by Tarkon Viera » Tue May 05, 2026 12:35 pm
Tarkon Viera did not waste time once his boots had worn the dust of Chachin’s streets again.
Within three days, he had taken rooms above an aging counting house overlooking the river, nothing ostentatious, but well placed. From its narrow balconies he could watch the docks, the warehouses, and more importantly, the movement of coin disguised as cargo. A city’s pulse, he often said, was not in its people, but in what they chose to hide.
His new associates came carefully.
Not all at once, never that. A factor here, a shipmaster there, a pair of brothers who claimed to deal only in lamp oil but spoke too fluently about tariffs to be believed. Each was received with courtesy, a measure of good Kandori rum, and Tarkon’s full attention. He listened far more than he spoke, weighing them the way a jeweler weighs gold, by feel as much as by measure.
Some left reassured.
Some left pale.
All left understanding.
By the week’s end, the notices began to circulate.
They appeared first as polite letters, sealed in dark wax and delivered by quiet men who did not linger. Then as posted broadsheets near the docks and markets, formal, almost bureaucratic in tone, bearing Tarkon’s restored sigil: the gold coin etched in an iron fist, clean and sharp once more.
To those conducting trade within the river districts and adjoining wards:
Be it known that established oversight has resumed under the stewardship of Tarkon Viera.
All goods passing through designated routes are subject to standard permit requirements and customary levies.
Compliance ensures continued stability, protection of cargo, and the quiet discouragement of… interference.
Noncompliance invites review.
No threats. Not a single one.
That was the artistry of it.
In the taverns, the dockside murmurs translated the message far more plainly.
“Tarkon’s back.”
“Means you pay.”
“Or things go… wrong.”
Ships delayed at the wrong tide. Inventories that failed to match their ledgers. A cart axle snapping at the worst possible moment. Small misfortunes, natural, explainable, yet occurring with a frequency that made coincidence feel like a story told to children.
And yet, for those who complied, another pattern emerged.
Cargo arrived untouched, even through rough waters. Rival bids fell away at just the right moment. Guards appeared where none had been hired, and trouble seemed to think better of itself before it ever began. Quiet assurances, invisible hands, and the steady absence of misfortune.
Protection, though Tarkon never named it so.
He himself remained above it all.
Each evening, he sat by the open window of his rooms, a glass of rum catching the last gold light of sunset. His long fingers turned the glass slowly, watching the liquid cling and fall like reluctant tribute. Below, Chachin adjusted, hesitantly at first, then with growing inevitability.
One of his associates, bolder than the rest, finally asked the question.
“My lord… these ‘permits’… some might call them excessive.”
Tarkon did not look at him.
“Some,” he agreed mildly.
A pause stretched, filled only by the distant creak of rigging and the murmur of the river.
Then he took a slow sip and set the glass aside.
“And yet,” he continued, voice soft as silk drawn over steel, “those same voices will find their goods arrive intact. Their routes remain… uncomplicated. Their competitors suffer no unfortunate advantages.”
Only then did he turn, cold blue eyes settling on the man.
“They are not paying for permission,” Tarkon said. “They are paying for certainty.”
The associate swallowed and nodded, understanding arriving all at once.
Below them, another notice was being nailed into place.
The city did not protest. Not openly.
Chachin had seen this before.
And like before, it bent, not out of fear alone, but out of recognition.
Because whatever name one chose to give it...
Tax.
Permit.
Courtesy.
Tarkon Viera’s price had always been the same.
Down at the docks, as dusk bled into lanternlight, another ship slipped quietly into berth, smaller, leaner, and far less concerned with being noticed.
A man stepped off with an easy, rolling gait, boots hitting the wood as though he’d never quite adjusted to land. His coat was a thing of faded finery, long since worn into character rather than wealth, and beads and trinkets clinked softly in his dark, loosely tied hair. A sash hung carelessly at his waist, and at his hip rested a blade that looked as though it had far more stories than polish.
Lamont.
Tarkon’s “brother,” as the city might soon come to learn.
He paused at the edge of the dock, squinting up toward the overlooking balconies. For a moment, the roguish charm settled into something sharper, recognition, calculation, and then,
A slow, knowing smile.
“Well now,” he muttered, voice touched with amusement and something just shy of trouble. “Looks like you’ve been busy, brother.”
And with that, Lamont stepped into Chachin, like a rumor given flesh, ready to see just what kind of order Tarkon had decided to build… and how much fun it might be to test it.
Tarkon Viera did not waste time once his boots had worn the dust of Chachin’s streets again.
Within three days, he had taken rooms above an aging counting house overlooking the river, nothing ostentatious, but well placed. From its narrow balconies he could watch the docks, the warehouses, and more importantly, the movement of coin disguised as cargo. A city’s pulse, he often said, was not in its people, but in what they chose to hide.
His new associates came carefully.
Not all at once, never that. A factor here, a shipmaster there, a pair of brothers who claimed to deal only in lamp oil but spoke too fluently about tariffs to be believed. Each was received with courtesy, a measure of good Kandori rum, and Tarkon’s full attention. He listened far more than he spoke, weighing them the way a jeweler weighs gold, by feel as much as by measure.
Some left reassured.
Some left pale.
All left understanding.
By the week’s end, the notices began to circulate.
They appeared first as polite letters, sealed in dark wax and delivered by quiet men who did not linger. Then as posted broadsheets near the docks and markets, formal, almost bureaucratic in tone, bearing Tarkon’s restored sigil: the gold coin etched in an iron fist, clean and sharp once more.
To those conducting trade within the river districts and adjoining wards:
Be it known that established oversight has resumed under the stewardship of Tarkon Viera.
All goods passing through designated routes are subject to standard permit requirements and customary levies.
Compliance ensures continued stability, protection of cargo, and the quiet discouragement of… interference.
Noncompliance invites review.
No threats. Not a single one.
That was the artistry of it.
In the taverns, the dockside murmurs translated the message far more plainly.
“Tarkon’s back.”
“Means you pay.”
“Or things go… wrong.”
Ships delayed at the wrong tide. Inventories that failed to match their ledgers. A cart axle snapping at the worst possible moment. Small misfortunes, natural, explainable, yet occurring with a frequency that made coincidence feel like a story told to children.
And yet, for those who complied, another pattern emerged.
Cargo arrived untouched, even through rough waters. Rival bids fell away at just the right moment. Guards appeared where none had been hired, and trouble seemed to think better of itself before it ever began. Quiet assurances, invisible hands, and the steady absence of misfortune.
Protection, though Tarkon never named it so.
He himself remained above it all.
Each evening, he sat by the open window of his rooms, a glass of rum catching the last gold light of sunset. His long fingers turned the glass slowly, watching the liquid cling and fall like reluctant tribute. Below, Chachin adjusted, hesitantly at first, then with growing inevitability.
One of his associates, bolder than the rest, finally asked the question.
“My lord… these ‘permits’… some might call them excessive.”
Tarkon did not look at him.
“Some,” he agreed mildly.
A pause stretched, filled only by the distant creak of rigging and the murmur of the river.
Then he took a slow sip and set the glass aside.
“And yet,” he continued, voice soft as silk drawn over steel, “those same voices will find their goods arrive intact. Their routes remain… uncomplicated. Their competitors suffer no unfortunate advantages.”
Only then did he turn, cold blue eyes settling on the man.
“They are not paying for permission,” Tarkon said. “They are paying for certainty.”
The associate swallowed and nodded, understanding arriving all at once.
Below them, another notice was being nailed into place.
The city did not protest. Not openly.
Chachin had seen this before.
And like before, it bent, not out of fear alone, but out of recognition.
Because whatever name one chose to give it...
Tax.
Permit.
Courtesy.
Tarkon Viera’s price had always been the same.
Down at the docks, as dusk bled into lanternlight, another ship slipped quietly into berth, smaller, leaner, and far less concerned with being noticed.
A man stepped off with an easy, rolling gait, boots hitting the wood as though he’d never quite adjusted to land. His coat was a thing of faded finery, long since worn into character rather than wealth, and beads and trinkets clinked softly in his dark, loosely tied hair. A sash hung carelessly at his waist, and at his hip rested a blade that looked as though it had far more stories than polish.
Lamont.
Tarkon’s “brother,” as the city might soon come to learn.
He paused at the edge of the dock, squinting up toward the overlooking balconies. For a moment, the roguish charm settled into something sharper, recognition, calculation, and then,
A slow, knowing smile.
“Well now,” he muttered, voice touched with amusement and something just shy of trouble. “Looks like you’ve been busy, brother.”
And with that, Lamont stepped into Chachin, like a rumor given flesh, ready to see just what kind of order Tarkon had decided to build… and how much fun it might be to test it.