A Tale of Embers Told
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC
The temple of R'hllor the Red rises over the surrounding shops and houses like a fortress amid a village of smallfolk. The image is only strengthened by the sight of banners fluttering in the rain not far from the rust-red stone walls, an odd sort of half-siege where sellswords and legionnaires face off against the bright-cloaked Fiery Hand, slave soldiers of a different stock than the Unsullied. Not broken to serve but with the fires of faith kindled in their souls even as they are in the priests... and seven in ten of the men, women and children of Tyrosh.
Though you fly over those same walls easily upon crimson wings, though you are shrouded in sorcery bright and the whispers of elder wyrms whisper in your ear, you would do well to remember that there is power here also and not of a kind that fire can burn nor can magic dispel...
It can certainly help, however, you think as you offer a gracious smile to the robed and bejeweled priest who greets you in the temple courtyard, bowing low.
"Hail, holy one," you declare. "For your offer of aid many thanks, though you will understand of course why it could not be granted."
"Of course," the priest, Hario by name answers with an easy smile of his own, though it does not quite reach his eyes. Bright as polished brass pennies they are and just as much do they reflect the world rather than giving any sign of his deeper self. "I am no warrior, but I understand the dangers of organization done on the spur of the moment... having that organization include men armed and armored for battle could only make the results of any mischance all the more tragic."
You nod as you fall into step beside the man with Ser Richard at your other side, as usual doing a remarkably good job of being overlooked for a man armed and armored in Dragonsteel edged in fire. For a time you are content to walk in silence, also weighing the man besides you as best you can through the veils of silk and stifling Essosi formality. He is far younger than you had expected of a Flame Keeper, five-and-twenty if not younger, his hair held up in a topknot and even dyed after the local fashion... bright crimson to honor his god, of course.
A sorcerer blessed of his god, or merely one of significant political acumen? you wonder.
After taking a seat upon a intricately-carved ebony chair and taking a sip of the admittedly excellent blended tea, you decide to test him gently for now. "It seems strange to me that you would ask for an end of slavery when all men know many of the servants of R'hllor are slaves bought as children to be priests, warriors, or courtesans."
"All men are His slaves..." the priest offers with the familiar air of one quoting dogma, the small thread of steam from his own cup mingles with the sweat incense that hangs in the chamber and obscures his features, though he hurries to add, "I have long thought that in taking up that privilege upon mortal hands many are wont to err, to fall to indolence, to caprice and cruelty, in few places more than in Tyrosh where a slave could have been killed over casting his shadow upon the wrong man..."
You wince, almost forbearing from asking the question that comes to mind entirely. "That is not hyperbole, is it?"
"Alas no," Hario replies, sipping his own tea with care. "Granted it was not a common thing to see after a rather well-known mummer troupe played out a satire of the of just such a happening, but it is legal cause to kill a slave... or I suppose I should say it
was, and may the Lord of Light be thanked for that mercy upon us blind suffering souls."
"I do not count my coming his blessing," you counter carefully, another stone thrown to see how the ripples spread.
The priest's narrow face remains serene. "Most who are would answer thus. Returning to the matter of those enslaved to the Temple, their lives are far better than they would be if we had insisted on counting them free men and women under the law. A freed man in Tyrosh had best have eyes on the back of his head for all the daggers aimed at his back, whereas a slave to a god could come and go as he willed without seeming such a threat. Do I seem mistreated to you, kae..." he breaks off, then to your surprise adds in thickly accented but understandable Common: "Your Grace?"
"You do not indeed," you allow, playing along for now.
"I was bought in a bazaar as a child of six," he continues. "My life before that was... poor, from what little I recall, dark memories best forgotten." At last a flash of emotion passes over his features, though too swift to truly get its measure.
Anger, regret... or something more? "Though not all have risen so high as me, you will find many here share my sentiments, even or perhaps
especially among the Fiery Hand. Having hundreds of resentful armed men within easy reach is... unwise."
"Many... most, these are slippery words," you note darkly. "What of those wishing to leave just the same?"
The words and the challenge they carry hang in the air for half-a-dozen heartbeats before the priest offers, "For all who wish to leave some silver can be spared from the temple's coffers. I am
certain it will be no strain upon them."
"Regardless, you shall not need so large a company of warriors to protect the temple," you counter. "The laws of this city will not only change for the better, they will be enforced. The slums... well, truth be told I would prefer that they not be slums for very much longer, but at the least I aim to make them much safer for all."
"The temple holds many treasures, surely you would not have us guard them with a mere handful of warriors from whose who would misuse them, such as the necromancers and foul maegi your men are even now struggling to drive from their lairs?"
You have given and taken too many bribes not to recognize the tone of a man offering one, be it some of these 'treasures' or information for the price of maintaining the size of the Fiery Hand.
What do you reply?
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