<strong>Nellens Daga</strong><br/><br/>“Nellens Daga. Such a surprise to find you here.”<br/><br/>The creaking of armor and the thump of heavy boots had preceded the speaker's low, rusty drawl. Sesus Tepin Arisu settled herself in the chair opposite the magistrate. She was a monster of a woman, the most infamous of General Shuri's subcommanders – her broad frame multiplied by the enormous, ancient, jade armor she wore. Crimson light glinted from its pitted and scarred surfaces.<br/><br/>“Didn't know the Treasury paid for Magistrates' little pleasure jaunts. Well while you're here, you might as well try the good stuff.”<br/><br/>The bottle she set onto the table bore the seal of the Prince of the High Lands. “Rice wine. The best they make in An-Teng.” She gave a feral grin. “His Excellency's patriotic<em>contribution</em>to the well-being of the Legion.”<br/><br/>A Tengese servant, as light on his feet as a ghost, dressed in subdued shades of blue, appeared behind Tepin Arisu's elbow with a pair of crystalline glass flutes.<br/><br/>“The General likes you,” the officer revealed, as the waiter opened the bottle and poured them each a glass. The rice wine was a pale golden color, with a delicate, clean fragrance. “He thinks you're here to help preserve the law. Just like him.”<br/><br/>Tepin Arisu picked up her glass. “There's going to be an execution next month. Whole pack of local rats caught trying to smuggle opium to market without paying the proper taxes. General would like it if you'd do us the honor of reading out the sentences at the ceremony – adds an extra layer of legitimacy, all branches of Imperial justice moving together like that.” Her eyes glinted darkly. “And it seems to me you could do with some new friends, given how your partner buggered off back to the Realm.”<br/><br/>–<br/><strong>Kochaku Ryuken</strong><br/><br/>Silks rustled and conversation stilled as Kochako Ryuken entered the room. Three Tengese were already present, arrayed around the table, steam wafting from the teapot – untouched – before them, and four more stood at the far end of the room, their dress and obsequious expressions labeling them as flunkies. No – two Tengese sat at the table, one elderly, one much younger, and a woman who dressed Tengese, looked Tengese, but whose body language marked her as a breed apart from her unctuous countrymen.<br/>The elderly Tengese stood with difficulty, aided by the younger. The woman uncoiled like a snake rising to strike.<br/>“Your presence honors us, Prince of the Earth,” he rasped, clasping his hands and giving a bow. His peons in the back copied it in unison. He was the one who'd sent Ryuken the invitation to tea – a wealthy Tengese merchant widely known as Old Man Gold. True to his name, he'd built a staggering fortune first in the fishing business, then in jewelry.<br/><br/>“Our gratitude for your august company is indescribable,” Old Man Gold continued, stroking his long white beard – Tengese etiquette called for endless flattery, bowing and scraping, particularly when greeting one's betters, and centuries of Imperial colonization had drilled home the lesson of Dragon-Blooded superiority. “May we pray for the privilege of sharing this tea with you? I am proud to say the<em>Shining Light</em>has returned to harbor safely, surely as you foresaw, its holds full of jade and silver from Port Rawar. Though Imperial officers suspected its captain of lawlessness, your imprimatur upon the ship's charter convinced them of his humble obedience toward the Princes of the Earth and the law they uphold, and so the ship docked without issue.”<br/>The flunkies brought forward small teak chests and opened them, each filled with jade and silver coins of varying age and provenance, the true value of which would take any counting-man a while to calculate.<br/><br/>“It is my humble hope we may today put ourselves again at your service, and let your wisdom guide us again in choosing how to order our affairs of commerce.”<br/><br/>–<br/><strong>Crimson Dove</strong><br/><br/>The great artists of the Realm believe that one's brushwork reveals the soul, that the slash of a stroke, its width and curl, could demonstrate the painter's intelligence, kindness, temper. Ledaal Sulir's short, broad strokes, his choice of warm colors, the way he layered stroke upon stroke, giving his paintings a thickness, almost a third dimension, would give these masters entirely the wrong impression.<br/><br/>The sorceror, in truth, was as gelid as the Direction his Dragon ruled, an incongruous shard of ice planted in An-Teng's steamy jungle. He served as the left hand of his distant cousin, General Shuri, in whose Legion he had risen to the rank of Winglord by virtue of his occult knowledge and logistical talent, and that rank had brought with it tremendous wealth, particularly as the Legion continued its brutal exploitation of the locals. This was the fourth night in as many months that he had purchased Crimson Dove's services.<br/><br/>The legendary courtesan hung suspended from the ceiling, her limbs and breasts bound, silk ropes entwined prettily over her immaculate skin. Her ankles had been pulled up and over her face, each wrist tied to its opposite ankle; she was displayed in a manner both intimate and obscene.<br/><br/>The sorceror took a critical look at his handiwork, walking in circles around her until, grudgingly, he was satisfied. He stepped over to the windows and pulled the curtains open, sunlight streaming onto the tableau.<br/><br/>The wooden feet of the easel clicked against the floor, followed by the rustle of an unfurling silk sheet, and Sulir began to paint again.<br/><br/>“You are bored of these sessions,” Sulir stated, his tone mildly accusatory, after the sun had moved half a mark in the sky and Dove's limbs had begun to ache. “You wish I would do to you as your other clients do.” The speed of his brushstrokes did not falter as he spoke.