Snippet #2476895

93rd Day

House Ka’etruscan

“Can you guarantee for certain that he will succeed?”

The gray skinned Drak drifted to the other side of the room, over the rug that covered the floor of his liege’s personal quarters. He sifted through the books that lined the shelf, feigning interest, but ultimately combing his inner thoughts.

He took in a tentative breath before answering to his lord, “No.”

Melio continued, “As much as I would like to trust the abilities of a Protectorate, I cannot…in good conscience,” he placed the book back on the shelf.

The Drakyvarian noble would not hound Melio for this, and the servant knew as much because they were already a step ahead. They had prepared in the event that their assassin failed to achieve all the objectives.

Duatos had long trusted the counsel of Melio, who was a seasoned fighter, and a sharpened mind. Picked off the streets, the petty pick pocket was trained to be a servant at first, but the young Drak possessed a mind that was fed by books, an insatiable appetite to learn. He was cunning and clever, his lord knew that much. Any male servant of the house was trained diligently and sharply, and Melio seemed to be prodigious, so much so that he became a first and foremost lieutenant of Duatos.

To some degree, the patriarch regarded his retainer as higher than his own pureborn daughter, whom he would have fed to the lower houses through a hand in marriage to secure his position had the girl not raise herself to be more of the males. She had to fend for herself after her mother left Duatos and stayed with the other half of the family. Now, Duatos’s daughter was living somewhere out in the great Ba’Gatha with an all-female cadre of deadly fighters as her personal guards and loyal followers. Duatos was only pleased by this, as it rid him of having to deal with her marital affairs, but occasionally she would return to the city and perhaps pay her respects. Their relationship was never the best, though he doted upon her in his earlier years, those were soon swept away. Duatos was more focused on training his three sons, two from his first marriage, with his second marriage bearing him his third son and the girl. To him, they were all to be his lieutenants and generals of the lords below him.

“The Solarians can be handled. As for the lawman, he will be a tougher sand viper to deal with.”

“He certainly is capable isn’t he?” Duatos replied, as he leafed through another page in the volume.

“Yes my liege, it is surprising for a human.”

Duatos chuckled slyly, “Enforcing law among the wastes…a noble effort, but a considerable waste of time for a man of his caliber, there’s nothing but filthy dregs out there.”

Duatos tented his fingers before him, as the flame from the nearby candle flickered and glowed in front of him.

“The Lyk fellow,” Duatos said, as he stared at Melio, “He is an astute one, and I fear that he may have already sent word to someone pertaining…”

The lizard’s green eyes went slack as he thought for a moment, “I fear for the same thing lord, my ears have told me that he sent out a courier on the seventy fifth.”

“Did he?” the patriarch anxiously shifted in his seat, his gaze fell upon his servant.

“Indeed lord. Though we caught him, we were remiss, and the letters had fallen into another hand. Presumably an ally of Lyk,” Melio paused.

The patriarch closed his eyes and his nostrils exhaled a lengthy breath, laden with frustration.

“I hope there is more to this,” the patriarch opened his eyes, turning his visage to his subordinate.

“Yes lord, my agents are tailing him through the desert as we speak. He is traveling with two others, an avian and another human from our last reports.”

“What of them?”

“I would not presume them to be the Solarian’s allies, for they seem to be just messengers themselves,” the young Drak held his claws behind him, “However, we believe…that the avian and the girl are the messenger’s bodyguards.”

“We will either kill them all, or separate the messenger, kill him and take the letter.”

Duatos smiled as he saw Melio clench his fist near the end of his words.

“I’ve taught you well,” the old lord returned to his book once more, “See to it that the letter does not reach its intended destination.”

Melio bowed to his lord for the compliment.

“And how fares your dealings with the Protectorates, lord?”

Duatos skipped through some pages in the ragged tome, “They are a crafty and cunning kind, not to be underestimated, but ultimately human. Lord Ko’thnim has made no gains in his attempt to wrestle the mesas from them. Perhaps I should watch and wait before doing anything.”

“A wise call, lord,” Melio said.

Duatos waved his hand, Melio understood the gesture, and replied with a retreating bow that signified his leave.

---

“What makes a city? I ask those of you, sons of Ip’Kesh, born of noble blood?” Duatos asked his three colleagues gathered around him at a table.

They were playing a game called Svolda. It was a game for four players, involving a fictitious map somewhat resembling the desert in which they dwelled, and multiple game pieces. The map was divided into multiple little territories, and the objective of the game was conquest. The game began with one person, chosen randomly by drawing lots. That person was to ask a question to his three compatriots on the subject of war, politics, or conquest. The rest were given only one opportunity to correctly answer the questioner, or master as he was called. They were to answer in rotation, which was clock-wise most of the time. Should none of his compatriots correctly guess the answer to his inquiry, he was allowed to take a territory, and ask another question to repeat the cycle once more. The first person to correctly answer would be the new master, and he would begin his cycle of conquest. The only inherent flaw of the game were the subjective answers, but that was never a matter that worried Duatos or his fellow lords, for this was a game that they devised by themselves, for themselves. None of the lords had ever tried to rig the game in their favor, for they all recognized that it was a pointless game. It was less about the map, and more about the thinking.

“People,” answered Niaos’Ko’thnim, Duatos shook his head.

Lord Niaos’Ko’thnim was broad shouldered, broader than most. His skin was a dark orange, rocky like the desert sands. His dress was among the most traditional, ripped cloth swaddling him incompletely, with a sash at the waist to complete his garb. All his fingers were ringed off with ornamental Xth metal. He stood nearly a head taller than the other lords present.

“An army,” answered Shri’Othrek, Duatos shook his head.

Shri’Othrek, the second oldest member of their little brotherhood was a distinguished general during the first and second wars with the Protectorates. And when the last Emperor, Nusdei’Feyleth, was assassinated, all the other lords fell back to the capital and attempted to claim the throne. Shri, however, remained at the front, caring less about their political struggles; he was more captivated by martial glory. He provided the majority of the Drakyvarian war effort in the closing stages of the war, and subsequently he lost nearly the entire family treasury in the blundering siege of Protectorate City. Nevertheless, the mines in his family’s territory managed to recuperate the losses after war’s end.

“A ruler,” answered Prae’Ylneac, Duatos shook his head.

Prae’Ylneac was the oldest of the group, older than the next oldest member, Shri’Othrek, by as much as ten years, but one could only assume. Time was a fickle thing to measure. Ylneac was slightly stooping as a result of his old age. He had some white specs that covered the rim of his chin. His eyes were greyed and murky, but that never affected his vision. His hands were fixed in cloth, to cover scars that he incurred years ago.

He let slip his tongue, “Water,” before he moved a mounted warrior piece into an empty territory.

The others scratched their chins and contemplated his answer.