He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room, then added more calmly, with a faint trace of exhaustion: “In the end, you could be a ‘Traveler from Distant Lands’ three times over, but within these walls, coin is the final judge. Therefore, these things—” he waved carelessly at the snow-white pile on the desk, “—are merely cargo. Rare, exclusive, perhaps even terrifying... but cargo.”
Bruno leaned forward, pinning Dmitry with a stare. “My terms are as follows: I settle Cohen’s debt with Hoof in full and give the boy enough coin for ‘pins’ and incidentals. In exchange, I take these on consignment. My cut is fifty percent. Without my connections, you’ll be fumbling with these for a month, and in the end, you’ll just get your throats slit in an alley. The price is fair, Master.”
Dmitry listened, feeling a hunter’s excitement stir within him. Bruno hadn't ‘floated’—he wasn’t dazzled. All the tricks with the polyethylene and ‘celestial silk’ hadn't knocked the old man off his stride; he had simply recalculated the risks. Dealing with a man like this was profitable. And damned dangerous.
“And what, in your opinion, is the market value of the entire batch, Master Bruno?” Dmitry asked, keeping his voice dry and professional.
“That is my concern,” the moneylender snapped. “Yours is to either shake hands or leave.”
There was a distinct ring of steel in the old man’s tone. A threat? Possibly.
“That’s hardly serious, Master Bruno,” Dmitry shook his head slowly, keeping his gaze locked. “I wasn’t born yesterday either. If our business goes as it should, the long-term prospects will bring you far more than a one-time sale of these robes.”
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” the moneylender countered. “Your promises are just air. Money demands substance. Right now, you have what I need. Later? Who knows what later brings.”
“Fine,” Dmitry said with calculated carelessness, taking a step back as if the money no longer concerned him. “As a sign that I have nothing to hide—and certainly no intent to deceive you—I agree to give you three-quarters of whatever you receive for these trinkets.”
He gave a dismissive, everyday wave toward the pile of packages. “All of this is nonsense. The goal is what matters.”
Bruno froze. For the first time that evening, he looked truly thrown off. “You gave up that gold a bit too easily...” he muttered, eyeing Dmitry suspiciously. “Regardless of what they say about moneylenders, my obligations are sacred. I really would have given you half…”
“Don’t bother,” Dmitry smiled, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m here to help the Baron and resolve some personal matters. A quarter will be more than enough for me. Deal?”
“Deal!” After a short hesitation, Bruno gripped Dmitry’s hand firmly.
“Excellent. Now, for the information. What is this... transport doing here?” Dmitry gestured toward the window. “They say only the heavy-hitters travel like that.”
The moneylender had already begun methodically packing the robes into a heavy chest by the wall. He answered without looking up. “Information is sparse. But one thing is certain: a guest from the capital. Likely a royal envoy with a personal mandate. The Governor will surely host a reception for the occasion; that’s when everything will become clear.”
“And what exactly is that thing he arrived on? It looked... alive.”
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“Precisely. It is a Leviathan. They are considered sacred,” Bruno said, clicking the chest’s lock. “They are under the protection of the Eternal Sky.”
“Eternal Sky? Who is that?” Dmitry’s medallion translated the words literally, offering no context.
“An Order of servants. Only they hold the secrets to controlling and breeding the Leviathans. They serve no kings and sell their services for staggering sums. Those who have tried to steal their secrets were punished... and quite brutally.”
Bruno straightened up and sat on the sofa. “Leave it, Master Dmitry. Idle curiosity regarding those creatures can be lethal. Let’s speak of something more grounded.”
“Agreed,” Dmitry nodded. Terms like ‘Eternal Sky’ triggered no associations, and he had no plans to go looking for trouble yet. “What about Hoof? Why is he so obsessed with Cohen?”
“Ha! Obsessed?” Bruno gave a dry laugh. “Cohen is only alive because of Hoof! If not for his influence, the neighbors would have torn the boy apart years ago. The other Barons in the marches have been salivating over the Prast lands for years. But as long as Cohen lives, they can’t seize them legally. Hoof paid off almost all of them. Only one refused the gold and took people instead—drained every last peasant from the Prast estates. Hoof was his father’s best friend, Dmitry. Yes, yes, don’t look so surprised! Whatever the boy told you, he doesn’t know a tenth of the truth.”
Dmitry was stunned. This information flipped the entire board. “Then why hasn't anyone told him? ‘We’re helping out of old friendship,’ and all that... The kid is convinced he’s being systematically hunted.”
“Cohen has spent his whole life under a shroud. He doesn’t know a damn thing about politics. He’s only read books about what a Baron ‘should be.’ and mind you, not scientific treatises, but sappy novels for bored maidens! Oh, I told Lert: ‘Don’t coddle him so much if you want him to live long.’” Bruno shook his head ruefully. “He always replied: ‘There’s time.’ I discussed this with Hoof personally. We even wrote the last letter to the boy together!”
The moneylender’s voice grew stronger. “We told him in plain text: the only way out is a marriage to Amalia, Hoof’s daughter. It would give her father carte blanche. He could officially protect the barony from anyone trying to carve out a piece. With Hoof’s influence and Cohen’s title, they would have turned that land into a jewel in a couple of years.”
“It did seem strange that Cohen was so blind to it,” Dmitry murmured, staring out the window. Twilight had fully turned to night.
“He isn’t like us, Master Dmitry. We think in categories of profit and opportunity. He thinks in pride, honor, and childhood notions of justice. That is how he was raised. And he’s stubborn. He took the demand for debt repayment as a personal insult! It’s the basis of business: you borrow, you return. But Cohen, in his pride, decided to starve to death and let his people rot. Hoof hoped poverty would make him see reason, but it seems you’ve disrupted the old man’s plans. Hoof won't like that. In any case... leave that to me. Heavens! It’s pitch black. Master Dmitry, let’s head down. See what’s for dinner.”
Dmitry felt his stomach respond to the word ‘dinner’ with a dull, persistent ache. It was time to refuel his metabolic reserves. The conversation was over.
Dmitry followed Bruno out of the office. The creaking steps led them back to the first floor, into the dimly lit guardroom. Cohen and Hans sat on hard chairs against the wall, their shadows breaking on the stone floor. Claude, the giant guard, lay on his cot, holding a book right in front of his face; the candle flame on the table flickered in the draft.
At the sight of his master, Claude rose silently, closed his book, and stepped into the next room. No words were needed—it was time to serve. Cohen looked up immediately, pinning Dmitry with a questioning, high-tension gaze. Dmitry gave a faint smile and a wink—everything was settled; the deal was made. The Baron’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
They ate downstairs in a small room with bare walls. The atmosphere here was pointedly functional, lacking even a shadow of the luxury that reigned in the office above.
On the heavy wooden table stood several large communal dishes. In the center was a deep cast-iron pot, filled to the brim with thick porridge mixed with large chunks of boiled beef and a fibrous grey root resembling a turnip. Beside it on a board lay coarse dark bread, cut into thick slices. Coarse salt sat in a mound in a clay bowl, and a tray held several heads of pungent onion and a slab of salted lard with wide streaks of meat. To drink, there was a large pitcher of simple barley beer—cold and sharp.
They ate in silence and with efficiency. It was simple, heavy food intended to satisfy hunger and restore strength. No one wasted time on talk.
When the plates were empty, Bruno dismissed the guests with a short nod. Claude led them upstairs. Cohen and Hans were given one room between them, while Dmitry was taken to the next—a small space smelling of dry wood and old dust. As soon as the door closed behind the guard, Dmitry checked the latch, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the bed without undressing. Fatigue fell like a lead weight, and sleep claimed him before his head even hit the pillow.
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