11th Cylus, 719
Pharan had stepped out onto the pier, his dark cloak wrapped tightly around his narrow frame. Above, seagulls wheeled against an iron colored sky.
“I tried to talk to Ryvern. They wouldn’t admit me.” His sister stopped beside him. Her robes, azure-blue and silver, formed a stark contrast to the gray and black canvas of the harbor. An old servant trailed behind her like an unwelcome afterthought. He stopped in a polite distance, preserving the intimacy of their conversation at least in a nominal fashion.
“I ran into an old friend of father,” Nymae continued. “He had an idea of how to get you to Ethelanum—and offered to arrange it.”
“Arrange to send me over the ocean in a nutshell, delivering letters like an errand-boy.”
“Important diplomatic correspondence,” his sister stressed every word with obvious satisfaction. “And there are two other auxiliaries as well. So… it’s hardly just you.”
“Excellent. My doubts are settled now I know there are more messengers to render my own presence obsolete.” Pharan had sought to put some well-founded spite into his voice but found tired amusement in the face Nymea’s persistence. He had been angry—yesterday. Furious the day before. Now he only felt vague defeat. He looked to the side, to study his sister’s expression grow smug with the delayed realization that she was about to get what she wanted.
“So, who am I going to meet, once I saw my important diplomatic correspondence delivered?”, he asked turning towards the water with sudden trepidation.
“His name is Orik. He has been my contact in the Empire for a couple of seasons.” Nymae smoothed over her robes. “He will be able to tell you who to talk to. Or what trouble he is facing. I couldn’t make much sense of what he wrote in his last letter.”
Nymae waved towards the elderly man behind her. The servant hurried forward, to present a leather-bound journal to the two of them. It wasn’t old, but the cover appeared smooth from use, the pages dog-eared. When his sister made no move to take it, Pharan did.
“And that is…?”, he asked, turning the book over in his hand.
“My notes on last year’s business. Fabric prices. Who we sold to, how much and what they paid. Those things.” Nymae motion for the servant to make himself scarce then moved down the pier. In the distance, sailors busied themselves with dragging some last barrels with water and provisions onto a ship.
“I trust Orik. And he knows the prices. But if anything asked or offered sounds outlandish to you… be careful.”
“You realize there are a dozen people more suited to do this, than me?”, Pharan asked. He tried to remember when he last had been involved in family business and decided that, here and now, might as well be the first time. Ever. He picked up the bags with his belongings and followed along behind his sister.
Nymae laughed. “You always seem to get what you want,” she said.
“If that was true, I wouldn’t stand on this pier today,” Pharan reminded her, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
His sister stopped. “You said it yourself—Ryvern doesn’t plan to leave anytime soon.”
“Because no one wants to travel during Cyclus,” Pharan pointed out, looking up to the ship. The vessel’s dark shape seemed darker when cast against the twilight of the sky. Ominous. Sheets of ice covered the railing here and there and up close the wood and rigging groaned as the wind battered against it.
Pharan felt his breath catch.