“Murderers!” they shouted. “Heathens! Butchers!”
Haern could hardly believe what he heard. They cried against the foreign elves, deeming them murderers, even as their own lord hung thirty people for crimes not their own. Was this the true face of the city?
“Why such protest?” he asked a man next to him. He’d kept his calm, unlike most others.
“They’re killing our friends and families,” said the man. “But they can’t hide in their forests forever, not when we want what they have.”
“Do you not share the crowd’s anger?”
“No point. Their time’s over. They can ride in all high and mighty, but it won’t change nothing. Besides, they don’t hurt my business any.”
“And what is that?” Haern asked.
The man chuckled, and he turned to leave.
“I build the coffins,” he said. “There’s always enough wood for that.”
A few brave souls began throwing stones. The elves ignored them, reacting only should one come too close. The warriors would reach for their swords, and move with such precision the crowd scattered. Hearing the shouts, and seeing the bruises build across the warriors’ faces as the rocks came down like hail, Haern’s gut filled with venom. In all of Angelport, he saw little kindness, little worth saving.
Worse, he knew Veldaren was no different. He’d grown up there, and familiarity had blinded his eyes. But here he saw vileness, cruelty, and such a callous attitude toward life it stabbed straight to his heart. These were the people he’d struggled to protect? These were for who he spent years of his life freeing from his father’s war against the Trifect? What was it he’d truly accomplished? Anything at all? Come his death, it’d all come crashing down. Everywhere, men were the same, and he knew their nature well.
But worse were Alyssa’s words, painting him in a light he’d hidden from, revealing a self he never wished to see.
Was he the same? Was that the carnage he unleashed, all to the cheers of the populace as he left corpses in their gutters so they might pretend to safety and justice? Once he’d thought himself a monster, the monster his city needed. But as a ruthless peace had settled, he’d allowed himself to believe he’d become something more. The King’s Watcher. Such a joke. The hood he wore, the man upon the gallows had worn the same. The King’s Executioner. That should be his name.
“No,” he whispered as the elves vanished around the corner, out of sight because of the mob. “I am not the same. I cannot be. I escaped that fate.”
Hollow words that did nothing to ease his troubled mind. But what did give him relief was the thought that, come the night, he’d pay Lord Ingram a visit, and show him how dangerous a monster the Watcher could truly be.
6
Ulrich drank a glass of whiskey to chase away the lingering effects of the Violet. He’d taken half a leaf in the morning, more than the quarter he usually allocated. Supplies were incredibly limited, but if everything went well over the next few weeks, he’d be buried in the rare leaf. When he left his mansion, he found his brother waiting for him outside the gate.
“About time you’re ready,” Stern said.
“Who are you now, our mother?”
“Mother rests in a deep grave. I have no intention of being her for a very long time.”
Ulrich laughed, then caught his brother staring at his eyes.
“I’m no fool,” Stern said when pressed. “I can see the yellow in your veins. You’re addicted to the Violet.”
“Nonsense,” Ulrich said, brushing his brother aside. “Keep your damn opinions to yourself. What I do on my time is my own business, not yours, and you’re a fool for thinking I’d be weak enough to become slave to a plant.”
“As you wish,” Stern said, but Ulrich could hear the condescension in his voice, and it irritated him to no end.
They walked down the street, passing unquestioned through one of the interior city gates. When they came to the docks, they entered an unremarkable building titled ‘Port and Loan’. Inside led to a small entryway, guarded by two men in chainmail.
“The rest are waiting for you, my lords,” said one.
Stern nodded, then glanced over at Ulrich.
“If the room’s dark, they shouldn’t notice,” he said, once again referring to his eyes.
“I know you’re still upset about Julie,” Ulrich said, biting down his initial retort. “But keep your head up high. We Blackwaters never show weakness. They might press hard to change your mind if they think you’re still grieving.”
“As you so eloquently put it, keep your damn opinions to yourself.”
Stern pushed open the door, and Ulrich followed.
Inside was a single room, grand and oval. A map of the known world was painted across the walls, the seas finely detailed and interlaced with many monsters and fish, both real and fantastical. In the center of the room was a circular table, and despite its size, it had only six chairs all equidistant from each other. The Blackwater brothers took their seats and greeted the other four Merchant Lords.
Their eldest, and official leader of gatherings, was Warrick Sun, a salty old man who had spent half his life on the ocean. The later half he’d spent indoors, reaping the bounty of his impressive fleets carrying the Sun banner. His white beard was braided tight and decorated with beads of gold and silver. Warrick stood in greeting, and the others followed suit. Beside him, looking young and out of place, was Flint Amour, the firstborn son of the deceased William. Recently entering his twenties, his box beard was thin and unimpressive, but he sported a healthy tan from his many hours upon the boats. Ulrich was glad to see him as William’s successor. Flint was rumored to be the toughest of the lot, and that was exactly what they wanted among their ranks.
“Glad for you to finally join us,” Arren Goldsail said, flashing them an earnest smile that only years of experience had taught Ulrich just how fake it was. “I’d thought you’d chosen to stay among more feminine company instead of attending your own meeting.”
Arren was thin and pale, having never once sailed across open waters. He was an excellent barterer, though, and had a way of making a man agree to twice what he intended, yet simultaneously feel he had the better deal.
“It takes time to please that many ladies,” Ulrich said, accepting a drink from one of the many servants lingering near the walls. “Isn’t that right, Durgo?”
The last of them, Durgo Flynn, rolled his eyes. He was a giant of a man, dark-skinned, yet spoke with a soft voice. For several years, Ulrich had carefully spread rumors the man preferred the company of little boys to grown women. He had no clue if it were true or not, but it amused him, and pissed off Durgo immensely.
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-
