Intrigue?

From the window, most of the gorgeous architecture of central Arn could easily be seen. The lacquered roof shingles, ornate spires, silver-traced domes and slender ivory chimneys created serrated beauty underneath a clear sky. Central Arn was called the Opulence; within the clean, mural-painted streets one could not see beyond the sturdy border wall with its heavy, stoic gates and severe but courteous watchmen. Outside of the Opulence, Arn was gray, grimy and sullen.

Masgava sprawled on a divan facing the vast window. Her residence outdid the Opulence in both sophistication and decadence; though tastefully furnished, Masgava's home was full of absurdly expensive curios, furniture, works of art, and anything else that she happened to fancy. Of course, she was a Guildmaster of Arn, and that meant exorbitance.

“I don't suppose you ever get tired of all these trinkets,” said her guest, seated with exemplary poise on a chair of dark, burnished Ixte hardwood. The erect, genteel courtesy of the man did not at all match his appearance; he was a heavy-shouldered brute of a man, with many scars along his forearms, a sloping scowling brow and a chiseled face that held little story but wrath.

“Of course not,” she replied, and had a long sip of wine. “See anything you like?”

“I am indifferent,” said the guest.

Masgava just grinned in answer, and had a little more wine as she glanced out the window at the city. Wealth was everything in Arn, and her guest knew that Masgava had storehouses full of her collection. To be a Guildmaster in Arn meant that you had to be one of the twelve richest people in the city, and you also had to be ruthless. But to be conservative with your wealth was a sign of weakness; a Guildmaster had to spend and spend excessively to be respected.

“I'm sure that you'll want me to get to my reasons for visiting.”

“You aren't here just to keep my company,” replied Masgava. “What a shame.”

“Perhaps another time,” sighed the guest, folding his massive hands in a way that didn't suit the hands at all. “For now, I am here to convey some news. Firstly, Naello is slain.”

Though Masgava still appeared sprawled and relaxed, she was focused entirely on the guest now. “How?”

“The report indicates it was likely Naello's old rivals.”

“And what of Martel, then?”

“Free. He headed south and west, and vanished into the turmoil of his homeland. Very few know of his status.”

Masgava drained her wineglass out of reflex; it was exceptional wine, but it wasn't as if she had little of it. “So the matter of the sword did not occur.”

“Do you not remember what the Imperator said? Martel would never accept it. This was expected. Naello's death was not, however, and now we must re-examine things.”

They'd expected Naello to be a distraction and a foil to some of their plans in the south, Masgava knew. It was unfortunate that he was slain; eventually, they had intended to recruit him and make better use of the fellow.

Sad little man, she thought. So frantic to regain virtue and youth, never able to return to either.

“You are the second to last to receive word,” continued the guest. “I will be leaving immediately to finish delivering the message.”

“A pity indeed,” sighed Masgava. “Though certainly I liked you a great deal better last time.”

“This one has his uses,” said the guest with a slight smile. “And I have some need for him yet. Shall I relay a message from you to the Imperator?”

Leaning forward, Masgava considered her words.

“I'm sure it isn't necessary, but assure him that Arn is ready to serve him, whether Arn knows it or not.”

“Of course.” The guest stood with the same misplaced elegance, and then bowed graciously. “I shall be off, then.”

“Where will you be after you finish your errands?”

The rugged face smiled again. “Waiting for Naello's killers in Yhelm. There is a chance that Lady Angharad will want to speak with me, and I know that the priest Ashan will.”