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Rachid Taha - Ya Rayah
Oh departing Traveler, where are you heading? Your journey is bound to failure How many travelers before you Have sought the path with similar results? How many cities and deserts have I roamed? How much time have I wasted Touring from one place to another? Oh lost one, no matter how much you run away Your destiny will end in exhaustion Time has passed you by And you have yet to notice it.
The usual eloquent styling of Babak's hand is marred by a hesitating, hurried scribble.
The centaur are mostly to our backs, the invading party at least. Wycliffe--almost literally--decapitated the leadership, to the Seraph's thanks. Perhaps such good favor can be used in the future, if anyone recognizes him, but for now I can only think of the open country ahead.
Past the swamps. Overtaxed Seraph, apathetic Lionsguard, more centaur, ettin, bandits. And not a moment of rest before we venture again.
Should I fear for my life? Or my livelihood? Or those of my mother, my brother? All I feel is exhaustion. It feels like a game I only know half the rules to, and I grow weary of these hard lessons. The world dances circles around me, but I will not lose.
I will pray to Kormir to show me the quickest route to the Rhapsody. Then I may sleep; whether in her quarters or in Her hold matters not at that point, though the preference is obvious.
Grenth, mistake not my stillness for death. And mistake not my frustration with resignation. Only one more day.
It had been suggested on multiple occasions that he start a journal, a log, anything to keep recorded transactions or events important to him. There were volumes by his father that wrapped around one corner of the dark study, volumes Babak felt he would never have the gumption to read.
He looked down. The simple, cracked leather cover of a new book was pulled open. Blank pages stared back from inside--this alone was daunting enough.
He had already spent the better part of last night thinking over some introduction, some glossary of terms or places or people, something to ease into this practice; none of it felt right or natural and the more he thought of it, the more the whole practice seemed silly.
And so pen was put to paper without a moment's thought.
Phoenix is in full bloom now. That means warmer weather, more activity on the roads, including banditry and centaur. They are the foremost threat to my caravan, leaving in three days' time.
Eight bales of flax Cotton Wool
The mainstay of this shipment to Pilgrim's Cut. I know nothing of any holy site in the area, but then again I know next to nothing about the Shiverpeaks as a whole. That I must see so much of this fiber delivered to the Rhapsody--and it is likely to be a regular arrangement--makes me wonder how viable such a settlement can be after the fall of Lion's Arch.
Were that I had been approached another way it would have been possible to dictate the price. But as it is I will not risk anyone hearing of Lady Marlow's involvement in the old business. Catarina, too, likely has enough problems with the authorities on her better days.
And then there are the poppies.
That Pilgrim's Cut has such a large cash crop leads me to wonder if they could have at least bothered to grow some staple like rice, or at least set aside some land for herding--but their lack of planning is profit for the captain and myself, is it not?
For a moment he set down the quill, the thought of the woman he would buy so much opium for causing him to groan.
If only my client for that purchase happened to be any other dealer in such vice, but as it so happens I was her customer not a day before the deal was finalized.
I would sooner never partake again, it is a compromising position to be found in.
In his subsequent pause a deep blotch of ink stained the end of his sentence; the Amir cursed every man down the production of such a vile substance and set to writing once more.
The man known as Beauchamp found himself in the same den on that same night. I should not be surprised, as he seems the hedonistic type and has some pain to deal with besides.
I will not deny that I enjoyed seeing him crash into the cobblestone, but his state was nothing short of pathetic and I could not keep myself from inviting him along to see Catarina again. He did seem quite downcast at my teasing.
The quill was set down more carefully this time--back into its well. There were other thoughts to go along with this thread, he knew well, but what point was there in expanding on them? Half were undeveloped and the other half were ones a man in his position ought not think aloud. Someone had to be the professional, after all. But though the remark of 'wooing' his business partner had indeed been a jest--of this he was sure--he could no longer pretend to be against the idea.
Beauchamp had indeed been satisfying to punch.
When pen took to paper once more, Babak made sure the change of subject was abrupt and total.
The working component of my retinue to Garenhoff is on the rough side. If only I could say they are not totally necessary, but with the Lionguard in flux and the centaur taking advantage of the space between our land and theirs I doubt we will make the passage unscathed.
Charlotte's land will not be reconsidered but it is only now that I realize how perfect it is for bandit country. The lowland swamps provide a perfect hiding place, the highland roads leave one exposed for hundreds of yards. I suppose I will not regret bringing along men of a more aggressive frame of mind, when all this is over. I see renegotiations for Rathal and Wycliffe both when we return, surely.
The last fortune of House Varesh lies in this venture
The quill stopped, Babak pulled back. Though he knew how often he pulled away from this truth, here he had written in plain, for himself and any other pair of eyes to see. It was unavoidable now.
The last fortune of House Varesh lies in this venture.
A sigh left his lips, a chill suddenly overtaking him in the warm spring air. He thought of his mother's cloudy eyes, her hand soft--like overripe fruit--and lined with sores down the underside. Her own sad note of doom.
Mother guessed my intentions the moment she gleaned Catarina's profession, and knew exactly what sort of capital was needed to make a profit in this venture. I have full control of the finances, I am the head of the house--but sometimes I still wonder if she can command this household with one scornful look!
She did not resist. Not this time. In her eyes I saw more resignation than understanding. She expects nothing but failure.
For once I will endeavor to disappoint her.
The press of milling people only served to make the pounding in Babak's head worse. Loud, swirling conversation, blended together in an unconscious stream of words that pressed on his ears. A drunk patron knocked him into the table, did the same to a few others down the line as he stumbled his way back to the bar.
Divinity's Reach would never be Babak's first choice for revelry, let alone a public house in the commons; but it was not his choice to make.
It was his man's favorite retreat, after all. And retired Seraph had earned their comfort, questionable as that comfort was to the Kournan lordling.
The man who caught Babak's eye from the entrance of the Busted Flagon was familiar, as much as any fuzzy image could be. He was the sort of man to be left on the fuzzy periphery, smiling in spite of fate's dictation that he be irrelevant. Retirement suited him well--almost as well as his belly, not quite making him unhealthy but certainly marking the good life at home.
Babak grinned despite himself, exhaling the sick air of the sick city. This was no time to be dour.
"Seraph Petrus!" As though Babak wasn't aware of his own massive figure he threw an arm up. "Come here! I've many rounds to buy you!"
Brown-haired, only dusted by gray, and that same handsome, unknowing smile--Petrus had not yet been struck low by his five-and-forty years. The lack of armor certainly made him look different, but he was recognizable enough for a former footsoldier. As he sat across from Babak he was no longer so exuberant. As he laid his coinpurse over the table the guard's eyes sought out his for a look more thoughtful than he hoped would be given.
"Ba--m'lord," the graying man began, "I know how hard times were after the lord's passing. Please, I can pay."
Were it a man less a friend to Turan Varesh Babak might have felt like throwing him out the tavern; but Petrus had been nothing but. The hot tightness in his chest subsided after a second. His right hand clenched briefly under the table while his left tipped the purse back to the softened guard.
"Put that away," he insisted. Softly. A bemused chuckle followed.
Petrus wouldn't insist, himself. He was used to taking orders. A shrug, and the pouch was gone. "Don't let no one say I refuse free drinks, even from the poor."
"If I was poor, Petrus, you wouldn't be here now."
The irreverent smile was gone for a moment. Awkwardly he brought up a finger to scratch at his nose, head tilted down. He had to catch himself, halt a bit before speaking again loud enough to carry over the insane din.
"Ye--yes, I heard 'bout that! And m'not here to haggle, m'lord. Can't get by on a pension--I thank the Six for Queen Jennah, but..."
Babak nodded, smiled. The smile came easily: their situations were similar, though for Petrus a loss of income was no great tragedy. It was life, a reality that needed fixing.
"... but it is not enough. I understand. You heard about the offer, then?"
"N'how couldn't I?! Word is you've half Queensdale's Winter harvest pouring into the market, you were asking for former Lionguard to take on. And after all that--then you send word to me."
He could feel his cringe, and it was too strong to stop. Already his windfall of gold--plus the savings--had dwindled to just enough. Just. Enough.
"I've no need to brief you, then!" His fingers drummed on the table. He couldn't quite make sure if Petrus had noticed the grimace. "I could have sent word sooner, yes, but I had to make sure the venture itself would work."
"And it will." The former guard leaned forward. Babak saw the hope in his eyes, and held onto the table to keep from reeling.
"It will."
Petrus nodded, scratched his nose. "... My pa was into the whole business thing, yes. He, uh, made damn sure I was aware of this: labor is expensive. An' I know those roads south can't be safe, heard that news after what happened to Lion's Arch.
"I've got some boys I know'll be interested. They're all old Seraph, the good ones. With us and those little Lionguard cubs you've been lookin' for... yeah, we'll show 'em how it's done. We're all lookin' for proper work, and with a proper lordling too. We talk out the price, we'll send it to ya. How bout it?"
Banded labor was almost as much trouble as a guild. Worse yet, they were soldiers; they would stick up for each other. But if there was any man living to whom they would show half the respect they gave each other, it'd be the son of the late Lord Varesh. Babak counted on this.
He nodded. He had no choice. The guard was overjoyed.
"Good! Good. We'll, uh--well, m'lord, I was worried your family fell off the edge after the lord's death, heard nothin' of ya."
"Save for Kartuk." Babak did nothing to hide his rueful smile. Petrus looked nigh embarrassed. He looked eager to change the subject, Six bless him.
"Well, yeah. But I have to ask, m'lord, what brought you to this? Runnin' caravans, well, I always figured you for a Seraph-to-be huh?"
"Father did, too." The lord bowed his head briefly in respect to the dead.
What brought you to this?
His mind brought forward images of smuggled goods, hiding in warehouses. Blonde-haired ladies, so charming and skilled at discussing nothing, all eligible and beautiful. Families of the Ossan, all scrambling to keep their fortunes and cultures afloat. Oranges, too. Oranges and dusty old tomes with gold inlays.
Was he to explain that it was the smiling smuggler with smokey eyes? His itch to flee Divinity's Reach and never look back? A drunken tour around Salma markets? Or was he to give the boring answer, the most proper and perhaps most accurate: a man like Babak needed coin to trade for prestige, a good marriage, a suitable family name.
Somewhere in the moment between the question and Babak's race to find an answer Petrus looked up, looking something between shocked and delighted.
"Nevermind--this, this is the man. I've been meaning to tell you 'bout him! Not a bad one, for someone from the Arch. Knows his way in a fight, I'll tell ya that: ORAZIO!"
The weight of economic slumps and a boring home life left the old Seraph's shoulder's as he flagged down a red-headed man at the entrance. The years had been kinder to him, Orazio thought, until he saw the scarred and sunken face, the hollow beauty of a young man robbed youth, and robbed of more as he passed his prime. Even the gossipy comrade's smile he gave Petrus looked depressing--it only highlighted his wasted features.
Room was made between the first former guard and the thin, dour-looking man on his right. Orazio plugged the gap. Babak made sure to have his hand out to greet him as he sat.
"Orazio, I haven't heard much but... I suspect I was about to get an earful." As the two shook hands he chuckled, avoiding the hollow green stare. "But you are from the Arch, yes? Lionguard? I can't see Petrus here making friends with civilians."
"Neither can I, my lord." Orazio's rejoinder was tempered by something in his eyes--he pointedly avoided looking at Petrus.
"... I am afraid I'm not here to enjoy a drink, my lord Varesh. Petrus here spoke much about you but--well. There has been an incident."
"An--what?" The brunet blanched. He seemed to already know. Orazio looked to Babak with a tight grimace.
"A moment, my lord?"
They departed in a silence louder than the din around them, briefly ducking out the door. A few minutes later, and only Orazio returned.
"... His daughter took ill last week. I imagine he told you nothing about this, but you would be at a disadvantage after seeing that whole display. A horrible way to make an introduction, is it not?"
Orazio's eyes seemed to sink in even more now. Something about the look he cast down onto the table wasn't right.
"... No, my friend, it is quite alright. Dwayna bless his girl."
"Yes, all the Six bless her. Might as well stop at all the shrines." He nodded down at the table. "He told me all about you, Petrus. You and your father--both an impressive pair. Said you even fit his old armor perfectly."
"Ah, well, I've much to live up to. Yes."
The former Lionguard lit up with a grin, strangely seeming more sincere than anything else he had said or done in their short meeting. He leaned forward.
"From one highborn's son to the other: I am quite sick of that talk. You are your own man, regardless. That you seek to prove it, here with this caravan? It is proof enough."
"We have yet to see it, my lord--but you are nobility?"
The depressed-looking man no longer looked so depressed as he threw his head back with a bark of a laugh. "HAH! Am I nobility? I cannot say one way or another, my lord. All I know is that I found a life where my blood means little, and it strangely suits my needs!
"You have been in Lion's Arch, Lord Varesh?"
He nodded. "That I have, before the attack and after. Awful mess, though at least it had the spark of life before."
A shrewd smirk. A wagging finger. "See, my lord, I had figured I saw you before. Never knew your name, but when I saw you, when I walked in the door..."
"We have met, then? There was a Lionguard ball, I remember. I attended, as a patron."
The look grew no less shrewd. Aside from his eyes, the former lord looked nearly embarrassed as he bit his lip. "No, I am afraid not. My lord..."
Clenching heat in his chest. Babak thumped the table, once.
"You mean to say you think you saw me in a... less flattering light?"
The other shook his head. "A less consistent light, I should say--less lamps down at the warehouses, I am afraid. Could have been anyone, but he did strike quite an imposing figure. Dressed in the most burly, exotic armor too. Long, black hair. A very similar man to yourself, very unique."
Orazio spoke quietly, every bit the rueful, meek, embarrassed former civil servant except for those keen green eyes focused on Babak's own. Strangely enough he was crystal clear over the tavern, which only seemed to whisper as the former nobleman lowered his voice.
"The one warehouse in particular... was the object of an investigation, once. We figured the syndicate responsible had cleared out by the time there was any suitable evidence--no names or faces to attach any accusations to!
"Anyone who was found near the Baroness Marlow, though... All interesting figures, I should say."
"Lady Marlow is my dear friend. You will make no accusations about her here, and never in front of me." Babak felt his hand ball into a fist. He brought no blade to level against the slanderer, but a gloved hand will do well enough against this one.
Orazio held both hands up, retreating in all but physical space. "--My lord! I, I cannot make any accusations! I am, after all, a former guard. But seeing you here confirms more than I would like to admit. And if rumors happened to spread..." He simply shook his head, eyes downcast once more.
"You are not here to guard my caravan." He could feel the back of his teeth gritting as he voiced the realization.
"No, Babak, I am not." Another sad smile, a shake of his head as he pulled some papers from a satchel. "I am here for a client. And he needs a bulk order. You and this... Captain Windborne? Another interesting friend. You will have it delivered."
[Story] Balthazar's Blessing
The bed was soft, but not soft enough. Nothing felt comfortable against the sewn gash on his right side.
Finally Babak relented. His eyelids opened. Above, four lavishly-carved posts. A warm cover above, glinting and moonlit. Rich, decadent. This was the comfort Catarina sought, fought for. Possessions, freedom, excitement--these were what drove her.
It was not as though the young lord found these concepts alien. Would that he could rest his mother in such warm, overstuffed bounds. Would that he could do the same for himself. A room full of conquests, each carrying a story he could tell--that was the captain's cabin.
It could not be farther away. His mind still swam in the damp cave from which Cat's latest conquests were taken.
He still saw the wide eyes of the young man carved away by his axe. He still felt the shudder of his arm as his mace his flesh. Violence was familiar to any heir of the Varesh, but killing, and so personally, it was never anything the man could prepare for.
Briefly his mind raced over those times when could have killed, when he might have killed. A brawl in the Ossan back alleys, an armored fist taking the life out a street thug's eyes. An arrow to a mesmer's shoulder, not even slowing her down. Another, arcing arrow to a fleeing bandit who disappeared over the horizon. Babak of House Varesh could kill. He had been well trained.
The question of willingness had never come before now.
Even as he shifted in the sheets, sank into the wealth of this woman whose character he had so strangely come to admire, mulled over willingness to kill--did he regret killing?
No.
The answer came swiftly and surely, with more conviction than any of the lukewarm, rum-addled questions that floated to the forefront of his mind. He felt nothing for the young man's life, cut so tragically short. There was a perverse rush in gambling his own life against the boy's though--and that was what disturbed him above all. It was the high of combat, not killing, his life and those of others reduced to nothing more than wagers on a board.
"You're no monster, boy. You won't love it. But you'll feel it." Father's face seemed to contort, making a 'tsk'ing noise similar to the one he made when he wanted the boys out of his room.
"You're hot-blooded. Balthazar blessed you. You'll feel it."
His father's voice sank into the depths, deep down; it joined the bloody axe, the spear in his side, the red-black hair sinking into the pillow, the thoughts of trade and black-haired business partners and blonde ladies, all pouring into the recesses of Captain Windborne's bed and the cave wherein Babak found Balthazar's blessing.
His head swam, thoughtless. His eyelids closed on their own.
A Sealed Letter
Addressed to one Captain Catarina Windborne:
My dear captain:
I am overjoyed to send you this good news: With surprising ease and quickness I have attained Lady Marlow's blessing for the establishment of a caravan in my name while still serving as captain of her household guard. Rest assured that my split duties will not come in the way of delivering goods of consistent and excellent quality.
The coming weeks will be hectic and tiresome, what with securing the necessary beasts and manpower; but something tells me the effort will be worth arriving in town to see your ship resting in port.
On that note, by the time this letter reaches you I will have left Divinity's Reach for Garenhoff. Perhaps we may take some time to relax and celebrate--prematurely, I admit--before it is our great venture has begun. The stars need counting, after all.
Safe returns and steady profits.
Your friend,
Babak, son of Turan, Amir of House Varesh of Kourna
