Chapter 12- Franello
(If you prefer Wattpad to read, you can find the novel here : https://www.wattpad.com/story/78722854-the-songs-of-loss-book-one-armanth )
The discussion didn’t take place right away: Abba, very angry, very wet too, returned to Jawaad’s villa dragging Raevo by the hair. The ailing spy, shaken by every bump in the road that rekindles the pain of his wound, finds the journey hard enough to bear to persuade him to cooperate quickly. Damas followed the slaver and calmed the crowds when the two men found themselves mingled with all those who had set off in pursuit of the prowler. All were nervous, soaking wet and, for many, annoyed, not quite knowing what they’d been sent chasing after. It took all Abba’s support and persuasion – WHICH involved speaking very loudly, rolling his muscles and reminding everyone that he could break most of his interlocutors in half without forcing himself – for Raevo to escape to be stoned by the vigilantes and the local residents, who were very unhappy to have had to take the storm because of an intruder. When the slaver had finally reached Jawaad’s villa with his burden, which was exhausted, he was in a bad mood, to say the least.
***
The storm redoubled, the thunder raging with enough force that at times you could feel the vibration in the air and the windows tinkling; weather to make you fearfully superstitious. Abba, who was largely superstitious, was fiddling with his necklace of bone pearls adorned with a number of medals and fetishes, in which the effigy of the Divine Council, a simple silver ring, took pride of place. Damas, even though much less so, rubbed the whalebone scale that never left his belt with his thumb. Might as well put his luck on his side, he might have thought, even for a simple storm, which scholars claimed was merely a natural phenomenon and in no way an expression of divine wrath. But what did the scholars really know, after all? As ever, Jawaad was almost indifferent to the thunderstorm that streaked across the sky, regularly lighting up the cellar with a blue glow that seemed to extinguish the candles responsible for lighting it up a little. Opposite him, Raevo, leaning on some old jute sacks, had other things to think about than the storm. Lightning and fear of the gods were of little concern to him either; he was wounded and gambling with his life.
“Okay, I’ve told you everything. Look, Jawaad, I have no reason to lie. My job’s in jeopardy, your… er… well, the other one there – he was pointing at Damascus with his chin – has me pinned up like a butterfly. I’m pissing blood, I wouldn’t get far without treatment and my only salvation is to tell you everything, counting on the fact that you have no interest in killing me after all… right?”
The master merchant turned his dark gaze on the ailing spy. So far, he hadn’t made a move to have him treated, but Azur was at his side, already carrying some basic care for the wounded man. She was waiting for her master’s order.
“I could make your remains disappear, and no one would come and ask me about your fate.”
“But I’ve told you everything! The man who hired me was Narwin Callimus! My job was to follow your movements, learn your habits, find out when and where you can be found! I had nothing to do with the spadassins in the tavern or the accident at the shipyard. My job is to spy on people, not kill them!”
“Narwin Callimus, what do you know about him?”
“He’s a port tax administrator; an old, unsuspecting paper-pusher, just an accountant. I’ve never heard anything about him that would explain why he’s after you! All I know is that he’s employed by the Naa’shetim Merchant House on behalf of the Elegio, that he’s seen there as an unvarnished mediocre fellow, but who does his job well. The only thing of interest… well, I mean, apart from the fact that he’s hired me to keep an eye on you for over a month, is that he hides his relationship with Franello well.”
The theatrical pause in the explanation brought Abba off his feet. In two steps, he was on top of the wounded man and bellowed in a voice that could have stopped a whole phalanx in its tracks:
“Who is it? Tell me more or, by the High Lords, I’ll gut you like a sheep and leave you to die watching your own liver air-dry!”
Raevo flinched and backed up against a barrel as he saw the colossus charging him, which in the process did nothing to help his wound, causing him to let out a hoarse, muffled cry. Jawaad made no move, nor did Damas react. It was best not to get between Abba and his prey when he was angry. Raevo yelped his reply:
“An Ordinatori! A priest of the temple! He’s in the service of the Espicien, he’s his provost. I don’t know any more, it’s not my client I had to spy on, but Jawaad, me!”
The master merchant stared for a moment, as calmly as ever, at Damas, who was leaning against the cellar door and who, at the mention of the Ordinatori, had immediately given his boss a look heavy with meaning. Jawaad returned his dark eyes, now darker and harder, to Raevo.
“You were supposed to spy on me, but you necessarily took the time to find out what was going on so that if things went wrong, like now, you’d have your back.”
Jawaad glanced quickly at Azur. Nervous about Abba’s anger, which she feared greatly, and her master’s sudden tension, she found it hard to read Raevo’s thoughts easily on her features; but she answered her master with a slight negative nod. The merchant continued:
“What is this relationship, and why should I care enough to let you live?”
Raevo still leaned with his back to the barrel and found Abba’s angry proximity even harder to bear than the pain of his wound; but above all he felt his strength deserting him and he wasn’t sure, if he fainted now, that he would ever wake up :
“It’s… it’s his half-brother, a bastard his father had with an houri from the Squalia baths. Franello learned it I’m not sure how; from his mother, I think. I’m not sure about that, but my guess is that he’s blackmailing his brother or has promised him something in exchange for his services. I told you, I wasn’t paid to spy on him. Uh… please, I’d like to help you, but I can’t hold out much longer…”
Raevo’s complexion was clearly starting to look waxy. Jawaad nodded to Azur, who rushed over to the wounded man to start tending to him, quickly assisted by Abba, after a reproachful glance at his boss. The giant would have finished him off without question, but the man had been useful and, if he could still be useful, it was better that he survived his injury. The spy then decided, somewhat reluctantly, that this was the ideal moment to faint.
Jawaad left Azur and Abba to tend to the wounded man. He’d need a good doctor in the morning, but for now he knew he could rely on his slave and his second-in-command to keep the man alive. He returned to his office, followed by Damas. Re-lighting the bedside lamp as he went, he disdained his own armchair and leaned against one of the columns opening onto the terrace, crossing his arms as he gazed out into the rainy night. The storm was receding. Damas broke the silence, leaning back against the wall.
“This is no longer a merchant’s quarrel, Jawaad. You can ruin or kill a master merchant, but this is an Ordinatori, and the provost of an Espicien! You can’t touch him…”
Jawaad remained immersed in his silence for a moment that almost made Damas impatient, before finally replying, still staring at the rain.
“Do you know what that means?”
“I think so, yes. The question would be: what does he know and why is he trying to have you killed discreetly without arousing suspicion, rather than using what he knows to convene a tribunal? Even the Elegio couldn’t stop him.”
“He doesn’t know enough; the Peer Council would be happy to take my side and quash a lawsuit. I would then be indebted to them and would have to agree to sit, and this Franello would fall, him and what he knows. In spite of everything, he has chosen to act in secret; why?”
“You’d have to ask him; we’re sailing under an inky sky here.”
Damas froze, almost speechless, at the smile on his boss’s face as he turned to face him. Jawaad’s gaze turned even darker. And this look heralded complications that the Jemmaï was somewhat dreading.
***
Sonia was slumped on one of the thick, warm furs that adorned the floor of Jawaad’s bedroom, staring up at the ceiling in the half-light, arms under her neck. Her leash of steel links was securely padlocked to one of the bed’s rings, which would hardly have stopped her, nor would the windows barred with fine grilles. The master merchant’s security was rather basic, and having already evaded the watchful eye of ferocious guards in underground gaols reputed to be inviolable, it wasn’t really a chain, a few locks and a grate that would have slowed the educator down; at least, as long as she wasn’t searched while totally naked and out of reach of anything a room might have contained to aid her escape. The idea had crossed her mind, but then she’d be a runaway slave. If she managed to escape Jawaad’s dogs, which was by no means assured, she wouldn’t be able to flee indefinitely; she’d be hunted down, no matter what, and in any case, what was the point? She had once been free, she remembered, or at least she remembered having been free; but freedom no longer had any meaning for her. At least, not this one, sought and cherished by men and women alike, regretted and mourned by slaves. Hers was in the total absence of remorse, in the unchained animality of her femininity, in the complete ignorance of all doubt. She wouldn’t have known what to do with her life once freed, except perhaps to end it.
The storm had recently stopped, but not the rain, which fell in a trickle that sounded like lullaby music. She heard the man’s footsteps approaching the room, however, and had already turned his head when he entered the darkened room. Jawaad glanced at the slave lying on the furs, and, unconcerned, moved to the bedside of the wide, low bed to light the candlestick, which illuminated the room with a flickering glow. Then, letting himself fall heavily onto the sheets, he nonchalantly removed his boots, without a word; but Sonia could perfectly feel his watchful, scrutinizing gaze weighing down on her. She slid sideways in a feline movement to place herself on her stomach, carelessly exposing herself with shameless lasciviousness, returning the master-merchant a languid, playful gaze.
“Did the master learn anything interesting?”
Her voice was falsely honeyed and suave. Jawaad took his time answering, still staring at the beautiful woman who, in response, undulated lightly on her fur in an instinctive game of seduction.
“What business is it of a slave?”
“The slave demonstrates her interest in what concerns the master…”
“You’re only concerned with your own interests, but you’ve been useful to me tonight, and you’re going to be again. Tomorrow I’ll take you back to your master, you’ll serve me, and I’ll keep my promise of a reward.”
Sonia twitched at the answer before stretching out her whole body in an imitation, burning with eroticism, of animal reptation, exposing with an innocent feint her back reddened and lacerated by the marks of the whip with which Priscius had long and brutally corrected her. She continued, her voice ever more sensual:
“-Bringing me back to Priscius will make it even harder for the master to keep his promise. He’ll probably chain me up for a long time, after whipping me again, this time with blood…”
Jawaad showed no emotion whatsoever:
“If you have the qualities you claim, neither of these complications will be a problem. But if you doubt, can I take back my word, slave?”
Sonia ticked again. Even without the master-merchant’s psyche, it was difficult to negotiate with him, which drew an almost cruel smile from her; she enjoyed it, and preferred it to worrying about it. She sensed that Jawaad, without having asked for anything, now clearly had a precise idea of what the educator was capable of. The only thing that eluded her was the quiet confidence he seemed to have at the moment. After all, he was under threat of death and she could have been another trap set in his path to assassinate him. Her duplicity – she was sure the master merchant was aware of it – would have made her perfectly capable of committing such an act; but to succeed in her plan, she had to win his trust, or at least make him want to consider her valuable and worthy of his interest.
“Of course, I trust the master’s word as much as he trusts mine.”
Jawaad finally dropped his back onto the bed, to lie down fully, passing his hand over the candle flame to extinguish it.
“I doubt it. Now go to sleep!”
Not for a single moment did his gaze suggest the slightest attraction for the slave who was nevertheless unequivocally presenting her charms with all her ravaging sensuality. Even with her total insensitivity to his tricks, Sonia couldn’t hold back a brief sigh of carnal frustration that kept her awake, in the dark, for a long moment.
***
Narwin Callimus used to get news from his spies every other morning, on his way to take up his dreary post at the Port Office of Rents, Taxes & Collections. Written news, deposited in a terracotta urn among others long since forgotten among the detritus of a Radia Ambra quay. So, unless he was very curious, and even if he could lose a few reports in the highly unlikely event of a hypothetical street-cleaning, making the connection between these documents and himself would have been difficult. Had he been truly versed in the craft of espionage and intrigue, he would no doubt have found a way to encrypt the reports; but, on the one hand, it hadn’t really crossed his mind, and on the other, it had already been hard enough to find and hire tailing specialists who knew how to read. He had discovered to his surprise and annoyance that, no, it wasn’t such a widespread skill, and that he was in this field a privileged one. He had never thought to consider the fact that the majority of Armanth’s inhabitants – the little folk of artisans, workers, farmers and servants – are illiterate, simply because all these beggars counted for little more than a tedious backdrop in his eyes.
So, naively, the old civil servant, for whom the situation was somewhat akin to an adventure spicing up his monotonous life, didn’t take many real precautions when he came to empty the urn of its contents. He paused in amazement as he bent over the pile of forgotten pottery, a shadow looming over him. He turned his head, intrigued, and his slightly pallid, stunted accountant’s complexion immediately blanched. Jawaad stared at him, carelessly scratching his short, stubbly beard, his other holding the leash of Sonia’s collar, which sat behind him, sculptural and arrogant in the cool, damp air carried by the light bay wind. And to his right stood Abba, his colossal arms crossed over his massive chest, staring at him with almost palpable anger, a swollen vein in his forehead.
Narwin almost collapsed in the heap of garbage where the urn had been hidden, and tried as quickly as he could to flee to the quay, which was already well-frequented in the early morning; but Damas was already waiting for him there, approaching him with an almost playful nod of the head. A glance across the quay made him give up all hope of escape with a pitiful groan: two sailors were also casually advancing towards him. All retreat was cut off. Abba stepped forward, grabbing the accountant roughly by the collar. It would have taken a jack to make his arm give way.
“I don’t want to repeat myself, but you, we need to talk!”
Narwin yelps in terror:
“Haaa! Don’t touch me, or I’ll scream!”
Jawaad stretched out a smile, staring at the man who, with both hands on his second-in-command’s forearm, was vainly trying to free himself.
“Go ahead, scream and Abba will break your neck. You know very well, you’re a civil servant, so you know the laws well, that a blood crime won’t be held if I vouch for my men. You’ll cost me, what, a handful of andris in fines and a few hours wasted in court?”
Passers-by, just above the little group, watched the scene with a certain curiosity, quickly discouraged however by the stature of the black giant manhandling the accountant and by the two sailors and Damas who stared hostilely at the onlookers, standing between their boss and the rest of the quay. Eventually, someone would notify the local guard, but it would be a long, long time before they arrived. Damas had seen to that, before spotting the area described in detail by Raevo. Half a dozen andris in the hand of the duty sergeant had ensured that he would respond with relative zeal to any report of public disorder on this side of the Radia Ambra.
Jawaad stretched out a smile.
“My first mate said something to you, didn’t he?”
Abba breathed menacingly, bringing the puny man closer to his bestial face. The latter could only stand on tiptoe. The accountant hiccupped.
“Uh… yes, yes, uh… It’s me who’s got you spying on me, but I’ve got nothing to do with it! They forced my hand, and all I did was act as a go-between! I take the reports, copy them and pass them on! Nothing else, I swear! By the High Lords, I swear I’m not responsible for anything else!”
Jawaad nodded, keeping an eye on Damas who, despite the precautions he’d taken earlier, was keeping watch; an unpleasant surprise could always happen. Behind him, Sonia squinted at the spectacle, watching with obvious delight the accountant’s terror at Abba’s bestial power.
“I know all that, Narwin Callimus, » said the master merchant, « but you’re going to do something for me, and you’re going to do it properly. If you do your job, I might even consider keeping you alive after this is over.”
“But, er… Yes ?… Uh, what do you want me to do? I can tell you anything, I promise!”
“It’s no use; Damas will accompany you and you’ll rendezvous with your half-brother. You’ll follow my boatswain’s instructions to the letter; if you do anything stupid, he’ll kill you in a heartbeat.”
The accountant gave the impression that he was decomposing, literally.
“But he’ll suspect it’s a trap, and I’ll never be able to convince him!”
“Follow Damas’ instructions to the letter, and if you can’t persuade your brother, well, you’ll die.”
Abba released Narwin, pushing him back slightly. The accountant almost fell on the garbage, barely able to stand, his complexion livid with fear, as Damas beckoned him closer. Jawaad stared around him. There were no guards in sight, but he had been unobtrusive enough to alert any observers, and he was counting on it. He stretched out a smile, watching the puny official flanked by Damas walk away. Franello would sooner or later learn that he had been unmasked, and that the hunter was about to become the prey. Abba interrupted his reflection.
“You’re playing a dangerous game. I know Damas can pretend otherwise, he loves it; but I don’t. If this Ordinatori doesn’t take the bait, what are you going to do?”
“The best way to find out will be when the time comes. Right now, I’ve got a slave to fetch…”
Sonia, standing back, smiled a perverse, satisfied smile. Jawaad could have settled this affair without her being a witness, and she suspected that he had purposely chosen to take her with him. The educator’s curiosity was thus piqued, and she savored the pleasure with relish.
