Firebrand

The Nine Lords

Martel glanced around at the gathering place of the Nine Lords. It looked like an ordinary town square, except placed in an eerie city that felt like a crypt. In the middle stood a pedestal that might once have held a statue or something like it; now, it was empty. Not even shards nearby gave any sign of what might have once adorned the spot, nor did Martel see any inscription. A pity; he would have been curious as to the language and alphabet of such letters, even if foreign to him.

The assembled people were of greater interest. Everyone had brought torches that cast flickering light and shadow across the space, only making it seem more ominous. Nine groups, including Martel's own. All of them had four to six people, most of them looking like warriors or servants, and one person who clearly stood out in their clothing or appearance. He recognised Tibert, surrounded by four rough-looking types. As for the man himself, he wore a silk shirt in bright colours, a belt with a large golden buckle, and heavy boots. In one ear, a big, golden ring sat. Tibert caught his eyes and glared in return. Even under the scarf masking his face, Martel felt uncomfortable and looked away.

The atmosphere felt tense in general. Nobody moved from one group to another; everyone stayed with their own, exchanging nothing but looks. Nobody wanted to be here, Martel surmised, and everyone looked forward to when they might leave. Himself included.

A man strolled into the centre of the square, taking position atop the empty pedestal. He wore a bright assortment of clothes; lots of colours seemed to be the theme for this lot. He reminded Martel of the jugglers and acrobats performing at the market during festivals, dressed like that to attract attention.

"The Nine Lords gather!" exclaimed the man dressed as a patchwork. He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the assembly.

"The Keeper of The Pact," Kerra spoke quietly by his side. "Little more than a glorified messenger boy, who likes the sound of his own voice. Unfortunately, we all swore not to kill him as part of making our little system work."

The Keeper turned towards each of the chiefs, one after the other, extending a hand towards them as he called out their names.

"From the Imperial palace, the Paladin!" Martel did not know that word, but he saw an old man dressed like a peacock with a painted face.

"From the holy temples, the Friar!" A monk stood, surrounded by several others. Yet his robe looked to be made from velvet rather than wool, and the other clergymen had impressive forearms that would rival any smith's.

"From the noble mansions, the Comtesse!" A woman in an exquisite dress and wearing heeled boots, which had to make walking across the cobblestones seem like a punishment. She gave a coquette smile, her fingers idly playing at the gem-studded necklace resting on her chest.

"From the silver-shining market, Ironside!" A tall man dressed in full armour, looking anything but a trader, glared in every direction. He even made his own guards look gentle in comparison, as if he protected them rather than the reverse.

"From the merchant shops, Yellowtooth!" Looking like an alderman, he had a green robe with a golden chain across his bulging stomach. He sat on a chair that his servants must have dragged all the way here. Martel could guess at the reason for his nickname, even if he kept his mouth closed.

"From the river's oyster, Lady Pearl!" A voluptuous woman wearing fine clothes and furs with several daggers strapped to her belt. Her most striking feature, along with bright red lips, had to be her entirely shaved head. Curiously, her retinue seemed to be all women, as far as Martel could judge when looking across the square, though they all had their hair.

"From the azure harbour, Tempest!" Tibert gave a sneer, and Martel avoided looking in his direction. He did notice, with some relief, that the angry master of the harbour had not brought more people than Kerra had.

"From the stranger's enclave, the Fire Eater!" A short man with thick, black curls and a beard to match, all of it looking oiled and groomed. Dark lines had been drawn around his eyes, reinforcing his coal-black irises. He and his attendants wore the traditional Khivan garb that Martel had sometimes seen in that district.

"From the red lanes, the Copper Lady!" All eyes turned towards their band, and Martel involuntarily shrank backwards, even if he knew they looked at Kerra rather than him.

"Introductions are done, everyone is here, it's the same people as last," Tibert interjected impatiently. "Can we get to business?"

A few others of the chiefs nodded in agreement, and the Comtesse laughed. Looking momentarily annoyed, the Keeper inclined his head. "The master of the harbour has a grievance he wishes to put before the Nine Lords."

As the patchwork man relinquished his position in the middle of the square, Tibert strode forward with what could best be described as angry steps to take his place. "I won't waste your time," he declared. "In direct violation of our Pact, Kerra of the copper lanes attempted to murder me." His words made the gathered people murmur and whisper with several looking towards the aforementioned woman, who simply smiled. "She engaged a mage to enter my tavern and set it ablaze after earning my trust! I only escaped through luck and wit."

"What do you demand of this council?" asked the Keeper, raising his voice to cut through the clamour.

"Retribution and justice!" Tibert's fiery voice had no trouble being heard. "I want recompense as suitable from Kerra. And to deter other such attempts, for it may well be one of you under assault next time, I demand fitting punishment." His gaze, which had moved across the other lords, became fixed on Martel, and he raised one hand to point at the boy. "I demand that the mage is put to death!"