Lord-Captain Aerion Ilyleon
The white marble staircase leading to the main entrance of the viceroy's palace, over which fluttered the white banner of the King-Admiral with a crookedly painted violet-orange basilisk resembling a multi-legged dog, consisted of forty-four wide and smooth steps, first hewn in distant quarries in the depths of Essos, then dragged to the Rhoyne, and from there delivered by sea to Lys, where they were processed and installed by the calloused hands of hardworking slaves. For many years, adding up to decades and centuries, these hands swept and scrubbed these steps, carried first Valyrian eyks and jaelas, then local magisters, then the Volantene viceroy and his guests up them in luxurious palanquins.
Now the descendants of those very slaves or their successors stood two by two on each side of the wide passage, and near them on their knees, ragged and beaten, with motley swords, sabers, daggers, and even arakhs at their necks stood their former masters and traders in living goods of Lys. Not all, of course—they didn't manage to catch everyone, but Ryndoon, intending to settle old scores with slave owners, did not want to wait until a hundred was reached, since twice forty-four is also quite a beautiful number.
"Are we just going to stand and watch this?" Lohar asked Aerion in an undertone.
"So sorry for the slavers?"
"Every free man cherishes the dream of buying a slave," the Lysene sighed, probably wishing for quite specific slaves for quite specific purposes. "I counted on returning freedom to Lys, and a good name to myself, buying a palace, people, and here..."
And here happened Racallio Ryndoon, by the grace of the sea and all its gods King of Lys and the Basilisk Isles, nicknamed Breaker of Shackles by grateful freed slaves and the poor of Lys. Consistent in his hatred of slavery in all its manifestations and uncompromising in the fight against it, Ryndoon by his "royal decree" not only granted freedom to thralls but also outlawed their former masters and sellers. Anyone holding a person against their will was convicted in absentia of slavery and sentenced to deprivation of property and death.
Aerion was about to answer something ironic that Sharako could still fulfill his dream if he was not afraid of the consequences, but then drums boomed, and the heavy doors of the palace, on the leaves of which pearlescent dancers danced with opal cats surrounded by emerald greenery and azure waves, swung open. Trumpets howled briefly in a naval manner and drums boomed, heralding the appearance of the new ruler of Lys.
Racallio Ryndoon was invariably cordial and smiling, but still just as tasteless. On his oiled violet hair lay a golden wretchedness which Ryndoon called a "crown": above the lush trim of spotted fur, large pearls crowning golden teeth shone, and above all this, a lush plumage of multicolored feathers of Summer Islander birds swayed in time with his steps. The place of the royal mantle was occupied by some endless cut of bright orange silk, under which flashed sailor boots, a sweaty shirt, and rough trousers. Had the mantle been wrapped around the Admiral tighter, he could have been mistaken for a loose Ghiscari tokar, but Racallio did not bother to either wrap himself or tie it, and dragged it on one shoulder and the bends of his elbows, and the long hem, already considerably dirty, dragged behind him on the ground, sweeping dust. But even looking like a mummer and a parrot, the self-proclaimed king did not forget to gird himself with two swords.
Ryndoon passed his lord-captains lined up by the stairs: Aerion, Zhao, and Lohar on one side, Maltak Narrow, the Pentoshi Gilo Bareris, and the fugitive Braavosi Mero Titan on the other. The narrow-shouldered Summer Islander devoured the Admiral with the gaze of a faithful dog, the old YiTish looked straight and firm. Aerion looked the same, but meeting Racallio's eyes, nodded briefly, almost imperceptibly, as a sign of greeting. The Admiral, who always paid attention to such trifles, smirked and responded in kind. There should be no doubts about loyalty now.
The King-Admiral stepped forward, standing on the very edge of the top step of the staircase glittering in the sun. Surveying it and the former slaves and former masters standing on it with a long gaze, he addressed the crowd gathered at its foot:
"Citizens of Free Lys!" Racallio spoke Lysene as fluently as Tyroshi. "Today we put to the sword those who for many years..."
Old Zhao swayed and as if by accident touched Aerion with his shoulder. Ilyleon, accepting the invitation, slightly tilted his head, indicating readiness to listen.
"Priest," the old YiTish said succinctly, referring to Ryndoon selflessly broadcasting about freedom without oppression and a bright tomorrow starting today.
"Prophet," Aerion corrected him.
"I hope your father-in-law managed to hide well."
Zhao and Lohar were privy to the course of negotiations with Rogare, but without any long-term plans and prospects. Trust was built on frankness, the boundaries of which, however, were determined under the influence of necessity. Sharako, dreaming not only of palaces and slaves but also of the title of magister with a merchant fleet, as well as Zhao who had decided to retire, had no need to know about Aerion's plans to return to Westeros.
"Oh, don't worry, Lysandro hid better than the rest. Right behind my back."
Zhao, spitting on his own rules of caution, frowned in bewilderment and looked first straight into his face, then behind his back. The narrow-eyed shorty had many virtues, but he never succeeded in understanding verbal lace and shades of irony, especially in a foreign language.
"Like deceiving a child," Sharako couldn't stand it. The YiTish bristled, intending to answer, but Aerion had only to cast a warning glance at them, and both shut up. No need to attract unnecessary attention to themselves.
"...Henceforth there will be neither slave, nor slave owner, nor slave trader," Racallio broadcasted. "Anyone who encroaches on the freedom of another person will face only one thing: death!"
With these words, he snatched one of the curved swords from the scabbard, managing not to throw off his intricate shroud, and the sun flashed on the blade. The Admiral waved it, giving a sign to the freedmen. If the sentenced slave traders managed to make any sounds while their throats were cut and heads sawed off, they drowned in the satisfied roar of the crowd of enraged rabble sensing the blood of their oppressors. Scarlet hot blood flowed down the white heated steps, and the lower, the more of it gathered; soon heads flew into the crowd through red puddles, where they were met with joyful, carnivorous hooting, people began to beat them, tear them, play with them, defecate on them...
"Do you think someone will fuck a head?" Lohar asked curiously, and this time Zhao and Aerion looked at him with equal bewilderment. "Well, as humiliation."
"You always want to fuck someone," the YiTish grimaced, and moved away squeamishly just in case.
"Of course I want to," Sharako nodded. "My cock still stands, unlike yours. But I prefer heads alive and with bodies..."
"Silence," Ilyleon ordered him. Lohar flashed his eyes offendedly but hastened to shut up.
Aerion shifted his gaze to the triumphant Racallio basking in the rays of popular love. The Admiral's views on power and society represented a strange, like himself, cross between the Braavosi striving for freedom, the unity of command characteristic of Andals, and the truly Essosi love for luxury and pleasures, just as Essosi-tasteless. The lord-captains considered this a whim but kept their opinion on slavery to themselves, as Lohar did, bowing before another's luck, strength, and unpredictability—those who openly objected to the liberation of thralls risked not returning from another campaign because Ryndoon sent them into the very hell or dealt with them himself.
Now he decided to deal with persistent slave owners not only because of his views but also for quite prosaic reasons: under the pretext of executions, he intended to lay his hand on the riches and houses accumulated by his victims. On the one hand, this was a reasonable move: the army needed quarters on land, and gold would go to pay rewards and gifts to the distinguished to reinforce their loyalty.
However, Racallio Ryndoon would not be Racallio Ryndoon if he stopped only at this. Having received the opportunity to deal with slavery at least within one Free City, he decided to go to the end in this, and together with slave traders put the largest slave owners—magisters—to the sword. And this too, in principle, could play into Ryndoon's hands had he figured out to play this move smartly: he should have executed some, supported others, set parties against each other, destroy any opposition to his power on the island by proxy. Instead, the crazy idiot sentenced absolutely all magisters indiscriminately to death and confiscation without any trial to the joyful cries of the jubilant crowd.
Ryndoon believed he acted simply and brilliantly, but only children are made simply. The destruction of the entire magisterial class coupled with other decisions of the King-Admiral threatened the Most Beautiful of Daughters with complete annihilation: within a couple of months, Lys would turn into a large semblance of Barter Beach on the Basilisk Isles, without any semblance of central authority. No one would tolerate pirate freemen so close to themselves: Volantis and the Targaryens, having dealt with each other, would burn the city from edge to edge, and on this the history of the Free City would end completely, and with it the lives of all those who remained in it. Ryndoon had to be stopped before he killed all those whom he wanted to benefit so much.
Turning to his faithful confidants, the King-Admiral inquired:
"Well, how is it?"
"A magnificent spectacle, Your Grace!" the black-skinned Maltak hastened to fawn.
"Only incomplete," Ryndoon shook his head. "Here are all small fry, and the 'whales' have gone deep... Where are they, Aerion?"
"My people are looking for them. The magisters managed to crawl into their holes, but we will get them," Ilyleon answered evenly. Looking for them, of course, but looking for Lysandro to talk them into playing a little game.
"Have them here by sunset."
"Yes, my Admiral."
Not caring in the least how it looked from the side, the self-proclaimed king threw back his head so that his idiotic crown, lacking only bells, slid to the back of his head. Chewing a painted mustache, Ryndoon uttered:
"Hot, friends. Need to wet the throat."
"Yes, Your Grace!" Maltak nodded.
Accompanied by lord-captains, the Admiral proceeded back to the doors shimmering with bright colors in the sun. YiTish sailors from one of Zhao's ships, just as short and yellow as himself, puffing diligently, closed the heavy leaves behind their commanders, cutting off the blood-drunk street from the relative peace of the palace.
Here and there traces of the assault were encountered: broken statues and vases, torn and knocked down carpets and curtains, brown spots that they hadn't had time to wash off were still visible here and there. Had someone else taken the palace, not Aerion with his people, it would hardly have remained intact—it would at least have been looted and fouled to the state of a low-grade brothel, but more likely it would simply have been burned in the end.
This circumstance allowed Ilyleon to leave his garrison in the palace, essentially capturing it not for Ryndoon, but for himself. Of course, Racallio came with his people who had to be let inside, and Aerion perceived this as a foolish whim akin to breeding pigs in personal baths, however, for the success of the plan, it was necessary to express humility and deference. The King-Admiral has nothing to fear in a palace guarded by the people of the best of his lord-captains, and his compatriot at that—Tyroshi do not betray each other.
They walked along the corridors of the palace. Ryndoon's own watchdogs marched in front and behind the lord-captains, and he himself was babbling about something with Maltak, who apparently desperately wanted to climb to the top and, by kissing the Admiral's ass in everything, tried to become a favorite, pushing aside everyone else. Ilyleon heard Zhao grinding his teeth, boring into the narrow back of the Summer Islander clad in a cloak of bird feathers—he too had seen through another's plan and danger tasted bitter on his tongue too. Even if Maltak were not such an indiscriminate and worthless commander, he would have to be eliminated; one can still negotiate with ambitious ones, but there is nothing to negotiate about with those so stupid they cannot think beyond the end of their own cock.
Aerion followed Ryndoon and his new confidant with Zhao and Sharako, behind them Gilo Bareris and Mero Titan walked, joking about fucked whores and appropriated riches. Both barely tolerated each other, so they tried to demonstrate that each was more skillful and reckless than the other. Simple boasting, envy of a rival degenerated in them quite into striving for small things: neither of them claimed either Ryndoon's place or, unlike Maltak, Aerion's own place, striving only to outdo the sworn friend in "feats." They also had to be disposed of—narrow-minded enviers, and mediocre performers at that, Ilyleon did not need.
At the doors to the Turquoise Hall, where the Volantene viceroy of Lys ended his life just four days ago, stood Mollono frozen by the wall, who had taken on the duties of the palace steward. Aerion caught his gaze and the Meereenese nodded barely noticeably—so, everything is ready, only their people are in the chambers adjacent to the hall.
In the hall itself, a long table awaited them, bursting with fruit, meat, and wine. Approaching it, Ryndoon flopped into the first available armchair and, pulling off the fluffy-feathered wretchedness, carelessly threw it on the table. Picking up the first available goblet, he drank generously from it, threw his legs on the table, and with a generous gesture waved his hand around it, inviting the captains to sit. Maltak immediately settled nearby, Gilo and Mero sat on the edge.
"What will you do next, my Admiral?" Lohar asked the question following the agreed plan. Sitting on the table itself, he began lazily, as if from nothing to do, poking a picked-up knife into a cut melon.
"As soon as Ilyleon drags in the magisters—hang them on the yardarms," Racallio answered without hesitation.
"Sailors are hanged on yardarms," Zhao reminded gloomily.
"Well, then we'll drown them," Ryndoon shrugged. "Sew them in sacks and drown them. Maybe sew them together with snakes, or dogs, or scorpions... with some nastiness, in short. We'll decide on the spot, just let the magisters be here."
"They will be," Aerion promised.
"Could have looked yourself," Maltak taunted him.
"Not for you to tell him what to do," the King-Admiral besieged the Summer Islander. "Ilyleon will handle it himself. Will he not?"
Aerion nodded in agreement and calmly walked around Racallio's armchair as if intending to take the place at his right hand—this had already become his natural right, which no one encroached upon and no one objected to. However, instead of sitting in the armchair, the Lord-Captain, finding himself behind Ryndoon's back, quickly pulled a twisted cord tied around his wrist from his sleeve and threw the garrote around the Admiral's neck.
In the next instant, Maltak, who managed to cry out in amazement and began to rise from his armchair, collapsed back into it—a knife with which Sharako was playing with the melon stuck out of his eye socket. Zhao, who had not chosen a place, drew his straight YiTish blade from the scabbard, and despite his years, attacked the uncomprehending Gilo and Mero quite briskly, and Lohar rushed to his aid. While the King-Admiral's guard figured out why the lord-captains attacked each other, Aerion's people led by Mollono attacked them themselves with shouts.
Aerion noted all this unconsciously, instinctively, with some peripheral vision, since his main attention was absorbed by Racallio Ryndoon, desperately unwilling to die. The Admiral overturned the armchair onto the strangler, and both fell to the floor, but Ilyleon did not loosen his grip, despite the fact that the accursed undersized throne knocked the air out of his chest. At all costs, Ryndoon could not be allowed to rise, otherwise he would draw a sword, and Aerion did not want a duel.
The Admiral rolled out of the defeated armchair, kicking like a horse lassoed for the first time, and a whole hail of kicks and blows fell on the Lord-Captain. Ryndoon desperately tore at the garrote with his hands, but scratched his neck more and more; the orange royal cloak tearing apart crackled mercilessly. At some moment it entangled Racallio's legs, and he, trying to wriggle out, got distracted from the cord—this became his fatal mistake.
Aerion took advantage of this, wrapped his legs around the Admiral's body and briskly turned them over, grappling together. Finding himself on top, he sharply tightened the ends of the garrote, simultaneously pressing the Admiral to the floor with all his weight. Wheezing was heard from below, Ryndoon bucked, began to flutter again, but the turning point had already occurred. With every heartbeat he resisted more and more sluggishly until he quieted down completely, but even then Ilyleon did not loosen his grip yet, squeezing any pretense and any trick out of the defeated opponent.
Finally, after several long moments, he released the cord, but only to pull the blade from his belt and, pulling Racallio by the disheveled violet braid, slash his throat. Life taught Ilyleon that no double-check is superfluous, and an enemy cannot be too dead.
Not wanting to get dirty in someone else's blood, he rose from the corpse and grimaced. Still, Ryndoon beat him up considerably while fighting—strength was the one thing he couldn't be denied.
"And in the name of what boar did you mess with him so long?" heavily breathing Zhao asked him. He and Lohar managed to deal with Gilo and Mero during this time, and now the YiTish wiped his blade on the latter's beard, and Lohar anxiously tried to examine his face in a polished dish, which, apparently, had been hit. Mollono with his people also managed to finish off Ryndoon's guard.
"There are things that should not be entrusted to others," Ilyleon answered hollowly and against his will shifted his gaze from his accomplices to the Admiral. He was still just as dead, and Aerion threw the cord that had already done its job to him.
Of course, one could not be clever and risk, but simply poison Ryndoon during this drinking bout or send someone to stab him in the privy, but that would be too simple and artless. He preferred to kill significant enemies, those who managed to cross his path, personally. This was not even a problem of distrust of a random performer in an important matter, and not a question of respect for a strong opponent, which Andal knightly ballads loved to emphasize so much—Aerion quite trusted proven people like Mollono, and considered the snotty romanticism of Westerosi stupidity and nonsense. Kill yourself or be killed—Ilyleon made his choice long ago, and he found special value in literally following this rule. In the end, everyone should have certain principles, even those who do not and cannot have them.
Aerion smiled at Ryndoon lying face down in a puddle of flowing blood like an old buddy (actually, he was such) and absolutely seriously wished him:
"Bright Hell (Peklo) to you, Admiral. Don't freeze."
After that, he turned sharply on his heels and moved toward the exit of the hall. A whole abyss of affairs still had to be done before negotiations with the Targaryens.
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