Lord and Master of the Black Market Part 2-2

The Sentinels got into place quickly. Ramses leaned against the entrance dome of the hotel rooftop, hidden from the staircase, as the shadows on the roof fled from the bright moon—a waxing gibbous, not quite full but full enough that it cast plenty of silvery light. He turned his face up to the light. It was not the sun, merely its distant reflection, but it still felt good.

“Sir?”

Otarion’s whispered voice came from the staircase. Ramses peered around the dome and found two figures crouched low as they crept across the rooftop.

“Here, Otarion,” he said. The two hurried to his hiding place. He recognized Sergeant Ironsi in the pale light and was glad to see both Sentinels unharmed. “Did you have any trouble with the poachers in the wilderness?”

“No,” Otarion said. “Santos is inside?”

“You can thank Keller. I’ll explain everything later after we have the poachers in custody. Is the unit in position?”

“Yes, sir, they’re waiting for your orders.”

Ramses glanced to where Lady Hur was seated in the shadowed nook and switched to Aeronies. “Stay here until we’re finished. I will call for you.”

She scoffed and said in Runic, “Don’t kid yourself. He broke his wrists. Don’t let him anywhere near the action.”

Otarion and Ironsi turned their helmeted faces to their commander. Ramses slipped on his helmet and headed for the stairs with Otarion at his heels. The captain waited until they were out of earshot before saying in Eldrinian, “Sir, you what?”

“I broke my wrists. It was a miracle I made it here at all. You will have to lead the assault.”

Otarion didn’t argue, but knowing the young captain, he could already imagine the plethora of questions and contingencies running through his head.

“You can count on us, sir,” he said.

They reached the pool door where two Sentinels waited. Otarion checked his communicator, then gave the signal to move in. The Sentinels stepped inside. The poacher staking out the entrance was dealt with swiftly. Otarion grabbed him from behind and pressed a cloth doused with Sarrenies Poppy oil to his mouth. The man was unconscious and handcuffed within moments. Twelve more Sentinels entered, six from the main entrance and six from an entrance further down the hall. The receptionist appeared from the back room with skeleton keys in hand and the poachers’ room numbers.

The Sentinels took the keys and crept up the stairs like wraiths. Otarion signaled to the correct rooms as they moved down the hall. Three Sentinels grouped around each marked door, with Helmar hanging back near the stairwell. Otarion took room fifteen himself. Ramses positioned himself with Helmar, giving himself a clear view of the marked rooms. He nodded once, and the Sentinels unlocked the doors.

He could picture the scenes they walked into. The culprits asleep in their beds, possibly with someone and probably drunk. The doors were shut behind them and Sentinels would wait, hidden in the shadows while their eyes adjusted to the darkness and sought the layout of the room.

How each trio made the arrest was subject to what they found. The Sentinels in charge of securing Keller would likely kill or incapacitate his guard before moving onto anyone else in the room. That room, Ramses knew, was the most likely to see a casualty. Then there was Santos. His eyes rested on the closed door of room fifteen. That room was a wild card.

A muffled cry came from room seventeen. There was a bang as though someone struck the door itself and the sound of shattered glass, but just as soon as the commotion began, it stopped. Another minute elapsed before the nearest door swung open. Two poachers handcuffed and gagged were led out by the Sentinels. These were taken downstairs and out of sight.

Ramses stepped into the vacated room and found it surprisingly clean but for the rumpled sheets, an empty bottle of whiskey, and the hunters’ weapons leaning against the wall. He made a cursory sweep for any other evidence of import, then closed the door, locked it, and retook his position.

Without warning, the door to room fifteen crashed open and a man bolted out of the room. Otarion appeared half a second later and tackled him to the ground. Ramses tensed as he watched the fight. The poacher grappled with Otarion and positioned himself for an arm bar submission. Though Otarion kept his arms locked to prevent it, the poacher was quickly gaining ground. Ramses summoned a small sphere of light in his hand, but Helmar placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Let the young man prove to you he can defend himself,” he whispered. "He needs this."

“He’ll break his arm.”

“No, he won’t.”

The poacher pivoted with a flash of triumph and pulled hard on Otarion’s right arm. Suddenly, Otarion released his locked hands and turned out of the grip. The poacher swore violently and attempted to pull Otarion’s arm into the lock, but the Sentinel had gained the advantage. With the poacher’s back on the ground and Otarion crouched above him, their positions were now reversed. The grappling continued for another few seconds before the poacher suddenly froze. Otarion, breathing hard, had a knife pointed directly at the man’s inner thigh. Ramses sighed, and the sphere of light vanished.

“Well done, Otarion.”

“Sir, he’s an assassin. He poisoned Santos.”

Ramses crouched to look the assassin in the face. He was young and unfamiliar, and his face was flushed from exertion and rage. “Who sent you?” he asked in Runic.

When the assassin didn’t answer, Otarion poked him in the groin. He gasped. “It was Warden!”

“Who is Warden?”

“I don’t know, I was sent to sterilize the team’s leadership. It was just a job posting!”

One of the other rooms opened and more Sentinels appeared with their catch. Disla handed his young docile poacher to Letrell and helped Otarion with their apprehended assassin. He was handcuffed, searched, and pulled to his feet. Ramses hurried into Santos’ room. The room was stiflingly hot from the open window. No other poacher was in the room except Santos who was curled up on the bed shivering despite the blankets and open window. Fields and Serin were in guard position beside Santos’ bed. Santos spat a curse at the sight of Ramses.

Ramses walked to the poacher’s bedside and placed a hand on his forehead. It was no fever, and this was no illness. The man was so cold even his lips were blue. There was only one thing that could cause hypothermia in summer temperatures like this—Ice Essence.

“Helmar,” he called.

“Too late, Sentinel,” Santos said between chattering teeth. “I’m a dead man. I’ll take my secrets with me.”

“Bring the assassin in here too, Otarion.” Otarion and Disla roughly dragged the young man into the room. Helmar dropped his medical kit on the unused bed. “And shut the door behind you.”

They did. Ramses turned on the assassin. “I will ask this once. How much Ice Essence did you give him and where did you get it?”

The assassin paled. “How—?”

“One chance,” he stressed. “Answer me.”

“Warden just gave me a glass vial of the stuff!”

Ramses reached for Helmar’s medical kit and snatched the small, silver Essence case. He withdrew a vial of Light Essence and held it up in front of the young man. “This much?”

“N-no, less than that. May-maybe half that?”

Ramses handed Helmar the vial and switched back to Eldrinian. “Santos was poisoned with Ice Essence. Drop at a time, give him half, and wait. This might still overdose him.”

Helmar rummaged around his kit and withdrew a medicine dropper. The doctor pried the man’s mouth open and forced the Light Essence down drop by drop. Santos’ eyes bulged as the Essence burned its way down his esophagus. Ramses watched. This was a dangerous gamble. To any non-Azerie, Essence was a lethal poison. The only counter was an Essence type of the opposite kind. Technically, Ice had two counters, Light and Water. Water was the more benign option here, but he didn’t have it on hand. The man writhed and panted as the two forces clashed. Helmar shoved an oxygen mask on the man’s mouth. The assassin watched with horror and awe.

“Sir, what will happen to him?” Otarion asked.

“Two things can happen. One is that the Ice and Light Essence cancel each other out. They’ll work their way through his system until the Essence is fully and completely dispersed. If that fails, then one type will overcome the other and Santos would die.”

“How long before we know?”

“Not long.”

It wasn’t long. Santos’ convulsions died down to whimpers and moans. Helmar checked his temperature once more and found it had skyrocketed up to one-hundred and six. Ramses bit back a curse. They’d given him too much Light Essence. There was a tap on the door and Sergeant Ironsi poked his head inside. Ramses beckoned him over.

“Sir, we found this in the lounge.”

He handed him an envelope. It was addressed simply to the Sentinel officer. Ramses gently tore open the letter, his wrists protesting the effort, and took out the letter. The script was written in a familiar hand, the Auctioneer’s hand.

I apologize for what happened to your young lieutenant in Drakestone. The markets can be very unforgiving to your kind, just as Sentinels are unforgiving to us. Santos crossed one too many lines on both sides. His death is our justice and will save you some paperwork. As I told your Triumvirs, there is a cost to every action in the markets. Tread carefully or your actions will breed more uncertainty.

Ramses placed a hand on Santos’ shoulder. The man’s eyes were rolling back in his head as he struggled to remain conscious. “Tell me, who do you answer to. Who is the Auctioneer’s lieutenant for the hunters?”

“War… den.”

“Who is Warden?”

Santos’ head lulled back and forth. He didn’t know. Ramses placed a hand on the man’s chest and smote his heart with a searing ray of light. Santos grunted and fell limp. Helmar marked the time on his watch, then covered the body with the sheet.

Ramses turned to the assassin and held up the letter. “The Auctioneer sent you.”

The young man’s face was ashen. Ramses had revealed enough for the assassin to know who, or at least what, stood before him. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said softly. “But you won’t find him or hurt him. Not through me.”

Ramses’ eyes widened. Before he could shout a warning, the assassin bit down on the cyanide pill. Helmar swore and pulled the assassin’s head forward and down so the poison couldn’t be swallowed, but it was too late. The man was dead within seconds. Ramses was not given to swearing in front of his Sentinels, or swearing in general, but he could think of a lot of curses he wished to say.

“Bring me the Sorceress,” he said. “And breathe not a word of Santos’ death. We might still be able to salvage our efforts. Helmar, have you checked Keller?”

“Not yet, sir.”

He and Helmar slipped out of Santos’ room and hurried to room seventeen. The door was open, and the poachers already moved downstairs. Keller was slumped against the back wall with Velds watching over him. He wasn’t as badly beaten as Otarion had been, and Ramses was grateful for that much. Helmar set his medical kit next to him and immediately got to work.

Ramses knelt beside the young scout, and the Sentinel’s expression broke into one of utter relief. “Oh, sir, thank God. I-I thought you were dead. They told me you drowned in the river. I mean, I knew they were lying. You can’t drown like that, but Santos—.”

“It’s alright. Tell me exactly what happened after we were separated.”

“Most of them went after you. A couple stayed behind to keep watch over me, and the ones you shot were tended to. They threatened to throw me into the river tangled in the net if I didn’t tell him where the rest of the unit was. They dragged me to the river and forced my head under. I convinced them we were out scouting the trails for a missing person. I… I think they bought it after a while.”

Ramses’ jaw clenched in fury. Torturing a Sentinel would get these men steep sentences, poaching aside. “After that?”

“They had me take off my uniform and dress in civilian clothes. Then we hiked toward the Ranger Station. I knew the encirclement would eventually end at the station, so I played along. Sir, are you alright? Santos was sure you’d injured yourself when you fell off the embankment.”

Helmar shot Ramses a horrified look. “Did you bleed?” he demanded.

“A little,” Ramses admitted, and he pulled back his sleeve to reveal Lady Hur’s handiwork. “I did break my wrists. You can thank the sorceress for mending them. You can give me a full check once you’re finished with Keller.”

“Sir, with all due respect, Keller is fine. You’re making me nervous. If something were to happen to you under my watch, I’m a dead man. Please, for my sake, sit down and let me make sure you’re alright.”

Ramses heaved a sigh. Acquiescing, he sat down at the foot of one of the beds and allowed Helmar to examine him. The doctor removed the silver Essence case from the medical kit and took out a small monitor with a needle attached. Ramses winced as Helmar pricked his finger. His poor hands had gone through enough abuse for one day. A minute later, the screen relayed the results.

“Sir, you’re low. I recommend you take what was left of the vial we gave Santos.” He wasn’t surprised. Normally, he gained Essence naturally, but between the dual with Julian and what he’d used in the last few hours, it would be sometime before he returned to peak condition through purely natural exposure. Helmar helped him remove the armor pieces and ease his arm out of the coat sleeve. Just then, Lady Hur appeared with Otarion and McCrain. The captain’s expression cleared with sudden revelation. Ramses hid a smile. Doctor Helmar wasn’t a Sentinel, and Otarion picked up on that fact very early. He probably hadn’t understood the need for a specialized doctor until now when it smacked him in the face.

The sorceress crossed her arms and said, “What do you want, Regis?”

He switched to Aeronies. “Reach out to your brother-in-law. Hint that Santos is not dead and mention the name Warden. It’s the name of the poaching lieutenant. Tell him Sentinel Major Joshua Regis is looking to meet with the Auctioneer quietly and peacefully. Somewhere in all of that, mention that I’ve broken my wrists.”

Lady Hur shifted uncomfortably, her eyes flicking to the Sentinels around them, and McCrain’s accusing glare. “What makes you think I can pass along such a message?”

Ramses raised an eyebrow. “Because your connection to Sorcerer Gamron Keiding and the Black Market is why Angus sent you to me. Don’t worry, my Sentinels won’t like you, but their dislike isn’t lethal.”

“That is not always true,” she muttered, and she went off to her task.

McCrain glared after her. “Sir, are we really going to trust this entire operation to that woman?”

“Let’s just say she still owes me even after mending my hands.” He switched back to Eldrinian and addressed Otarion. “Transfer the prisoners to the Rangers’ keeping, then prepare the unit for immediate redeployment.”

“Yes, sir. To where?”

“Laska.” A ripple of surprise circled the room, and McCrain looked ready to question him, but Ramses forestalled them. “I know it’s foreign soil. I will explain after we get there. Move quickly.”

They did as he asked. Ramses eased his arm back into his uniform sleeve. There was much that needed to be explained to these Sentinels. He only hoped they would still trust him when all was said and done.

**********************************************************************

The world of Laska was outside Faction territory, and though it was claimed by the Jespen government as part of its sovereign territory, it was more wilderness than occupied land, at least, on paper. The Black Market operated in this wilderness as though it were their own backyard. He suspected the Jespenese knew and let them operate with impunity, but it was something the Order had yet to prove.

The Sentinels took to their new home well. The base was set deep within the granite cliff, carved out by Earth Azerie a hundred years ago, and to this day remained a carefully preserved secret. It wouldn’t do for the Jespenese to learn the Sentinels had been spying on their provincial Laska for the last few decades. Ramses reached out to touch the thick pane of tinted glass that separated the base from the outside air. It was scratched and foggy with age, and hanging ivy-covered some of it, but the view of the distant vineyards was intact. From the outside, it blended into the rock seamlessly. The base itself comprised of a series of carved-out rooms. This room, the crow’s nest as it was called, was the only one with a view.

When they arrived, Colonel Stackhouse was none too pleased to hear of the results of their operation, nor Ramses’ decision to trust Lady Hur.

“The woman is a lustful courtesan with no redeeming qualities,” he had said. “I still think you should’ve executed her.”

“Show a little grace, Stackhouse. If I had her executed, then she would not be here to help us in our efforts.”

“We don’t need help.”

With Santos dead, he begged to differ.

Otarion appeared at his side. “I’ve assembled the unit, sir.”

“Otarion, a few weeks ago when we went out to breakfast together, did you suspect who I was?”

“No. I thought you were a special agent or special assistant, but not an Azerie.”

“Would you have done that if you knew I was a Triumvir?”

The young captain smiled sheepishly. “I would’ve been too afraid to, sir.”

“And now?”

“I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous.”

“I see.”

“Sir?”

“It’s nothing.”

Ramses straightened his uniform coat and left the crow’s nest. They descended the carved, stone steps to the long hall lined with bunk beds. Overhead was a domed roof brightly illuminated. The Sentinels had already settled themselves in their new quarters and were now assembled in neat rows at attention. Colonel Stackhouse stood at the opposite end with a guarded expression. Ramses inspected them silently, pleased to see their uniforms were in peak condition.

“Some of you already know and have been sworn to secrecy,” he began. “Some of you have guessed. Most of you, I imagine, suspect the truth. I am not a Sentinel Major. I never was nor will be. My name is Azerie Ramses of Light, and you have each been hand-selected to serve in my unit. It was important to maintain the illusion as long as possible so we could weed out those unfit for this position. I am not just here to combat the Black Market, though that is part of it. The Order’s withdrawal to Eldrin was made under strict conditions by the other Triumvirs and your high command—one Azerie would, at all times, be in active service. For three years, Azerie Julian of Ice served at the citadel incognito, as I have done and will continue to do. Until the Order is prepared to return, this is how we will operate.”

He paused at the end of the line where Stackhouse stood. The Special Forces commander gave the barest nod of encouragement. Ramses turned back to face his unit. “You will continue on your promotion tracks, but you will serve in this unit with me until I release you or you choose to leave the corps. This may feel harsh, and I know some of you had career ambitions beyond this type of service. Rest assured, your service will be rewarded, and when my time here is finished, you may select any position in the corps or government you qualify for with my blessing. Colonel?”

Stackhouse moved from his place. “Consider yourselves de-facto Special Forces. On paper, you are all serving within my Legion. As Ramses said, you were all hand-picked, and I will swear each of you to secrecy. If you wish to leave the unit, you may speak with me after this meeting, and I will transfer you to one of my units. I don’t have to stress how important Ramses’ life is to the Factions, but I and the rest of the high command are confident you will protect him and his well-being during his tenure as our serving Azerie.” He cast Ramses a wry smile. “Extenuating circumstances aside.”

Ramses chuckled. “I’ve suffered worse than broken wrists.”

“And hopefully never again,” Stackhouse said. “Now, repeat after me.”

The unit was sworn to secrecy.

Ramses quietly slipped into the small room that acted as his private quarters and dropped onto the bed. He would give them time to speak with Stackhouse about redeployment and have their logistical questions answered. Some, he knew, would leave. Just how many was the question. He thought Senior Scout Velds would leave. She had a promising career ahead of her in Special Forces or as a field agent for the intelligence bureau. That was a recommendation letter he would write gladly. Otarion might also leave. The young officer had harbored resentment for the loss of his command for some time, and to have been so brutally beaten at the hands of the Black Market, he wouldn’t blame the young man if he chose to leave.

He wondered what the dynamic of the unit would look like from here on out. He’d spend several days with Julian preparing for this assignment. The reason the Ice Azerie’s tenure was so short was for the simple fact his cover was blown. Things were done differently this time around, but on this, he stressed most.

“Once you earn their loyalty, trust the Sentinels to do their jobs and trust them to keep your secrets. They will, and they will do it with the fiercest pride.”

I suppose we’ll see just how well I earned their trust, Ramses thought.

An hour elapsed before Stackhouse tapped on the door of his room. Ramses sat up. “Come in,” he called.

The colonel handed him the unit’s file. Ramses flipped open to the first page. Not a single name was crossed out. He stared up at the colonel. “They all wanted to stay? Even Otarion?”

“For however long you serve, they will serve.” Stackhouse smiled and shook his head. “I told you as much.”

“Maybe we should’ve waited until after I met with the Auctioneer.”

“Ramses, if you were to let that man walk free, they would still follow you. They might not understand, they might hate it, but they would continue to serve you.”

He looked back at the list of names and fervently hoped that was true.

**********************************************************************

It was a full week before news came from Lady Hur. The Auctioneer was willing. It would not be he who they met with, only a representative, but according to the message, their voice was his voice. The meeting place was in Laska, a tavern twenty miles from the base in a provincial village large enough the meeting would go unnoticed, and small enough the people would care little for the games of Triumvirs, Generals, and Auctioneers.

Ramses rode mostly with his knees, letting the horse pick out the best path. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a long brown coat with a collared shirt and dark pants and boots. He also wore a pair of gloves to hide his wounded wrists. With Lady Hur’s runes, adjusted each day by McCrain as the bones healed, he had limited use of his hands. If it came to a fight, it would be up to Otarion to get them out. Each side was allowed one extra participant, and the young captain was adamant he was the one who would go.

“McCrain’s too valuable to risk out in the open, and I’ll be damned if I let any of my Sentinels walk into something like this. I’m going with you.”

In the end, Ramses agreed. Otarion rode beside him in similar dress with a rancher’s hat to complete the look. He wore his knife, but no saber. They were supposed to be tourists riding through the countryside. A knife would pass inspection—not a saber. Ramses was unarmed entirely. Anything he took would’ve been confiscated by the representative’s second.

“Sir, can I ask you something?” Otarion asked.

“Always.”

“Well, this entire operation has been to nail Santos to the ceiling along with any other Black-Market elite we can gather in our net, preferably the Auctioneer with them. So, why are we sitting down with one of the Auctioneer’s representatives? Shouldn’t we just arrest these guys and weasel out of them where the Auctioneer is hiding?”

Ramses cast his gaze around the rows of neat vineyards on their left and the distant, craggy cliffs that dominated the horizon. “Do you see this world? It is beautiful. Prosperous. All these grapes will soon be turned into wine, and not a drop of it will be seen in Faction Territory legally.”

“There are other countries that purchase alcohol.”

“Of course, but this level of prosperity would not be possible with that trade alone. Millions of gallons of alcohol are purchased illegally in the Factions’ Black Market every year, and millions are spent at gambling tables while the patrons sip fine Laskan wine. This entire province is supported by the system the Auctioneer maintains and it would wither on the branch if something were to happen to him.”

Otarion frowned at the rows of grapes. “But alcohol is bad. I’ve had it, and it’s really bad. It makes you sick, impairs your judgment, it doesn’t even taste good, and I’ve seen one too many brawls from aggressive drunks. These grapes would be better used to make grape juice or raisins.”

“There is a big difference in the price between a bottle of fine wine and a bottle of grape juice, but you are absolutely right. From a moral perspective, wine is not a good thing and there is a cost to its consumption just as much as there is a gain for its sale. The difficult part is to determine what actually are those costs. Is it better to sell the wine and gain the taxes from it while the population sees an increase in alcoholism and drunken behavior? Or is that drunken behavior and alcoholism more costly than what was gained through the sale of the wine?” Ramses breathed in the sweet autumn air with a contented sigh. Laska really was a beautiful world. “The same analysis can be applied to the Auctioneer.”

Otarion did a double-take. “How so?”

“The Auctioneers run the Black Market as a tightly controlled monopoly, and they have done well in these recent decades of limiting the worst of the markets. Gladiatorial arenas are no longer tolerated, slaves are only taken in fractional increments and usually those who are deeply impoverished, the deadliest of the drugs are severely regulated or simply not permitted to be sold in the broader markets. The worst of its criminals, men and women considered too cruel or difficult to control, are carefully walked into Sentinels' hands. This unique Black-Market law is exceedingly valuable to us. As the Order is, as the Sentinels Corps currently stands, we could not remove the markets or its influence without it rearing its’ head elsewhere and worse than it currently is. In other words, right now, the Black Market with an Auctioneer is better than a black market as it would normally exist. A competitive, underground industry.”

Otarion was silent for several minutes as he internalized the analysis. Ramses let him think and silently urged him to make the final connection. A swell of pride came as the understanding dawned on the captain’s face.

“My God, you’ve made the Auctioneer into an asset. By allowing prohibition, gambling, and the more minor offenses to remain illegal, you strengthened his power and helped him maintain control of this monopoly! What we’re really doing is keeping track of this asset and his assets, his lieutenants, and making sure they continue to act in our best interests.”

Ramses smiled wryly. “Very good, Otarion. And that is why we are here. After Salikoth, we were unsure of the Auctioneer’s ability to maintain control of the shattered markets, or if he was even the right person for the job anymore. It has taken three years, but we will finally be able to determine if this strategy is still in our best interests, or if the Auctioneer needs to be replaced.”

“How will you do that?”

“By asking a very simple question; what happened to Azerie Runon of Energy in Salikoth?”

The village was bustling with activity as people crowded the market and went about their business, be they tourists or locals. Ramses kept a wary eye on the people as they neared the meeting place, but if the Auctioneer’s representative had other agents in the area, he could not spot them. They dismounted outside a small café toward the center of the town square. Its whitewashed walls were pristine and colorful with lovingly tended flowers adorning the front. When they stepped inside, a young waitress met them at the door with menus in hand.

“How many?” she asked in Jespenese.

“The roof,” Ramses replied in the same language, or at least, he hoped. It was not a language he knew well.

Her expression brightened. “Ah, go right on up. He’s waiting for you.”

They crossed the main floor to a set of stairs. The upper floor was an open veranda shaded by a wooden lattice adorned with ivy. The views of the countryside were picturesque, and the light autumn breeze was pleasant in the afternoon sun. A man kept watch at the top of the steps. Ramses consented to a search for weapons, then ordered Otarion to remain at the steps with the bodyguard.

“I have to search the representative,” Otarion insisted.

“It’s alright. Trust me.”

The scatterings of tables were empty despite the crowd below, except for one. A man was seated at the center table. He was of average height, lean and well-muscled like the Sentinels, and with sharp angles to his face. His hair was light brown and combed to the side like any good businessman, and his eyes shone with a familiar intensity. He had the poise of a king, the sense of authority as that of a Triumvir, and the sheer intelligence and cunning of a master of criminals. Ramses’ mouth twitched into a thin smile, and he took the seat across from him.

“I thought you might come yourself,” he said in Runic.

The Auctioneer chuckled. “It appears we both guessed correctly. You broke your wrists?”

“They will mend soon enough.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’d rather have you than your colleagues. I’m pretty sure they would’ve killed me on sight. Tea?”

“Yes, thank you. Only cream.”

The Auctioneer sat forward. He poured a small amount into his cup then a dab of cream and drank it. Only after that did he serve the tea. Ramses smiled at the gesture. The ritual spoke volumes. The Auctioneer respected Ramses enough to check the tea for poison himself before serving it and was going out of his way to show him he had not spiked the beverage. It was a demonstration the Auctioneer wouldn’t do for just anyone. He added cream to both of their cups and poured the tea.

The Auctioneer took his own and sat back, his legs crossed. “Your Sentinels have given me a lot of grief lately. Warden was quite upset to hear his name appear in your message. I assume Santos is alive if you were there to counteract the Ice Essence.”

Ramses sipped his tea. “I tried to save him, but he died. I hope this Warden is a better pick than the last poaching lieutenant.”

The Auctioneer smiled wryly. “Oh, believe me, I was very diligent in my selections. After Salikoth, I didn’t have to contend with the politics my father and grandfather left behind. My sons will be better for it.”

“Your eldest will turn sixteen soon.”

“Yes.” His expression darkened. “Another reason I’m irritated. I would like to teach the Protégé in a friendlier environment than this. Why have you called me here? I was under the impression the Order would remain in Eldrin until further notice.”

Ramses set his cup down and couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from his voice. “That was the hope, but we won’t be released from service so easily. One of us had to stay behind.”

“Selfless of you to volunteer.”

Ramses shrugged. “You and I have worked together the most out of anyone in the Order. I was the logical choice.”

The Auctioneer scrutinized him from over his cup. “You are one of the most powerful men in the World. You could do whatever you want, and few could stop you.”

Ramses shook his head and laughed. It was a common fallacy, but he never expected to hear it from the Auctioneer. “You know better than anyone power does not equate to freedom. We are both bound by the chains of our professions.”

The Auctioneer pondered that, then said, “Fair enough. What do you want?”

“There are a lot of questions still lingering about Salikoth. There is concern among the Order and the Triumvirs that you are not who we thought you were.”

Ramses watched him closely, and the flawless poise and coolness wavered, if only for half a second. The Auctioneer sipped his tea. “Do you believe that?”

“If I thought you were responsible for Salikoth, you would be dead. Broken wrists aside. What happened that night?”

The Auctioneer said nothing as he poured himself some more tea. Ramses waited and sipped his own drink. If the man wanted time to collect his thoughts, he would give it to him. Whatever happened that night at the auction, they would not be good memories.

“I’m very glad it was you who came,” he said, softly. “Your reconnaissance team was discovered while I was in the middle of the auction. They killed the Sentinels and Runon was placed in the hands of my slaver and hunting lieutenants. They… tortured him in my absence and extracted his Essence. All of it.”

Ramses lowered his head in grief. It was what they assumed had happened, but it would’ve been an excruciating death. No Azerie deserved to die that way.

The Auctioneer shook his head, and there was genuine regret in his voice. “I did not have the control over my lieutenants then as I do now, despite what you might think. I could not stop them without appearing weak or giving them an opportunity to challenge my authority. I called a halt only as it appeared they were getting bored with their games and invited them to join me for dinner. My security chief took Runon down to the wine cellar and did what he could for him. Then I set my own guards to watch him and mandated no one was to enter but by my permission.”

Ramses drank his tea. “And what happened after you joined him in the cellar later that evening?”

The Auctioneer heaved a sigh and stared in the distance in recollection. Ramses had been on the other end of countless interrogation tables. He could spot truth just as easily as a lie, and the Auctioneer had so far been entirely truthful. Now, he was faltering. He needed to encourage him.

“Auctioneer, you’ve known me a long time. Whatever happened in there, trust that I will understand.”

He set his cup down and shook his head. “I was the informant. You never found out who it was, but I was the one who passed the Order my schedule.”

Ramses blinked. That had not been the response he’d been expecting. “…You?”

“I rigged the auction so the Black-Market’s elite could be wiped out in a single blow. I fully intended to swing right after I saw my lieutenants swing. But I misjudged your strengths, and Runon told me as much in the cellar when I confessed to him. The Order could not remove the Black Market as a whole, and the bloodbath that was about to ensue would cripple both of us. And it did. I escaped with those most loyal to me thanks to Runon and have slowly been restoring order to the markets ever since.”

“Uncertainty breeds recessions?”

His eyes flashed and he said severely, “That is a very real warning. I would appreciate it if your Sentinels would back down. My job is hard enough as it is without having them undoing my work.”

Ramses smiled behind his cup. So, he had been right. The Auctioneer was exactly the man he thought him to be. Thank you, God, he thought. To replace him would’ve been a monumental challenge and very likely impossible. “You do realize you would’ve been executed if we’d caught you in Salikoth. We wouldn’t have had a choice but to see you hanged.”

“I am aware.”

Ramses finished his tea. It took an extraordinary person to commit to dismantling what made them powerful and see themselves destroyed in the process. “Your sons will make fine Auctioneers someday.”

The Auctioneer set his cup down and stood. “Someday, there will be no Auctioneers. Whether that is because the markets themselves will turn on us or the Order destroys us, it is simply a matter of time before my family is removed from power. I fully expect to be killed in this miserable occupation.”

“As do I,” Ramses said. “We will work toward the latter of your scenarios. If it is done correctly, we might just save your sons from your fate.”

The Auctioneer set a few bills on the table. “I will not hold my breath. Good day, Your Honor. I wish you a quick recovery.”

“May He who kindled the sun watch over you.”

The Auctioneer’s footsteps receded behind him. A moment later, Otarion appeared at his side. “What did he say?”

“What I was looking for,” Ramses said. “The Auctioneer will stay right where he is, to his displeasure, I think.”

Otarion scowled after the criminals. “Sir, I know why we’re doing this, and it makes sense, but I don’t like the idea of intentionally keeping a criminal syndicate in power. It smacks of corruption.”

Ramses had heard that argument before. It was the nature of the long game, and for a game spanning three generations, it was hard for it not to appear corrupt. It was why he and Alexander took great pains to gain nothing from the gambit but the time they so desperately needed. “I know, but someday soon, all will be made right. The Black Market will be destroyed, and the Order restored to its proper place. God willing.”

“God willing,” Otarion murmured in agreement.

They rode back to the base. Ramses turned his thoughts to the other threats facing the Factions. The Black Market was their chief internal opponent, and they would keep a close watch on what went on in those markets, but there were plenty of other problems to be addressed with the help of his new unit. He’d served a lifetime already. Fifty-eight years and counting. He had many more years of service to give, and in that time, just maybe, he would see the end of this extraordinary game of Triumvirs, Generals, and Auctioneers.

God willing.