The Old Realms

 

Grimdux

I. This is the direct sequel to Touch O' Luck

 Touch O' Luck

 

 

II) It serves as a prologue to the Old Realms series.

It will be a superior reading experience

to start this story from the beginning

 

III) aftermath chapters following

 

 

Please give it a good rating if you liked it, it will help the story reach a much bigger audience:)

Chapter specific maps of the realms 

Maps of the Realms

 

 

 

Lear Hik

The man from Atetalerso & a whore’s coin

 

 

A coin is never free,

Nor without value.

It worth its weight in gold,

Plus commission.

 

 

Thus read the label over the cashier’s desk, the girl manning it clean and lean, smart eyes checking each new customer out, while busy scribbling down orders and filling out new scrolls with what was written on older ones. An impressive skill indeed, Lear thought and pushed his tired legs out, well-used leather riding boots, he never gotten around replacing, getting a disapproving stare from the uptight clerk.

Lear pointed a finger at the badge he had secured on his jacket, a simple gold piece of ornament with the initials MM engraved on it. Same as the one she had on, though a silver one. Impressive, he thought, since getting above bronze needed some serious work done for the Bank. Mayhap her filing system is godlike, he decided, offering a kind smile at her angry pout.

Pretty girl, Lear thought.

“There’s a rule,” She said disdainfully, loud enough to be heard by the good upper crust people of Cediorum present this early in the day. The cashier pointed a finely manicured finger at the entrance. “Refrain from entering with used footwear. It’s a mahogany floor.”

But for the ten foot pole up her arse.

“You don’t want me taking these off, sweetheart,” He teased and she rolled her eyes with disgust, a frowning customer taking her mind off him.

Unfortunately.

 

 

Then on the third year, blessed be the Five;

that is three years, as counted with the New Calendar freshly established at the time, two men from the distant shores of Lesia, born before it was a kingdom, now located in the easternmost edge of Jelin, both former employees of the Imperial Banking system, now defunct, decided enough was enough.

Wolstan Mclean and Liudolf Merck came together to reintroduce, or offer again their services to the neither expecting, nor pleased with their initiative populace. The Realm needed coins to rebuild, was their mantra. Kings needed loans to make their dreams come true, their excuse.

Grand ambitions always have a cost and come with interest, Wolstan used to preach to those questioning the ethics of charging for something free, his many sayings appearing now on plaques inside all of Mclean & Merck Bank buildings. Smaller ambitions have a smaller cost, but come with analogous interest as well.

And on and on it went.

The first building was raised in Atetalerso, a small town mostly known then for being the mid-point for those traveling to the three most recognizable of Lesia’s kingdom cities. The grant port of Cediorum, the Capital Armium and the famous Flauegran. The city of the wine Barons.

Since then, almost every city on Jelin had an office and what was once a bank had turned into an economic empire of its own. People say, had Wolstan and Liudolf not died from old age, they would have taken over the Realm eventually.

Not with conquest, but outright buying it.

 

 

The heavy door, across the lesser tellers’ offices, located right at the other end of the public lobby he was told to wait, cracked open and Keird Calcote popped his blond head out to look for him. Lear raised a hand, but he was far enough for the Bank’s agent to spot immediately and he didn’t want to shout, not to annoy the pretty cashier any further.

“Ah!” Keird said, loud enough to draw a few stares, “There you are! Please join us, good man!”

In the local Director’s office was his meaning.

Lear frowned.

This being the main building of the Bank of Trust in Cediorum, the biggest of its kind in the whole Realm, it made the sighing before getting up Lear, a little apprehensive. Which was a problem and it came as a surprise. He hadn’t left the wilds to come work for a bank to feel apprehensive, or the like. But if there was one thing Lear trusted, it was his instincts.

He didn’t know whether Wolstan covered the topic in his many words left behind and didn’t much care.

You better heed to a warning, son, his father always said.

It’s the only thing in life worth a lick.

 

 

President of Bank operations, Robart Holt, stood tall behind his rather plain desk. Thin, but well dressed in a fine silk redcoat, a gold signet ring on his right hand and a fine quill on his left, was busy scribbling on a parchment, when Lear entered and sat down on the only spare armchair in front of him. The other occupied by his boss, Keird Calcote. The young agent appearing quite feverish at the news.

“That is an exorbitant amount, dear Holt,” He said, continuing an argument Lear wasn’t privy on yet. Holt, a distant relative to the famous family of Lorians from Regia, frowned. His hawkish eyes and long nose gave him an ascetic look, he probably used aplenty in his business dealings.

“I’ve done the math again, Calcote,” Robart replied. “The High King hinted at the amount in writing.”

“A lazy clerk’s mistake?”

Robart scoffed at his words.

“He wants to pay for twenty thousand troops. Secure funding upfront, his words.”

“That’s a lot of men,” Keird admitted, sounding uncomfortable.

“There’s a war going on,” Robart droned.

“I thought, this was a preventive measure,” Keird countered, well-groomed blond goatee dancing under his mouth.

“Semantics. Your know Kings and politicians.”

Everyone agreed to that.

“So this makes,” Keird did the math himself. “Eighteen gold, per soldier. Ahm, for…”

“A year,” Robart helped him.

“Yes. So eighteen per year…”

“Twenty, with our commission, plus expenses,” Robart again elucidated the finer details.

“Of course. Twenty per year for twenty thousand soldiers,” Keird paused, then blinked. “Two hundred thousand,” He whistled nigh impressed and Lear changed position on his chair, an itch on his left ear maddening. He made to scratch it, keeping quiet, but rather interested himself at the amounts discussed.

“For a year’s worth of army,” Robart again, polished the number.

“You think, it will last longer than that?” His boss probed.

“Well, the Khan pays in dinar and cuts his own coin, so… who’s to know what he has in reserve.”

“Does he pay them?” Keird asked.

“Only the upper class,” Holt replied. “Why pay, if you can order someone to do the job for free?”

Keird shuddered at the thought.

“Barbarians.”

“They say the same thing, about us.”

“We don’t keep slaves, Director Holt,” Keird pointed.

The argument lame, to Lear’s eyes.

“That’s just another name for those that owe you,” Robart Holt replied, agreeing with him.

“Bah, whatever. How much does the High King hint he’ll need?” Keird asked and Robart, glancing towards Lear for the first time, but not acknowledging him, took his time before answering.

“One million, gold Eagles.”

“Good grief!” Keird gasped pushing back on his armchair. Lear blinked, his mouth hanging open at the number.

“All thirty four tons of it,” Robart continued, after looking at his papers. “Delivered by an armored merchant ship, inside a year. Might as well, charter the whole darn thing. Hence the expenses I mentioned.”

 

 

“Will the bank pay?” Keird asked, sounding awed. Lear was as well and he wasn’t ashamed for it. This was a mind-numbing sum of money.

Robart licked his lips slowly.

“We don’t have that much coin at hand. We could go with silver, but this creates other problems. We might have to though.”

“Can we mint new ones?”

“We can place an order, buy a couple of gold mines and completely exhaust what we have,” Robart smacked his lips. “Still, it’s too much, too soon.”

Keird sat back on his chair and eyed the director.

“We’re going to allow the loan,” He finally said, just realizing it. Lear looked up surprised, as he hadn’t gotten that idea from their conversation.

Robart Holt sighed deeply and nodded much to his bewilderment.

“Five percent commission, since the High King has an agreement apparently dating a couple of centuries back; means fifty thousand gold Eagles in the Bank’s coffers, Calcote,” He explained his reasoning. Lear cleared his throat nervously at the numbers thrown around. “Wolstan will rise from his grave and fire us all, or worse, if we fuck this up.”

 

 

The conversation devolved into mathematics, history of imperial coinage making an appearance, his superiors going at it with enthusiasm and Lear almost drifting off, until Keird brought him in again, mentioning a name he’d heard before.

“Brad Copeland got that last bunch right?” Keird said and Lear sat back feeling drowsy, to pay attention. “It’s what, six months now?”

“Eight,” Robart replied. “Copeland cleaned them up. But he was careful and probably used the Thieves Guild to disappear.”

“Didn’t they catch him eventually?”

“He was executed on Collant’s Refuge of all fucking places,” The Director replied. “A place called Shroudcoast, but not for this reason. The coin was never recovered.”

“Surely we searched—”

“We did,” Robart pointed to Lear. “Your man I believe made an effort.”

“I looked everywhere,” Lear replied, not likening his tone. “Man was killed, beheaded. There was no coin in his room and nothing but a single piece of gold that was found outside the window of his inn.”

“Someone brought it in?” Robart asked, a hint of razz in his voice.

“There was a reward for it,” Lear returned his stare. “Two gold coins, for each one found.”

“Those coins worth more than that,” Robart mentioned with a smirk.

Lear nodded.

“They didn’t know that.”

“Why throw it out of a window?”

“I don’t think he did,” Lear replied with a grimace. “I don’t believe the coins were with him.”

“An accomplice? The Thieves Guild?”

“Nah, they wouldn’t stay on the job, with that much heat on it.”

“Who then, mister Hik?” Robart asked again, this time mentioning his surname.

A thief, Lear thought. Not with the guild.

“Someone clever enough to disappear, without leaving any trace. A master at his craft without a doubt,” He said instead and Robart narrowed his eyes, as if tasting his words to see their worth and then extended a closed fist over his desk theatrically.

What’s this?

Robart opened his fist and two coins fell down, bounced once on the parchments covered desk, rolled and then stopped catching the sun coming from the large iron barred window behind the Bank’s director.

One was round and elaborate in design and engravings, the common gold Eagle widely circulated and much coveted by all. The other was larger, much larger and perfectly square. Plain, to the untrained eye.

Lear let the breath he held out and took it in his hand.

“Not the one I found on the island,” He finally said.

“No mister Hik, it is not,” Robart replied. “This was given to a brothel’s patron, in Castalor.”

“Someone paid a whore, with this?” Keird asked, greatly intrigued himself.

“Someone paid a whore with this, because he didn’t know what it was worth.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Lear said.

“Why mister Hik?”

“You assume, it was the same person, who made the brothel call,” Lear explained.

“A Northman,” Robart pointed.

Lear grimaced. “Nah. There was no Northman on the island at that time. It’s a very small village, director Holt.”

Or was there and he missed him? A man gone, before Lear arrived.

“The Northman was a mercenary, mister Hik,” Robart insisted. “Working for someone else.”

“Who was he working for?” Lear queried and felt that tang of worry returning.

Keird, sitting next to him, cleared his throat. “Well, it’s why I called you in, my good man. We might need your expertise again.”

“What expertise does the Bank need?” Lear Hik asked tiredly, because he knew.

“You were a celebrated bounty hunter, before becoming an agent, mister Hik. The Bank would like to rent your services again, as the former,” Robart Holt pointed that tiny smirk on the corner of his mouth unnerving him, despite speaking the truth, much as he knew it.

Lear had been a bounty hunter in his youth, no question about it.

But that was a long time ago and you can’t get back on the saddle just like that, hence the warning. He sighed and scratched that itch with a finger, before nodding at the Director. On the wall above the austere looking man there was a plaque, dark-red wood encased in gold rim and the engraved letters a calligraphic bright silver.

 

 

When in doubt, Wolstan Mclean advised him from the grave.

Take a deep breath

& double your commission.

 

 

Lear thought, to Hells with it, what’s the worst that could happen?

 

 

A score of days later they disembarked in Castalor’s Westport. It was a quiet journey, the Scalding Sea kind, if you discount the last couple of days and their journey would have been even more pleasant, had Keird left Marion in Cediorum. The young couple just couldn’t keep their hands from each other and given the fact Marion, a tall brunette with striking green eyes, was dressed too flimsy for a ship full of ogling sailors and carried a set of fine lungs on her slender body, she loved to put to good use during their all-night long coupling sessions, everyone else’s nights were livened up considerably.

And not in a good way.

“It’s chilly,” Marion said, pressing her body on a frowning Keird. “Isn’t it darling?”

“It’s early Spring dear and we’re practically in the North.”

No, we’re not, Lear thought and opened his stride.

“Can I have your coat, love?”

“Of course, honey.”

Ah, to be young and freshly married again, Lear thought, stopping before the Blue Maiden, the place relatively quiet, perhaps due to the early hour.

Been there, done that.

Regretted half of it.

“Who paints marble columns gold?” Marion asked, squinting her pretty eyes to read the sign. The sun was strong, despite her complaining about the weather. Of course, compared to living near the beach at Cediorum, with the Scalding Sea boiling everything during the day and the woman making the journey wearing the latest fashion in Lesia, it didn’t come as a surprise.

Lear could discern the color and shape of her undergarments through the sheer material of her dress and his eyes had their best days behind them.

“It’s not a hotel,” Keird said, leaving it at that, with a glance towards Lear to take over.

“Better stay here, while I speak to the owner,” Lear obliged him.

“Nonsense. We won’t stay in the dreadful sun.”

“It will warm ye up,” Lear teased her.

“What that’s supposed to mean, Mister Hik?” She retorted, none pleased.

Lear grimaced. “Nothing. I misspoke.”

He shouldn’t have done that.

Somewhere along the way, Lear had lost his touch with women.

“Oh, come on! She’s jesting, haha!” Keird intervened, to prevent an argument from sprouting. “Lead the way, my friend.”

 

 

“A brothel?” Marion queried, scandalized. “I thought this was official business, love.”

“It is,” Keird replied, all flustered. “Though it’s Lear’s expertise’s this part, dear.”

“Lear has expertise in brothels?” She didn’t sound particularly surprised.

“Stay here,” Lear advised them both. “Don’t order anything. It comes with a girl, or a boy.”

Marion blinked shocked, but by the time she came around, he’d moved away, and missed her answer.

 

 

The whoremonger was sitting on a comfortable divan, a short table in front of him, and had the powdered face of an Issir, shagging cheeks and lips painted a rich ruby color. A scantily dressed young woman that could give Marion a good run for her money, was cutting small pieces out of a peeled orange and was feeding him, sitting on his legs.

The man saw him approach, leather armour and boots, under a good greatcoat and frowned, his slightly slanted eyes narrowing even more.

“You’re very early, love,” He said, licking the corner of his lips with the tip of his tongue. “And overdressed. You want me to refuel the fireplace?”

Lear stopped him with a wave of his hand, used the other to open his coat and show him the gold badge he wore on the right side of his chest.

“You’ll have to come closer, love,” The man quipped. “It seems impressive.”

Lear sighed, not likening the humor, so early in the day. The girl was also very distracting and probably prone to gossip. Gossip, was usually bad in his business.

And sometimes a blessing.

“I’m here on Mclean & Merck business,” Lear said tiredly, wanting nothing more but to spend a little coin and have some fun with the girls. Taste the local wine. Even sing a song.

He’d been there of course and done that aplenty.

Kept the receipts.

The whoremonger lost whatever color he had under all that powder and pushed the young whore off his lap. Although never in any danger, she gasped melodramatically, as experienced women oft do, but left them alone without further complains.

“The man from Atetalerso,” The brothel’s owner said, wiping his mouth with a cloth. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

Lear sighed deeply, looked about him, spotted a short feathery stool and sat on it. His feet were killing him and this darn thing, had nothing to support his back.

“The Bank found your coin interesting,” He said simply.

The story behind it, was his meaning.

Back on the saddle, Lear thought not happy about it and hearing Marion’s cackle behind his back, his aged face hardened, the lines on it deepening. Some from weather, others from war, but the most he’d gotten on the job.

Both those visible and the ones that weren’t.

Even his voice, sounded different.

“Now,” Lear Hik said ominously, getting in role. “Where is that whore that earned it?”

Gods help her.