Chapter 14. The Loremaster Embarks

aucous laughter drifted from the long dock followed by pleading and a short cry of misery.  Normally Orick did not pay much attention to such things, but he was headed in that general direction.  His attempts to find the appropriate hired help for his voyage had proved fruitless and his guild leader, Quintus, could furnish him with little more than a list of contacts and a stipend for his journey.  Lore masters were generally under appreciated and under paid for their work, and with the current state of things in Ascalon, only lore that served the purposes of war had any monetary value.

Despite being a native son of Ascalon, Orick Vox was somewhat relieved to be tasked with travel to Cantha.  There was so little of his own people’s culture remaining and it was heartbreaking at times to see the land of his childhood reduced to ruins and rubble.  He could lose himself in Cantha for a while and his enjoyment would be made nobler under the auspices of work.  How ironic it seemed that some of the greatest works of his people were now preserved in the academies and libraries of a foreign land.  He appreciated the Canthan love of culture and history.  They stored it up like gold and paid it as much heed when it came to guarding it.

Hence, he was arrayed for battle as he strode up the long pier toward the ship that would carry him to Cantha.  The scholars of Cantha would require quests of him before they would believe his nobler intentions.  His beautifully crafted armor was of Kurzick manufacture and gleamed beneath a coat of black cloisonné.  He was of the Blade and Rose, schooled not only for battle, but in many arcane arts.  Perhaps it was his well-heeled appearance or his imposing bulk, but as approached the raucous crowd, people moved aside for him.

There had been a fight as evidenced by the blood that smeared the worn planks and stained the clothes and flesh of those involved.  A scrawny monk, wearing little more than baggy pantaloons and red tattoos, was backed against the railing with no where to go but into the sea.  He was bruised and bleeding, and when anyone came near him he snarled and braced for an attack.  There were small ivory tiles spread out on the planks, scattered now by the recent fight.  It was a Canthan game that Orick had only passing familiarity with.  The monk was swearing in Canthan and the people he had been fighting with had no clue what he was saying.

As for the rest of the crowd, three of them Orick assumed to be gamblers and they looked furious.  One of them wore the finery of a mesmer and, judging by his swelling lip and the vein throbbing on his temple, he had been exchanging blows with the monk.  Everyone else comprised an ever increasing audience drawn to the spectacle and now variously goading and taunting the combatants.  It did not take a genius to see the monk could not win.

“You will pay up,” the mesmer snarled amid the continuing jeers.  The other two players backed away slowly and the circle widened.

“I told you, I am out of money,” the monk protested.

“You made a bet and now you will cover it.”

“You cheated,” the monk said coldly.

“Maybe you finally ran out of luck, Nandao,” the mesmer growled, “It’s about time I won back everything you stole from me.”

“But I never cheated and you did!”

The hair of Orick’s nape stood up in alarm as he recognized the telltale posture of a focusing mesmer.  Things were about to become much uglier.  The man was a bully and the monk had no means of defending himself.  He boldly stepped between the two men and met the mesmer’s malevolent gaze.

“Out of the way, warrior,” the man shouted.

Orick smiled to himself.  As usual, underestimated and instantly judged for a brainless fool.  Very well, he could play this game.  He feigned anger and swept back his foot into a battle stance, stamping down on the monk’s pack to hold it in place.  Then, with a broad sweep of his arm, he knocked Nandao over the railing amid hoots of laughter and cheers as he drew his sword with a flourish.  A moment later he heard the splash of the screaming monk hitting the water.

“Fool!” the mesmer roared now that his quarry was out of reach.  Then, seeing the city guard were now insinuating themselves in the crowd he departed scowling while Orick quietly picked up the monk’s belongings and moved toward the Pride of Kryta, the ship he would soon be boarding for his journey to Cantha.

He did not have long to wait.  He perched against the railing with the Nandao’s belongings plainly in view beside his own and watched as the sodden monk trudged angrily toward him.

“I want my things back!” he spluttered.

“I need a translator and a healer for my expedition to Cantha,” Orick said calmly, “Considering that I just preserved you from a major mental attack, I am inclined to believe you may be grateful that I intervened.”

Nandao stared at him with his mouth agape.

“I suppose,” he said after a few moments, “but I’m broke.  My luck has run out.  I cannot afford passage.”

“I was given funds enough to hire the mercenaries I needed,” Orick replied, “If you give your word, you may work off the debt on my behalf.  I will pay you ten gold coins per day plus an equal share of any treasure we find.  Since the cost of the journey is five hundred coins, you may well be freed from the contract within a week once we reach Cantha.”

Orick nodded his chin pointedly toward the end of the pier where the angry mesmer was now standing and watching balefully, a pair of friends flanking him.  Nandao followed his gaze and blanched.

“Or, I can give you your things back and you can stay here.”

“Cantha is rather nice this time of year,” Nandao muttered, fingering his bruised jaw.

“Excellent,” Orick replied, gesturing toward the gang plank, “I prefer to work with other men of reason.  I am Orick Vox of the Blade and Rose.  Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Nandao,” the monk said sadly, “Just plain old Brother Nandao from nowhere.”