City of Kilvikasa, Emperor Island

[Ravana]

Prior to the Cataclysm, Kilvikasa was a minor trading town upriver from the central northern coast of Emperor Island, notable mainly as being conveniently located near where the people of the central desert could be traded with… and little-enough noted even for that. Then one day Emperor Island lost a few thousand square miles of prime coastal real estate, and once the waves subsided the town found itself situated on a sheltered bay that provided one of the best harbors in the entire archipelago.

Which may have been the reason for its rise to fortune; the rise itself took somewhat longer. For starters, it was a while before anybody in the archipelago became seriously interested in (or even capable of) large-scale or long-distance trading once more; when they did, they naturally headed out for the places their grandparents used to go. Unfortunately, many of those were simply no longer there; others were still rebuilding; quite often, goods that were trade staples in earlier days weren't being made available for sale—assuming they were available at all—and generally weren't available in the same quantities in any event.

Naturally, this led would-be merchants to seek new ports and new sources of supply. Kilvikasa wasn't much to crow about in terms of supply… but it was one hell of a port. Better still, it was centrally located. And best of all, it was a free city: nobody controlled it. (The denizens of the city prefer this to be stated as "we control ourselves," but visitors maintain that the first description is the more accurate.) This combination made it the ideal site for a central trading hub, which is exactly what it turned into. And it grew by leaps and bounds, as more and more people from all over the archipelago flocked to it, drawn by the lure of opportunity, of freedom (however the individual may have interpreted this: political, social, religious, etc.), of easy profit. Or of low taxes, of lax laws, of the largest black market in the known world… of easy profit.

Needless to say, not everybody found what he was looking for: profit is never "easy" in a place where the competition is as rich, varied and determined as in Kilvikasa.

But that too draws in its share of immigrants and visitors.…

 

[Ravana]

Kilvikasa's Palace District

It is said that if there is a hell for geometers, the man who designed the Palace District is in it, and if there is not, he has been tasked with creating one. Which is a bit unfair, since it has undergone numerous changes since it was originally laid out hundreds of years ago.

A triangular section in the heart of the Old City, 260 meters to a side, bordered by some of the oldest of the city's ubiquitous canals, this was once the center of administration for the city, and its lord lived in the Keep: it was, in other words, a true palace. With the passing of autocracy and rise of the oligarchy, there was no longer a ruler of the city. Of course, what government remained still required a place of work, so many of its functions can still be found here. However, at least as much of the district is now occupied by the most prestigious (if not always most expensive) real estate to be found in the city. Indeed, it is sometimes said that the city makes as much revenue from Palace District rents—along with the bidding which takes place whenever any part of it becomes unoccupied—as it does from its lenient, trade-promoting taxation.

The most prestigious, and certainly the most expensive, piece of real estate is the original Keep itself: a towering, blocky, well-fortified edifice at the northeast corner of the triangle. To say that competition among the oligarchs for the right to occupy it is fierce would be a colossal understatement. The other "towers" of the district, added in later years in response to a high demand from people wanting the status of living in one (as well as the benefits of thicker walls) take a distant if still extravagant second place. The center of the district has been built up into a series of high-class apartments and office space; government functions continue to share space in the older, outer buildings alongside private offices.

Rising above the south corner of the triangle is the Campanile—the bell tower; a second had been planned for the northwest corner, but, as two campaniles struck the city's lords as redundant, this was instead completed as the Sky Tower, with its spectacular glass spire, overlooking rooftop gardens popular for meeting and dining. The entire ground level of the district is paved in tiles, and features four large and numerous smaller fountains, along with various pieces of statuary, greenery and other decoration.

The buildings appear to be tightly packed once one begins to move away from the district's front, though this appearance is somewhat deceptive, and owes much to the fact that the buildings themselves are fairly large; in fact, the separation between them is greater than the width of many city streets. Most buildings rise two tall stories, a few three; the northern two private towers and the buildings at the two corners have four (apart from the towers rising well above them), while the central apartments elevated on pillars rise to the fourth story, though they only have two stories themselves; the outer part of the Keep has five and the inner part six. Those familiar only with the newer parts of the city are sometimes surprised all this masonry doesn't sink into the ground; in fact, the older city districts, unlike the newer ones, do not rest on drained swampland, but the same rock that forms the hills and cliffs which shelter the city from the sea.

There are no bridges to the Palace District: access is strictly by water taxi. There are three large landings, one in the center of the "front" of the district, and one on each of the other two sides near the front; two other landings farther up the sides debouch within the original government offices. The Keep has its own private landing as well, entering its ground level from the northeast.

•••

Of course, a sense of the district's appearance could be more easily gathered from pictures than from words. Well… fortunately, you can do just that:

City of Kilvikasa - Mythic Scribes

[Note: apart from the four large fountains, none of the ground-level decoration appears in these images. Not at present, anyway.]

 

[Ravana]

Government

For much of its history, Kilvikasa was a primitive monarchy whose king exercised near-total control over a stagnant society. After the Cataclysm, when Kilvikasa suddenly found itself possessed of a sizable harbor upon the new coastline, the influx of trade led to rapid growth – and rapid change. Soon it was apparent that the real power within the port lay in the hands of the merchants. It was not long before they usurped the power right from underneath their King in a coordinated effort to free themselves from tyranny. They then set about enforcing their own sort of tyranny.

As Kilvikasa grew and grew, the newly minted merchant princes competed with each other in every conceivable way, and in many ways it was the chaos of their struggles that shaped the character of the city as the world knows it today. While there are a few powerful families that have held their wealth since the initial rise, many others have acquired and lost their wealth in the course of history. Multiple times in the past a single faction or individual has gained enough power to assume near-total control of the city. Such power inevitably crumbles, though, and the more typical state of affairs consists of many powerful merchants in loose control of various 'districts' within the city.

Alliances between the wealthy families form and break often, and within this must tumultuous of cities there are few constants. There are, however, certain strong customs which prevent a descent into total anarchy, and protect the city from foreign hostilities. Foremost amongst these is the sacrosanct status of the contract. As a city whose entire well-being depends on commerce, the written agreement has attained nearly holy significance. Even the greatest merchants will not dare break any deal that has been placed into writing with due witnesses. The few who have stooped to such dastardly breaches of trust found themselves quickly ostracized and impoverished, or simply assassinated (it is an outgrowth of this that the first clause in any contract between powerful individuals is usually along the lines of “The signatories agree not to murder each other”).

There are several running contracts that any faction which attains significant power is expected to become a signatory to. Foremost amongst these is the Militia Pact (the true title of which is much, much longer). In response to the hungry eyes with which many foreign powers were viewing the burgeoning wealth of Kilvikasa, the wealthiest powers united in unprecedented fashion and agreed to contribute together to the city's defense. Thus was born the Sovereigns (named in irony, and in the hope that the city would remain such by their hand). Funded by way of taxes levied on all commerce that moves through the city, these men are – despite the name of the Pact that created them – a professional standing army whose every thought in wartime is the defense of the city, and in peace are devoted to maintaining some small semblance of common law within the city.

•

[This contribution originally from Telcontar]

 

[Ravana]

The Labor Exchange

The buying and selling of human beings is illegal within the city limits of Kilvikasa. Slave-owning is not: the oligarchs who run the city have better things to do with their time and resources than going around liberating anyone careless enough to have gotten themselves enslaved. (It’s also worth noting that the law ends at the city limits… which are not strictly defined, apart from the obvious inclusion of the walled sections. Seeing as they are loosely defined, most interested in such trade prefer to conduct transactions at least a bowshot away from anything that might be identified as part of the city, lest some civic-minded business rival conceal snipers to “defend the city’s honor.”)

The buying and selling of nearly everything else in the known world is not illegal in Kilvikasa, however. Included among such things—indeed, a large part of what makes the city run—are contracts. So while you can’t buy a person, you can buy a person’s legal obligations.

Off the south side of the Central Bay, about halfway between the East Commercial and Riverpass Canals, there sits a large, ornate, and extremely busy building. This is the central clearing house for such contracts: the Labor Exchange.

Here, laborers seeking jobs come in hopes someone is hiring. Here, employers come to advertise their needs or access rolls of job-seekers of every kind, from casual day labor to skilled professionals not currently engaged otherwise. Here, ship owners come to seek crew replacements. Here, tradesmen seek apprentices or offer their services. Here, veterans offer mercenary services. It isn’t the only such place in Kilvikasa, but it’s the largest.

More importantly, it is the primary place where employers can access contracts of indenture, debt bondage, penal labor, prisoners of war, ransom, serfdom, military obligation… the list goes on. You can’t buy or sell a person in Kilvikasa—but the ability to purchase a person’s legal commitment or requirement to provide makes the distinction a technical one at best.

The Labor Exchange’s main building—the only one most employers see—hosts a vast trading floor, on which contracts, opportunities and futures see competitive bidding. There are separate desks for several of the more commonly demanded occupations, such as Longshoremen, Maritime, Construction, Harbors & Canals, Clerical, Domestic, and Entertainment, among others, in addition to General, Day Labor and On-Call workers. The remainder of the building holds a variety of offices for those with more specialized needs or the desire not to have their business conducted in public… and the money to justify catering to this desire.

In addition to the main building, the majority of the other buildings in the city block are also owned by the Exchange; here are the back offices, the clerks that track the Exchange’s business—and every other business they can stay on top of, as all business touches on the Exchange’s interests—as well as numerous departments and divisions little-known to the public. Here too is where laborers come to register their availability: after all, they would hardly be encouraged to stroll onto the bustling trading floor amidst their economic and social betters and holler “I want a job!”

Some of the Exchange’s departments and services would surprise people familiar only with its most visible function. There’s an Office of Vocational Education, which assesses people seeking apprenticeships and matches them up with craftmasters. There’s an Insurance Department, which genuinely provides worker insurance: for a portion of their wages, they receive coverage against loss of work due to injury or illness, are given stipends during periods between employment, and receive old-age pensions. A Department of Labor Standards and Practices seeks to ensure that employers maintain working conditions good enough that Insurance doesn’t need to pay out too often; its Office of Labor Complaints addresses problems brought to its attention by employees. There is of course also an Office of Employer Complaints to addresss those going the opposite direction. The Department of Civil Liaison handles the city’s acknowledged labor needs, as well as interacts with important municipal offices such as the Harbormaster’s or the Currency Exchange. The Department of Militia and Security Services handles mercenary contracts and bodyguard work, as well as being the main route through which the Sovereigns acquire new recruits. A Department of Immigration Services caters to new arrivals to the city; the connected Department of Indigent and Transient Services arranges housing for these, or any other registered laborer requiring such. The Office of Emancipation Services handles the legalities surrounding people who were slaves, or otherwise indentured. A Department of Secondment exists to temporarily pull laborers out of a current contract if another employer has an urgent need—and can afford to pay the compensation to the employer temporarily deprived of employees. The Office of Maritime Tracking stays abreast of who’s in port and who’s expected to be.

Less advertised are such divisions as the Department of Compliance, which sees to it that workers fulfill their contracts; its Supervisory Section handles cases where “encouragement” is needed; its Reassignment Section handles incorrigible cases. The Maritime Salvage Division provides services to freebooters (i.e. pirates). The Office of Misplacement handles the labor needs of criminal enterprises.

 

[Ravana]

Leaping Cloud Tower

Mapmaker one: “It looks like a leaping tiger.” Mapmaker two: “It looks like a cloud.” Of such stuff are names made.

Leaping Cloud Point is the sharply-rising headland that remained after a good dozen miles of land to its north succumbed to the ravages of the Cataclysm. It arcs around the Central Bay, is what provides the city with its exceptional sheltered anchorage, serves to blunt the worst of the weather coming off the sea, and even keeps the tidal flux low. It’s also a navigational hazard par excellence. So, of course, the city put a signal tower on it.

It’s not a lighthouse in the most technical sense: it doesn’t illuminate anything. It merely provides a point of reference by which approaching ships can navigate. More importantly, from the city’s point of view, it serves as the first lookout for such vessels… flashing alert signals if they give the appearance of hostility (i.e. there are dozens of them sailing in formation), a function it has rarely needed to perform, or flashing the identity of merchanters to trading factors seeking to get a couple hours’ head start on their competitors, a function it performs numerous times a day. As might be expected, being on the tower’s “mailing list” is not only a much sought-after distinction, it is also one that more than pays for the tower’s upkeep.

Surprisingly, to outsiders, the tower itself offers little in the way of defense. The reasons are twofold. First, anyone who’s hiked up to it is well aware that two old men and a three-legged dog could hold the approach indefinitely (and while not heavily defended, the tower can boast a bit more than that). Second, the city doesn’t want it to be defensible—in case some overly ambitious merchant prince takes it in his head to occupy it; they want it to be easy to take back. Besides, if an attacker is in possession of it, no traffic is going to be entering anyway, so controlling it under such circumstances is of no purpose, as far as they’re concerned.

 

[Ravana]

Defense of the City

Kilvikasa is defended by two forces. The first, the Sovereigns, is ostensibly a “militia”; in practice, it is a small, professional standing army, made up of competent, well-paid soldiers, even more competent, well-paid sergeants, and occasionally competent officers who have to buy their commissions and aren’t paid a thing, but who receive great respect for their civic devotion, and, consequently, enjoy great perks. When they aren’t defending the city against external threats (which are rare) or in training (which is common), the Sovereigns double as the closest thing the city has to a police force.

The second force is the navy. There isn’t one. Not a regular one. However, one of the most revered—and strictly enforced—statutes of the city requires that any ship doing business in Kilvikasa aid in its defense. As Kilvikasa is one of the largest and busiest ports in the known world, the result of this is that Kilvikasa has never been successfully attacked from seaward since the time of the Cataclysm.

 

[Ravana]

Courts, Crime and Punishment

There are very few things that are illegal in Kilvikasa. There are even fewer punishments for those things. Part of this is because most situations involving mundane offenses tend to resolve themselves: the offended party beats the crap out of the offender or kills him, depending on just how offended he is. The other part of this is because prisons are expensive and nobody wants to pay for them. So, again depending on the offense, the city’s few magistrates impose one of two sentences: exile or civil service. Exile is considered by most inhabitants of the city to be as severe a punishment as is warranted by any crime, since anyone in their right mind would want to be here, and anybody who is here is here to make a profit, so cutting them off is as good as execution and less messy to boot. Civil service takes only one form in Kilvikasa: work on public labor. Unless the offender is fortunate enough to commit his crime during a period when the oligarchs have taken a wild hair to build something new, this means dredging canals… a constant necessity.

Either offense may be supplemented by a fine, should the victim have suffered monetary damages; if the offender can’t pay the fine (or whatever’s left after his property has been seized), he gets to work it off performing civil service—either in addition to his sentence, or before he’s allowed to go into exile. If the court decides it’s important for the debt to be discharged quickly, or if they decide it’s important to get rid of the debtor quickly, they may choose to sell the civil service liability on the Labor Exchange.

The process by which the oligarchs select new magistrates is shrouded in secrecy, as are all municipal sealed-bid contracts. Magistrates are strictly prohibited from skimming more than 5% off any Labor Exchange sales they mandate.

The most commonly prosecuted crime in Kilvikasa is “interference with commerce.” Which can be anything from blocking the front of a kiosk, to violating the terms of a contract, to burning large portions of the city down. The next most commonly prosecuted crime in Kilvikasa is “attempting to bribe a municipal official”… so if you plan on doing this, check the Bourse for the correct going rates first. Less commonly prosecuted ones include “tax evasion”—the city collects very few of these, and if you’re the sort of person who owes them, you aren’t the sort of person who’s going to be able to “evade” the collectors. Not and remain in business, at least. One crime that is always prosecuted, but which rarely has the opportunity to occur, is “failure to aid in the defense of the city”: this is the only crime that invariably involves exile—assuming the perpetrator doesn’t retroactively die heroically in defense of the city. “Breaking exile” is, of course, also a crime… and it invariably involves a trip to the Labor Exchange, and sale of your contract to someone who can reliably see to it that this time you’ll stay wherever you’re sent.

•

The most famous case ever to come before the city’s magistrates involved a certain Sonor Gilderit, who worked at the watchtower on Leaping Cloud Point. One day near dusk, he spied the sails of a fleet bearing down on the city; he promptly relayed the warning signals to the city’s defenders, then extinguished the lights marking the headlands. This had the unfortunate effect of two fishing boats—racing to make harbor before the fleet arrived—coming to misfortune: one grounded on a sandbar, the other struck a rock below the Torkil Castle cliffs. Come dawn, it could be seen that several of the attacking fleet had suffered similar misfortunes; the remainder were routed by the city’s navy (see the “Defense of the City” section). Later that day, Gilderit was charged with interference with commerce by the owners of the two fishing boats: the first because he’d lost a day’s catch and required assistance being pulled off the sandbar, the second because he had to patch a hole and thus lost his next day’s fishing.

As these charges were brought before two different magistrates, neither could provide judgment; instead, both charges were placed before a panel of all the city’s magistrates, and eventually before the council of oligarchs themselves. Not that Gilderit’s guilt was at issue, as he had unquestionably interfered with commerce. The question was what constituted appropriate punishment in this situation, as he had also unquestionably been performing his duty to defend the city (and, as it happened, was following standing orders). After two days of closed-door consultation by the combined magistrates and oligarchs—itself unprecedented—a verdict and sentence were agreed upon. Gilderit was fined the value of the lost commerce and other damages, as provided by law. He was also awarded twenty per cent of the salvage value of those enemy ships which could be positively established to have grounded or wrecked during the night as a consequence of the guide beacon being extinguished.

Today, you can still see his likeness: the city erected a bronze statue of him holding a lantern, paid for from its own portion of the salvage. The lantern works, too: it is lit every time enemies threaten Kilvikasa from the sea. It stands on a headland two kilometers west of Leaping Cloud Point. Every seagoing native of Kilvikasa can recognize the difference between the two lights.

 

[Ravana]

Streets

There are those who say that Kilvikasa was not built for the convenience of land transport. (There are also those who say that Kilvikasa wasn’t built for the convenience of anything, but who listens to them?) While there’s certainly a fair amount of truth to the notion that water transportation has been favored in urban planning and construction, this is primarily due to the facts that the city owes its existence to oceangoing traffic and that roads can be built faster and easier than canals, thus requiring less planning. However, there are large numbers of merchants doing business throughout the city, not all of whom have the convenience of door-to-door shipping; neither do all shipmasters want to tie up every hundred meters to unload another two crates. So there are streets in the city, and, considering much of the city is of recent construction and to a greater or lesser extent planned, many of them are even wide enough for wagons to pass one another… more amazingly, many of them are even straight. More amazingly still, since they are intended for wagon traffic, the overwhelming majority of them are cobbled.

Still, a city is an organic thing, and it’s a rare one which has all its streets laid out in neatly-ordered ranks—even if that’s how they began. Some streets are better than others, and some districts are better than others. The area around the original docks has been rebuilt several times, always with an eye toward handling merchant traffic better; thus there are numerous streets that cross in fairly regular patterns. The rest of the Old City, having less impetus to rebuild, bears a nearer resemblance to a bowl of pasta which has just experienced an unfortunate encounter with lightning.

Most squares in Kilvikasa are really triangles, the result of three streets coming not quite together and the spaces remaining between being so small that they had no commercial value, such that it was better simply to allow these to be spaces wide enough to turn carts around in, assuming nobody had put up stalls to sell things.

Streets are normally classified by their widths:
• one-cart: 3 meters wide
• two-cart: 4-5 meters wide… four-meter ones being “two-cart” only for those with considerable patience and skill in maneuvering
• commercial: 6-8 meters wide

Some specific streets—many of them indicating the city’s attitude toward naming things:

Canal Street: “It’s on Canal Street” is a uniquely Kilvikasan way of saying “get lost”—apparently arising from an over-literal belief that if one wishes to tell someone to get lost, he may as well provide directions that will ensure this. As one might guess, in a city with dozens of major and a hundred of minor canals, there is no Canal Street. Several variants of the saying exist (e.g. “he lives on,” “go down,” etc.).

Main Street: not a significant avenue, but rather the site of a famous sewage overflow.

Good Street: a group of frustrated busybody citizens once presented the oligarchs with a petition that there “ought to be at least one good street in Kilvikasa.” The oligarchs obliged by renaming one. (Local history apparently being a subject of regrettably little study, a few decades later another such group demanded that there be “at least one decent street” in the city. It’s in the red light district. Still another street in that district received its name in consequence of one oligarch’s unfortunate tendency to confuse words—especially long ones—after he spoke of an establishment being at the “indiscretion” of two avenues.)

Lock Street: in a period of considerable urban reconstruction, a road was built running straight as an arrow from near Dragons’ Gate to the fairly inconsequential Upper Lock—and then almost as far again, with only one slight bend, to Barbarian’s Gate, so “lock” here might be seen as having more than one meaning.

Eastgate Road: runs from Eastgate more or less directly into the heart of the New City. It owes its straightness not to urban renewal but rather because it preceded the building of the New City: it was the main thoroughfare for construction materials to be hauled out to the in-progress walls.

 

[Ravana]

Palace Casino

Not located in the Palace District: this was formerly the mansion of a merchant prince. The person who won it off him decided it was a propitious site to set up a gambling house. Haemar Midering, the lucky—or more likely, skillful—winner rapidly converted his acquisition into one of the premier establishments of the city, moving from card tables through elaborate, exotic games to parimutuel betting in under a decade. His establishment became a family affair, and his descendants run the house to this day. In addition to all the normal forms of gaming, wagers may be placed with the house on nearly anything imaginable. Especially popular is wagering by futures speculators, most of whom place small wagers against high odds that their speculations will fall through—a relatively inexpensive way to partially compensate for losses should their investments not pay out. Fervid betting also surrounds any major municipal post that comes open… sometimes more is spent at the casino than in financial contributions by those seeking to influence who obtains the position.

There are two things, however, the house is specifically forbidden to accept wagers upon:

• Piracy: this arose from an intricate scam involving two of Kilvikasa’s maritime insurers who sold policies against piratical losses. What made the case so fascinating was that the casino was accepting wagers that the insured ships would not suffer loss, rather than that they would—and that the casino, in spite of what one might initially imagine the situation to be, was in no way involved with any pirates itself. The insurers were bitter commercial rivals, and each of them was secretly paying off pirate ships, providing course and timing information on those ships it insured so that the pirates would avoid them; the insurer would then split the proceeds of the policy with the pirates. They would also, of course, provide the identities of ships insured by the rival company whenever these were known, along with sailing times and destinations, so that the pirates had a greater chance of attacking those ships than any ship not insured by either company. The casino, however, happened to have people inside both companies—unsurprising, since insurance is itself a form of gambling, albeit one that only pays off only if you lose, so the casino quite logically considered itself to have a vested interest in the business; it, in turn, secretly hired a couple of swift warships which developed a tendency to appear during “routine patrols” at just about the same time the pirates would, scaring or driving them off, or occasionally capturing them, in which event the warship would of course also benefit from the salvage. (Neither the insurers nor the casino received anything from pirated cargoes or salvage, the former because this would have made them accomplices, the latter because it would have exposed the scam.) Eventually, someone talked—probably one of the pirates, on drunken shore leave—and the city, for whom piracy was anathema (it was interference with commerce, after all), felt compelled to take action. It could not positively be demonstrated that the practice was abetting piracy: all parties in the city were, one way or another, paying to protect shipping, and in the case of the insurers, even ships that were not insured by them were beneficiaries of their practices, to the extent that they were less likely to be targeted by the pirates associated with either group; likewise, none of the parties was receiving anything from the pirates themselves, so none could be held to be benefiting from piracy. Nevertheless, it was held that transactions made directly with pirates contributed to piracy insofar as it made the pirates more financially secure and therefore less likely to seek more acceptable careers such as insurance salesmen. The insurers were held to be sufficiently penalized by the exposure of their practices: one went out of business a couple of years thereafter, the other barely managed to survive, both lost their suits against the city for interfering with their commerce. The casino, which was held to have done nothing improper, was commended for its efforts to reduce piracy, and was solemnly ordered never again to withhold information on piratical activity.

• The Triennial Kilvikasan Commemorative Horse and Hound Competition: a lost wager nearly started a war with one of the nearby islands. Tolver Midering, the then patriarch of the family, was required to return the original stake to the offended loser, less a 10% magisterial fee, a 5% extraordinary diplomacy fee, a 5% interest fee—yes, the noble had to pay interest on his own money, since while the suit was ongoing the money was sequestered, resulting in the city’s inability to reinvest its share of the proceeds—and a 30% fine for interfering with commerce (which was split with the house); an injunction permanently barring the casino from accepting wagers on the aforementioned competition was also issued. This ban has been generally interpreted as setting a precedent which would apply to any similar event as well, but so far the house has not put it to a test; at any rate, no one else has come forward and admitted he was stupid enough to place bankrupting wagers on nonexistent competitions. Kilvikasa’s opinion is that the noble got off lightly.