Dorman Vander, Sea Merchant's page

"I don't mind escorting Arando for you sir. But I do have a few questions I guess. First, you said there were three reasons that Lars would be back after us but I only caught two of them?

Dorman smiles. "You've paid attention; excellent.

"Freely do I admit, I dislike the trade in Qat. It is a tepid vice, to be sure, dulling the senses of those foolish enough to fall for its allure, but its effects add up, addict after addict, day after day, and weaken this city. There's not much we can do to halt itsthe trade: the bed of rushes that South Cheliacian traders use to cushion their shipped wares strongly resembles raw Qat, and serves as a disguise for the drug."

The merchant pauses and smiles wider. "Of course, nobody tries to chew the actual packing herbs; they're mildly poisonous. Although they resemble Qat when ground, anyone chewing them would be subject to severe cramping and, ah, intestinal distress.

"So, for his sake, let us hope that Lars kicks his habit before reaching for the 'Qat' I left in his pouch."

Secondly, you seem to know who's behind your recent problems. I might be more comfortable if I knew.

Thirdly and perhaps of least importance... I haven't eaten much but trail rations today. Do you mind if I have a bite of food before we set out?"

Dorman grows a little more serious. "Oh, please. Help yourself. You, too, Arando; dig in.

"I'm not sure who's behind some of the problems. Frankly, Jeorik, I'm in serious trouble.

"Two of my ships were lost at sea last quarter, and the other two are now late. Those are the risks of trade, and the viccissitudes of life. We grieve for our dead crew, notify our local merchants, and contact the shipwrights.

"But this time, I've borrowed money, against the profits I'd make from the ships' cargo. And the contract...ah, the contract...seems to be far more to my disadvantage than I recall.

"There's a ... man in town, a disreputable, petty wretch of a man, who likes nothing more than collecting debtors, like some collect books or fine pottery, and wringing them ... I mean 'us', I suppose ... until we are wrung dry. He presses that disadvantage against me. If I cannot make good soon, I shall be ruined.

"Is he behind the threats that have reduced my staff from a dozen this past winter's thaw, down to Arando here? I would think he's capable of it, surely, but I have no proof.

"But my advice, nephew: never borrow from Garvin Fellrock. If you do, you'll be indentured till the end of your days. He'll probably have a clause in there, specifically to entrap mules, too.

Oh... and what is the law on self defense in Korvosa?" Jeorik grins, "I don't rightly want my blood spilt but I'm not looking to get myself hanged either."

"Then have witnesses, don't get caught by the Hellknights, and if you come to the courts, get a fair judge. Judges are laws unto themselves here, and the Guard's only marginally better."

"I already asked my questions."

Indeed, my good man. Well, the day doesn't grow longer. If there be nothing else, then?

(First a corrective note: Lars' weapons were a large hardwood truncheon and a large hunting knife, bordering on being a thin short sword.)

Sense Motive: (1d20=13)

Jeorik,

"There's never a dull moment around here, is there?"

Dorman locks the crossbow, sets it down on a low table running along the wall, and takes a chair. Arando, this may be the first time you've seen your employer actually sit at a table. He glances at the two of you and then at the two chairs. It's an invitation.

"It's like to get more interesting yet, m'boy. While you and Arando here were distracting him, I was checking through Lars's pouches. I've come to find three reasons that you will meet him again, and sooner more than likely.

"First, he isn't merely taking Qat. He is selling it, and without a tax stamp. I found three sealed and unstamped packages of it, each a couple of days old. That identifies him with a certain stratum of the city's lower lifestyles."

Dorman reaches into a vest pouch and withdraws a small square of parchment, folded into fourths. "Second, he was carrying papers that suggest he's party to one of my larger problems." As he talks, he reaches behind him for a small writing desk, from which he withdraws a candle, an envelope, and a well-used block of blue sealing wax.

"Once he realizes I've liberated this little document, he'll be eager to have it back." Dorman slides the folded paper into the envelope, lights the candle, and begins to melt the blue wax in its flames.

"Having said that, however, I must also mention that my opponent in these matters either did not mean for the products of Lars's person to be so readily availalbe to us, or else we were intended to find this, and it is bait laid out for us. Our opponent in this is subtle, and I would not put it past him." Dorman dribbles the wax on the envelope, and impresses his signet ring on the seal before it cools.

Dorman sighs. "Jeorik, I needs send Arando to deliver this parcel to a scribe in the upper end of town, an elf by the name of Cygney Greenlake. I presume he would feel safer if he hand your strong swordarm by his side. Would you consent to escort him there and back?"

The wax cooled, Dorman turns the envelope over and writes a two short questions and a third, even shorter sentence.

Arando, I don't see what languages you know. If you read elvish:

He hands the envelope, and a small leather pouch containing coins to Arando. "Take these to Cygney. Her workshop is on Summit Street, three blocks east of the lower courts. Give her this payment, and wait for an answer. Once you have it, come directly back here. It may take some time before she's ready, and I don't mean to have to wandering off for supper before getting back.

"Tell no one your business. If accosted on the streets, throw them the gold and run; do not allow that message to escape your possession. If you run into any trustworthy friends along the way, invite them back with you. I'll have a job for them, too.

"Now," he says relaxing, "are there any questions?" He asks it as if it were a test, as if there were something he deliberately left out.

The man at the door is about to take a step inside. This won't be good for Jeorik, because then he won't have the cover of the wall, and if he tries to move away from the swordsman to help Arando, he'll provoke an Attack of Opportunity for moving out of a threatened space.

A crossbow bolt from the side of the room lands in the door mantle. Crossbows are capable of hitting people from a distance of two city blocks, and this one fired from the doorway into Dorman Vander's office, only 20' away. The bolt tears into the hardwood mantle and embeds itself eight inches deep. Both Jeorik and the swordsman reflexively step back.

Dorman is standing in the doorway to his office, holding the weapon in both hands. The crossbow is larger than any Jeorik has ever seen, a full two feet wide, and weighing 10 pounds or more. While the top bowstring has fired, a second bolt is locked into a lower bow running along the bottom of the barrel.

He doesn't look happy. At all.

"Surely, this is a mistake," he says, icily. "I would not believe that a stranger would dare to set foot in my warehouse, arms drawn against my guests, particularly when the Watch has already been called.

"Perhaps you're hoping that the Hellknights would get here before the Guard? I'm sure they'llbe sympathetic to your situation."

Jeorik, Arando, please make a Sense Motive roll.

The swordsman at the door --given a moment's breathing space, you realize that, like the captured thug, he's shaved his head; the two sleeping men outside both have dirty brown hair-- protests. "You kidnapped Lars. We were rescuing him."

Dorman doesn't even crack a smile. "Lars here was a guest we invited in to share our meal. He has been free to go whenever he wished.

"Lars, your friends are rude, and we are offended. You are no longer welcome here, and they never were. Take your boots, and your weapons, and this..." he says, throwing the captured thug his belt and pouch, "...and be off with you. Leave the silverware, please."

The thug, Lars, complies, and the swordsman wakes his two comrades. Lars waits until he's outside to put his boots back on. The four men walk off, sullen and seething.

Dorman breathes a sigh, and the tension goes out of him. "Close the door, lad. And take the bolt out of the wood, if you wouldn't mind."

The thug moans a little as Dorman leans down and deftly removes the man's belt pouch. "I'll be right back," Dorman says. "If he wakes up while I'm out, let's be hospitable. Offer him something to eat or drink."

And the merchant turns back into his offices and closes the door behind him.

"I think someone went for the Guard."

"Should we tie him up? Or bring him around? I assume you have a plan for dealing with trouble from the guard?"

Dorman looks a little surprised, and tosses Jeorik a damp cleaning rag. "Clean him up a little, disarm him, and," he adds, turning to Arando, "remove his boots. Make sure his weapons are well out of arm's reach, and place his boots back by the door. One of you, stand next to him, ready to restrain him if he tries to rise.

"If he does attempt something foolish, only then will we bind him. If he's got any sense in his head, it won't come to that.

"And, incidentally, the city guard is the least of our worries." The old merchant glances sidewise out the back doors of the warehouse, towards the docks. "This is Korvosa, lad. One way or another, this man will be long gone by the time they arrive."

As you enter Dorman's warehouse, you see that the merchant has already set out lunch. The bread on the table smells fresh-made and delicious. Dorman's already sliced up some fowl and goat-cheese.

He turns to you as you enter and gestures with the carving knife at one of the chairs set around the table; the only chair with armrests.

"Good work. Set him up there and get him cleaned off and ready. Be quick about it; we haven't much time."

"Whatever I can do, I would be glad to," says Jeorik, then more thoughtfully, "What is your plan? Do you want us to use stealth or approach him directly?"

"Stealth, I should think. If he is brazen enough to be waiting in the sunlight for poor Arando here, it's likely that he's drawing his courage from a tavernful of his fellows not a city block away. Address him directly, and you'll have more than one weapon pointed your way.

"Our lunch comes served within the hour, and when it does, the two of you can slip out the side window." Dorman jestures above and behind him at a single window, shuttered, ten feet off the floor. "Be quick and quiet, and you and Arando may catch him between you.

"When you do, bring him inside. It's not right that he should go hungry watching us eat."

And I'm off-line, till Sunday noon.

"He's been watching from across the street. He told me it would be 'unhealty' for me to keep working for you. I'm sure he is an enemy of yours - I was hoping you could tell me who he is, so I'd have a better idea how to deal with him."

Dorman's eyebrows rise. "He's still there, across the street?

"Jeorik, what say you to a hunt? Arando, would you care to join my nephew in apprehending the man you speak of?"

"As for battle, I am a hunter by trade, not a warrior, but like all the children of Ilsurian I have been trained for war, if the need arises."

Dorman grew more somber at that, nodded, and turned to Arando. "This might be a good time to tell us about the man who threatened you, lad."

"I feared I would have to scour all of this great city to find word of you."

Throughout most of Jeorik's story, Dorman remained attentive, respectful, but stoic. At this, though, the corners of his mouth tightened in a peculiar grimmace, reflecting a sour thought Jeorik couldn't decipher.

"Two years. So. You have my thanks, Jeorik, for bringing me this news. If your family has need of any simple thing, you have but to ask, and I will see to it."

Dorman stood, reached for a carafe of iced water, poured a glass, and offered it to the younger man. "You yourself look ready for a battle, unless you've made habit of wearing steel when visiting relatives. Why come ye armed today?"

"He always told me he liked my mother's stewed hare. But who can say what it is now. He walks different fields. I have come to Korvosa with the news that my father has died."

Dorman's first thought was Stewed Hare. By the Twelve-at-Table, yes, that sounds like Taylo, all right. Then the rest of Jeorik's message hit. "This is indeed hard news. Come, sit, nephew, and tell me how your father died."

Dorman leans back against a low cabinet and crosses his arms, positioned so that he might converse with both his servant Arando -- this might be the key to finding out who'd been scaring off his workers -- and his newfound nephew Jeorik.

Watering the mule, Arando says, "I've been wanting to talk to you, about a big bald guy who tried to intimidate me, and has been watching me. I'm wondering if you know who he is?"

Dorman turns to Arando. "Intimidate you? How so? And is he watching you now?"

Jeorik pauses a moment before going on, "My name is Jeorik, son of Taylo Vandor. I came to Korvosa to find my father's family."

Dorman's eyes narrow, and his brows furrow. He takes the young man's jaw in his hand and turns Jeorik's head to one side.

To Arando:

"So you're Taylo's boy, eh? Tell me, what is your father's favorite meal?"

Arando decides to ignore the hulking menace for now, and knocks on Dorman's door . . .

The door swings in. Dorman stands there, squinting momentarily at the daylight pouring in the outer room from the open door. His sleeves are tied up around his elbows, his fingers are ink-stained, and it looks as if he's been working since well before dawn.

"Good morning, m'boy. How go things?"

Off-stage:

Dorman looks over the papers he's been served, his trained eyes immediately spotting the discrepancies. He almost forgets to tip the court messenger.

"Oh, this is not good." he whispers aloud, as he settles back into his office chair. for a few minutes, he thinks idly about fighting, fleeing, folding.

But he's not the kind of man who builds the kind of pot he's accumulated over the years and then folds; he would never flee from something as craven as this; and it's been perhaps a bit too long since he's raised a sword to kill a man.

He reads the papers through to the last page. "Hmmm. The same three names; now that's a show of confidence." In a lesser adversary, that'd be a gap in the plan, a flaw, an opening. Here, it is almost certainly a feint.

To find out, he'd need an agent.