Drift 1.a
Asher
Steel severed flesh, cutting diagonally across jade tiger stripes. The follow up swing parted hand from body, and in the ensuing moment a thrust pierced the man's heart. Crimson rivulets flowed through the cracks in the stony road to pool together with the blood of his brothers.
Two streets over, smoke plumed from a storehouse, the dust shipments having proven highly flammable.
Asher wiped his blade on a nearby cloth tent stand. Three tiger soldiers lay dead, and one message had been delivered. It was done, and now he could finally get payment from Manyassos, the snake.
Shopgoers and merchants resumed their trading now that the spectacle was over. Those who bothered to stop at all. The city was no stranger to bloodshed.
Sheathing his sword, he began the long route back to that scheming merchant's manor, winding his way through the streets of Volantis.
It was the oldest of the Free Cities, or so it was claimed. He was willing to believe that. The city had layers of history. Here on the west side of the Rhoyne's mouth, the newer -poorer- districts of the city spread haphazardly. Brick structures, pale yellow or red and one or two stories tall -workhouses, brothels, dust dens, slum housing, warehouses, taverns- packed roadsides without rhyme or reason, each building encroaching upon the next. Streets met at odd angles or breached suddenly into a plaza.
Merchants hawked wares to the crowd from their innumerous stalls, and buyers haggled in every language imaginable, from the Bastardized Valyrian of the Free Cities and Slaver's Bay to the harsh guttural Ibanese consonants, trills of Summer Islanders to the drawn out intonations of far eastern traders, and even the familiar Common Tongue of Westeros.
The throng clogged the streets, most traveling afoot, some being ferried by slaves on palanquins or carted by a dwarf elephant on
hathays if well-off. "People of quality" did not travel on their own two feet in Volantis, a perception that had tainted many a meeting with his contractors. In the first few weeks, the disdainful sneers had driven Asher to unscrupulous jobs, but results spoke for themselves. The pricks could jab at him all they liked. At the end of the day, they all paid for a skilled swordsman.
And sellswords were in high demand as of late. The triarchs played their games, the same as the lords of the Seven Kingdoms grasped and scrabbled at power. The only difference was in the names. Tigers and elephants. Warmongers and schemers - and right now the warmongers were in full swing.
Half the city stank of repressed violence, of a desire for expansion and conquest. Though it always stank mightily here, even at the best of times, a mixture of elephant dung, raw human stench, and overripe fruit. An apt comparison, that - the city was overripe, ready to burst its guts and juices.
There was also the scent of perfume, used by whores in a futile attempt to cover up the ever prevalent stink. One such whore eyed him now, perhaps thinking him an easy mark, that he would soon be parted from his honors. On any other day, perhaps she would be right - the lass had chest to spare and was a pleasure on the eyes.
"Ohhh, handsome man like you, make fine love," she cooed in broken Common.
"Not today, I'm afraid," he responded in the Volantene dialect of Bastard Valyrian, "Perhaps another time. When the tiger has gone back into its cage."
"A dangerous man too," she switched to Valyrian, "Ah, but I enjoy a little danger. It makes it
so much more exciting. A man can use some excitement, no?"
Her sultry pout and wide, expressive eyes would have earned her some soreness tomorrow, trouble walking perhaps. If he wasn't in a hurry.
"I'm sorry that it was not meant to be,
jorrāela munda. A man has needs, but this man has needs of honor."
Her sultry pout became a sultry smile. A woman's smile could be just as dangerous as a man's sword.
"Then you must promise me you will return. With your honor."
"Alright then. That's a promise I'll keep. So you may get your brush with danger," Asher said, tracing the teardrop tattooed beneath her right eye. "And what might I call you when I go looking?"
She took his hand in her own. "Zanzeēzoe. Zoe to those who know me more- intimately."
"I'll be paying you a visit, Zoe."
"I look forward to it," she purred, her hand slipping from his.
Usually, one struggled to get a sentence from a Volantene that wasn't couched in a dozen layers of hidden meanings, but that was a far more straightforward interaction than he was used to. It was refreshing.
What a pleasure slave like that was doing on the west bank was beyond him. He might have to track her down across the Rhoyne by next week after some mistress or master of a higher quality establishment inevitably snapped her up. There'd be a need for a whole heap of honors then. He'd best go collect.
That was the plan. He'd get his payment, lay low for a while, then go see if he could find the lovely Zoe. After that, well, it was time to move on from Volantis. The city had overstayed its welcome. Perfume could only hide so much of the rot underneath; the powder keg could only be held at bay for as long as the elephants kept it from exploding.
Moving east again would be a good bet. He'd heard Elyria was lovely in winter, and the seasons were sure to change soon.
He couldn't help but think that winter would be welcome here and now as he pushed his way through dense crowds. To say the air was balmy was an understatement. In summer, you did not walk the streets of Volantis. You swam in them.
The liquid quality of the air amplified the aforementioned stench to unbearable heights, and as he drew closer to the waterfront, a new choir of smells assaulted the senses - fish guts baking in the sun, acrid tar from the sealing of sea vessels, and of course, more shit. It would have been better not to have the sea breeze at all, for what little relief it carried was far outweighed by the stink it blew to his nostrils.
At least he would soon be crossing the Long Bridge, so called for being longest bridge in Volantis, and in fact, it was the longest in the known world - one of the nine man made wonders. Its blackstone pillars emerged from the depths of the Rhoyne like spikes of onyx to fuse with the bridge proper, spanning the expanse of the river. The width of the rushing mouth of the Rhoyne was easily dozens of times that of the widest segment of the White Knife. A man could run for ten minutes straight before he reached the other side.
Traveling east brought taller buildings and a higher number of people being ferried by slaves on palanquins, carts,
hathays, and a few atop full sized elephants. Accordingly, the quality of shops increased, these ones guarded by slave soldiers bearing the familiar jade stripes on their faces. Asher passed inns and taverns, jewelers and fabric weavers,
cyvasse parlors and coffee shops, sellers of exotic animals… and slave traders.
One cannot escape the ubiquity of slaves in Volantis of the "Free Cities" -slaves outnumbered freedmen five to one- and the masters made sure you knew it, for each and every slave was tattooed, branded with the symbol of their station. Jade stripes on the cheeks for soldiers, a cerulean tear beneath the right eye for whores, black flies on the cheeks for the pitiable elephant dung collectors, the list went on - a jug for cup bearers, a cog for ship workers, a horse head for stable workers, a wheel for
hathay drivers, a hammer and chisel for stone workers, fish bones for fish catchers.
Tattoos were not reserved solely for slaves. Men and women of higher standing inked their deeds, accomplishments, and allegiances upon their bodies. It was only those specific markings that denoted slave status, and it would be best to never confuse a slave symbol with a mark of achievement. The masters and merchants were not kind to people who made that mistake.
Fishmonger's Square drew near, the center of trade for freshly caught fish and seafood located directly next to the piers where fishers brought in their haul. There resided the Merchant's House, the largest and most favored inn for traders and merchants the city over. Asher held many meetings with Manyassos there, though it was not his current destination. He avoided the square as it was always stalled with traffic this time of day, opting instead to circumvent it around to the north.
Once past Fishmonger's Square, the Long Bridge was not far off, a short jaunt along the river bank. A commotion drew his attention as he closed in on the western gate.
"Reach now for the fire! Reach now for the Lord of Light! In days of squalor and days of cold, reach for R'hllor!" the priest of the red god spread fervor to the masses before him.
In months of late, the red robed preachers had gained traction along the western bank, members of their faith popping up among the plazas and squares rife with the gullible ready to put their faith in the first man to promise them miracles. They always drew crowds - of slaves and free men alike, but rarely the old blood.
And now this crowd was screaming their approval of the red priest's empty messages, roaring with all the zealotry instilled by faith.
"We are all slaves under His light, all equal under R'hllor! Not divided by caste, our blood scoured clean in His cleansing flame!"
The crowd roared a crescendo.
One man among many in the crowd bellowed out, "The tiger sends us to die in his conquest, and the elephants trample us beneath their heels! Down with the tiger! Down with the elephants!"
"
Down with the tiger!" "Down with the elephants!"
The chorus repeated amongst the volatile masses until the red priest regained control.
"Even the triarchs are made equal before His flames, spread His light and His message, and they shall hear us!" he spread his arms to the sky.
Men with tiger stripes guarding the bridge gate looked on with apprehension, spears held tightly.
A dozen soldiers of the Fiery Hand gazed back unconcernedly, their own strangely tipped spears held in relaxed but disciplined formation.
Trained in the martial arts from childhood, the slave soldiers of the temple of the red god were said to outmatch the tigers three to one. If the red flames inked on their cheeks did not clue you of their status, then the ornate armor surely would. Red dyed links adorned metal plates cushioned with leather and with orange robes worn underneath to prevent overheating in the sun. Images of fiery hearts emblazoned their chest plates, the metal etched with outlines of flames. Even their spear tips were shaped like fiery tongues of flame.
This was the fuse on the powder keg. Asher gave them a wide berth.
Beyond the seeming desire to rile up the masses, he thought there was something off about the red priests. Neither those who kept to the Old Gods nor those who followed the faith of the Seven possessed such single minded devotion to throw themselves onto the pyre for their beliefs. It was a deeply uncomfortable level of zealotry. What
wouldn't a servant of the red god do for their faith?
He put those thoughts out of his mind as he approached the gate. It was congested with travelers going both directions this time of day, and the density of people was at its highest point on the west side of the bridge.
Asher was not stopped or inspected as he passed through the lit blackstone tunnel. Nobody was ever stopped from crossing through the west gate.
Passing into the bridge proper did not exactly constitute an emergence. Rather, the shops and buildings running along the sides of the bridge loomed overhead to form an arch that blocked out nearly all sunlight except for a sliver directly overhead and in the few gaps between buildings.
The architecture that facilitated this effect was bizarre. The structures were built in tiers with each floor jutting out further overhead than the last. If looked at side-on, they would appear as a staircase of slabs.
The buildings of the Long Bridge were constructed from the same fused blackstone that formed its base and length, but each had its own theme of colors according to its purpose. Seafoam swirls painted the walls of glass blowers' shops. Alternating green and brown bricks foretold of monkeys, parrots, ocelots, and other exotic pets. Purple or pink columns denoted spicers. There were black, white, and gray hexagon patterns for
cyvasse parlors, red and blue upside down hearts decorating brothels, amber stripes for the odd bakery, cerulean waves for shipwright's quarters, temples in shades honoring the old gods of Valyria, red skulls for buildings where men and women were bought and sold - on the bridge, all had its place, and one could buy anything and everything.
The first crossing was a wonder for new visitors, but by now, he had grown accustomed to the bridge and cursed that it was the only secure way to cross the Rhoyne unless one wanted to travel several leagues upstream or hire a boat. Especially at midday, the crossing was a slog. Travel was brought to a crawl if not a standstill.
Midway across and sweltering in the enclosed heat, Asher decided to purchase a cup of cool juice from one of the cellar-shops built into the bridge supports. Handing over an honor to the frontman, he got a cup in return. The juice was processed from a yellow, spiky-skinned fruit the size of a melon that the Volantenes called
qanagerp, meaning sharp fruit.
How clever. Its flavor never matched his expectations from the exterior - cool and cucumber-like with an undercurrent of caramelized onion, an acquired taste, but refreshing nonetheless.
The section of bridge by the cellar had a gap in the stone overlooking the water to the south. This was about the only location outside the Black Walls where the sea breeze was truly pleasant, salty as the ocean should smell. Waves of the Summer Sea rolled endlessly to the horizon, and far, far beyond. From here, the Isle of Gulls could just barely be made out, a rock the size of an entire district covered in bird shit. Exile to the island was sometimes used as a punishment for when the rulers wanted to make a particularly poignant example. Oh, an able bodied man might be able to swim the twenty or so miles across open ocean through treacherous currents -
if their hands and feet weren't manacled. Sailors liked to joke that prisoners stranded out on the rock could at least protect themselves from baking in the sun. They had plenty of natural coating right there, after all.
"Mind if I join you, friend?" A man pulled up beside Asher, lofting his own cup of juice from within his palanquin.
Dark hair, olive skin, fine laced clothing, and the rolling accent marked him as a Myrish merchant, and a rich one at that. He was a hefty fellow with thick jowls and a rotundity of form. It took six slaves to bear his weight.
"Go ahead," Asher shrugged, "just gazing at the gulls."
"Excellent, excellent," he spoke jovially, signaling the palanquin bearers to set him down next to the stone bench. "Introductions are in order, I think. Nyros, from Myr," he stated, "and from where do you hail, friend? Ah, no. Let me guess. By your accent, I am thinking you come from across the Narrow Sea, no? Perhaps north of King's Landing?"
It never hurt to play along with rich merchants. Cultivating connections was how one rose above their station after all. "Got it in one, my friend Nyros. I am indeed from the North. Asher."
"Ha, what kind of trader would I be if I could not tell one people from the next?" he said as sipped from his juice. "Tell me, my friend Asher, what is a Westerosi northman doing in Volantis? It cannot be because the weather reminds you of home, ha!"
"You got me there. No, I'm here to make a name for myself." Though the journey may have started in exile, it was true now. His skill with a blade and talent for making friends in high places would lead him to a destiny far greater than anything he could have achieved locked away as a second son at the ass end of nowhere. "Sellsword by trade, currently employed. As for why I'm in Volantis specifically? Well, the money here is good. But you know this, I'm sure."
"Yes, yes, recent events are good for industry. Best to get in now while the wind's are blowing strong."
"Before the storms topple the posts, eh?"
"Ha! You understand how these things go. Always, we traders are sailing ahead of the squalls. They carry us with speed, with purpose," he emphasized the last few words. "But a merchant who does not heed the warnings, the turning of the winds, why he will find himself sinking if he cannot outrun it."
Asher took a draught of his drink while contemplating that. "And what is it that the winds have blown into port on your vessel?"
"Eyes," he said, "the finest on either side of the Narrow Sea. Myrish eyes," he paused for a moment, gazing out at the waves, "Let me show you."
Nyros signaled to one of his slaves, "Fetch the small trunk."
The slave, a tall man with eastern features and an outstretched hand branded on each cheek reached into the cloth sack attached to the back of the palanquin, withdrawing a wooden trunk ornately decorated with delicate filigree. Threads of gold and silver were spun into depictions of the Sun and Moon along with the stars and wanderers of the heavens. Clasps were carefully yet swiftly unlatched, revealing a set of lace bags cushioned in between pillows made of more lace.
"My personal collection," Nyros informed him, "The long-eye, please," he ordered his servant. "Here we go."
The instrument was just as finely adorned as the trunk, if not more so. A series of telescoping tubes made from well polished wood, not a grain out of place, was decorated with golden symbols - near the base, a stylized eye within a five pointed star, further up, a detailed ship floating on golden waves, and close to the top, a pentagon with a lines intersecting through at right angles. The merchant went about adjusting the tubes, rotating and contracting or lengthening them while periodically checking through the eyepiece. Asher thought he understood what the demonstration was going to be.
"Here, my friend, take a look. Ah, have you ever had the pleasure to peer through a Myrish eye before?"
"Can't say I have."
"Then I shall guide you. Like this, see?" He helped hold the piece steady while Asher put his eye to the lens. "I will help you focus on the target. You were looking at the Isle of Gulls, yes? A couple degrees up, my friend-"
A few sets of instructions later, and Asher had the island in focus. "I see it now." And wasn't that something. "Gods, I can see the gulls. This is impressive craftsmanship, Nyros."
It really was. Whereas before the island was an indistinct haze, he could now resolve individual birds, although they were still too far away to get a great deal of detail.
That launched the tradesman into a spiel about far-eyes, "Ha! Yes, indeed it is well crafted. The long-eye is rated for a magnification of twenty times without loss of acuity. Hmm, let me think, let's say the distance is approximately fifteen rushes, mmm, and wingspan is about-" he began muttering to himself about angles, "-then you should be able to see a seagull flap its wings from here. Do you see it?"
"I believe I can, just barely. Have a look for yourself." He handed the expensive far-eye back to the merchant.
Nyros found the island almost immediately. "Remarkable, an excellent field test. I'd wager we could watch those poor souls condemned to rot on that guano ridden death trap if there were any."
"Perhaps, but I'm not sure I'd choose to get a closer inspection of that. To watch a man be tormented so, regardless of his crimes."
Nyros shivered, "No, no, you are right, I think. Ghastly stuff, that. So uncivilized, so barbaric. The farther east you go- Well, you won't find that kind of display in Myr, I promise you that, my friend."
He had been to Myr. They did not in fact strand their criminals on shit covered rocks. No, the civilized people of Myr suffocated or poisoned their criminals. Much less blood. Though no less painful. More painful in many cases actually.
"Say what you will about the Seven Kingdoms, but the King's justice is most often delivered with a swift sword stroke. You Free City folk are fond of your cruel punishments." Asher said, taking in the last sip of his juice.
"Ha! I'll grant you that. There is a certain tradition for, say you say, creativity and imagination on our side of the sea," he rolled his words. "Why, I shudder to think what horrors would be unleashed if we raised those great gray beasts in Myr. I have seen the trainers work with them, you know. An elephant well trained would not crush a melon beneath its foot," he mimed the fruit being stepped on with his hands and drink, "but when it's a murderer's head placed beneath that same foot…"
"No more melon," Asher finished for him.
"Precisely, my friend."
They shared a moment of silence.
Nyros broke it first, "Ah, but look at how I have brought down our moods. This is no good. Not at all. One should not be bringing sadness to a first meeting with new acquaintances. Let us speak of happier things. Another round of drinks perhaps." He called to the server, a slave bearing a yellow jug upon his cheek, "Two more cups!" His olivine eyes returned their attention to me, "No worries, my good friend, this price is on my honor. Ha! I so love the phrases of the Volantenes. A strange people, but poetic in ways one does not expect."
One of his six slaves, this man bearing outstretched hands on the cheeks and a coin on the bridge of his nose, extracted two honors from a satchel. The small coins that served as currency bore a symbol of wealth -a crown- on one side, and on the other, a skull - a symbol of death. More Volantene poeticism, Asher supposed.
With a new drink in hand, it was his turn to guide the conversation, "So, who's buying far-eyes in Volantis?"
"The curious cat, are we? I sell to the rich and the important. All men of power want Myrish eyes." The merchant didn't sound guarded, but it was obvious he wasn't interested in divulging trade secrets to a stranger he met less than half an hour ago.
That wouldn't deter Asher's ambitions though. "Call it genuine curiosity. You're clearly well off, more than a mere wandering trader, and I may not be familiar with the movers and shakers of Myr, but I'd wager you have your own company. People who work under you. People you could have sent on your behalf."
He deflected, "What, and miss out on the gorgeous weather?"
Asher smirked, "We're both drowning."
"Ha, yes, there is the famous humidity," he shifted in his seat. "Some deals require the presence of men of great importance. Let me tell you, I did not get to my position by delegating vital business decisions to my undermanagers. Besides, I may be getting on in age, but these old bones still long for days of youth and adventure," he sounded genuinely wistful, looking once more out at the sea.
Asher smiled conspiratorially, "Quite the adventure then. I've heard the tiger has set his eyes to the west again. Someone who could grant him far sight, well, it would garner that person great favor."
Nyros tsked, "You overreach with that curiosity, my friend. Always remember that a ship caught out at open sea has longer to go to safety. Ah, but I shall tell you this." His eyes and posture tightened up as he spoke, "The tiger is not the only man with a desire for far reaching sight."
Asher eyed the merchant, reexamining his new acquaintance, "I'll keep that in mind."
It was high time to move on, lest he keep the snake waiting.
"Well, Nyros, we are both busy men. It has been good to meet you. May the winds blow ever favorably."
"You as well, my good friend. May the winds always blow at your back."
The slaves returned Nyros' long-eye to its trunk before lifting him once more. Two more men -uninked and carrying swords sheathed at their hips- emerged from the shadow of the next building over to join the entourage and flank the palanquin as it made its way eastward across the Long Bridge.
Asher gave them a few minutes before he too packed up and headed out once more. Traffic hadn't sped up a bit, but he was refreshed, so the remaining half of the journey was looking to be much more bearable.
After a while longer of walking, traffic gradually lessened, and he came within sight of the east gate. This blackstone tunnel was more monumental than its western counterpart. Statues of creatures from myth and fable stood watch from the sides - half lion, half man sphinxes, manticores with wings and a scorpion's tail, monstrosities with horns and demon's faces, things he could not put a name to. Dragons as well. All gazed down on the unworthy with hideous, bloodthirsty eyes.
The architecture reflected the mindset of those living on the eastern bank. Foreigners were not wanted, and should flee under the gaze of the monsters, lest they meet a gruesome end. However, he had in his possession a certain crest from Manyassos, the snake, that when presented to the gate guards would allow him passage.
He approached the gate guards casually -the tiger stripes here outnumbered those at the other gate by four to one- and presented the crest, a small thing depicting a chicken egg in an undersized nest. He had yet to figure out what the reference meant.
"Here to do business with the House of the Silent Gardens. Expected stay, overnight. To make the return cross upon morning," he stated the purpose and duration of his visit clearly and with confidence - it was not his first meeting with the gate guards.
"You go through," the lead guard spoke emotionlessly, apparently satisfied with the inspection and statement.
Passing through to the other side may as well have sent one halfway across the world, so different was the east bank. Gone were the brick structures and flat tops. Here, large manors carved from stone slabs were favored. Domes and spires topped buildings three or four stories high. Columns and ornamental stonework defined the fashions of the stonemasons.
He called them manors, but in truth, the citizens of the east bank enjoyed much of the same fancies and amenities that the western bank did. They just liked to dress their whore houses up in manor-like facades.
Asher made sure to fasten the crest prominently on his shirt, though it would not endear him to the locals. No, he received many sneers. A few spat in the street from their gilded boxes - that made it easy to know which among them were tigers. Slaves were treated with less disdain than he was by the pricks of the east bank.
He walked hurriedly north along the looming dark wall until he reached the actual manors - not inside the Black Walls of course. Only the old blood, those claiming noble heritage dating back to the days when Volantis was a Valaryian freehold could invite slaves, freedmen, foreigners, or non-noble citizens to within the labyrinth of palaces behind the walls. Manyassos could not claim such illustrious descent, and so he had been relegated along with other wealthy citizens to remain in the wall's shadow.
The river road running along the wall stretched back south all the way to the shore, where the temple of the red god awaited. The massive temple glowed with the colors of fire in the afternoon sun - red, orange, yellow, and white. Unlike the stepped pyramids or other regularly shaped temples of the old Valyrian gods, here pillars, towers, and walls all flowed into one another, a dichotomy of unnatural architecture made natural by the way it all coalesced together, like the temple was one great blazing fire caught in a moment of time and turned to stone. Buttresses and irregularly shaped domes completed the image like the fingers of the fiery god's hand. There were no hard angles to the Temple of the Lord of Light, only licking flames.
He didn't put any of his faith in the red god, but the marvel and majesty of its construction put even the visible parts of the palaces within the Black Wall to shame. In his opinion, it might as well be considered the tenth wonder of man, on par with the Titan of Braavos, the Wall in the North, or its neighbor, the Long Bridge. Maybe an honorary mention.
He turned his attention back to the north, but stopped when he felt a pair of eyes fall on him. Glancing around revealed nothing out of the ordinary, no scrupulous indviduals. There were only wealthy men wearing their head wraps and women in silks perusing the shops, freedmen granting their patronage to the merchants of the east bank, and the ever present slaves.
The feeling of being watched did not lessen though as he hastened up the river road. If he was being followed, there was little recourse to lose his pursuers - best to assume there were multiple. The road ran straight as an arrow until it reached the corner of the Black Walls a ways ahead. The walls blocked passage to his right, and there was not much for alleyways to his left - every passage that direction would lead to the river, and he wasn't looking to take a swim today. Turning back here was not an option, though. He'd have to hope that his followers would be deterred by the guards Manyassos kept on his property and that they wouldn't be waiting for him come his departure in the morning.
The longer the feeling persisted without any apparent sign of a pursuer, the more paranoid Asher became. There were always signs - regularities or irregularities in footsteps, a figure who was
too intense or
too nonchalant. The way a man leaned against a wall or perused a stall's contents while trailing another was subtly different from the casual shop goer. He didn't even have any idea as to what had clued him in. It was unnatural, unsettling.
He was grateful when he finally arrived at Manyassos' manor, the House of the Silent Gardens as the man had grandiosely named it. The manor was guarded at the front and rear entrances both along the outer wall to the property and the actual doorways. Manyassos employed sellswords for this, having a proclivity against buying slave soldiers.
Nominally, the man owned several herbal and flower shops on both sides of the city and on the Long Bridge itself. Those in the know were aware that he had other ventures, underground shops where toxins and poisons of all manner were bought and sold, and he had his hand in the slave trade heading both east to Mantarys and West to the rest of the Free Cities. But those who were deep in his pockets knew of his true hidden enterprise - information brokering. The snake dealt in political and financial secrets, doling out the contents of confidential business deals or the private conversations of high ranking citizens to the highest paying buyers. The man was no spymaster though, for he worked for no triarchs - he only worked for himself.
It was this secretive business that made Manyassos one of the most powerful men within or outside of the Black Walls, and it was what had first brought Asher to the snake's attention. Foreign sellswords made for good scapegoats, especially the ones with a chip on their shoulder. Asher knew this. It's why he sometimes played up his temper and ruthlessness when there were audiences. No doubt the snake knew that he knew, but engaging in such mind games was likely to end in madness.
So, Asher had been hired on as part bodyguard, part muscle, going wherever he was needed to dissuade business rivals, but more importantly to encourage a favorable political climate for wealthy clients. It was strange election customs indeed when foreign bruisers were considered a viable option by the voting blocs.
He walked past the other sellswords, men with similar job records to his own, and entered the compound proper. The pursuers would not be able to follow him in here, and though the feeling of eyes on him lessened, it did not fully abate. He blamed it on lingering paranoia.
Inside the ten foot tall walls rested the so-called silent gardens. Flowers and trees were arranged along snaking pathways, a rainbow of colors organized by a master landscaper, a slave of high renown in Manyassos' employ. The drooping fronds and spiky bark of palm trees made up the bulk of the arboreal plants, supplemented by myrtles blooming with white flowers and yellow-green, thorny acacias. Zinnias with petals in whites, pinks, reds, oranges, and yellows grew densely at full bloom. Bell blossoms, long, thin and tube shaped, red and pink sprouted from deliberately trimmed bushes. A cluster of sunflowers with their large faces and numerous bright yellow petals faced their eyes to the west - towards the setting sun. Pots and planters contained summer snapdragons in pink and purple, coneflowers in the same shades, and five pointed petunias in a variety of colors. Blue puffs were a prized member of the gardens, much the same shape as the dandelions common in the North during summer, but much larger and growing in a coveted, vibrant blue hue. There were more, but stopping to smell the flowers could be done post report.
Asher made his way along the paths, past an artificial pond, trellises, and the various gardening sheds dotting the property.
The manor itself was a sprawling three story affair, and even beyond the extravagant gardens, one could tell at a glance that this was the home of one of the wealthiest men in Volantis, barring only a select few merchant homes and the palaces hidden from view within the Black Walls.
Manyassos was not a traditionalist, and in the vein of eschewing said cultural traditions, he had renovated the older building to reflect a more contemporary style rather than the fashions of old Volantis. Marble, granite, and blackstone bricks were carved and fitted to the older stonework, filling out the color scheme of the
cyvasse board, a game which the snake was fond of. The walls more closely resembled that of the western bank architecture.
Personally, Asher thought the planner should have committed and gone with the hexagonal pattern rather than the standard horizontal rectangles, to make it look more like the playing board - or a very strange honeycomb. Seeing such an outlandish design flaunted in the faces of the old blood Volantenes would have been highly amusing.
He pushed past the entrance into the foyer. Off to the right, slaves bustled about in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, and to the left, more slaves arranged pillows and blankets in the common area. A few were women bearing the blue tear, marking them as Manyassos' personal pleasure slaves. He ignored them and mounted the stairs to the next floor, turning a sharp angle at the landing.
There was as much interior vegetation as there was exterior in the gardens. Vines swirled along walls and planters lined hallways. The prevailing color inside was green with only a few splashes of other colors to break it up. It gave the manor a moist feel to it, damp and dewy and not at all something he appreciated in the sweltering heat.
Knocking on the study door resulted in no response beyond a light shuffling sound. He waited. Surely the snake had better things to do than waste Asher's time.
"I'm back, with news of the job," he announced, opening the door regardless of Manyassos' lack of care.
Glazed eyes greeted him. His employer's fine outfit and the flesh underneath were torn to shreds, a chimp was currently in the process of repeatedly stabbing the corpse's chest.
"What in the frozen hells?"
The chimp startled, hooting and clambering out the open window, leaving Asher alone with the body of his former employer, the murder weapon tossed at his feet. For an indeterminable length of time, he stared in utter disbelief, not trusting what his eyes were telling him. What? How? Why?
"Mmm, this was not in the flames."
Asher whirled around at the intruding voice, ready to draw his sword in a heartbeat.
More bewilderment ensued. Red robes. Red flames on the cheeks, chin, and forehead. This man was a priest of the red god. The strangest priest he had ever laid eyes on. The giant towered over Asher, possibly the largest man he had ever met. Memories of meeting the Greatjon put that into contest, but it was a close race. He was muscled too, limbs, chest, and neck thickly corded and exposed through the short trousers and robes hanging half open. Skin black as coal could only give the man one possible origin - a Summer Islander. His scalp was shaved bald except for a six pointed starburst pattern on his crown. Two of his right side molars were missing.
Asher wondered to himself how in the hells the man got into the manor. Manyassos did not treat with red priests.
Disregarding his thoughts, he shot out an explanation for the obviously incriminating scenario, "I walked in on him being stabbed. By a chimp. By the gods, I'm his bodyguard. I had nothing to do with this, you've got to believe me."
This looked bad. Worse than bad - this would not end well for Asher. Foreign mercenaries made for stupendous scapegoats after all.
"Relax. I am not thinking you killed him," the giant of a man boomed with a voice deeper than any Asher had heard before, the low bass rumbling of a landslide.
What did it matter what a lone red priest thought? He was fucked either way. There was no more protection from the tigers, and the elephants would have his head for the snake's death. He had to get out of the manor, to leave the city on the first ship out.
A thought occurred. "Is this your doing?" he accused the priest.
The giant held out his hands placatingly, "No, this was an unexpected turning of events."
He was willing to believe that for now, given that the man was not inside the room while the chimp was stabbing away.
Still, Asher tried to slip around the priest. Tried. An oversized hand connected to a rock solid arm prevented him from moving. He tried to draw his sword - what was one more corpse? That was stopped as well. By the priest's other hand.
"I will talk. You will listen," he spoke with absolute authority.
"Here? Now? They'll kill us for this!" Asher whisper-shouted, praying that none of the slaves would stumble upon this gruesome display while he was detained. "Or worse! It doesn't matter that he wasn't of the old blood. He had connections. Powerful connections. I need to leave now!"
The man tightened his grip around Asher's wrists, the bones creaking and groaning in painful protest. "You will listen."
He listened.
"I have seen you, in the fire. I have seen many things, but always leading back to you. You are the ending, or the beginning on the path of light. The path that He has set for us."
"I don't understand. You're insane!"
Black pools gazed into Asher's green, "I am not understanding either. Yet, this is the road He is choosing us to walk."
The clues painted a clearer picture now. "You were the one following me, watching me!"
"I traced your path, yes."
"So what in the hells do you think you can accomplish by following me? Look, I don't want any part of your mad ramblings, and it won't even matter if you don't let me go. Someone will catch us in here, and then it'll be both our heads. You might get a pardon from your high priest, but they'll have me crushed or dragged face first across the Demon Road or stranded on the Isle of Gulls."
He was getting desperate. It was only a matter of time until they were discovered.
"This will not be happening," the priest stoically declared, "His plans are accounting for all His servants."
"Well, lucky you! I don't serve your god."
"We all serve Him in our own ways. Mmm, I am believing you can elucidate me. Tell me, do these symbols hold meaning for you? A three headed dragon with clipped wings. A four legged beast with horns on horns, grappling with a lion and another large four legged beast much like a dog. The names of these creatures elude me."
"A lion. Horns on horns, an antlered stag? And a large dog… a direwolf? You've named three of the heraldries of the great houses of Westeros. The three headed dragon is the symbol of the Targaryens. Anyone with a book of histories could produce these. What are you, a con man?" He tried to wriggle out the steel grasp to no avail.
The questions went ignored, "Westeros, mmm. What about a rose whose vines are cracking the foundations it grows upon or a spear piercing the sun and moon?"
"A spear through a red sun is the symbol of House Martell. Of Dorne. As for your roses, that would count for the Tyrells. Is there a point to naming the great houses? You've got five of seven, do keep going." It didn't look like the priest got the sarcasm. Or he chose to ignore it.
"Mmmmm," insightful, "A tower crumbling into an abyss or a black pillar rending apart the earth."
This was becoming ridiculous. The man was a few stags short of a dragon, and whatever he thought he had seen in his precious fire, it had nothing to do with Asher.
"Look, you can take your visions and shove them where the sun doesn't shine! Fuck. Off." Perhaps it wasn't the brightest idea to insult the jet black mountain of a man capable of ripping Asher in half.
But as before, the man of stone was implacable in the face of insults or attempts to break free.
"So there is no deeper meaning in these symbols to you?"
"No! Clearly, you've mistaken me for some other damn prophet," the words dripped with sardonic poison.
The priest's eyes seemed pools of black, consuming all light from the room and taking up more of Asher's field of vision than they ought to be able to. The sun fell away, and the room seemed to turn cold.
"He makes no mistakes. What about… a crimson cross on pure white burning a hole through a heart." The priest impressed a grave seriousness upon this final symbol. Dark eyes locked onto Asher's, searching.
"I- No, I've never seen anything like that before."
A blink, and the demon was a man once more.
"Mmm, we will travel west. Follow the fire."
Asher remembered to breathe, "We?"
"Yes."
"No!"
"You do not wish to escape the wrath of old Volantis?"
He couldn't tell whether or not the priest was intentionally being obtuse.
"I can go anywhere I want. Elyria has been calling my name. You just. Have. To let me go. Before they catch me. And. Kill. Me." he said, punctuating his words so that they might penetrate the madman's thick skull. "And I won't be making that journey with any red priest," he added, "no offense."
Apparently, none was taken, as he was not torn limb from limb. "Then you will be running in the wrong direction. The fire is not leading east. Of that, you have convinced me."
Large hands unclasped, releasing Asher. There was no time to waste - he should have been on his way out of the city already. He prepared to push his way past the solid wall that was the mad priest, but the man stepped to the side.
"When you are being lost in the dark, look for His light. Follow the fire."
So went the priest's last words as Asher walked briskly out of the manor, his heart hammering.
Making directly for the west bank's piers was his only option as he'd be easily caught traveling afoot or mounted. Once he was on board a ship, the triarchs and their agents would have a much harder time getting their hands on him.
That meant he had to cross the Long Bridge once more. If he was not quick enough, it would be a chokepoint, a trap that spelled his doom. Worse still, the guards would note that he had not followed the stated visit's duration, and they would become suspicious. Foreigners were always suspicious to them.
He walked with purpose back down the river road, but he did not run. Running would draw attention. Attention would draw tigers. Forcing his muscles to relax was difficult, but stressful situations had taught him the skill. His sword arm was kept at the ready but not tensed. They would have a fight on their hands if they tried to stop him.
Calm, casual, collected, that was the way. It was perfectly natural for him to be turning back so soon. Business had been quick, and payment was delivered swiftly. That's what he told himself, and that's what he'd tell the gate guards if they asked.
He could have sworn the return down the river road was longer than the way up, made all the worse by the unobstructed view of the red god's temple. In his mind, the red and orange towers were transformed into the red god's fiery fingers, reaching out to burn him to ash. He steadfastly ignored the temple as well as he could.
After what felt like far too long, he arrived again at the east gate. No one had demanded Asher halt. If the alarm had been raised, it was done quietly, and this would be the true test.
Unfortunately, there had been no change of the guard since his last crossing. He would be immediately recognized.
And so he was, by the same guard who noted his first crossing. "Back so soon, outsider? This was not noted."
"Ah, business concluded rather quickly, so I had a change of mind."
"You will state the length of your stay accurately next time, outsider. Reason for crossing," it was a demand.
"I made a certain promise to a woman of great beauty, on my honor."
"You swore a promise to a whore?" he deadpanned.
"Aye, but a man nearly forgets so when he gazes into those eyes, my friend. Such rich brown pools with a light in them that promises more than can be conjured in the wildest imagination."
The guard stared blankly for a few long seconds. "You go through."
His sense of relief quickly faded. Less than a dozen steps in, he heard the clopping of horse shoes on stone, riding fast. Asher risked a glance back to see the rider speaking to the guardsmen while pointing directly at him.
"Fuck."
He broke into a sprint, shoving slaves, freedmen, and old blood alike out of his path as buildings blurred past. A brace and a jump launched him overtop a palanquin, landing him on the boxy roof. Leaping from cart to box to cage to cart again put him ahead of the traffic block, drivers and passengers left cursing in his wake.
It was effort in vain, for try as he might, no man could outrun the horns.
Two long blasts, loud and low blasted across the bridge. Two more answered from the west gate, signaling they had received the message - the gates would be closed. He had not even made it halfway across.
Shop guards bearing jade stripes drew their weapons, but Asher drew his too.
The first man feinted left with his spear. Too easy to read. Asher stepped inside his range, grabbing the shaft with one hand thrusting his blade through the man's eye with the other. The body fell limply.
The second man was more cautious, circling around and searching for a break in Asher's guard. He held his spear in the pouncing tiger stance, ready to move quickly into a down strike. Asher was familiar with the technique. He shot forward, sword poised to meet spear overhead. At the same moment, the guard shifted to deliver a thrust to at chest height, but this was expected. A sidestep put the man in an overextended position, and he lost his arm for that mistake and his life too as Asher's cut with his sword back across the neck, nearly dismembering the man.
The exchange only served to allow for the guards -a dozen, with more on the way- to marshall both behind and in front of him. Asher could handle any one of them. Alone. Fighting together, he stood no chance.
It was over. Surrounded on all sides with soldiers to the east and west, stone to the north, and to the south, a hundred foot drop. There was no direction to turn. Continuing to fight would earn him a death in battle. Surrendering would earn him a fate worse than death.
Asher went with the only choice that held a sliver of hope. He sheathed his sword, ran for the edge, and leapt.
A fond childhood memory flashed through his mind, of diving into Stillwater Lake from the bluffs west of Torrhen's Square. He, Rodrik, and the Tallhart boy had dared each other to jump from continually higher cliffs, with the winner being crowned Lord of the Lake or something equally frivolous. They had started out at a dozen feet or so, nothing to sneeze at for a young boy, but hardly a terrifying endeavor. As the heights increased, they had felt more apprehension, and the boys required more mutual egging on from their fellow comrades in peril to take the plunge. Though Benfred was the younger of them, he had the most experience with high diving and had worked his way up to around forty feet. It was at this point though that the young Tallhart heir gave up the goose, claiming that the risk of danger was too high and that he would not be jumping in after to save Forrester boys when they shattered their limbs. Of course, Asher and Rodrik made the jump anyway, but called it quits after that. So the brothers had shared in the title of Lord of the Lake, unwilling to move another cliff up - that last dive had a very solid impact, and Asher in particular was afraid he had hurt his arm, though it left nothing more than a bruise the next day. The most important part came after the brothers rendezvoused with Benfred. He commented on their diving form, saying that they ought not to lead with their hands. After all, how would they swim to shore with broken arms?
It was that last piece of advice Benfred had given that Asher remembered now,
"If you're going to dive from that high up, you need to lead feet first."
So, Asher led with his feet, body pointed straight as an arrow with the wind screaming in his face and the Rhoyne rushing up to meet him.
He hit the water.
Pain enveloped his world.
The murk obscured his vision, causing him to panic and flail his limbs every which way. The sun was setting. He could not find up. Feet flashed in searing pain. The water stung his eyes, his lungs burned, and his legs tortured him. A gasp allowed water to flow into his lungs. Arms whirled frantically as his vision narrowed, tunneling into darkness. The flails grew weaker, and his mind fled. Blackness came.
Asher sputtered and hacked and coughed up his lungs and the water along with them. He hadn't died. By the old gods, he was alive!
He lay on a beach of orange sand, painted in the sunset's glow. A tall figure crouched over him, one he was recently familiar with.
"You were carried west, not east," the mad priest said.
Asher choked trying to get words out, beginning a new round of coughing.
"Rest. Allow yourself to regain your strength."
There was not much choice but to acquiesce to those demands. The priest prattled on as he lay there catching his breath and thanking the gods for his miraculous survival.
"The signs are clear. The winds are blowing swiftly westward, so that is where we will be going. If the visions tell of your great houses, then His light truly shines upon Westeros, and we will be following the trail, starting at the tip of the spear, Dorne. Whatever is arresting the Sun and the Moon, we will be learning more of it there, I am thinking, and it may point the way to the bloody cross."
More nonsense, to be sure. Now that he had regained his faculties, he noticed an odd sensation, or rather, an odd lack of a sensation.
"My legs, they do not ache. I feel- fine."
"His embers are smoldering within, strengthening you."
Asher coughed, "What did you-" he rattled out a wheeze, "What did you do to me?"
"I have done nothing. This is His work, and I am merely a conduit through which He may channel His light."
"Horse- horseshit, the red priests aren't healers. Your god doesn't promise any healing miracles. You'd have a line stretching from the doors of your red temple all the way to the ruins of Valyria."
Sitting up brought all the blood rushing from his head, causing him to collapse again on his side. The priest held out a hand, and Asher ruefully took the offer, using the man's bulk to steady himself as he rose.
Pulling Asher to his feet, the priest said, "True, He does not heal, for fire cannot fix our wounds nor can it undo our hurts. But He was not done with you, so He gifted you a spark allowing you to rise anew."
As the speech ended, Asher looked to the sunset. No, not a sunset. Dawn.
"How did I survive?" he thought aloud.
"You did not, but He has seen fit to bring you back, to replenish the light of your life with His own embers."
He remembered drowning, desperate for air that would not come and the awful pain of the impact. Men did not survive a full night floating in the water unconscious with broken legs. Asher had died, yet he lived now as if it had never happened. He'd been what, resurrected? By a god?
The measure of his sanity was thrown into question, yet there were whispers of red magic, fiery sorceries practiced by the worshipers of the red god. Asher had always thought the way they bent and warped fire to be mummer's tricks, nothing more than clever illusions, but now he was not so certain. He was living proof that some miracle was at work.
What made him so special that a god would return him from death's grasp?
"Why me?" he asked the priest.
"You are playing a role in His plan. It is that simple."
"What plan?" Asher insisted, "What is my role?"
"Who can say why He is choosing one rabble from another? To gaze too far into the flames is to be consumed by His fire."
"So you've no clue?"
"I am gleaning what I may as a mortal man. The visions are like scattered
umban trees, guidemarks, but I cannot be seeing the whole jungle all at once. That is why I must be going where the visions lead me, to follow the trail of trees and map the jungle, so that I am gaining understanding of His plans and what He desires of me."
Asher stood in silence for a bit, digesting the analogy. There was a flaw in the logic though, and he said as much, "If your visions are so vague, then how do you keep finding me?"
"They are beginning and ending with you, first at the Silent Gardens, now at the Orange Shore. You are important to Him in some way, that He would be leading me to you. When divining, your image is-" the priest searched for his words, "clearer, less tumultuous. The flames calm in your wake."
"I'm a simple sellsword, not a man of importance. I very much doubt I can offer any great insight for your bloody visions," Asher said, angrily dismissing the priest's insistence. He had a right to be angry - if it wasn't for the red priest holding him up, he might have made it across the bridge before the alarm went out. "Go have a chat with the other fire fuckers. Just leave me well alone, man."
He was sorely tempted to draw his sword and end the continued nuisance swiftly when he realized he was unarmed. At some point, the scabbard must have come loose, lost forever below the waves. It was the last gift from his father before-
"The other servants of R'hllor and I, we are having a difference of opinion. They are not seeing what I am seeing, not knowing what I am knowing, but the path is different for all of us. I am not seeking reconciliation. I am seeking my own truth, following my own fire," he spoke proudly. "And I am not needing them, for you are tied to Him, and I am thinking you are no mere sellsword," he said, casting a searching gaze at Asher. "No, I am thinking you are more than that. I saw you beside the crumbling tower, lashed to the bloody cross. I saw you with the roses, one among many being cut by the thorns." He clasped Asher's shoulders, staring deeply into his eyes, "No man is simple."
Once more, the priest's eyes seemed to shine impossibly black, like the smoke from a great blaze clouding out the Sun. He spoke gravely, prophetically, "Something cold and dark is on the horizon. It is the enemy of fire and life. It is Death, come to reap our souls in the Long Night. I have seen it. His servant's at the temple have seen it. There is whispering from the sorcerer of the east. If men do not stand together afore the fire, they will be dying." The pressure lessened. "Think on that in your travels."
The priest released his grip, causing Asher to stumble backwards into the surf. Carefully, he rose, brushing off the coarse orange sand accumulated on his waterlogged clothing.
"I'm not your red god's slave," he spat. And with that, he turned around, heading west away from Volantis.
The priest began following him, matching his pace just a few strides behind.
"I am thinking I have not introduced myself yet. Jahalos Quo. Summer welcomes you." Gone was the serious disposition, his voice transformed into a boisterous thrumming incongruous with Asher's previous conceptions of the man. His words still boomed, but more so like the beating of the wide-skin drums used by those clansfolk north of the Wolfswood. It held a certain cadence and rhythm of inflections for all the world made him seem the caricature of the jovial Summer Islander.
No response was given, and the two continued along the shoreline. Inside, Asher could barely contain his seething rage. So what if the priest had risen him from the dead? It was his fault that the escape failed in the first place, or so Asher told himself. All because of mad visions from a mad god.
He had half an inclination to believe that the red god was trying to torture him with the priest for some perceived transgression.
It was some time later, and still Jahalos trailed unerringly in his wake.
"Why are you still following me?" Asher asked without stopping or turning to face the man.
"Ah, but we are heading in the same direction. Should it not be natural for two travelers to be following the same roads if they are heading for the same destination?"
Nothing in the priest's tone changed from the abhorrent cheer, but Asher got the feeling he was being mocked.
He growled. This was going to be a long day.
