I

On this night the tavern in the docks district of Disipica, a coastal town in the north of the Nevan Empire was not overly crowded, which was usual for mid-week.

The few regulars already deep in their cups were occasionally attended by the tavern owner's wife, a portly woman, with ruddy cheeks. She wore a simple, pale-coloured homespun dress under a dark brown serving apron.

Two wenches with low-cut blouses, and red painted lips, rouged cheeks moved from table to table flirting in hopes of tips, and maybe something more.

A small group of legion soldiers drank and gambled over some dice at a table, their occasional cheers and laments rose above the general din.

A solitary bard strummed at a lyre while singing a song of love gained and lost that no one was paying any mind.

Tucked away in a dark corner, two men were seated, heads close together in conversation with their voices low so as not to be overheard.

N"Why do I need to go there for slaves? I can get them from anywhere." said Gracchus. He was a short stocky, middle-aged man, with an expanding midriff from a combination of heavy drink, ample food, and age.

His skin was sun-kissed from years of living outdoors first with the Imperial legions and some twenty years of seafaring. His hair, black and scraggly with streaks of grey, had receded from a heavily creased forehead. The remnants of which started from his sideburns, back over his ears, and circled around the back of his head. He had thick black brows over close, large, dark eyes that seemed unusually soft, considering the man's cruel profession. His nose was long with a prominent bridge, not uncommon for a Nevan. He was wearing a faded red tunic that approached his knees in length, a worn leather belt at the waist, with a whip and the short sword typical of a Nevan legion soldier attached, along with well-worn leather bracers on his thick forearms. On his feet were sandals strapped to midcalf, common to the region. His rather drab clothing belied his wealth, as he had gold rings adorning three of the fingers on his heavily callused hands.

His companion was wearing a deep purple velvet robe with the hood up, hanging over the top half of his face, shadow concealing the remainder. "If the gold is good, what does it matter? I need you to get them from there because that is what I am paying you to do."

The robed man's voice was soft, and his speech was that of a person of high status, out of place for a tavern in this part of town. "And this undertaking is time sensitive. I need you to arrive in the night of Resday week."

"What about the treaty?" Gracchus hissed urgently. "I'm taking a HUGE risk going NEAR that island, let alone snatching the people there. You do know what they would do to us if we're caught? I've seen someone 'dragon winged' before, and I don't wish to experience it myself."

"You will be well compensated, I assure you. Two hundred pieces. Twenty now, the rest on completion."

"I want at least double, else the risk isn't worth it."

After a brief pause, the robed man agreed "Fine, fine." He passed a small object to Gracchus. "If you are captured, drink this. I cannot have a hint of this arrangement darkening my doorway."

"What's this?" he said, taking the small, blue-coloured glass vial as he looked at the robed figure.

"Poison. Fast acting, virtually painless."

"Virtually, you say?" Gracchus' eyebrows raised slightly, as a sardonic grin spread across his face.

"Well, I would presume far less painful than being... 'dragon winged', was it?"

Gracchus gave the figure a long, piercing look before responding. "Why is it so important that I risk my ship going to this particular place?"

"Your task is the what, the where, and the when. The why is my business. As I said, the money is for the task. What you do with the captives is your business. Their fleets will be thin on the straits between our coast and the island, as they will mostly be hugging the coast of the mainland. The gathering of Halder nations for their annual conference is on the south coast of their lands this year. As all of their rulers will be in attendance, the fleets will be positioned to protect them there, so they should pose no obstacle."

"Easy for you to say, you haven't faced one of their ships before. They are faster, more manoeuvrable, and they don't ram, because they like to board a ship, upon which they fight like daemons from hell because they believe their only way into their gods' graces is death in battle. On top of that, they are excellent fighters, each man a match for at least a half squad of legionnaires. I mean, hell, have you SEEN a Halderman? They're bloody huge! Peh! No obstacle, he says."

Gracchus said with no small amount of sarcasm.

He clicked his tongue and looked towards the ceiling as he shook his head slightly. "OK! So, forty now, the rest when it's done."

"I will send a man to your dock with payment upon completion. Did you receive the crates I sent to your ship? And I trust they are stowed discreetly and securely aboard?"

"Done and done. And before you ask, no, I haven't opened them, as per instructions."

"Good. The contents of those crates include instructions for what to do with them once you are underway. After you read the instructions, burn them."

The robed man nonchalantly dropped a pouch onto the table with a thud and a muffled metallic clinking. Gracchus scooped up the pouch and emptied some of its contents onto his hand. Several gold coins glinted in the candlelight. Gracchus' eyes took on a gleam all too common in men wholly seduced by the coin.

His gaze returned to the robed figure, as he tipped the coins back into the pouch. He hefted the pouch to gauge the weight. He looked at the robed figure and held out his other hand. "I said forty."

The robed figure sighed and stated "We had agreed on the amount prior to our meeting. So, considering I have graciously acceded to your increase, this deposit will have to suffice."

"What am I supposed to give my men as incentive to go along with this job?"

"You're a clever man, you will figure it out. Have a little faith, Gracchus. When I say you will be compensated, you WILL be compensated. I will ensure you get all that you deserve and more."

Gracchus stared at the robed figure balefully for a second and then stowed the pouch inside his tunic. The robed figure made as if to stand, but paused halfway and fixed Gracchus with a gaze that, although he could not see it, he certainly felt it. He then stated "Make no mistake, should you think to cross me, there is no place you can go that I will not find you. Perhaps then, I shall see a 'dragon winging' for myself, hm?"

Gracchus visibly winced and inclined his head slightly, indicating his assent. The robed figure then stood, turned, and exited the tavern with two plain-looking soldiers discreetly moving to follow, Gracchus staring balefully at his retreating back.

He sat at the table nursing his cup in contemplation for a time. He then downed the remainder of his ale, and as he gathered himself to leave, he called over the serving wench. He passed her a couple of copper coins, before heading to the door and leaving the tavern himself.

Outside Gracchus turned and made his way down the mostly deserted street toward the docks. As he moved along the street, he was lost in thought. Thinking about the myriad ways this job could go wrong. How does he trust a man who won't identify himself? And who could be so important that they would have elite bodyguards?

Although Gracchus was a more than competent soldier, he is merely a former Legionnaire. However, he knew elite soldiers when he saw them. And those men were senate guards, the most elite in the Empire.

He'd seen them once or twice before. Only the very best were accepted into their ranks. Their reputation alone was enough to turn fierce men to water.

But four hundred gold pieces, that was more than he could make in five years of plying his trade. He didn't like the terms or the risks, but the reward sure did make up for it. He would just have to make sure he was around to receive it.

Gracchus was generally a callous man. A product of the city slums, scrounging and thieving to scrape by. At thirteen he was caught pickpocketing, and the sentencing magistrate gave him the choice of losing his hand or using it to wield a sword for the Empire. He was further hardened by his experiences over his ten years as a legionary. He did not feel for the people he and his crew captured and sold; they were merely livestock, marks that moved from one side of a page to another in his ledger, nothing more nothing less. Property. Something to give regard to only so much as to retain maximum sale value. He would just as soon slit one of their throats as an example to the other slaves, as he would slit the throat of one of his own men for sullying a virgin as an example to his crew to not mishandle his merchandise.

Sparing of the whip not out of compassion, but to cause minimal damage to the stock. He preferred to take to their feet with a switch, a piece of cane three feet in length, thin enough to cause maximum pain, but not thin enough to break the skin. The whip he had to motivate his galley slaves when he needed more speed out of them.

His mind continued to wander, and before he was aware of it, the cobblestones of the street gave way to the wooden sleepers of the town wharves.

The ships of the Neven Empire were single-masted galleys, with banks of oars wielded by galley slaves, caught or purchased and pressed into service.

He walked past a couple of small merchant ships, and a Nevan military vessel before arriving at the berthing slip that his ship was docked to. As he approached the gangplank, he summoned his first mate, by shouting "Vannur!"

A muscular man with a shaved head and a prominent, angry-looking scar running the length of the left side of his pale, aged face appeared from astern. He was wearing a tunic, sandals and a set of braces much like Gracchus'. His gruff, gravelly voice, the product of a lifetime at sea called in response "Sir?"

"Ready the ship by morning, we leave at first light."

"Aye, sir."