Chapter Thirty—High Tier Adventurer

Nearly Six Months Ago

The establishment was busy tonight. Faridoon, a wealthy vizier and his personal company sat in the corner, waiting, while Mirrikh and Javed waited near the bar where drinks were being served.

In the center of the cantina, a group of barely clothed belly dancers with their faces covered and adorned with silver and gold, twirled and undulated their hips to the song of a band of bards with stringed instruments, tambourines and drums. They had an audience, but not a raucous one. This establishment was of a different sort and didn’t allow overt drunken behavior, especially when it came to touching the slave girls.

Had one been paying attention, he would have been able to see clearly through the carousing patrons that Mirrikh and Javed were agitated as they waited for their leader. The vizier and his expensive company continued casting looks toward them as if to say “where is your leader?”

The thick double doors of the establishment were opened to reveal a new group of patrons. Seven men, a foreigner at their head dressed in voluminous white pantaloons, a jacket with gold silk embroidery and a low-neckline tunic underneath. On his back was a strangely curved sword slung there.

It was not a scimitar blade.

The music stopped and the dancing girls straightened, glancing at the group of high-tier adventurers who had disturbed their performance by no attempt of their own devising.

Shiro strode into the whorehouse with his seven companions and was instantly enveloped by the strong scent of shashu leaf smoke and alcohol. There was a visible haze in the air.

The disturbed patrons and purveyors alike might have wondered if he and his group were here to cause trouble—perhaps to attack a rival or do vengeance on an adventurer party who had done them wrong previously.

When Shiro went to the bar to speak to his friends, then was quietly lead to the private booths, the night’s festivities continued.

Once they were all seated, the vizier spoke. “So,” Faridoon said. “These are your men?” Shiro nodded stoically, said nothing.

The vizier and his three friends glanced about themselves, silent communication taking place. “We are interested in pursuing our previous conversation,” he finally said.

The vizier Faridoon came from money. He wore the finest white silks, rings adorned his fingers, and his four bodyguards that Shiro had noted spread about the floor on his way in did not come cheaply.

Without preamble, Faridoon said, “No one has gotten past the ninth floor of Narkuun before. What makes you think that you and your men can do this thing for us?”

Shiro didn’t want to tell Faridoon that he and his company were capable of the job. Bravado was cheap and not to be trusted. Any man—especially a vizier worth his salt would know that.

“You put out a notice offering payment for this task. I’m here to tell you we can do it—with the right provisions as we previously spoke about. If you are having second thoughts,” Shiro said, “perhaps me and my men should leave to pursue other leads. There are plenty of jobs at the guilds that pay well.”

Faridoon said nothing. He seemed thoughtful, critically so. Shiro had learned that over eagerness was not the way to gain trust, or to have an investor feel confident in a venture.

He had come a long way since that day at the bar on the edge of Oravar pinching his fingers and slapping his blade in the hopes he would get work. Though work he had gotten. And the rest had sorted itself out.

Time to leave, Shiro thought.

“Very well, Vizier Faridoon. We’re leaving.” He got up.

“Wait!” Faridoon said.

Shiro stood, not giving in an inch. He was not bluffing. Ready to walk out any moment, he glanced about the main room and the frolicking patrons impatiently.

“Just hold for a moment,” the vizier continued, motioning for Shiro to sit. “Please.”

Reluctantly, Shiro did as requested and then after a moment of conferring quietly in whispers with his friends, Faridoon said, “And you are sure you can get past the ninth floor? I must recoup my expenditure. If you fail my credibility might be ruined.”

“We will get past the floor and find those treasures for a full payback and a sixty-forty split, as we earlier spoke of.”

“Seventy-thirty,” he said, his haggler’s face now showing.

And a vizier, even…

Shiro sighed. “Goodbye.”

“Ugh! All right. You win, adventurer!” Faridoon said. “You drive a hard bargain, infidel.”

Shiro smiled.

“When can the gold be moved, or do you wish to oversee our provisioning?”

“Umm,” Faridoon said, raising an eyebrow.

“I think I trust you. You are well known in this city. You are a man of honor. Come by my manor in three days’ time at noon. I will have the gold ready for you.”

Lazy.

Shiro nodded, said no more, and the two companies parted.