Chapter 4- The gift

The lobby of the Council of Peers was swarming with people as the public session drew to a close. The exuberance of the attire worn by the participants, merchants and notables alike, gave the impression of attending a pageant, the aim of which was, from the most insignificant of secretaries to the most lavish of master merchants, to flaunt one’s wealth and rank in every way possible; including the most vulgar or ridiculous in excess.

In the afternoon heat and despite the coolness of the huge colonnaded air-conditioned hall, this display of outfits, each more gaudy and luxurious than the last, created a stifling atmosphere; indeed, the most lavishly attired men and women in the place had to bake under their heaps of brocaded mantels, laced shirts, gaudy pourpoints, ornamented togas and embroidered tunics.

As for Jawaad, he had made what might be considered an effort. He wore a broad white linen shirt, common enough, but of refined cut, and a bluish-black chamoised leather vest, with shoulders adorned with fine gold braid, which he had embellished with the elaborate brooch and set stamped with the crest of the Master Merchants, in the shape of a ship under the stars. But that was as far as his sartorial goodwill went. A kilt with black leather straps, a little faded and filed, over simple pants and a pair of vaguely polished boots made up the rest of his attire. In the crowded hall, where groups lingered, discussing and commenting on the latest debates at the Council des Peers, he stood out. His sober, unkempt attire, in contrast to the abundance of local suits and uniforms, was a clear thumb in the face of convention and of his colleagues who were swallowing colossal fortunes to compete in the most conspicuous luxury possible.

Yet the arrival of Jawaad, even dressed as a commoner, clearly did not go unnoticed.

For one thing, he was a household name. Armanth had less than a hundred titled merchant-masters, leaders of the Merchants’ Guild that had made the city-state the immense city and economic power it was. Jawaad was one of them, and famous for many reasons, starting with his respectable age. He had always been a master merchant and was rumored to be well over a century and a half old, despite appearances; while he wasn’t the only one to have an Ambrose as a symbiote, Ambroses have been known to rarely last more than a century and a half without aging. He was a bachelor, with no parents and no heirs; again, an uncommon trait and downright bizarre for any lossyan. But above all, he was famous for having refused entry to the Council of Peers, even though he had been elected to it, when three-quarters of the wealthiest merchant bourgeoisie could only dream in vain of sitting there one day.

Secondly, his arrival came as a surprise, because everyone knew that Jawaad never went up to the Palace of the Council of Peers. In fact, unless he was forced to do so – and even then, it was necessary to succeed in forcing him to do so – the master merchant never went to the terrace of the Elegio Palace, which formed the political heart of Armanth. He shunned politics and hated having to meddle with such vanities and preoccupations; which didn’t stop him from having a number of allies and debtors in the corridors of these palaces, tasked with being his eyes, ears and hands.

Finally, accompanied by his usual escort, also quite famous, this time made up not only of Abba and Damas but also his accountant, Alterma, which was rarer, he carried in his hands a gift package. Which was probably the most incongruous when you knew him. The box, lined with satin silk and elegantly closed with an ornate bow held in place by a small silver fibula, all in pastel tones, was obviously a present. Now, if the taciturn and unpleasant master merchant had a reputation, it was that of never giving anything to anyone.

The effect had some immediate repercussions in the multicolored, posh crowd of the vast hall. Discussions suddenly changed topic, and a few dozen pairs of eyes were riveted on the quartet who had just passed through the majestic columns of the wide entrance door. Outside, the crowd was just as colorful, though far less affluent. Citizens, various guards, church priests, street vendors selling sweets and beverages, acrobats and street performers, animal trainers and musicians and, of course, beggars and beggars occupied the entire terrace overlooking the Campo Annuciante district. The whole thing made for a joyous, almost deafening hubbub that crept right down the aisles of the assembly. Yet it would have taken a philharmonic orchestra to deafen Abba’s voice:

“Is it just me, or are we looking a bit out of place here? I have the feeling that, suddenly, half the crowd is watching us.”

Damas, who was flanking Jawaad on the opposite side from Abba, replied with a laugh:

“Maybe they wondered if the door would be wide enough to let you through, or if they’d need a few workers with chisels?”

“What? No, but you’re done with my size, right?”

Behind their backs, Alterma’s soft, laughing voice replied:

“It’s just that last door we went through, you know, at the inn where we had lunch? It didn’t work for you.”

“Yes, well, that’s okay. I don’t know which midget built this shanty to have such low ceilings; I wasn’t paying attention.”

Damas added with a laugh:

“The beams suffered more than your head, you’ll tell me.”

Jawaad remained mute, as silent as ever, listening distractedly to the exchange between Alterma and his two seconds, searching with his eyes for the recipient of his gift. When he stopped in the center of the hall, turning his head to scan the crowd, the low-voiced comments and furtive glances redoubled. The effect was all the stranger in that, except discreetly and very briefly, no one lingered to greet him. However, he did respond to the rare greeting with such a vague nod that every other person missed the gesture and concluded that he would have been better off without the effort. Jawaad was living up to his reputation as an irritable, arrogant and unwelcoming prig.

At last, he saw the man he was looking for.

Amarrus Lokaï was doing his best to keep a low profile, hidden among his colleagues, supporters, bodyguards and sycophants. From a distance, Jawaad could clearly see the fright on his round, blotchy, puffy face. The man was as enormous as he was shrivelled, dressed in an exuberant toilette mixing gold, green and purple, covered with expensive fur trimmings. He was sweating profusely, clad in a long, straggly tunic and heavy open pourpoint, which showed the flabby folds of his belly.

All this did not make Amarrus Lokaï very discreet. Usually, this was his goal, but at this moment, he bitterly regretted that his efforts had made him so conspicuous. The merchant, one of the most imposing in the marine wood trade and in the craft of naval equipment, had been trying for years to attain the rank of master-merchant, the first step towards the city’s highest honors – and towards more than juicy trading privileges.

Unfortunately, his main and most serious rival in his line of business was Jawaad. Amarrus had never had the slightest chance of competing with him, and the latter, given his position, could therefore, if he wished, govern the commercial rules of the lumber and marine equipment trade at his discretion. A further annoyance, and the ultimate frustration for Amarrus: this was by far not his rival’s main activity, and he made no secret of the fact that he cared little about it, except for his own shipyards. So, failing to legally claim his place, which he felt was rightfully overstepped by a man who scoffed at everything and everyone and was incapable of competing with him, he had tried, three times in just over a year, to have him assassinated.

And Jawaad stood there, a few yards away, staring at him impassively and unreadably, with an annoying smirk on his face that seemed to promise the most appalling fate, holding a gift-wrapped package in his hands. Amarrus would probably have felt less frightened if he’d been held up at gunpoint. Damas, who had stopped as close as possible to his boss, called out to Jawaad in a low voice:

“You know that your present, even if it amuses me, is a very bad idea? It’s going to be a mess as soon as people realize what’s in the box.”

Jawaad shrugged:

“It won’t kill anyone, except by apoplexy, and that’s not my problem.”

Abba, who was also trying to speak in a low voice, which wasn’t exactly obvious to him, intervened:

“There’s every chance of a fight. Alterma shouldn’t have come.”

“I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t be here; and if it ends up in a brawl, she knows what to do.”

Alterma nodded proudly:

“I know how to defend myself, I’ll be just fine!” she said, before giving an unconvinced pout.

Abba grunted, more out of principle than conviction, and Damas let out a laugh at his grumbling. After nodding to his escort, Jawaad headed straight for Amarrus, completely ignoring his companions who were vainly concealing him and who cautiously stepped aside when the master-merchant arrived; only two gorilla-like bodyguards stood by, protecting their boss.

While Jawaad gave Amarrus a dark, unfathomable stare, making him wish he’d been threatened by something less disturbing, agonizing and impalpable, Abba and Damas glared at the two big men. Gaze against gaze, like a rather common contest, the two bodyguards tried not to flinch; after all, they were trained for it. But if it wasn’t so difficult with Damas, who didn’t look very impressive from the outside, it was much harder with Abba, the human mountain with the face of a ferocious beast. Just having to look up at him made the whole thing a bit implausible. To add insult to injury, the slaver made a threatening wince that had all the hallmarks of a wild predator ready to kill.

Remaining in the background behind Jawaad, keeping the place commonly considered for women, even in Armanth, and even though she had a very strong desire to place herself next to the master-merchant, Alterma found it hard not to laugh at the spectacle of the two clearly outmatched bodyguards and Amarrus’s reddened, discomfited face decomposing in plain sight.

Jawaad took his time. Finally, he held out his arms without greeting him, in defiance of all custom.

“To refuse a gift is an insult, I believe. No?”

There was another, somewhat cold silence, and the contest of killer glances between Jawaad’s two seconds and Amarrus’s bodyguards ceased immediately. The commotion that followed spread throughout the room. Quickly and casually, spectators drew closer, not wanting to miss a crumb of the incongruous exchange.

“Uh, yes, of course, uh… best regards, Jawaad the master-merchant, » Amarrus replied hesitantly. “But…um… is this a present… for me? Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

Jawaad frowned slightly.

“Are you trying to insult me, Amarrus?”

“Well, no, of course not! But I’m surprised by the gesture, well, I’m not going to explain why, am I? It’s just that… we’re not on the best of terms.”

“I’ve noticed that, only very recently; but please, open your present.”

“Right here? But…?”

“Yes, right here. I could well be suspected of giving you a deadly gift, should something happen to you when you take it; but here, we have no shortage of witnesses.”

Amarrus tried to put on a brave face, vainly, and not to show too much of his almost visceral fear now in front of the man he had tried in vain to have murdered, suspecting that everyone knew a little about it; rumors ran fast, in Armanth. His small personal court had not dared to approach, but Jawaad’s last words made them curious and they returned to stand next to the big marine merchant, so as to have a front-row seat. All around them, a small crowd gathered and drew closer. Amarrus realized he’d been masterfully tricked: among other setbacks, his reputation would suffer if he refused the master-merchant’s gift. He swallowed.

“Er… thanks then. Well, um… I’ll have the honor of opening it in front of everyone, and displaying your gift!”

Amarrus took a deep breath and finally decided to pull on the ribbons, which untied without resistance, and open the package, which Jawaad still held in his hands. The latter smiled almost invisibly.

The box contained just one thing, set in a case of light silk: a very large flower, with petals wider than a hand, pearly white with bluish, luminescent reflections. Each petal, of which there were seven, ended at its tip in a delicate shade of azure, and the texture of the flower easily evoked some vaporous translucent fabric. The numerous stamens seemed like silver threads lit from within. Finally, the pistil was striking in its contrasting shades of gold, standing out like a long, flaring proboscis.

Amarrus opened his eyes with surprise and delight. He held out his hand, reassured that the thing wouldn’t jump down his throat, and gently raised the jewel-like flower in front of him. It was a synthaia. Instantly, those in the know recoiled in panic, and all was soon in disarray. Those who had recognized the flower were eager to flee as quickly and as far away as possible; they began to jostle those who, motionless and unaware of the danger, were admiring this jewel-like masterpiece of nature. One of Amarrus’ bodyguards stepped back, bumping heavily into his boss’s companions, while the other wondered what was going on. As for the merchant, he was subjugated by the beauty of this exotic flower, totally unaware of the danger.

Naturally, the first exclamations in the vicinity were not long in coming:

“A synthaia!”

“Has he lost his mind?”

“Stand back!”

“We’re all going to die!”

“Call the guard!”

Jawaad stretched his smirk a little wider as he heard the rumors swell, staring at Amarrus who, looking numpty, was beginning to freeze in anguish, assuming that something serious was going on, but unable to comprehend the danger of what he held, flower in hand. The master-merchant finally said, with detachment:

“This, Amarrus, as you’ve just heard, is a synthaia. A rare and exotic flower from the San’eshe Islands. Very few people in the world know how to grow it; just as few know how to pick it. At the slightest vibration, this flower releases its pollen, which floats in the air. And I can see you’re trembling, aren’t you?”

Amarrus still didn’t understand, looking as stupid as he did anxious.

“And… so what?!”

“So what, its pollen, released into the air, is a toxin that kills by paralyzing its victim. She suffocates to death in less than five minutes.”

Jawaad paused briefly, adding in a grimly calm tone:

“There is no cure.”

Amarrus let out a hiccup of terror, and with it the flower, which fell back into the box.

All around, the crowd began to panic and shout loudly, scrambling to get back, causing the first unlucky ones to fall. This time, everyone had understood; panic was growing by the minute as it spread through the hall.

Damas nodded towards Abba, signalling the ruckus and trouble that would soon follow. And indeed, several of the bodyguards were reaching for their weapons, torn between the duty to stop whoever was causing the threat and the urge to back off to save their own skins. For the moment, the option of staying away from the deadly flower seemed the wisest. The situation was becoming more complicated, however. Abba saw a small notable draw a pulse pistol, Damas saw a bodyguard imitate him. This was not going to end well.

Jawaad glanced back and forth as resolutely calm as ever, seeing his men on the alert in the midst of the chaos. As Amarrus, panic-stricken, literally choked with terror, the tension rose dangerously. Jawaad had achieved his goal, and now it was time to bring the tension down.

“Now that I have your full attention, Amarrus, and that of a hundred witnesses, listen to me carefully…”

There was a real hush, and the closest spectators in the crowd, who couldn’t back away without having to step over their neighbors, held their breath. And for once, Jawaad raised his voice, just enough to make sure he was perfectly heard over the frantic hubbub of the hall.

“I’ve just killed you, Amarrus, and spared you at the same time. This flower has been treated to be safe, and I breathe the same air as you without risk. Nor for me, not for mine, not for yours, you incompetent jerk! You now owe me two life debts! The one you incurred when you tried three times in vain to have me killed, and this one, for surviving my synthaia only because I wanted you to! You’re an uneducated fool who couldn’t get a blind man killed on a dark street. If you’re still alive, it’s because I want you to be, and because you represent nothing! Go back to your orgies, gorging yourself on fat and liquor with your slaves. Continue to let your minions run your business, they’re more competent than you. Don’t meddle in the affairs of master-merchants, you’ll never be one. You wouldn’t even be worthy of being the sole of the boot of the last of us! And remember this: I’ll come to claim the two debts you owe me, wherever and whenever I please, in whatever way I please; by the law of the Council of Peers and the Merchants’ Guild, no one will stand in my way.”

The silence, installed like a heavy cloak over the crowd, gagged even the last murmurs. No one in Lossyan memory had ever heard Jawaad make such a speech; indeed, no one had ever heard him speak at such length. Alterma, surprised by the sudden silence, moved closer to Jawaad, who was staring at Amarrus, still purplish, stunned and breathless. She murmured, curious and smiling:

“Did you prepare this speech?”

Jawaad shrugged nonchalantly.

“No. I didn’t have to.”

All of a sudden, the murmurs started up again, then swelled to a frightful cacophony. Some were commenting on the master-merchant’s words, others wanted to know what he’d really said, the farthest away were still panicking about the risk of dying from the synthaia, the nearest were breathing a sigh of relief, and the bodyguards of all the local notables were trying to figure out what to do, while the valets were picking up people who’d fallen in the stampede. Jawaad’s gaze was still on the marine merchant.

“Do you understand, Amarrus?”

He nodded vaguely with a nervous movement of his head, letting out indistinct babble. Jawaad insisted, his voice now as icy as his black gaze:

-“Do you understand?!”

Amarrus spat out the answer, painfully, in a pitiful squeak:

“Yes… yes! I understand!”

Jawaad nodded in what could, with some effort, have been assumed to be satisfaction, although his face remained as impassive as ever. Disdainfully, he dropped the box in his hand, letting the rare flower fall to the ground, and turned back to his companions:

“I’m done.”

Just then, a whole troop of armed men burst out of the entrance to the hall with a resounding roar. A dozen or so Elegio guards poured in, looking disgruntled, pulse-lance in hand, clearly eager to do battle. The troop’s non-commissioned officer bellowed like a bellringer, all too happy to use his authority in front of such an audience of important notables:

“Who, then, has dared to bring a synthaia flower into the precincts of the Palace of the Council of Peers and threaten the safety of the honorable representative assembly of Armanth our beloved?”

Damas let out a heavy sigh. Abba clasped his hand over his face and let out a sigh of his own, which sounded more like the growl of a wild beast. Jawaad raised an eyebrow as Alterma imitated him, clearly more demonstrative in her surprise. In a few steps, the guards found themselves face to face with Jawaad, his two seconds and Alterma; and, just behind the master merchant, on the ground, the flower in question, which could not be missed.

Damas rolled his eyes as he imperceptibly stood guard:

“Actually, no, I don’t think it’s quite finished yet…”