Grand Game 454: A Favor for a Favor (Patreon)

Tyelin’s lips twitched. “Ah. Your price. I was wondering when we would get around to that.” He paused. “One thousand gold.”

I laughed. “One thousand gold? For delivering a sector? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But you won’t be delivering us the sector,” Tyelin declared. “All you’ll be doing is smuggling in a packet of cynacilin.” 

“Which by your own admission, none in your faction can do,” I retorted. “Assuming your plan works, it’s my actions that will bring about the downfall of the Riders in the sector.”

“That’s right, my plan,” Tyelin pointed out. “You’ll be no more than a cog in the grand scheme of things.”

“A vital cog,” I said, letting a hint of smugness creep into my tone. 

“Not so vital as—” Tyelin began.

“I can always walk away,” I interjected. “Believe me, if I see no profit in this, I will.”

“You’re bluffing,” the envoy accused. “You wouldn’t have approached us if you weren’t desperate yourself. No one who has managed to earn a Powerful Initiate Mark would so carelessly reveal themselves otherwise.”

Saying nothing, I held his gaze and let him measure my resolve. The astute envoy was right, of course. I was bluffing. There was no way I would reject his offer. Gaining access to the merchant was everything I needed, but Tyelin didn’t need to know that.

Let’s see what else I can squeeze out of him. 

That ‘yourself’ had been a revealing slip and confirmed my suspicions that the Blades were as desperate, if not more so, than me.

In the face of my continued silence, Tyelin’s mouth twisted sourly. “What do you want?” he rasped finally.

“A favor,” I said simply.

He frowned. “What sort of favor?”

“An equivalent one at a date and time of my choosing.”

“Equivalent to what?” he asked.

“Equivalent to the sector I’ll be earning for you.”

The envoy scowled. “You want us to give you a sector?”

“No, and in the Pact that we form we can stipulate I want no such thing. But the Blades will give me something of equal value to sector 75,172—when I ask for it.”

“What if we can’t provide what you demand?”

“Then I’ll ask for something else, but I will let the Adjudicator be the judge of whether your refusal is an honest one.”

Tyelin bit his lip. “This is more than I can agree to.”

I smiled. “Consult Blythe if you wish but know that the clock is ticking. I will not wait forever for your answer.”

Looking unhappy, the envoy pulled back his left sleeve to reveal a slim gold bracelet. Clenching his right hand around the item, he closed his eyes.

A farspeaker bracelet, I thought. That must mean the Blade’s Power was also in the sector. 

For a moment, I wondered why Blythe herself had not come to this meeting, but only for a moment. The Blades faction leader had to be wary of entangling with an unknown Power, especially one that was a proven deceiver. 

From her perspective, there was nothing to say that I was not merely pretending to be weak in a bid to lure her in. And given how precarious her faction’s position appeared to be in the Marches, she’d be doubly cautious. No, I concluded, Blythe won’t risk facing me herself, not unless I force her to. 

Which was the last thing I wanted myself.

The envoy’s eyes opened. “My lady has agreed to your terms.”

My smile widened. “Excellent.”

✵ ✵ ✵

You have sealed a pact with envoy Tyelin, acting on behalf of the Power Blythe. In exchange for delivering a package of cynacilin powder to the non-player Jone, Blythe will grant you a single favor at a time and place of your choosing. The favor will be equivalent to the worth of sector 75,172 to the Blades at the time the favor is called in.

It took over an hour for me and Tyelin to iron out the wording of the Pact. The sticking point had been the phrases “to the Blades” and “at the time.” I’d argued—convincingly, I thought—against them before eventually conceding with pretended unhappiness.

The envoy had insisted on the phrases as a safeguard in case the Blades lost sector 75,172 again or failed to reclaim it in the first place. In that event, the favor I demanded would be worthless.

Of course, Tyelin didn’t know about Draven’s Reach.

Assuming sector 75,172 stayed in the hands of the Blades and the dungeon’s existence became common knowledge, then the favor’s value would increase tenfold… And while I didn’t intend on ever reopening Draven’s Reach for use by any but my staunchest allies, it was nice to have… options.

Arguing over the phrasing served another purpose too, for me at least. Acceding to Tyelin’s wishes when it came to the favor allowed me to insist that nothing in the Pact’s wording would force me to perform the task the Blades required. 

I could back out at any time. 

Conveniently, this meant I would gain access to the merchant with no strings attached—for Tyelin this appeared a minor point and one he was willing to concede in exchange for overruling me on the matter of the favor.

At the end, when we were both satisfied, we shook hands. “When can I expect your merchant to arrive?” I asked.

“He is already on his way,” Tyelin said with a chuckle.

“Perfect,” I murmured.

The envoy rose to his feet, and I looked at him curiously. “Where are you going?”

“To make arrangements for your new persona,” he replied.  “We will have to ambush a rider patrol and make sure to kill our target’s hellbat before we ‘disappear’ him. It requires a deft touch, and I will have to see to the preparations myself.”

I frowned, not sure how far I trusted the envoy to handle such things.

Seeing my look, he added, “Don’t worry. Nicola knows where to find you.”

 Tyelin had mistaken the reason for my concern, but I didn’t pursue the matter. “Nicola is the merchant I presume?”

He nodded.

“Then I guess I’ll see you shortly. You know where to find me.” 

He smiled. “That I do.”

I watched the envoy walk away, saying nothing until he disappeared entirely from my mindsight. “What did you think of that?”

 “I don’t trust him,” Ghost pronounced.

“Why?” I asked, keen to hear her thoughts on the matter. There was something about Tyelin that also made me hesitant to trust him. Yet I couldn’t pinpoint why that was the case. 

“I’m not sure,” she admitted.

 I sighed. “Me neither.”

“If this merchant of his even turns up, we should purchase the scrolls we need and flee,” she said.

 I had half a mind to do just that. Yet...

“Prime?” Ghost prompted when I did not reply.

“Yet,” I said, finishing my thought, “he has done nothing to give us cause to expect betrayal.” I sighed again. “I will not be the first to break faith.”

 A pause. “Then you intend to go ahead with your deal?”

“I must,” I murmured. “The envoy’s plan is a decent one. And besides, I gave my word. While that might not mean much to Tyelin, it does to me.”

“And if he proves treacherous?”

“Then we are freed of any obligations,” I replied. Folding my arms behind my head, I lay back in the grass and set myself to wait for the merchant. “But let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

✵ ✵ ✵

The sun hung high in the sky by the time the merchant Nicola appeared. He arrived without fanfare and on a wagon pulled by a pair of draught horses. Rising to my feet, I studied the slowly approaching wagon and driver.

Nicola was a middle-aged human, stout, but not fat. Scars riddled his bare arms and a thick cudgel was belted at his side. Hmm, not your average merchant, then, I thought, studying the man’s grizzled face. He had a scraggly beard—more white than black—and the weatherbeaten look of someone who spent entirely too much time outdoors.

The wagon he drove was just as interesting. Its sides were boarded up and its top covered. I’d not seen a vehicle like it in a long time and it immediately put me in mind of Hamish.

And that, in turn, ignited a dormant memory.

It was Hamish who’d borne the Mark of an Under-dweller, I finally recalled. 

A false Mark obviously—given that Hamish had in reality been Loken in disguise the entire time—but the comparison was noteworthy, nonetheless. Loken did nothing without reason, and I was certain he had not randomly chosen Hamish’s Marks.

So, who are the Under-dwellers that even Loken decided to impersonate one?

A Shadow sect? No, too obvious.

Perhaps they were of the Dark, which would explain why I had run across them in only Dark-dominated territories like the Marches and Erebus’ dungeon.

But no, Hamish had been pretending to be a Shadow merchant. Whoever the under-dwellers were, they had to be as welcome amongst the Dark as they were by Shadow.

And what was the Mark of an Under-dweller really?

I knew already that Marks signified allegiance to a Power—new or ancient. But the phrasing of the Under-dweller Mark hinted at it being neither. If anything, it almost sounded like a place.

Stranger and stranger.

Let’s see what an analyze can tell me, I thought, reaching out with my will to inspect the approaching player. 

The target is Nicola, a human traveling merchant. He is a player and bears a Mark of Lesser Dark, and the Mark of an Under-dweller.

 My lips turned down. Well, that tells me nothing.

The merchant, meanwhile, had drawn to a halt twenty yards away. I strode forward. Let’s see what he has to say. 

Perhaps it would prove more enlightening than my speculation.