The town of Wandermere, the first one near the border with Duria, was gripped in a panic. A Boliarin was coming. The first one of Duria, no less. The Hafnon third son, Thorold Hafnon, was in a meeting with the mayor to help the man prepare for the young, but no doubt dangerous, necromancer.
“It is so good that you will go and meet him at the gate, mister Hafnon. And you say that should he turn violent, you will be able to deal with him?” Mayor Podger Miz pressed his handkerchief to his forehead. He was not sweating, but the action brought him comfort.
“I have heard that Boliarin Roberts does not attack unprovoked. And he has children with him. I doubt he will risk them,” Thorold repeated himself for what felt like the tenth time. This worry wart heard the necromancer and went into a panic.
But Thorold knew the truth about Edwin Roberts' character. A reanimated animal had been caught snooping around their library just last week. They had run a check on the docile being and had matched the mana with Roberts.
Roberts was well-meaning, albeit an amateur compared to the likes of Karl Lambert or Aleric Stormcrow. Whatever he stole would destroy the monopoly of the Hafnon family. But Thorold didn’t care.
He had been for sharing the knowledge long ago, but the council of three, his father, grandfather and uncle, had ruled against it. Now, the knowledge had slipped through their fingers.
The council of three, and wasn’t it strange to call family that? The council had ruled out that Roberts was to stand trial. But the king of Duria, a nation not even half as big as the Surian Theocracy, had threatened to point his finger at the Hafnon family and say they have worked with the Stormcrow to spread the coughing sickness.
And, wasn’t that preposterous? The leading family in medicine production, working with an up jumped necromancer? Thorold had no respect for Boliarins apart for their power.
The Hafnon family profited from the preservation of life. The Boliarins were political tools. Dogs on a leash ready to attack. No moral whatsoever and no signs of regret.
But this Roberts was a healer, hedge, if Thorold had to be specific. That was almost unheard of. He must be good at non mana healing, for him to have a license. A recent development, his agents at the Durian border had told him.
“Mister Hafnon, are you listening to me?” Came the annoyed voice of Podger Miz.
“I am sorry, what?” Thorold had the decency to offer a sheepish smile to the man. Then he saw that there was a package on the table between them.
“You are to offer this to the Boliarin, but do not open it. It is for his eyes only. Furthermore, if he shows aggression after receiving the package, I grant you privilege rang three,” Thorold regarded the mayor with disbelief. Privilege rang three was a fancy way to say that there could be an honor duel to the death.
Against an amateur like Roberts, perhaps Thorold would be victorious. But, maybe, old Fredrick had thought the same. Before he ended up torn by angry corpses.
“If whatever is inside can anger him, why should I deliver it?” Thorold feigned disinterest, but internally, he was curious. He was going to open the package as soon as he got to somewhere hidden. No way was he going to deliver something that could get him into an honor duel without knowing what it was.
“Because you are a citizen of the Surian Theocracy and, by law, a public servant because of your position as advisor to our good Cardinal Leo IX. You are a battle mage, man. If there is anyone in Wandermere who can prevent a Boliarin from going on a rampage, it is you,” now the eyes of Podger Miz shifted uncomfortably between the package and Thorold.
The mayor was quick to speak to Thorold of positions and duty, but he was also a battle mage. But a frightened rabbit. Thought Thorold with more than a little disgust.
“I will do my duty,” Podger breathed a sigh of relief. “But I expect a regiment to back me up. About twenty people. For the vampire and the dragon slayer, should they back the Boliarin…you know, make them one hundred. We are speaking about a dragon slayer, after all.”
“You will have the men,” Podger looked relieved, probably because Thorold had not asked for him by name. “Should the Boliarin prove peaceful, however…”
“Show him to the nicest inn, get the cure for the coughing sickness out of him, show him Surian hospitality with a couple of well-curved nymphs from the gentleman’s club. I know the drill when it comes to foreign dignitaries,” there was an amused smile on Thorold’s face at the thought of trying to ply information out of the healer with whores.
Podger Miz returned the smile, uncertainly, not understanding the correct meaning behind it. It was good when there was a Hafnon in town. They did everything perfectly. They were almost worth the cost they charged for the smallest of things. Then, Podger’s mood soured. The cost, right.
“Here, half of the commission upfront,” a heavy coin purse exchanged hands and Thorold threw it lightly in his hand to check the weight.
“Only fifty silvers?” If this little man was trying to cheat him…
“Gold,” Thorold relaxed. This was better. Most people didn’t see fifty gold coins in a year, let alone a hundred.
“Your contribution to the Hafnon’s coffers is much appreciated, Mister Miz,” with a slight bow, Thorold got up and made for the door. But the mayor stopped him.
“Mister Hafnon, if the Boliarin doesn’t want to stay for long, let him just pass. Remember, there is a cemetery in Wandermere,” the fear in Podger Miz’s voice made Thorold scoff. Frightened rabbit indeed.
The third son of the Hafnon bowed again and left, hoping that the Boliarin’s character would be different from the mayor’s. Although, if it was the same, Thorold supposed that would make his job easier.
