner of purchases, shipments, and protection for lucrative and entirely honest deals almost on a daily basis. They come from as far as Fallien, Akashima, and Alerar. They are usually not worth out time, so we trade sale them to larger companies who have the resources to undertake such heavy workloads.” He set the paper down onto the desk and slid it forward with a bent finger.

As dawn broke over the Ahyark, sun streamed furtively across the jagged peaks of the snow drift capital. It cascaded through the slums, over the remnants of the Grand Cathedral itself, until finally it smashed against the Winchester Rose Trading Outpost and broke through the large bay windows that looked to the east. Leopold snapped his gaze to the opening, and relished the soft touch of the morning’s chorus for a moment. Though the forty foot by thirty foot gallery office was heated with an ember laden hearth to their left, he clung to fleeting heat whilst it lasted.

“Where do I come in?” Syrian interrupted, impatient enough to intrude on his employer’s relaxation. “I assume that is such a request?” he added, clearly disgruntled, and too loathsome of Jeren’s meekness to beat around the bush.

Leopold dropped his gaze back to his employee and smiled warmly. With a gruff scratch of his wiry beard, he nodded enthusiastically, sagely, and with heart. He extended his arm and pushed the parchment to the very opposite edge of the desk, and when he leant back, he gestured for Jeren to take it.

“The Church of the Sway, of all the god forsaken whores of industry to come to our door, has requested our services.” The very thought left a foul taste in the Old God’s mouth. The sand blasted walls of the office seemed gloriously welcoming all of a sudden, as if the thought of leaving the sanctuary of his outpost to aid those very souls who would see him dead brought them to life. “A preacher by the name of Jake Smithson wishes to travel to an old shrine north of the city. We are to accompany him with a wagon of supplies, a small cadre of monks, scholars, and excavators, and ensure that nothing…untoward happens to him.” His suggestion took on a Syrian like air of inner malice and contempt.

“That almost sounds as if you are considering an accidental departure from your brief…” Jeren offered. His years of military service had, despite his current state of fracture, gifted him with a keen analytical sense. There was clearly a plot afoot, and he very much wanted to be part of it.

“Though my love of the Church is infamously non-existent my good man, I think that, on this one occasion, we should see the job through.” The bitter taste in his mouth became so strong he had to smack his lips and flick spit about his bacon stained teeth to prevent it from becoming too overwhelming. “I would like you to come with me, because I think we are going to encounter danger, the likes of which a quick sword, a quick wit, and a reckless sense of wandering adventurer will deal with very well.” He grinned.

“Is the pay good?” Jeren’s eyebrow cocked and rose. It was precisely the body language Leopold hoped to say.

“Apparently the artefacts to be returned from the ruins by our wagons are more than worth the potential trouble we might encounter.” Leopold left out the details. He doubted Jeren would agree to the assignment if he learned of the potential for them to encounter Ice Wyverns, God Wraiths, and the deadliest creature in all the snow wastes…the Old Gods.

“Well I do not know…” he replied hesitantly.

“Jeren…come, you have worked for me long enough to know better than to doubt me, right?” he smiled. “Now, read the instruction, and tell me if you will adjoin me for a little fostering of good relations between finance and faith.”

[Of Two Minds]

Jeren browsed the notice then handed it to Syrian.

“Well?”

Syrian’s eyes barely flicked down to the paper before he shrugged. “You know me. Work on a church’s behalf is still work. As long as they pay me and don’t try to induct me into their mumbo-jumbo,” he paused looking to Leopold. “These Sway guys aren’t one of those churches that condones drinking and whoring are they?”

Leopold closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, Syrian,” he sighed, “that’s not in their particular tenants.”

“Shame,” Syrian shrugged, returning his attention to Jeren. “So as long as I’m not expected to take the faith,” he paused again turning once more to Leopold. “What about the hats? Would I get to wear one of those big fancy hats with the …”

“I what Syrian means to say is that he’s interested,” Jeren cut his friend off, receiving a sour look as a reward. “I suppose that means I’m in as well,” he sighed, handing the notice back to Leopold.

Syrian asked once again about the Church’s hats, but fell into a grumbling silence when neither of his companions rose to the bait. Nodding, Leopold returned to his ledger quill scratching softly across the parchment’s surface. Opposite him, Jeren leaned back in one of the leather and cherry wood rocking chairs that Winchester Rose Trading Company provided to guests and potential clients.

A deep exhaustion washed over the wandering swordsman turned caravan guard and he let his mind wander as he watched the light from the room’s lantern flicker peacefully. The trip to Berevar had been tougher than any of them had expected. Having spent his entire life in Corone, Jeren hadn’t thought it possible for a place to be as cold as the northern wastes had been. They’d lost several men when a war party of orcs had attacked them en masse at the pass over Galt’s Peak and it was something that still weighed heavily on Jeren’s mind. It made little difference that he and Syrian had personally dispatched half a dozen of the creatures in their employer’s defense, Jeren felt that there was more he could have done. He always felt that there was more he could have done.

Leopold cleared his throat softly, bringing Jeren back to attention. A veteran with demons of his own, the merchant had always been patient with both of the former wanderer’s peculiarities. It was a rare enough trait and one that Jeren thoroughly appreciated.

“Sorry sir,” Jeren said, rubbing the back of his hand on his forehead. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Completely understandable my good man, I take no offense.” He gestured to a small silver pot sitting at the edge of his desk. “Please, be my guest.”

Jeren nodded his thanks and reached to pour himself a cup of the dark coffee that Leopold always seemed to have on hand while he was in Knife’s Edge. Not only was the rich liquid beneficial in warding off the ever present chill in Salvar, but Jeren found that it helped him cope with the short daylight hours and the constant haze of exhaustion which had plagued him since making the trip to the snow bound country. If only he could convince Syrian to switch his drinking habits to coffee.

“Better?” Leopold asked, a soft smile on his face.

“Much, thank you,” Jeren swallowed the warm liquid with a gulp, savoring the burn that it created as it slid into his gullet. He placed the cup back on the tray and offered his employer a smile. “So when can we expect to start this job?”

A knock at the door drew all three men’s attention as one of the office’s servants poked his head in the door. “Mr. Winchester, there is a Mr. Jake Smithson to see you, from the Church of the Sway.”

Syrian emitted a long “hrmmm” and looked accusingly to his employer, who in turn shrugged and offered a sly smile. “I went out on a limb and took your consent as a given,” he offered as an explanation. He poured a cup of coffee from the silver pot before adding, “Both of your consents that is.”

The servant returned, leading a man who Jeren figured must be Jake Smithson. “Awfully generous with us don’t you think Mr. Winchester?”

“Well I am your employer,” he muttered, eager that the clergyman not be included, “so that affords me some liberties to say how you are employed.” Leopold shrugged, “Besides, I had a somewhat interesting notion that you wouldn’t be able to say no.”

Jeren sighed and shook his head.

Syrian laughed.

[Leopold]

Leopold raised an eyebrow at the jovial exchange between Jeren and Syrian. Part of the merchant’s racing skeins of thought wanted to question wherever or not the gentlemen truly grasped the fineries of what they were about to engage in. Whilst he had absolute faith in their sword, swagger, and solitude, he was not entirely certain about their pledge of service to the Company’s newest client. This operation would be an altogether different endeavour to that of their recent excursion into the hostile, humdrum, and haunting territory of Berevar. They were still playing tomfoolery with the gods, by all means, but in Salvar, one added politics and prejudice into the equation. That balancing of the books in the favour of their enemies made it all the more dangerous.

“Come in,” he said forcibly in response to the declaration that their guest had arrived. Leopold quickly shuffled away the lose papers still lingering on the surface of his desk in a bid to present himself in an authoritarian light. With Syrian raising an eyebrow in his direction, Leopold averted his gaze by setting his sights between the messenger and the antiquated door of his ramshackle office.

The gateway to the busy office beyond opened ceremoniously. Jeren, Syrian, and Leopold all craned their necks proper to bring the stranger that appeared in their vision to light. A soft breeze rolled in low over the dog-eared carpet, and formed an ante-atmosphere to the two heavy boots that struck a rhythm behind it. A long dusty jacket, clerical, but well-worn and a duo of firmament stubble and fire form were propped up by the steel-toe beaters. The man looked every bit the battle-hardened zealot Leopold had expected, except he was a good thirty years younger. The preachers he had encountered before now had all been ancient, long established grains in the battered wood of the Church. This new figure appeared almost likeable to Leopold, which irked him greatly.

“Hello Mr. Thompson,” he said warmly. He was careful not to smoulder, lest his usual reliance on conflict in a business exchange to garner success in his favour begin to waver.

“I am so very grateful for your time, Mr. Winchester,” the man’s glare spoke a thousand sincerities along with his customary observance of Sway convention and etiquette. Leopold made the natural observation that the preacher did not return the trade speak hello.

“As am I,” he continued, flowing with the man’s forceful tone, “and for your haste, trust, and faith of course I can offer you nothing less than the Winchester Rose Trading Company’s absolute services. We will endeavour, I and my good men,” he winked at Syrian, though Jeren apparently frowned at the suggestion, “and will strive to fulfil every requirement.” He rose cordially to invite the preacher to sit with them, and Jeren rose from the solitary chair set before the desk to accommodate the tradition. The preacher only offered it back to the man, before standing a few feet to his right. Relaxation it appeared was also not one of the tenets of the Church.

“No need, sir, I am quite revered enough to stand,” which Jeren did not need to hear a second time. He sat in unison with Leopold, though with considerably less noise, bustle, and sighing.

“Very well then, I must say I admire your stamina,” Leopold smirked. “We shall see how it holds once we reach the frozen wastes of Berevar and all the curious, bleak, and desperate hospitality it offers to its visitors.” He curled his lip churlishly. Somehow, he expected Mr. Thompson to be more than aware of what awaited them to the North. There, no god would go, and no faith would save them. There was plenty of myth and legend about the unwavering stoicism of the New Church’s preachers; Leopold hoped very much to disprove them all.

“Indeed. What do you know of the ruins exactly?” for a moment, Jeren and Leopold both were tricked into thinking the man raised an eyebrow. It was apparently a trick of the dim light, their suspicions, and the general mood.

[Leopold]

Leopold nodded to Jeren, “I was just letting my companion here know all about your previous expeditions.” Which of course was a fabrication, which Syrian emerged to respond to, but was cut short by Leopold’s musing smile, “Of the ruins themselves however, I know little. I know only tha it was once the wilderness retreat for the most revered, as you put it, of the Church’s preachers. It was abandoned when Denebriel was…sorry, Saint Denebriel was usurped.” The slight on the man’s faith did not seem to make any impact.

“One way to put it…” Syrian muttered.

“Whatever,” the preacher began sharply, to cut off any further offence, “I may or may not have instructed in our correspondence did not perhaps highlight the enormity of the task at hand. Whilst the landscape is rugged, dangerous, and indeed hostile, it is what lies within the ruins of the church that causes my Father concern.” Mr Thompson frowned, as if to weigh on Leopold’s guilty expression. The merchant could only pause for thought to wonder who the Father might refer to. He did not question the man’s concerns; he had scouted the landscape with a raven’s eye the day before. His illuminated delving into the profitability of their assignment had brought up many interesting facts about the dwindled strength of the Church in Knife’s Edge.

“So I understand, but Mr Jeren will more than be adequate in seeing to all of your safety concerns. I however wish to discuss not out goal, but the incentive and journey to the Church’s frontier itself.” Leopold folded his hands over one another on the desk, an academic stance to bolster his bargaining position. He would have set them across his gut, had he not partaken in an excess of ethanol the evening prior. He had toasted the appointment, and his certainty that his newest employee would be more than compelled, unable to resist at all, to join him once again.

The preacher began to circle Jeren’s seated form, glancing down at the strange and silent man with a pious, distressful, and arrogant expression covering his rugged face. His heavy boots padded over the dusted carpet, their brass buckles, bucked edges, and battered rims telling a story grand enough to fill a thousand tomes all on their own. Their peaty form was matched in rich texture only by the lingering scent of well stewed coffee beans not so fresh from Fallien’s Nirakkal.

“What is your concern, then?” he said expectantly. The floorboards creaked as he stopped suddenly, to adjust his double-barrelled, double shafted rifle over his right shoulder. It hung on a simple leather strap, but was clearly a treasure relic in more than capable hands. From its diminished state, Leopold assigned it a male name, and thus gave it no more reverence. He cared only for the love of a good woman between his fingers, and her sights set clean against his eye and shoulder. His earlier care for the man faded with the once gleaming steel casing of the firing mechanism.

“How many are in your congregation that will be joining us for the journey? That is my first question,” Jeren said inquisitively. Leopold now clued in with the man’s dual nature saw a change and grit his teeth with apprehension. “My second question is more curious. Do you have a menagerie of hats available, as I am somewhat fond of pointed peaks?” Syrian seemed to taunt and chuckle Leopold from within his mental cage.

“Hats?” the preacher smiled. He had a more youthful expression than the usual clergyman, which had taken Leopold by surprise, but only served to give Syrian more leeway to caus havoc with. Times may have changed in Salvar, but their despots, villainess, and topologists were still without humour as ever. With a sigh, Leopold sat back into his wingback chair and waited for Jeren to finish his security enquiries.

He longed, in his cold heart and bosom, for the soft touch of the morning sunlight as it rose on another profitable day for the rapidly expanding empire.

[Of Two Minds]

“Yeah, you know what those are right?” Syrian continued, ignoring Leopold’s sighs and Jeren’s cross looks. “Those things that people wear on their heads.”

The first cracks appeared in the regal façade of Jake Smithson as the corners of his smile twitched slightly. “I know what a hat is Mr. Jeren.”

“It’s Mr. DeVries actually,” Syrian continued, hopping up from his chair and bowing to the preacher with an overly regal flourish. “Syrian DeVries. That lump of grouse over there,” Syrian swept his arm back towards where Jeren still sat with a broad gesture, “is Jeren Silster, also known as Mr. Grumpy Pants, Lord No Fun, Generalissimo Grouchessimo …”

“That’s quite enough,” Jeren interrupted, taking Syrian’s arm gently but firmly and pulling him back from the increasingly confused preacher. “My apologies Mr. Smithson,” he returned to Jake, dumping Syrian unceremoniously back into the seat. “Syrian tends to get a bit …” he paused, looking for the right word. He’d been about to say zealous but decided at the last moment that it might have a different connotation when used in front of a true zealot. “… enthusiastic about our work. He’s actually a very astute judge of character and tries to put people into stressful positions in order to gauge how they will react when faced with such things on the open road.” Jeren gritted his teeth and hissed as Syrian. “Right Syrian?”

“Actually, I wanted a hat.” Syrian shrugged. Jeren pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to ignore the muffled chortling from Leopold.

“I … I don’t …,” Jake’s composure finally broke and he stared between the two men confusedly. It was a look that Jeren was intimately familiar with and one he immediately associated with Syrian.

“It appears I must apologize again for my companion’s odd behavior.” He offered Jake a pitying look. “But I assure you that despite his antagonistic nature he’s quite the capable swordsman.”

“What exactly is the meaning of this Mr. Winchester,” Jake said, the agitation in his voice readily apparent. “I came to you with a serious matter and this is what you offer in return.”

Leopold turned back to the assembled crowd, his face an unreadable mask. “Mr. Smithson,” he began, “trust me when I say that despite Syrian’s somewhat antagonistic personality,” a curt gesture from the Winchester Rose’s founder cut off a snarky reply from the sandy haired swordsman, “there is no one in my company that I trust more than these men to accomplish goals of a both highly compromising, and highly secretive nature.”

“These men?” Jake snapped back angrily, looking between the seated swordsman and Leopold. “What game are you playing at Winchester?”

Fearing that his companion’s attitude might be once again costing the two of them a job, Jeren stood and put himself between Jake and his employer. “Mr. Winchester,” he said to the preacher, “rarely plays games when it comes to matters of employment. Tell me Mr. Smithson, how much experience do you have out in the white wastes?”

“What?” Jake started, taken aback at the sudden challenge.

“A simple question Mr. Smithson, how much experience do you have being out in the white wastes?”

“Winchester I …”

“Hot or cold?” Jeren interrupted, not letting Jake’s attention get away. He grabbed his silver coffee cup off the tray beside him without taking his eyes off the preacher and held it in front of the man.

“What?” Jake sputtered, suddenly on very unsure footing in the midst of madmen and merchants.

“Hot or cold?” Jeren repeated, swirling the silver cup in front of him.

“I don’t …”

Jeren pitched the cup forward at the preacher, who recoiled back as if the swordsman were brandishing a blue-diamond snow viper at him. Jake held his arms up as a shield against the inevitable wave of liquid coming out of the cup.

“Empty,” Jeren stated simply when no liquid came out from the cup. He placed it back on the tray, perhaps with a bit more force than intended, then turned to Leopold. “Boss are you sure you want to take this job? I’m not getting a very confident feeling about working with Mr. Smithson.” With his back turned, Jake was unable to see Jeren’s wink to Leopold.

Leopold brought his hand to his mouth, which assumed a thoughtful expression. In truth it was more a gesture to hide his smile but it played his part well enough. “I suppose …,” he let the words linger between them.

“Not getting a confident feeling about working with me?” Jake spat his retort, now on the defensive.

“That’s right, Mr. Smithson,” Jeren leapt back at the preacher, thrusting his finger pointedly in the man’s face. “We’ve been out there in the bleary frost, where a moment’s hesitation means the difference between life and death on the jagged edge of an orc’s blade. I told you not a moment ago what was going on here,” he waved back to where Syrian remained silently watching events unfold, a grin of delighted pleasure plastered on his face. “And yet despite that, despite the fact that I told you we were trying to put you in a stressful position to see how you would react, you still did nothing but bluster around like a trout on the shore.”

Jake;s eyes widened slightly at the revelation but he was a man used to controlling himself and those around him and quickly regained composure. “I see that I’ve made the right choice hiring the Winchester Rose Trading Company for this job. I will have six men accompanying me, both the order’s supplicants and Templars.” He looked at Jeren with a dispassionate glare. “I trust that answers your initial question satisfactorily enough?” Not waiting for a reply he turned to Leopold, “You know the rest of the specifics Mr. Winchester, I trust you to handle the rest. Consider yourselves under the employ of the Ethereal Sway. I shall see you on the morrow.”

He nodded once to both Leopold and Jeren. “Good day gentlemen.”

Jeren let the man leave before releasing the lungful of air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He was sure he and Syrian would receive somewhat of a dressing down over the incident but at least he’d managed to save the contract. Still, he’d had to admit that it was a bit of fun sticking it in the stodgy preacher’s craw. But now that they’d officially gotten the contract, they would have to prepare to head back out into the same wastes that had just claimed the lives of some of their friends.

He was glad that he’d had a little fun because the fun part was over.

[Leopold]

Two thoughts crossed Leopold’s mind as the priest departed. Both of them ended with a kick to somebody’s shins, but he had not the energy to instigate either plan. He doubted the pain would do much to hamper the pious man’s departure, and it would only give Syrian further cause to resort to sharper wit and quicker quips. The merchant already beleaguered and bemoaning ever leaving his bed resorted to a long sigh as he slouched back into his chair instead.

“Once, you would be at the sharp end of a short kick, a pay dock, and perhaps a back hander to rival the whores you often speak so fondly of,” he said sourly. His stare, a piercing, skewering expression of momentary contempt was short lived. It turned into a curt smile, before slouching, like his body, into a relaxed and docile grin. “On this occasion, however, I commend your tomfoolery.” As the phrase had milled about in Leopold’s mind, it had contained several more expletives, but he, unlike Jeren and Syrian, could hold his tongue. “You are going to go far with my company, you know that, do you not?” he cocked his head to the right, but rose before he got an answer. There was no use propping up the man’s ego more than was needed.

“I am?” Jeren said, somewhat taken aback. He did not last long under Syrian’s excitement, and the stern tone of the more extroverted of the two broke through the shyness. “I will do anything, anything to get that third bottle of ice wine you promised me.”

Leopold stopped dead in his tracks, one hand pressed down, fingers splayed onto a pile of papers and his left hand crossing his breast. He blinked, as if he were trying to remember making any such promise. He was certain, despite having drunken quite a lot of bourbon on that particular afternoon; he had made such hollow pledges.

“You are,” he continued around the desk, “going to have to keep doing it then,” he smirked. “You handled yourself brilliantly in our mutual friend’s company, I must say.”

“You want me to kill him, I take it?” Syrian shrugged. Jeren emerged, softly, softly, and worryingly at the mention of bloodshed, “only if you want me to, though, we do not always want to be the red hand for you, Leopold.” The juxtaposition between keenness and reservation between the two employees always left Leopold second guessing their motives. He guessed, in this business, it was a good trait to possess. It meant not even he, with his shrewd eye for lies, loves, and lessons learned, truly knew what he had let himself in for the day he had hired them both as caravan guards.

“Good lord, no!” he proclaimed. He looked genuinely disgusted at the idea. As he came about the desk proper, he leant his ample buttock against the front edge, and rested back onto it with academic splendour. From beneath bushy eyebrows and a moustache many moons too dark, the merchant analysed the brightest spark in a dark world. “I will keep asking you to defend my caravans, mark my words, and that will involve killing thieves, brigands, vagabonds and charlatans,” and how fond Leopold was of killing them all. “A man like that,” he nodded with a gesture of contempt to the dark opening that was left in the wake of the open door, “however, cannot simply be killed. He must come to die a death of another sort.”

“There is more than one type of finality?” the two men shrugged, though Leopold had not yet quite gotten the knack of working out their respective expressions. A voice was easy to place ownership to, a cocked shoulder however a tricky chameleon on such lanky, hardworking shoulders.

“Oh yes, yes indeed.” With a grunt, Leopold heaved ho from the desk and as he walked around Syrian, he patted him robustly on the shoulder. “A man can die in the flesh, in the spirit, and in the soul. More importantly,” he continued on, raising his voice so that even as he stepped out into the dusty, pictured lined hall, his words and explanation could be clearly heard, “he can die a moral indignation, leaving him shattered here and in every life thereafter.”

Satisfied, he quickened his pace to check the cargo, the caravan, and the final details of their route to the north. Now would be the time that Syrian and Jeren put their long recounts of their exploits in the white wastes where they were needed most – to the test. The journey ahead would be long, hard, and perilous, and if the newest caravan guard in the Winchester Rose Trading Company delivered them safely to their destination, he would get a lot more than ice wine as his reward. He would be able to stand in the soft sunlight of a new day of prosperity, and all the hats, prostitutes, and fine steel blades in the world would seem like trinkets to the rewards Leopold Winchester would bestow on him.

“Chop chop now!” he roared at the top of his lungs over his shoulder, before he pushed the door out into the courtyard open and went about the rest of their lives.