Free Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael by Martin Parece, Mary Parece, Philip Jarvis Page B

a second name.  His people apparently don’t see the need for one.”
    “And what are your people, Rael?  I am not sure I have ever seen the likes of you,” Pagus replies quickly.  His eyes, gray and hard as steel feel like lances straight into Rael’s soul.
    “I hail from a city named Somi, across the Narrow Sea,” Rael lies, and it is a lie he has told so many times that he almost believes it in a way.
    “You neither look nor sound like a Tigolean,” states the priest, flatly.
    “Regardless, that is where I am from,” Rael replies, and Pagus falls silent for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought.
    “If I may, Lord Pagus,” says Pret, breaking the silence.  “I’d like to begin the final negotiations.”  This is the part of Pret’s business where Rael’s eyes tend to glaze over and he half falls asleep, for he has no interest in understanding the complicated mind of the merchant.  The merchant lord, though baffled by Pagus’ reactions toward Rael, aggressively pursues his own ends, and it seems that the priest can do nothing but accede to all of his wishes. 
    Rael feels the danger in Pagus’ sudden preoccupation, but at the same time, he knows he has been led here for a reason.  He’s fairly certain that reason stands encased in glass against a marble pillar.  But why this particular suit of armor and it’s odd blue steel?  He catches himself staring at it more than once as Pret talks, and he hopes that Lord Pagus has not noticed the same.
    Within an hour, the negotiation ends with Pret beaming and thanking Lord Pagus heartily for agreeing to do business.  Rael ignored most of the conversation, as he usually does with Pret’s dealings, but he knows when the merchant has struck a very profitable bargain.  They stand from the table with courteous bows, though the priest lords does not deign to repay them.  Nor is there the clasping of arms as friends as when they met.
    As they begin to leave, Pagus calls after them, “Master Rael, perhaps you would dine with me this evening?  I might have use for a fighting man with your… talents.”
    Rael turns back toward the priest, who still sits at his long table with a twisted mouth as if something distasteful sits in his mouth.  The Dahken half bows and lies, “I apologize, Lord Pagus, for I intend to leave Martherus immediately upon collecting my pay.”
    “Indeed,” Pagus replies, a hint of venom in his voice, and he returns his gaze to the length of his table.

8.
     
     
    Rael sits on the West’s most comfortable mattress, the weight of his body and chain armor causing him to sink deeply into the plushness.  Pret paid him promptly, as always, and bid him farewell with a warm embrace.  “My door is always open to you,” the merchant had said.  Rael has not moved from his position in nearly an hour, lost in quiet consideration of his predicament.  He actually has no intention whatsoever of leaving Martherus.  He knows he has been led here by his blood for a purpose, and he’s sure that purpose is encased in glass in Lord Pagus’ chambers.  But what to do about it?  Rael knows that he has no right to the armor, and he is no thief to be certain.
    A hard rapping at his door breaks into Rael’s thoughts, and he looks at it with some consternation.  He stands, and even before he opens it, he wonders if perhaps Lord Pagus has again invited him to dine.  As he cautiously cracks it, an armored soldier roughly pushes it all the way open.  The armed and plate armored man follows the door inside, and three more stand in the hall beyond.  Rael glances briefly at his sword; it still lays on the bed, his belt threaded through the sheath’s clasp.
    “Lord Pagus desires your presence,” he says curtly.
    “I have no business with Lord Pagus,” Rael replied in the same tone.
    “Lord Pagus has commanded that I’m to take you by force if necessary, Master Rael.  My Lord is not used to people dishonoring his requests, and I promise that