The city of Sheld was a visibly bleak place, shadowed by mountains on either side and built out of a steely grey rock. Its inhabitants wore dark wool or leather hunted in the mountain valleys. They navigated the cold stone streets to work in the cold stone buildings until they were little more than gaunt skeletons. In the centre of Sheld was an enormous dome made out of stone, with hundreds of steps rising up each of the four sides of it to a set of pillars on top. It was there that the leaders of the Sheld, the Lord Employers, met to discuss matters for their respective businesses.
Lerran’s father had gone there many times, when Lerran was a younger man. Now the Lord Employers came to him, when they needed to discuss issues of state. Their meeting place on the Rise of Sheld had become a practice of custom only.
Lord Gharo of Sheld had been building his own business when these Lord Employers were still young men.
Lerran went to see his father, on the day the rains finally let up.
The Gharo crime syndicate was based in the sprawling mansion of Gharon Hill. The granite bricks that trimmed the estate and layered the floors and interior walls had been imported from Starath, the rich willow wood that adorned their furnishings from the northern tip of East Radregar. Lerran wore a stiff, straight-backed coat to his father’s quarters, and a long display sabre at his waist. His black boots clicked off the ground as he strode across the polished floors, past their servants, to the heavy door of his father’s quarters.
Outside, on a velvet bergere, sat one of the Lord Employers. Iko Thalado was flushed red with anger, his arms folded stiffly. He glared at Eseveer, one of Lerran’s sisters, who managed Gharo’s affairs from a desk outside his large office.
“Lord Iko,” Lerran said, with a courteous nod of his head.
The Lord Employer barely turned to look at Lerran as he approached. “I wouldn’t go in there, Son. Gharo is meeting with the Rebel King’s ambassador, again. Making me wait. Gods.”
Lerran shrugged, and opened the door to go inside. Behind him, the Lord Employer stood to his feet, swore, and started to walk away. Gharo’s office was somewhat scant; the only things within were there for necessity and efficiency. There was a suit of armour, a weapon-rack, a few cupboards, one display case, a small ice box, a huge desk, and a few leaning couches for his guests.
The ambassador from Lo Mallago was seated on one of the latter; he looked up and blinked at Lerran, before turning back to Gharo, who was in midsentence. Lo Mallago had been the site of a well-planned revolution, and Gharo now controlled that entire city through his connections to the Rebel King.
Gharo, a broad shouldered man despite his age, barely blinked and continued. “… we should hand the prisoners over to the mob, as I said from the beginning.”
Lerran turned away from the window. “We don’t want the mob getting too powerful, Father.”
“I’m not worried about that,” Gharo said. His olive skin was well wrinkled, but he didn’t sweat much anymore. He glared at his son. “Did you want something, Lerran?”
“I’ll wait,” Lerran replied.
“Sorry about that interruption,” Gharo said to the Ambassador. They continued discussing Lo Mallago, and the damage of the recent hurricane. Lerran was sure that Gharo added more points than the duo had on their agenda, just to draw things out.
At last, the Ambassador stood up and shook hands with his boss. He glanced at Lerran and said, “I trust everything is well with your woman?”
“It’s going good. She’s quite interested in children,” Lerran said.
Gharo coughed, covering his mouth with an unwavering hand. “It’s about time,” he said. Gharo’s crime family had no grandchildren yet, and he was fifty-seven years old.
Once the Ambassador had gone, Gharo sat back down behind his desk. “Well?”
“My brother, your second son, has been missing for a few weeks now,” Lerran said. “What are we going to do about Renado?”
“You assume we’re going to do anything?” Gharo said. “I gave him a job, excellent quarters, plentiful food, women and drink. And he repays me by not even returning with my money!”
“Or your brother.”
Gharo threw up his hand. “Exactly!”
“Would you like me to go find your money for you?”
Gharo sneered. “No, Lerran. I don’t want you to go and get my stuff. I want a grandchild. I’ll send a grunt.”
“Oh my…” Lerran scratched the back of his head. Like his family, he had pale olive skin and jet black hair, which he kept nearly shaved against his scalp. “There was a hurricane. Renado might be stranded somewhere with your money.”
“Give him another week then, the untrustworthy lout. He’s probably out there spending it all!” Gharo said. He poured himself a half-glass of barley beer and drank a big mouthful, puckering his lips in an exaggerated way once he was done. His bald forehead wrinkled. “If he’s not back within the week, send someone to find the Dispatch then.”
“I will go then,” Lerran said. Gharo did a poor job of running the family business; he kept the girls out of it, save his own sisters, and he was getting too old to keep his frustrations from interfering with practical decisions.
Gharo’s face flushed and he looked about ready to retort Lerran’s decision. Instead he said, “Who will manage your responsibilities when you’re gone then?”
Lerran shrugged. “Gadra asks me every week what she can do to help out. Give her some work, when I’m gone.” Gadra was the youngest daughter, but still six years older than Renado was. The little runt.
“Gadra?” Gharo asked. “She’s just a girl!”
“All of your daughters are girls. Some of them want to help the family anyway,” Lerran said.
Gharo shook his head and took another drink. “Fine. One week, then you may go.”