Chapter 2: Lighthall and Berekker

The sun sets earlier in the Valley, at least that’s what people say. Certainly, the darkness is more complete. The lighting is haphazard, and the buildings are irregular, casting their shadows into countless passages and corners that seem to be made for lurking, skulking, or any number of other activities that unnerve honest citizens from the hill tops of Merendir.

Lighthall was not unnerved in the Valley. He had been dealing with these people for most of his life. He was alert, though. It was important to be on one’s gaurd in the Valley, and even though Lighthall travelled with ten armed men, he studied his surroundings carefully. Some day, perhaps, the Mouse would sweep this whole area clean. It was a blemish on an otherwise glorious city. Lighthall had a few business interests here, but they offered meager profits. Mostly, the Valley was a place to find people to do unpleasant work for little pay, while they lived out their short lives steeped in booze and squalor.

They were approaching Lower Market Street, which was Lighthall's least favorite place in the Valley. The notion of a street devoted to commerce pleased him, but where Upper Market Street was much the same as any other commercial area, with shops and apartments side by side, on Lower Market the street was still used as originally intended. Few of the hawkers-- to call them merchants would demean many honest men-- contained their wares in shops, and even those who did maintain meager storefronts were not shy about joining the harassing throng. A man of Lighthall's standing attracted far more attention than most, and the shouts started well before he turned into the motley marketplace.

It was regrettable that Grainger, the leader of the Poorman’s Union, considered himself a man of the people, and that this led him to maintain his mock court on Lower Market. It was even more regrettable that Lighthall was forced to deal with the man. Lighthall doubted that the men who ruled Silt, or the Far East, or even the barbarous priests in Fellnia, would allow an extortionist like Grainger to operate openly-- and even to be afforded some respect and unofficial responsibility.

Lighthall stared straight forward, walking quickly in the pocket that his men opened in the crowd. Any of the hawkers who made so bold as to wave some worthless trinket in Lighthall’s face was pushed indelicately aside, as was anybody who did not move to the side of the street with sufficient haste to let them pass.

They walked over a flagstone with a worn engraving marking the spot where Lower Market would intersect Haderian Street, had not hasty and zealous construction obstructed passage to and from Lower Market in all but a few places. Lighthall started counting the stalls on his left. The entrance to the twelfth stall was given a relatively wide berth by the throng, despite the silver displayed there being a good cut above anything else in the market. A handful of men and women lounged near the entrance, looking disreputable but regrettably more alert than his own guards on the occassions that Lighthall surprised them on duty. It had been the tenth stall on his previous visit, and the sixteenth the time before. He now had no doubt now that the entrance to the Poorman's Union moved. The Poorman's Union was an institution whose very name was disingenous. Lighthall knew few men and women so wholly dedicated to enriching themselves, and with as much talent for doing so, as those in the Poorman's Union.

Grainger's guards made no move to impede him, though one of them rose and walked ahead of them, taking a lamp from a peg on the door and leading them through the storefront and into an unlit wooden passageway that took a handful of turns before merging into a more permanent brick hallway. Lighthall clenched his teeth. This was unlikely to be a pleasant meeting.

Not long after Lighthall and his men made their disruptive charge through Lower Market, Leyda watched in amusement as another man caused a disturbance of an entirely different nature. She had a tedious assignment this week-- sitting in a shop that sold cloth of moderate quality and watching who came and went on Lower Market. If the wrong people came-- she had never actually been instructed about who these people might be, but presumably they would come in force-- she would hurry a couple hundred yards from a back door and slam the back door to the silver shop. She wasn't sure what would happen from that point on, but she guessed that it would take the intruders some time to find the entrance to Union Hall.

The man was Endrev Berekker, of course. She had never seen him before, but his casual elegance, obvious wealth, and the touches of grey framing a handsome face all matched the descriptions she had heard. What confirmed it, in her mind, was the Islander that walked beside him with a large sword and the calm authority of one who used it well. Of all the leading merchants, only Berekker put Islanders in positions of authority. It was even said that he preferred the company of Island women.

The Islander walked beside Berekker with a stony dignity. Berekker smiled at the merchants who tried to entice him to their stores, and gave cursory glances at the items that were thrust in front of him. His man stayed impassive and alert, ignoring everybody. They moved easily through the crowd, and although people pressed in close trying to attract attention to their wares, the two somehow managed to avoid being jostled, or even touched. Then suddenly, Berekker stopped. He reached out and took a beaded necklace from the hand of a merchant in front of him. Leyda could just barely hear his words over the crowd.

"This is finely done. Is it your own work?"

"Sir, yes. Well, no, sir. My wife makes them."

"How much do you want for it?"

"Four pieces silver is the typical price, but for you I'll make an exception. Give me three silver for that, or five for that and another like it."

Berekker laughed.

"Do you think that I became this rich as a fool? I'll give you one silver for both."

The merchant could not help smiling for a moment before assuming an indignant look.

"I know you do not intend to insult my wife, but please, sir, be reasonable. I assure you that I will be soundly beaten if I return home with a silver for these fine works. I will take four silver in coin, or five in scrip."

“Careful, friend," Berekker warned, "if we become engaged in serious negotiations, you may find yourself going home without the clothes on your back."

The crowd had quieted somewhat, enjoying the spectacle of a rich man who played the game of the marketplace, and this drew a couple guffaws.

"Name your price then, but be so kind as to make a serious offer this time."

Berekker turned to the man beside him.

"What do you say, Catyan? What are these necklaces worth?"

The Islander took them and inspected them without interest.

"Give him three silver and let's go." Catyan was impatient.

"Three silver?" Berekker looked in mock dismay at the merchant, who wore a broad smile. Berekker's man had lost the game for him, before it had even begun in earnest. Berekker untied a purse from his belt and handed it to the Islander, shaking his head.

"Very well, Catyan, pay the man what you will. I fear for your future, though. Some day you will get old, and without muscles or business sense, I'm afraid I won’t know what to do with you.”

Catyan opened his mouth as if to object, and Berekker looked at him with a mischievous smirk.

"I think your negotiation skills would benefit from some practice. Be so good as to keep that purse and do some shopping for me. I think I'd like..." Berekker looked around dramatically, "one of everything."

This met with a roar of humorous approval from the crowd, which pressed immediately in on Berekker's man, as Berekker himself slipped deftly away, chuckling to himself. Leyda gave a quick laugh aloud at the expression on the unfortunate Catyan's face, then returned to her seat to watch the endless stream of people coming and going from the market.

----

Lighthall had been disinclined to like the man, but Berekker's demeanor when he arrived five minutes late in Grainger's audience chamber enraged him. The man strode in unapologetically, wearing a smirk that made it clear that he was, for whatever reason, extremely pleased with himself. He did not arrive with his infamous retinue of Islanders-- in fact, he arrived with no protection whatsoever, aside from a dagger at his belt. Lighthall had brought ten men as a show of strength, but found now that they made him look weak. Both merchants were under Grainger's protection, and it was obvious to everybody present that Lighthall's ten men could be dispatched handily if it came to it. A dozen villainous-looking men and women with crossbows stood in the gallery of the torchlit room, and a dozen more brutes with a variety of armaments stood sentry around the room.

After a cursory greeting, had Grainger lounged in silent disinterest while they waited for Berekker, inspecting the sleeves of his silk tunic for nothing in particular. There was only one chair in the room, occupied by Grainger, on a dais at the front of the hall. Throughout the hall were long, unwashed, tables, where Grainger's thieves could gamble and drink themselves into oblivion, though the room had been cleared for this occassion. Lighthall had stood uncomfortably, marvelling at the presumption of the aging thief on his throne. Lighthall was out of his element, among these burgulars and extortionists. He would gladly have delegated this aspect of his work, had there been anybody in his organization worthy of such responsibility. He could sit at a table with the Empire's elite-- the lords and ladies, even the Candle, or the Emperor himself-- and feel charming and respected. At the Poorman's Union though, he was extremely conscious of the scrutiny that he bore. He was being judged, and not favorably, by these men and women who undoubtedly resented his station, all the more so because he had come by it honestly.

When Berekker walked smugly into the hall, Grainger sat forward. Berekker did not so much as acknowledge Lighthall or his men. Instead, he inclined his head slightly toward Grainger.

"We have gone far too long without making each others' acquaintance," Berekker said. The two merchants were forced to stand, like supplicants, at the foot of the dais.

Grainger sneered ever so slightly, but Berekker was unfazed. He put his hand to his belt, and there was a brief commotion among the archers in the gallery.

Berekker held out a sheathed dagger, and said, "I gather your son will be coming of age in a fortnight. Business may take me from Merendir, so I thought I should bring my gift today."

Grainger nodded to one of the men who stood at his flanks, a stubble-faced bruiser in a sleeveless doeskin shirt that showed off his prodigious muscles and tattooed bands in geometric patterns. The man’s necklasses and bracelets clattered audibly as he came to fetch the offering for Grainger. Lighthall found everything about this scene thoroughly tasteless.

Berekker continued to fawn. "Your heir will need a good knife, and this is one of the best."

Grainger pulled the knife from the sheath and held it to the light. The blade was milky white and so thin that it nearly disappeared for a moment when Grainger turned it. He brushed his thumb against it critically.

"It was made by a smith named Fil Eirer in the Far East. His skill is unsurpassed in this generation, or in any recent generation. It is made from Yeneshan ore. It will tarnish if it is exposed to sunlight. Its strength will not be diminished, but its value will diminish considerably. It has been at my side for quite a few years now. I trust your son will use it well."

Grainger returned the knife to the sheath without betraying any appreciation of the gift. Lighthall smiled to himself. Berekker's attempt to ingratiate himself seemed to have failed.

"I have important matters to attend to." Lighthall snapped at Berekker. "State your business and let's have this done."

"Three more of my men were assaulted on the docks last night,” Berekker said, “One was killed, another severely injured."

"What does that have to do with me?" Lighthall asked.

"It was your men who assaulted them."

Lighthall exchanged an amused glance with the captain of his gaurd.

"If your men stood out less…” Lighthall’s voice dripped with insinuation, “they would invite less trouble."

Berekker turned to Lighthall for the first time. Lighthall felt his amusement fade under the cold stare, but kept his smile up and refused to look away. After a long time, Grainger spoke and ended the contest.

"What terms will you offer for a truce?" The head of the Poorman’s Union sounded bored.

"I did not come to negotiate a truce," Berekker stated.

Lighthall started to open his mouth to say something, but scoffed instead to cover his surprise, and asked, "Then why am I wasting my time here?"

Lighthall had spent long hours last night working out the terms he would offer, the minimal terms he would accept, and his bargaining strategy.

"I don't know why you are here,” Berekker replied. “I came to talk to Grainger. I can only assume that he invited you."

Now Lighthall saw amusement on Grainger's face, and he fought a hot flush rising from his neck.

"As long as you are here," Berekker continued, "I will say this: Your time is past. Do not hasten your irrelevance by beginning fights that you are not prepared to finish. Leave us now. I have important business with the Union."

Lighthall stood for a moment, nearly quivering with rage. Grainger said nothing. Lighthall could not repair his dignity by staying, and so he turned on his heel to walk out, snarling “You’ll regret this.”

"I doubt it," Berekker said to his back.

----

The word in the Valley, among those who sought to sell their muscle to the merchants, was that Berekker was on the way up, and Lighthall on the way down. It was clear to everyone in the room that this was what Berekker wanted them to believe, but Grainger was not convinced. Berekker had handled Lighthall well enough, and made him look foolish. Grainger had seen enough newly-made men, reckless and inflated with early successes, brought low by arrogance, and Berekker was no longer even young. Grainger’s wager was still on Lighthall, but he was glad to have a chance to take his own measure of Endrev Berekker.

"You should have offered him terms,” Grainger told Berekker. “Having Lighthall as an enemy is a waste of energy."

Grainger should know, too. For years, Lighthall had refused to pay for any form of protection from the Union, and much blood had been spilled as a result. It had taken the deaths of several city gaurds, and the subsequent intervention of the Mouse, to end the feud.

"I am not concerned with Lighthall,” Berekker said flatly, “I am concerned with the safety of my men."

Grainger foresaw the direction that the conversation was headed, and it displeased him.

"Get to your point." There was lazy malice in Grainger’s voice.

"The captains of my ships pay you well for protection while they are in the harbor," Berekker told him.

"And?"

"And the longshoremen, whose salaries I pay, pay dues to the Union as well."

"And you are dissatisfied with the protection that I provide?" The room grew tense at Grainger’s voice. Berekker seemed to be unaware that he was putting Grainger in a dangerous mood.

"I am dissatisfied that my men are routinely subjected to slurs and violence,” Berekker said. “We both know that the protection you provide at the docks does not come from your patrols. The service that you provide comes from the influence that you have over larceny in the city, and your ability to retaliate against parties who embarrass you or devalue your contracts. The patrols are incidental. I would go so far as to say that they exist only for show-- a dramatic touch that makes your services seem all the more valuable to the ships’ captains."

Up in the gallery, one archer in particular listened attentively. He kept up on the affairs of the merchants only as much as necessary to avoid ending up in taverns that were full of people who were hostile to the Union. Berekker was making a pitch, though, and whatever he was pitching was sure to be something that would interest a woman he knew. She would buy him drinks, and favor him with her attention for a while. He never got to hear Berekker's proposal, though, because Grainger had decided that Berekker was making some sort of pitch, too.

"This is an uncivilized way to discuss business,” Grainger said. “Come."

Grainger rose, maybe a touch more slowly than he used to. He walked without further comment through the door at the back of the hall, followed only by his lieutenants and Endrev Berekker. Without even thinking of it, both men touched gold as they passed the treshhold— Berekker pressing his thumb against a ring that he wore, and Grainger touching his earring— keeping the ancient ritual of the Tradesman.

NEXT CHAPTER