RE: Monarch

“A purse of ten golden rods,” Alten said immediately.

Those who heard him immediately whispered among themselves, and for good reason. The price was astronomical. Enough for a massive home in the noble section of Whitefall, and a gods damned estate anywhere else. I wasn’t opposed. Even if I lost, in terms of the treasury, it wouldn’t leave a dent.

But what struck me was how specific it was.

I inclined my head. It was a large enough sum that I wouldn’t trust anyone in this room outside of Cephur and Maya with it, but if I didn’t present it at all, Alten might get the impression I’d go back on it.

“Okay.” I counted out ten golden rods into a small leather pouch, and instead of handing it over to a bookkeeper, tossed it on the ground.

Alten shifted back on the balls of his feet. It was hardly the first time I saw someone take a stance, but something about the smooth-as-silk nature of the movement immediately put me on guard.

The fight pits were nothing like the countless tournaments I’d attended—full of stuffy, prideful knights currying favor from nobles, where the worst that could happen was a loss of face. Here in the pits, survival was anything but a foregone conclusion. Killing your opponent was frowned upon, but no one was going to step in and stop you, and the only rules were the ones you made for yourself.

Restraint.

An image of the drephin burning in a swath of violet fire swirled up in my mind. I needed to remember that despite the dangerousness of the situation, this wasn’t the sanctum, and as far as I knew, Alten had no magic.

Alten was taller than me, the weight difference was in his favor, and he had a hell of a lot more bare-knuckle experience. Tying it all together, he was inhumanly quick. Those were all advantages he had that I lacked.

Magic was my advantage. But I’d grown too accustomed to fighting with every resource at my disposal. I just needed to be subtle. Restrained. The question was how.

Out of the corner of my eye, a bookkeeper whispered in the announcer’s ear. The bets were locked in. We’d be starting soon. Next to him, I caught Maya and Cephur whispering to each other, each looking considerably more concerned.

With a cheery smile, I gave them a wave, then turned my focus to the matter at hand.

I cycled mana through my body activating the inscriptions on my legs, then drew it up to my arms, exuding air mana in a fine mist. It caught a warm current from the one of the many torches that surrounded the ring and nearly blew off into the stands, but my control was better than it used to be, and I successfully guided it back to Alten, spreading it around his form, paying extra attention to muscle groups, until the mana entirely outlined him in glowing white.

If there was a mage in the audience, they’d guess what I was up to, but probably wouldn’t give a damn.

Alten—still stoic and grim—shifted his neck from side to side, and I felt the movement before it happened.

“Fight!”

The announcer barely finished speaking the word before Alten shot forward.

My eyes widened. I’d expected him to hold back, feel me out as he had during the other matches. Instead, he was trying to end it in one strike.

Even with the air mana’s early warning, he nearly did. I stepped aside smoothly, muscle memory taking over as I caught Alten’s wrist and pivoted, transferring momentum and sending him crashing towards the stands. He pinwheeled, unable to slow himself, and forced a few people closest to the action to leap out of the way as he caught himself on a bench.

“Going somewhere?” I asked innocently.

A slow “Ooooooooh,” rose from the crowd.

Alten growled, pushed himself up to his full height, and slowly turned.

“Going to wipe that smug look right off your face.” He stomped back towards me.

I felt the haymaker coming, and still only barely ducked beneath. Hands grabbed my shoulders and Alten drove a vicious knee towards my face. I caught it and pushed him back.

What followed was pure defense on my part. Alten was too quick and reacting was all I had time to manage, other than light returned blows with little impact. Part of it was that my left arm wasn’t exactly suited for restraint. In carapace form it was incredibly dense, essentially a bludgeon. Fantastic for defense, but if I struck with full force, it could easily shatter bones.

Not the way I wanted this to end.

Alten slowed, winded, and I disengaged, dancing back and putting a few span between us. Once he recovered, he took a step back and looked me over once more. “You’re not what I thought.”

“And you’re exactly as I hoped.” I wiped my sweat from my brow.

To my complete surprise and the confusion of the crowd, Alten bowed. Feet together, back stiff. Unlike the usual bows directed at me, it didn’t feel like the rote acknowledgement of station, rather, something else.

Recognition.

I returned it.

As Alten straightened, the surrounding air changed. Grew thicker, more dangerous. The rage in his eye compressed, dulled to a spark of pure focus. Like he saw everything with perfect clarity.

“Any pointers?” I asked, trying to mask my nervousness.

He stared at me mutely, and for a moment, and I thought he might rush forward again. Instead, he spoke. “You know how to kill. I’d reckon you’re good at it. But you don’t know how to fight.”

“Some would argue that’s the same thing.” I thought of my father.

Alten slowly shook his head, then slid into a stance. The room grew darker, and for the first time that evening, the crowd was silent.

“Shall we continue?” he asked.

I took a deep breath and centered myself.

“Stop!”

A man in a tunic tied off with a golden clasp descended from somewhere in the back of the stands, wringing his hands as if he was working in an ointment. He bowed to me repeatedly, floating tufts of messy hair mimicking the movement, then turned and—with a stern look, backhanded Alten with all his might. Alten took it. He turned his head at the last second to minimize the impact, but sound rang out, and when he turned back, there was a bright red welt on his cheek. The man grabbed him by the neck and attempted to push his head down. When that didn’t work, the man’s face twisted in ire and he struck Alten in the gut.

After he’d recovered his breath, Alten finally bowed his head, and the man bowed along with him.

“Humblest apologies my liege,” the man rambled. “That brutish orc pounded him upside the head, addled his mind.”

From my perspective, Alten was doing most of the walloping, but I let it slide considering the bigger issue at hand. The way the man was acting could only mean one thing.

“He’s your slave,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

Alten stiffened, his mouth firm.

A shrewd recalculation went through the man’s eyes. “Certainly not. Slavery is against the law.”

“But he answers to you,” I observed. “And I’d be willing to bet a considerable sum if I raised a hand to him outside the ring—status be damned, he wouldn’t just stand there and take it. So it’s not about who you are, is it?”

“Forgive me. I am Scyld, of House—”

“—No. One. Asked.” I cut him off, letting acid into my voice. His background was unnecessary. Unless I missed my guess, he was from House Westmore. They acted the part of noble seafaring merchants when, in reality, they were nothing more than slavers in fine clothes, likely hit the hardest by my father’s new mandates. It wasn’t as if they were destitute. They had the architecture in place to be effective traders—though their profits would have taken at least a minor hit given how profitable the slave trade could be, and I was sure they still carried out their trade in contested territories.

“He will be punished,” the man said, eyes darting back and forth, looking for a way out.

“That’s irrelevant. The question I’m asking, Scyld, is why Alten here complies so obediently with your commands,” I pressed.

Scyld’s mouth worked furiously, before he finally straightened and tried to comport himself with presence and dignity, hands folded above the golden nautilus on his belt. “There is nothing untoward about our arrangement. Alten is my servant. He entered my service willingly, undertaking the indenture of another. All perfectly acceptable within the parameters of the law.”

“Who?” I asked Alten directly.

“A friend,” Alten said. His voice had changed, grown harder, but the reckless rage dissipated to cold acceptance. “One of many they took from Oyath, offering passage to Uskar.”

It was a revelation that Alten was foreign, but it certainly connected the dots. The Oyath region northwest of Uskar was reportedly a wasteland, with scarce resources and endless swaths of brush and dirt. Whitefall scholars regularly disregarded its people as savages huddling in tents, fighting over water. But their martial prowess was the stuff of myth and stories. Anytime a story began with a mysterious protagonist rolling into a town of goblins or orcs with nothing more than a sword and horse, it was a safe bet they were from Oyath.

“Let me guess.” I crossed my arms. “They were foggy on the repayment details right up to the moment the ships docked.”

“Aye,” Alten said.

“All perfectly legal, my liege,” Scyld reiterated, clinging to his robe.

There were many things I wanted to do. The practice of indentureship was a revolting loophole and nothing would be more satisfying than to set the slaver’s robes on fire and watch him run, screaming from the building. But such an action would build the sort of reputation I needed to avoid. In the meantime, I’d leverage my influence at the palace to rein House Westmore in through the proper channels.

Which meant a short-term solution was in order.

I glanced at Scyld. “And you have proof of indentureship on you, of course? So I can see with confidence that this is all legitimate?”

The slaver smiled and fiddled with a small satchel at his waist, flipping it open and withdrawing a spool of cheap parchment sealed with notary wax. He extended it towards me with a shake at the end.

I took it. “How much?”

Scyld’s smile died. “Apologies. He’s not for sale.”

“What are House Westmore’s words again? Wasn’t it, ‘I’ll sell my grandmother if it nets me a copper?’”

Alten snorted.

“Gold buys all,” Scyld said, coldly.

I clapped my hands together. “Right! Of course, how could I forget.”

The slaver tried to rally, raising his voice to broadcast to his words. “Perhaps… I spoke in error. But as you’ve seen firsthand, Alten is a rare talent. Gifted. He makes a small fortune here in the pits, so it’s only natural that I could part with him for nothing less.”

I nodded, as if talking to a very slow child. “And that number… would be…”

“Twelve golden rods, and not a sliver less.”

A shocked murmur coursed through the audience.

Suddenly, Alten’s demand made sense. His lord had bumped the price, but ten golden rods was likely the sum necessary to pay off the remaining balance of his indentureship in full. It was an absurd sum by my standards. And I was royalty. By Alten’s—a slave in everything but name, who probably made a paltry percentage of his winnings in the pit—it wasn’t even a question of paying it off in his lifetime. His great-grandchildren would bow and scrape to House Westmore before Alten’s obligation was halved.

I made a show of considering the price, then leaned over, ignoring the acrid smell of sweat, and whispered in the slaver’s ear. “It’s been some time since I’ve been here, so forgive my ignorance. Indentureships were more or less unheard of before my absence and I’m unfamiliar with their mechanics. The slaves—sorry, servants—are given room and board, taken out of their wages, of course, and any wage they make is directly applied to paying down their indentureship. Am I right so far?”

Scyld nodded.

“So the servants are being paid, and as their steward, you are simply saving them the inconvenience of receiving it and immediately handing it back.”

Again, Scyld nodded, squinting in confusion.

“And we agree that the servants are paid—literally paid, and voluntarily paying you with the funds by undertaking an indentureship initially.”

“Yes,” Scyld said, growing visibly frustrated.

I smiled. “My last question is simple. What percentage of the payments the servants make towards their freedom is taxed?”

The slaver opened his mouth to answer and froze halfway. His skin turned ashen.

“I have to say, I’m interested in the minutia. How all the little numbers line up. But alas, that’s all beyond me. If you’re amenable, I might pay your house a visit to look at your records and bring along someone clever enough to explain what I’m seeing. A scribe from the treasury, perhaps?”

I stepped away. Still clammy and pale, Scyld swallowed.

“Would… five golden rods be agreeable?” he asked.

“Fantastic.” I slapped him on the shoulder. Then retrieved the purse from the ground, counted out five golden rods, and pressed them into his limp hand. It didn’t feel good paying him at all. But occasionally being on the losing side of bargain was part of being a trader, and at least this way there was a higher chance he’d keep it to himself and wouldn’t run home screaming to his house.

The less warning House Westmore had, the better.

Alten had been watching the exchange with interest, but grew more reserved when he saw the rolled up indentureship in my hand.

“You’re to be my master, then?” Alten asked.

“Not a chance.” I pressed the indentureship along with the bag of five golden rods into his hand. For a moment, he looked as if his head might explode. “Congratulations. You’re free. Free to tell him, me, and Whitefall to screw off and go wherever the hells you want.”

Alten tore up the indentureship on the spot. Then he opened the bag and stared at the contents, as if confirming it was really there. After a long moment, he tied the tassels shut. He looked lost.

“Have you… ever wanted something so bad it’s all you can think about. All you dream about. And when you finally get it, you’re left wondering what the fuck to do next?” Alten asked.

That surprised me. Given his circumstances, I’d expected him to forge off on his own; I hoped to reconnect with him later. But if not, I was more than willing to let him go. A hundred golden rods wouldn’t come close to repaying the loyalty he’d shown me.

But this was even better.

“Want a job?” I asked.

Alten took a long time to answer. Eventually, he looked up at me curiously. “What sort of job?”