A Boat Ride
Posted: Fri May 01, 2026 7:21 am
Tarkon Viera did not return to Chachin with banners, nor with proclamations of triumph. Men like him knew better than to announce themselves to a city that had once learned to whisper his name.
He came by river instead, quiet, deliberate, aboard a low-drafted vessel heavy with casks that smelled faintly of spice and sugarcane. Rum, the dockhands would say. Always rum with Tarkon. It was the one truth about him that never seemed to change.
He stood at the prow as Chachin’s weathered towers rose from the mist, his tall frame unmoving despite the river’s chop. Six and a half feet of stillness, wrapped in a dark coat trimmed just enough with gold thread to remind people he valued it, perhaps more than was healthy. His eyes, pale and cold as a winter sky, took in the docks with the detached interest of a man counting debts rather than sights.
Years had passed since he’d last set foot here. Years since his holdings, legitimate and otherwise, had fractured, been “reorganized,” as the polite merchants called it. Others might have said stolen.
Tarkon did not use such words.
“Things drift when a hand leaves the wheel,” he murmured, more to himself than to the crew. His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, until one listened long enough to hear the iron beneath it. “And I have been away far too long.”
Behind him, a sailor shifted uneasily. The man had asked once, only once, where the baron had been all these years. Tarkon had smiled then, a thin, humorless curve of the lips, and offered him a cup of rum instead of an answer.
The sailor never asked again.
As the ship docked, Tarkon stepped onto the worn planks like a man returning to a house he still owned, regardless of what others might believe. A few dockmasters glanced his way, then quickly looked elsewhere. Recognition flickered, uncertain at first, then sharp.
Rum had a way of traveling. So did stories.
He walked the length of the quay without hurry, gloved hands clasped behind his back. Every third crate, every second warehouse, every face that turned away too quickly, he noted them all. Chachin had grown comfortable in his absence. Too comfortable.
A shame.
At the edge of the docks stood a warehouse once marked with his sigil: a simple gold coin, in a clinched iron fist, etched into black wood. The symbol had been scratched away, replaced with another merchant’s mark. Sloppy work. Rushed.
Tarkon studied it for a long moment, then reached out and ran a thumb across the gouged wood. Splinters caught briefly on the leather of his glove.
“Careless,” he said softly.
One of his men, new, not yet accustomed to the weight of that voice, cleared his throat. “My lord… do we reclaim it outright?”
Tarkon’s smile returned, faint and dangerous.
“Outright?” he echoed. “No. That would be crude.”
He turned, blue eyes glinting like cut ice.
“We will speak with the current owner. Share a drink. Discuss… arrangements.” His gaze drifted back to the warehouse, to the hurriedly carved insignia. “And if he proves uncooperative, well, Chachin has always been a city where goods go missing. Ships fail to arrive. Accounts… become confused.”
He let the words hang there, unfinished, yet perfectly understood.
A gull cried overhead. Somewhere, a crate cracked open, spilling the scent of rum into the air.
Tarkon Viera inhaled deeply, as if greeting an old friend.
“Yes,” he said. “There is much to set right.”
And as he walked into the city that had once slipped from his grasp, it became quietly, unmistakably clear...
Chachin had not forgotten him.
It had simply hoped he would not return.
He came by river instead, quiet, deliberate, aboard a low-drafted vessel heavy with casks that smelled faintly of spice and sugarcane. Rum, the dockhands would say. Always rum with Tarkon. It was the one truth about him that never seemed to change.
He stood at the prow as Chachin’s weathered towers rose from the mist, his tall frame unmoving despite the river’s chop. Six and a half feet of stillness, wrapped in a dark coat trimmed just enough with gold thread to remind people he valued it, perhaps more than was healthy. His eyes, pale and cold as a winter sky, took in the docks with the detached interest of a man counting debts rather than sights.
Years had passed since he’d last set foot here. Years since his holdings, legitimate and otherwise, had fractured, been “reorganized,” as the polite merchants called it. Others might have said stolen.
Tarkon did not use such words.
“Things drift when a hand leaves the wheel,” he murmured, more to himself than to the crew. His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, until one listened long enough to hear the iron beneath it. “And I have been away far too long.”
Behind him, a sailor shifted uneasily. The man had asked once, only once, where the baron had been all these years. Tarkon had smiled then, a thin, humorless curve of the lips, and offered him a cup of rum instead of an answer.
The sailor never asked again.
As the ship docked, Tarkon stepped onto the worn planks like a man returning to a house he still owned, regardless of what others might believe. A few dockmasters glanced his way, then quickly looked elsewhere. Recognition flickered, uncertain at first, then sharp.
Rum had a way of traveling. So did stories.
He walked the length of the quay without hurry, gloved hands clasped behind his back. Every third crate, every second warehouse, every face that turned away too quickly, he noted them all. Chachin had grown comfortable in his absence. Too comfortable.
A shame.
At the edge of the docks stood a warehouse once marked with his sigil: a simple gold coin, in a clinched iron fist, etched into black wood. The symbol had been scratched away, replaced with another merchant’s mark. Sloppy work. Rushed.
Tarkon studied it for a long moment, then reached out and ran a thumb across the gouged wood. Splinters caught briefly on the leather of his glove.
“Careless,” he said softly.
One of his men, new, not yet accustomed to the weight of that voice, cleared his throat. “My lord… do we reclaim it outright?”
Tarkon’s smile returned, faint and dangerous.
“Outright?” he echoed. “No. That would be crude.”
He turned, blue eyes glinting like cut ice.
“We will speak with the current owner. Share a drink. Discuss… arrangements.” His gaze drifted back to the warehouse, to the hurriedly carved insignia. “And if he proves uncooperative, well, Chachin has always been a city where goods go missing. Ships fail to arrive. Accounts… become confused.”
He let the words hang there, unfinished, yet perfectly understood.
A gull cried overhead. Somewhere, a crate cracked open, spilling the scent of rum into the air.
Tarkon Viera inhaled deeply, as if greeting an old friend.
“Yes,” he said. “There is much to set right.”
And as he walked into the city that had once slipped from his grasp, it became quietly, unmistakably clear...
Chachin had not forgotten him.
It had simply hoped he would not return.