XI.

• The most alarming thing about smoking the redleaf was its lack of affect.
• Jun had watched the Duke prance around the conservatory for hours, one moment laughing; the next screaming like a frightened child. Jun watched curiously, waiting for the poison to hit; but it never did, and that’s what frightened Jun the most. It made him question the other hallucination he had, the raining blood, the girl walking off a cliff.
• Hal.
• Yet everything remained rather quiet for a long time, days dragged on in a routine monotony; and for once he had tasks to focus on that were not murdering people. He learnt numbers he never knew existed, fractions, halves, and figures of equal confusion. He read his first book that wasn’t a direct regurgitation of history, and was surprised at his feelings after turning the last page. It made him reflect on his situation, ponder the workings of his mind and the process of his decisions. The more he thought, the more he hated himself for it; the more he thought, the more he couldn’t stop. An infinite scroll of fantasized dialog played in his head, leaked into his dreams, and even found their way from his lips. Arinold took note and offered to hire a scribe, but Jun refused.
• There was too much to be done, he couldn’t afford to waste him time in pages.
• The Harvesters were finding their niches rather well, yet Jun could tell they weren’t content with their new home. While they remained courteous of strangers, they took each word from the Duke like poison. Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice, but Jun couldn’t understand how. They did everything but hiss when he commanded them to do something heinous; perhaps the drugs had dulled the Duke’s observations.
• Yet Jun knew the truth, the Duke only concerned himself with those of equal Social strata. He didn’t care how the Harvesters felt in their new role. They had a role, and they played it. End of story. Jun took note of this oversight, not sure how it could work for him yet. A lord looks through his subjects, never at them, Vastillion had chimed after one interaction. You would be wise to do the same. Jun laughed, despite his better judgment. He didn’t trust the dried out Butler, and he knew his advice to be even more poisonous that his attitude.
• “If you treat those around you as your subjects, you’ll find them gone when you need them most. It’s important to treat ‘followers’ as an extension of yourself, to be compassionate and protect them like you would your own head.” The memory of Hal was a clear image in Jun’s mind. “So long as you are trustworthy, your companions will trust you.” Yet when I trusted you, you left me to die. Still, it was true. Hal had been trustworthy, and Jun had trusted him. If Arinold wanted to ignore his servants, it would only make turning them all the easier. The thought made him break into a nervous sweat.
• However, studying the manners and complexities of social etiquette in a highly developed society made him wish he could go back to killing. He learned never to take a lady’s left hand, as it was a sign of submission; a cardinal error in a patriarchal society like Solstice.
• Which was another reason he was extremely uncomfortable this night. Unlike Harvesthome, women didn’t have the same responsibilities as men here. They had their own past-times, hobbies, habits, and tendencies to be sure; yet it was rude for the Duke to explore those in detail. Apparently the topic of gossip was considered base, and since the Duke was above the call of the average dignitary he would not partake. Of course, this was hypocrisy at its finest: all Jun heard was gossip.
• But again, it was the details that told the difference. Men gossiped about men, and women gossiped about women; it wasn’t proper to have it any other way. Unless, of course, the woman or man was of a social strata four or more rungs below one’s self.
• You measure social strata? Jun had asked, and the Duke chided him.
• Everyone measures social strata, we’ve just labeled it.
• Sheeswae, servant, slave, peddler, barter, trader, merchant, noble, dignitary, lord, duke, lady, madam, widow, witch, wench, twist, pop, owner, seller, wheeler, tumbler, and on and on. The list was so extensive that Jun could never hope to learn them all; nonetheless place them in any sort of order. The only one he could remember was that slave was higher than servant, and he only remembered this one because it took him by surprise.
• “Because slavery is illegal in Solstice, my boy. Thus, in order to be a slave, one must have an undying dedication to his master. That dedication, though base, is more honorable than that of the servant; who is paid for their labor.” The duke explained over a goblet of Moonvine, “We’re not completely shallow, you know. We do commend people who are loyal.”
• By calling them slaves. Remind me to ask a slave how he feels about the social strata. And that’s when Jun would remember why he was doing this. The idea of placing oneself above another and using that self proclaimed power to keep the weak in line was exactly why Jun had started this journey. It had gotten away from him, but it was because of people like the Duke of Arinold that Jun realized the world was not the way it should be. He made the mistake of telling the Duke that once.
• “Everyone should be treated equal in strata.”
• “You silly boy, than who would do all the labor?!” The Duke laughed, inhaling from the Obelisk. Jun now had an idea where Harvesthome had fallen in the strata. Yet no matter what Jun did, he never gained new strata. To the Duke he remained a Ward; yet the benefits were outnumbered by the restrictions. His free time took the biggest hit, and the Duke rarely let Jun out of his sight. The only time he managed to be alone, was when he was sent on an errand to complete one of the Duke’s seemingly pointless tasks.
• Or like now: to visit a brothel.
• His palms were sweaty, so he wiped them on his pants. Why were his palms sweaty? He knew his way around a woman; a couple in fact. Yet something in his gut told him this was different. Jun calmed himself outside of the swinging doors, breathing in the cool autumn air. He had never seen a brothel before, despite having experience with wenches. Such frivolous sex was appalling to Jun, who was thoroughly a person who believed in the hunt for a woman’s heart.
• And by heart he meant her hips.
• And by hips…well the rest of her.
• “The best way for you to understand women, is to surround yourself in them. To delve into their rumors, listen to their tales, and drink from their knowledge.” That was how the Duke had put it, yet Jun was still uncertain. “With the Nienta Ball next week, I can’t have you making a mockery of me. I claimed you would be civilized, and I fear you will make me out to be a liar.” Jun smiled wickedly and the Duke laughed, exhaling smoke in a cough. “I’ll have you hung, don’t think I won’t.” Jun didn’t doubt it. “Just go, and have a chat with Madam Roseri. She’ll teach you everything you need to know about being proper around a lady. You can learn a lot from a whore.”
• Jun doubted he’d get much learning done tonight. He swallowed hard and stepped forward into the stale air; drenched with scents of oil and metal. The Flower-Bosom; how clever. Even the walls were painted red in bright large splashes, to create the affect of—
• No.
• It was blood. “SHIT!”
• Thwack.
• The smack across his face was enough to send him reeling, skidding across the blood soaked floor and into the bar. The pain wracked his head, his neck screamed hot murder; he struggled to his feet. His vision was starred. He saw the blur of blood dripping to the worn floorboard where he pushed himself up. Something stepped over him; he saw a gnarled black foot before he was thrown to the ground again by a slam across his back. His spine arched, for a moment Jun was afraid it was broken. He screamed out in pain this time, but found himself struggling to inhale. No! He raised his arms to his face, and blocked the strike with bare forearms. The blow knocked his arms into his face, and pushed him across the floor and into the wall. Jun was dazed, body broken in a matter of moments. He moaned in pain, his head spun, the smell of blood was making him sick.
• Something towered over him, big and bulbous, arms like studded black tree branches. For a moment Jun was sure it was the spirit of the Kingwood, returned from the flames to claim his life. But when the object moved away from him, his senses started to bleed back into reality. There was a voice, and muffled chuckling from somewhere in the room. His instinct screamed at him to get up, but all he could manage was to push up on an elbow. Despite the pain in his arm, he forced himself to one knee. The dark knot of a man slinked into the shadows and all but disappeared, yet Jun had already known it wasn’t his voice he had heard.
• Majore Jeleps.
• “Well Fuck me twice, and call me your mother!” The familiar voice was dull in Jun’s right ear, the one that bled. “Hoy, Hal! What a coincidence, seeing you in a brothel. Isn’t that something! Haw!” The big man stalked over to Jun, who had managed to spit the blood from his mouth. The room spun, but Majore came on no matter which orientation he was in. “You don’t strike me as the whoring type? What happened to your altruism? Weren’t you some defender of the misfortunate? ‘Bout time you defend yourself, Haw haw!” The man was dressed in a foreign garb, colorful clothe wrapped in a strange design; embroidered with baubles of likely unimaginable wealth that clinked softly. His jovial tone shifted, “Seems I mistook many things about you, Hal.”
• “You.” It was all Jun could manage.
• “Me! Ah, you got me. It is me. How astute. Haw. Oh Hal, poor Hal. You seem to have gotten in the way of Mr. Club! So sorry about that.” Majore gingerly poked at Jun’s head, searing pain through his skull. “Oh. That looks fatal.” The man’s breath smelt of booze and rotted flesh. Jun should have been scared, but too dazed to feel emotions.
• “What…why…” Jun tried, but his thoughts were as jumbled as his. His. His what? Majore looked concerned for a moment, as if he were hanging on Jun’s every word. “Why did you...”
• “Haw Haw. Why. That’s always the first question, and a good one because I can never seem to answer it easily. How’s this: I don’t like you, Hal. A kind hearted man like me tries to help out every now and again, and there’s always someone trying to fuck me. I don’t like getting fucked. Wait. Yes, I do! Haw haw!” The fat man grabbed Jun by the arm and stood him up.  Jun’s knees shook; how could he be in so much pain? His focus shifted to the shadows of the room, but the figure there was nothing more than a misshapen silhouette. “Questions? You’ve got a bunch I wager. Tell ye what, you give me some of that coin the Duke was planning on having you spend on…flowers…and I’ll answer some.” Jun looked from Majore to the shadow again.
• He was likely to end up dead, but he couldn’t give in. He remained silent.
• “Come now, old buddy! Give us a smile! You have such a dapper grin, all the ladies talk about you. Well, they don’t say much nice, but talk is talk! Better to be talked about than talked at, I always say.” The big man took a swig from a stained wineskin, smacking Jun on the shoulder. “And there’s been a lot of talk going around, a lot of talk about my buddy, Hal. And his buddies too. Aw, Hal boy. You don’t look so good, you should rest, neh?” Majore hefted a stool in one meaty hand and slid it to Hal, deftly. “After you, sir! Haw Haw.”
• “Why. Why did you kill these women?” The blood was sickening, there was so much.
• “Women? Now now, these aren’t women. Hasn’t the Duke taught you that yet? They’re below you, Hal. They’re just filler in our fat fuckin’ pastry of society. They aren’t even people, right? ‘Asides, I didn’t kill them; Mr. Club did! Hoy, Mr. Club!” The shadow didn’t respond to Majore’s playful wave. “Don’t be pretending you care about whores, you don’t even care about betraying your friends. After all, you stabbed me in the fuckin’ back.” Majore grabbed Jun by the collar and pulled him close. “You must be delirious Hal, come have a seat and I’ll fetch you something to eat.” Majore turned on his heel and disappeared through a swinging door, and Jun was left alone with his pain. Only the presence of the misshapen shadow kept Jun from collapsing. The silence was filled with the steady cadence of wheezing breath.
• Every instinct screamed at Jun to run, but he wouldn’t.
• If he ran, he was dead. Somehow he knew his best chance lay with his wit.
• The wit that was sprayed across the walls in thick splashes of blood.
• “You like bread, Hal? Got some back here.” Majore hollered, making a ruckus. “Smells like Autumn-grass! Just like home, neh?! Wonder how they raise the dough… Haw Haw. Ah! Cheese too! Odd food for a brothel… Got some fuzz on the corner block here. You mind some fuzz, Hal? Haw haw haw!” Majore re-entered with a large stained sack slumped over his shoulder and dumped it over the table. “Never mind all that though, found something special.  Just. For. you.” Majore smiled up at Jun, his grin wide and toothy. “Go ‘head. Heh. Open it.”
• Jun stared at the man, seething in hatred.
• Rage, it shook the dizziness. Vision clearing once again. The sack wasn’t stained, it was dripping with blood. Jun’s knees still shook, his stomach roiled; and in that short instant he knew more than anything else, there was nothing good to come from opening the bag. His palms sweated, yet it seemed to be an odd thing to notice in his current state.
• “Open it, or I kill you.” There was no humor in Majore’s voice. His smile gone.
• Despite the growing doubt of survival, Jun took solace in this turn of events. Majore was giving him time to figure a way out. Jun had to think quick, he had to act instinctually. He had to be willing to do anything to survive. So many people depended on him; so many lives waited for his success. And in that instant he wondered if he actually cared about what they thought of him at all. He wondered why he had even tried this hard; why he even got this far.
• He tugged on the string and upended the bag.
• It was a head, nearly unrecognizable. Nearly.
• The thick tangle of beard was blooded, the bald head was a patch of short black fuzz, and the massive square jaw was slack; when alive it had been solid as stone. He had fought with this man, schemed with him, made him promises he now knew he would never keep. And now that he held the skull between his blooded hands, he began to feel how strangely helpless his motives were becoming.
• Without Corin Mohanas he didn’t have a single follower that could pass as a real warrior.
• Without Corin, he had lost his last hope of passing on the weight of leadership to someone else.
• Jun had to carry this burden himself now. The revolution was his to see through.
• Now. When his hope had all but been splattered across the room.
• The neck was cut clean, but Jun judged that the hole punched through the head was the cause of death. From the recesses of his past the inner Justice crept up his spine; he studied the wound. This man had been executed from behind. Point blank. By a shooter.
• “Where’s Betheloo?”
• Majore Jeleps’ looked confused, a look so well rehearsed that Jun may have believed it if he didn’t already know the truth. Mohanas wouldn’t have died trying to kill anyone else. Mathius Betheloo had to be
• “Here.” A man slumped in a chair straightened slowly, arising from the apparent chaos like a corpse. His hunter-green cape was replaced by a blue half-cloak, embroidered with the white fist of Scigfried. He stood tall, thin, and poised like an exotic bird; one hand on a gleaming metal sword, and the other clasping a goblet. An image of elegance surrounded by sheer devastation, Mathius Betheloo strode over to Majore at an irritatingly casual pace. His young face held a lofty smirk; his light hair had grown long but was pinned with a metal clasp, and finely combed in appearance. He was strapping in stature, with a handsome angular jaw and piercing eyes. His noise was flatter than Jun had remembered, and slight discoloration around his eye confirmed Jun’s suspicions.
• Corin had come close.
• Other than that, the man was remarkably unchanged by time. “Here I am, Hal. The real Prime Justice of Harvesthome.” He held his hands to his sides and gave a slight bow. Jun grit his teeth, the taste of blood was driving him feral. “So good to see you, again. Alive, and such.”
• “Ah yes! Strange thing that. Seems to be that Mathius here remembers you dying a couple years back.” Majore smirked as well, clapping the younger man on the back. “What a misunderstanding! Haw!” Jun placed the head on the counter, pivoting it toward Mathius; his rage kept his face in check, but inside he was eager for blood. “Don’t like my gift? I figured a Justice would appreciate the head of a Woodsman, especially from one as—”
• “Shut up.”
• The tension changed, Jun watched the smiles disappear. The figure in the shadows stirred, but remained in place. The pretense was dropping, like the end of a painfully long epoch; Jun felt the conclusion drawing near. “You knew I was coming, how.”
• “You’re in no place to make demands, Sheeswae!” Mathius spit. Majore just laughed.
• “You know how.” He knocked back his wine-skin, red liquid dribbled down his black bearded chins. Mathius pointedly ignored the severed head. Jun stared the Justice directly in the eyes; the glare was hot enough to start a fire. “Now ask a real question. And don’t pander me; I’m not a patient man today.” The silence that followed was only disrupted by the labored breathing of the monster in the corner.
• “I have no questions.” Majore glanced back at Mathius and smiled. The Justice didn’t.
• “None? That’s hard to believe. Certainly you must be—”
• “You waste time. You knew I was coming, laid the trap, and caught me unaware. Now you waste my time with idle banter; and I assure you, I’m not interested. Of course I assume you will tell me what you need of me, since you would have killed me otherwise.” Jun turned to Betheloo and continued. “You as well. Something is in it for you, and if it were to make me squirm: you’ll be disappointed. I’m not interested in your intentions, I don’t care about the lives of the whores you killed, and I am certainly not going to beg.” He clenched his fists, despite the shooting pain in his forearms. “Don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste yours.” The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Mathius was not pleased.
• Majore burst out laughing.
• “What a shit! I like this guy! You don’t like this guy?! I like this guy! Haw Haw, what a bite on this one.” The big man took a swig of his wineskin and then tossed it to the side. “Can’t say I’m surprised. This is the Hal I remember; angry, passionate, and furious at the injustice of the world. Bwah! The Dukey will change that though, turn you into a soggy wafer soon enough.”
• “I have a question for you then,” Mathius but in, “though I’m sure it’s a sore topic, I expect a straight answer. Weren’t you dead?” When Jun didn’t reply, Mathius smiled. “I remember the day, quite a disaster. My father, Creator rest his soul, wanted to send a search party for you. Took a bit of convincing from my end to put a stop to that foolishness; even after Hal assured us all that there were no survivors.” Jun felt his face flush, but he kept his mouth shut. “Yet, here you are. Strange. Did you actually manage to live among the savages, or did they treat you like the tribes in the Grand Plateau treat their slaves?”
• “Right, your name isn’t Hal after all is it? Jun, right? Jun Harver.”
• “Harver Jun. He’s not of pure Harvesthome birth, everyone knew that.” Majore looked confused, and since Mathius seemed to love the sound of his own voice he continued. “In Harvesthome, the surname only follows the individual name if you are of pure descent. A pureblooded Harvester, or a foreigner with pure heritage. A man of impure descent cannot find his way to eternal rest after death, or some rubbish like that. Most Harvesters didn’t care which name came first, but the foreigners most often did.” A wicked smile splayed across his handsome face, “your mother was a whore right? No wait! I remember now, your father was a Plateau slave.” The man gave an airy laugh, but Jun didn’t fall for the bait. Majore just shook his head.
• “Harver Jun, Jun Harver, HarJunVerJun, I don’t give a shat. Whoever, then. What’s important is that you are quite popular among the Harvesters you know. Had to break a few fingers to find out the truth, but it eventually lead me to Betheloo here. Turns out we’d both been down on our luck! Haw, what with the Woodsmen massacring all those Justices, and the Harvest not being ready for my caravan. Turns out that we both needed something, and after a few cups we became fast friends.”
• “Despite the odds.” Mathius added.
• “A man has an image to obtain! People expect less from a glutton; makes it easier for me to twist the knife in their back.” The two laughed like lifelong chums, Jun just grimaced at the sight of them; the most disgusting of companions. “So I interrogate a few Harvesters, they lead me to the real Prime Justice, and imagine my surprise when he tells me of a revolt.” Majore froze, waiting for a response, but Jun wouldn’t give it. “Seems you were less discreet than you had hoped.”
• “Which brings me to my next question,” Mathius picked up, “what could you possibly hope to accomplish? Massacre the Justices?! We were the protectors of Harvesthome! We saved the people from your barbarians for years! Generations! You used to be a Justice, Harver. Now you’re nothing more than an animal, rabid in blood-lust; blaming the problems of the world on those more fortunate than you.”
• “Haw Haw. What a touching reunion, but let’s not stir the shit-stew yet, neh? The night is young, and no one’s in a rush if I don’t say they are in a rush, and no one is in a rush.” The man laughed hard, his breath reeked of ale.
• “Your little revolution is over, Harver. Whatever it was you were trying to accomplish will die in Solstice. This place isn’t like Harvesthome, which won’t be around much longer either.” The smug look on Betheloo’s face was enough to turn Jun’s stomach. “Once Scigfried hears of rebellion… let’s just say the Blood Harvest will seem like a gift by compare. Better to root the weed, than prune the thorns.” Jun glanced to Majore, who seemed to be growing more impatient. They were working together, but they had different goals; that much was clear. Jun knew the key lay in their intensions.
• “No armies,” Majore growled, and Betheloo sighed.
• “We can’t always get what we want, Jeleps.”
• “No. We can’t.” The tension was spread, but Betheloo folded eventually.
• “There’s no need. The Regional Grand Judge will return from the savage Grand Plateau, and the Queenwood only goes so deep.” Mathius chuckled, but Jun felt an icy realization. Could it be? They didn’t know about Manala and her numbers. They didn’t even seem to know the Woodsmen were Gatherers from generations past. There was a kernel of hope, and Jun could cling to that. Now Jun just had to pray and hope Hyatt Mejini could pull through.
• At that moment Ghielrout seemed like a pathetic weapon to have given him.
• But what choice did he have?
• “So where were we? Ah! Yes! The good part!” Majore pulled up two stools and sat in one. He placed his elbows on the bar and stared into Jun’s eyes like an anxious child. “I truly am sorry about Mr. Club. He doesn’t know his own strength, on account that he’s not really human and all.” Jun glanced over to the shadow, but it was gone. His hair stood on end; he hadn’t even heard the thing move. “Don’t worry,” Majore smiles “He’ll be back.”
• “Thank the Creator.” Mathius refused to sit, fingering his shooter all the while staring at Jun like a curious animal. Let my existence eat away at him, Jun thought. “Your life is forfeit, Harver. Your death has been foreseen, you see…” Mathius withdrew his shooter “…I have a crystal ball, and it’s called Clockstern.” The silver metal gleamed in the dusky candle light of the brothel. Majore placed a meaty hand on Betheloo’s forearm and lowered the shooter.
• “Enough of that.”
• “His life belongs to me.”
• “And everything you own, belongs to me. Don’t forget that.” Mathius huffed again, sheathing the small silver weapon. “And the same goes for you, boy.” Jeleps glared deep into  Jun’s eyes; the intensity left no room for argument. “Your life is in mine, by law and right.” Jun couldn’t hold back anymore, his rage was starting to slip. “You take my charity, swear me service of protection, fail to provide me that service, then assume the role of my largest competitor’s Ward? That’s a bastard’s treachery.
• “You strike a deal, get your people shelter; and for what?” There was a long pause. Something in Jun’s mind became clear; his last chance flashing before him. “What was it you had to offer the Duke that he didn’t already have? He shits blessings, hands them out with the same hands he uses to wipe that wrinkled ass of his. He certainly doesn’t need your protection; never leaves his damn estate. So what was it?” Jun stared into the man’s eyes, waiting. Reaching. “Well?”
• “I thought you were going to tell me.”
• Mathius raised a hand to strike but Majore just laughed. “You’re right! I am! You told him about me! You told him about my caravans, told him about the arrangement I had with the guards at the Knife. Don’t know how you knew that, but it’s the only thing he would take from a piss poor society slave of a Harvester.” He stood in a rush, pulling Jun close. “That’s when you joined my game. It’s a game I’ve been winning for years now, and I call it Solstice.
• “By right, you forfeited your life, your free will to me. You joined the game of politics and lost. Mr. Club is the most persuasive of a politician is he not? You’ve given Arinold the information he needed to stop my trade. MY TRADE IS MY RIGHT! MY FUCKING RIGHT! YOU CAN’T TAKE IT FROM ME!” Jeleps was shaking Jun now, the rage exploding across his fat face. Jun lifted his leg, reaching just a bit further. “You harvest the grain, I get the grain, I trade the grain, and I GET THE STATUS. I GET THE BENEFITS! Where do the Harvesters come into this equation?! Where are your feelings in this?!” Mathius stood, uncertain. “You owe me more than some Chalices, you owe me a Harvest, you owe me a title. You owe me renown. You owe me my fortune.
• “And I plan to collect.”
• Then Jun had the knife in his hands, and in a flash the blade was at the fatty ripples of the man’s throat.
• C-Click.
• The clean silver gears snapped into place; a simple flinch and Betheloo’s shooter would blast Jun’s head to fleshy bits. The barrel rubbed against the blood stained hair matted to the side of his head. In half a heartbeat the tone had changed, how he had managed to draw the knife from his boot was miraculous. Instinctual.
• It wasn’t going to save his life, but it would let him be heard.
• “Put it down.” Mathius growled.
• “I have nothing left to live for. You’ve ruined my revolt, killed my companions, and plan to sow salt in the fields of my future. Why the fuck should I not cut the fat? Surely you don’t want this squealing pig to live.” Only then did Majore Jeleps seem to notice the knife drawn on him. His eyes grew wide. “I should just kill him now, It would solve all of our problems.”
• “No. It won’t. Put the knife down, and I’ll consider letting you live.”
• “Not very good odds.”
• “I could kill you right now.”
• “Then do it.” The pause was so long Jun was certain he was frozen in time. The stillness was broken by Majore swallowing hard. “Then tell me what you want, and what I can get from it.”
• “Heh, He’s making demands Majore. You still like this guy?”
• “What can I say? He’s got balls.” Majore offered weakly, fear shining clearly beyond his forced humor. “Forgive me, we’re friends right? That’s what friends do. Forgive each other. Tell you what, we’ll make a deal.”
• “No. No deals. Tell me what you want, what you are planning. And I’ll decide if it’s worth sparing you.” Jun was done playing games, he considered killing the fat man before he had a chance to speak. He could jam the knife, he was quick enough. Betheloo would kill him for sure, but he could manage this last strike.
• Jun wondered if Corin had to make a choice like this.
• “You know what I want, Jun. I want Solstice.” The fear disappeared for a moment, and lust filled his eyes. “I want to be Solstice. Come now, it’s simple. I am the king of Merchants, but what I lack is what you have a fortunate amount of access to suddenly.”
• “Status.” Suddenly understanding hit Jun’s skull like Mr. Club’s club. “If you want lessons in social strata, just take the class.”
• “I’d rather rewrite the book.” Jeleps gave his greedy, toothy grin. “Or, I should say, I want you to help me rewrite it. You were right, Jun. I do need you. Ever play Daelgroban? Ever piece is vital, even the seemingly most insignificant. You are in a spot I could never dream to be, you have the influence the information and connections that I could never hope to have!
• “With you on my side, I would know all of the Duke’s secrets. Then he won’t be so special. His Social strata will become commonplace, and my masterful trade will give me the funds to far surpass his archaic design. I will become the new Duke, the Grand Duke.”
• “That title was my idea.” Mathius added proudly.
• “And what do you get?” Jun shot. Mathius readied a retort but read the look on Majore’s face. There was a moment where Jun wasn’t sure he was going to get an answer; but yet again the Justice folded.
• “I get to become Regional Grand Judge of Solstice…”
• “Appointed by me.”
• “…Bolstered in status by a great armed force...”
• “No armies.”
• “…I will restore my families tainted name, by becoming a legend. The first Regional Grand Judge Betheloo; an honor like no other.” Mathius smirked knowingly, “Then I take my army, which I will have; and smash the Woodsmen once and for all.”
• “And I reclaim Harvesthome.”
• “And the cycle continues.” Jun finished. It all made sense: revenge, wealth, status, renown. They were gorging on the more delicious of luxuries; the darkest and basest of man’s true needs. “With Harvesthome and Solstice, you would become much more than just a Duke. You would rule the trade route, you would feed the region.”
• “All of Olmeer would count of me.” Majore’s eyes were shining; focused on some far away vision of status. But Jun was watching Mathius, and noticed the concern in the man’s furrowed brow. The Justice hadn’t considered this.
• And suddenly Jun had found his key. The fault in which he could drive the wedge, and crack this duo in two. The events flew before him like a vision, and he could almost taste them occurring before him. He clipped the events here and there, whittled them like a carver until they fit his grand design. At the end of it all, Jun understood just how fine of a line he would have to walk. Just how difficult it would become to play out these events.
• But the Kernel of hope grew; and from the smallest seed even a mighty tree can grow.
• Jun lowered the knife. A smile stretching across his face.
• “I’ll do what you need of me. I only require one thing.” The words hung in the stale air of the bloodstained brothel. The scent had grown on him, he found himself breathing it in deep.
• “What?”
• “I need you to help me find someone.”