“Greetings, brother. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stroll through our territory. The fee for passing through is whatever money you’ve got in your pockets,” said the big man with surprising articulacy, his stomach jiggling a bit as he chuckled.
“Sorry, brother. I haven’t any money, but I do have an object for trade,” said Fenrir, reaching into his boot and pulling out the heptagram, placing it around his neck. Most street toughs wouldn’t be willing to tangle with The House, not if they valued their lives. His medallion was essentially a free pass with criminals in the city. Or, at least, it had been in the past.
Toothy’s smile widened. “I don’t think I’d accept that for trade. Looks fairly worthless. Maybe I’ll take one of your fingers instead.”
Fenrir heard something move behind him just as he dove between the wide-legged stance of Toothy. He twisted as he hit the ground, landing face-up and lashing upward with his leg. Caught completely off-guard, Toothy took the brunt of Fenrir’s foot square in the grapes. As Fenrir scrambled backwards and regained his feet, the big man went hard to the ground, making a splash in the filth. Now visible, Fenrir saw that the second man—wait—woman was wielding a knife. With Toothy down, the woman—wait—girl was less certain as she approached Fenrir, but she vaulted the body of her larger companion with relative agility. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, with hair short like a boy’s, but her feminine features were undeniable even beneath a layer of grime.
Fenrir didn’t wait for the girl to collect her courage and attack. Instead, he struck first, hitting the side of her blade with the flat of his hand and kicking her, also right between the legs. Though women might lack a certain small (or large) part that made this move particularly incapacitating for men, kicking them hard enough anywhere was usually enough to bring them down. Such was the case with this one. Feeling a certain guilt as he disarmed the fallen girl, Fenrir reminded himself that she likely would have gutted him, had he not moved more quickly than she. He approached Toothy next, kneeling next to the big man’s body, which was still curled in a fetal position.
“Well, brother, that was a mistake,” said Fenrir as he crouched, cuffing the man in the ear with an open palm. The man just groaned, almost whimpered in fact, his hand still firmly fixed between his legs. “Or should I say, sister?” Fenrir hit the man again, feeling more means spirited than usual. It had to be the exhaustion, or the head wound, or just anger from being attacked in his own city. By the gods, one of the only advantages of his position in The House (aside from the decent pay) was immunity from the low-lives of Rostane. Apparently, that wasn’t to be the case today.
“Uhhhhh. Please… leave… uhhh… Morgyn… alone,” groaned the man, still unable to move. Morgyn. Must be the little chit that he’d disabled with a well-placed kick to the muff. Maybe this man’s daughter? It wasn’t like a street tough to care about another without some familial bond.
Fenrir grunted as he straightened, his blasted knee sore from the squatting, anger and aggression fading like the whimpers of the man lying before him. The girl Morgyn was still nearby, having brought herself up to one knee with her short, dark hair disheveled. Tough little kid. She was glancing around for her knife. Fenrir saw it and kicked it away, sending it down the alleyway. The girl slumped, defeated.
Fenrir appraised her for a long moment, his exhausted, cracked mind wandering to a different place, a different time. A place he never was, and a time that never happened. But, in his mind’s eye, he saw a different girl there, kneeling in the muck. A girl with blond hair, eyes the color of the sky. Eyes full of accusation. Full of hate.
He reached into his pocket and clasped his last yet, squeezing it with an strange mix of emotions. He brought it to his face, examined the stamped visage of Yetra on the square piece of copper, and tossed it onto the ground in front of the girl.
Without looking back, Fenrir continued his walk to the end of the alley, shaking his head either to clear the fog or in regret. He wasn’t sure.
---
Apparently, Fenrir was doomed to spend the short remainder of his life covered in filth. His new shirt—less than a few hours old—was already ruined. And with his boarding house on the west side of the city and the warehouses on the east, he couldn’t change now. Even had clothing shops or carts still been open, his last yet had gone to that guttersnipe, Morgyn. Not that he could have found anything decent for a single square yet.
Fenrir pondered his options briefly and decided to just discard his shirt entirely. It was a chilly evening, but he didn’t want to approach his benefactor while he was so obviously smeared in filth (he couldn’t help the state of his breeches, but at least they were of a darker color. And the smell… well, he was stuck with that). Luckily, this was the warehouse district and, even with only the stars and the moons for light, porters were continuing their work, shirtless and heavily muscled from years of such labor. Fenrir actually fit nicely into this setting. Even with a few years of questionable health practices behind him, he’d still maintained much of his bulk. Never the trim, lithe swordsman, he had a heavy musculature, particularly in the shoulders. And that had played at least a small role in his newest nickname.
“It’s the Bull!” called a young man from nearby, leaving behind a small crowd of people. “The Bull has returned from his rampage! Not that I’m surprised. You always hear a bull coming.”
“Garrett,” replied Fenrir flatly. He’d never liked the little tattooed bastard. Too cocky.
“Well, Bull, I see you finally made it back. And quite a finger you cut,” laughed Garrett, apparently quite proud of his little wit. “Tennyson was looking for you earlier. He’s probably still lurking about. Oh, and he didn’t look pleased. Granted, he never looks pleased, but….” Again, the kid chuckled.
Fenrir shouldered by Garrett without responding. Garrett was one of those kids who thought he knew everything, and could do anything. Truthfully, he was quite skilled at his job, being an enforcer like Fenrir. Much more effective than Fenrir, too, to be honest—the kid could slip in, extract a finger, and leave before anyone knew he was there. Fenrir’s nickname stemmed as much from his shoulders as his technique: break down a door, knock people about, and eventually get what he needed with a lot of ancillary damage. And a lot of noise. Just a lot of smashing, really. Of course, that had only happened a couple of times, but no one ever talked about his successful extractions. Regardless, though, the nickname had followed Fenrir and, after his most recent incident, it was even more likely to stick.
Closing the distance to the current headquarters of The House, or at least the only headquarters that he knew about, Fenrir slowed down a bit. The warehouse was like any other, being a tall, gray-bricked building, supported by a wooden frame and topped with a red-bricked roof. There were no noticeable windows, although Fenrir knew that thin slots of stone could be removed and quickly converted to arrow slits in the case of a raid. The door—which was surrounded by slightly sinister-looking men and one particularly heavyset whore (Jenni; she was essentially a mattress for low-ranking members, coming very cheap) was recessed a couple of feet. In the event of an emergency, the residents could lower a heavy portcullis made of fine steel, likely impaling anyone below in the process. The place really was a miniature fortress.
Fenrir tried to swallow his nerves and clear his mind as he approached the thick door, realizing that the last two doors he’d entered—Frommis’ house and the inn’s—had boded quite ill for him. Trouble travels in threes, the saying went, and Fenrir could only hope that the third manifestation of trouble wasn’t behind this door.
“Oh, it’s a Bull! Back fr’m mudder thingz and getsa finger,” said one of the mildly-sinister men, slurring his words from obvious inebriation and staggering to rest on a railing. Fenrir didn’t bother to try and understand the weasel-faced man who, incidentally, was often called Weasel within the confines of this organization.
“Hey, sweetness. You interested in some love later tonight? I have a slot
before the rising of the second moon,” offered Jenni, propositioning him with her most seductive voice. He could see unmentionable stains on her dark blue dress.
“Not tonight, Jenni. Got business inside. Tomorrow night,” promised Fenrir, with absolutely no intention of following through.
“I’ll be looking forward to it, sweetness,” she said, licking her lips. He shuddered a bit as he pushed past the group, entering the warehouse. He may have had some bad luck with women, lately, but wasn’t ready to take that plunge.
Though the outside of the warehouse resembled any other in Rostane, the inside was a different story entirely. He walked into a tavern, complete with a polished oak bar and full kitchen that filled the space with the delightful aroma of the famous Rostanian clam chowders and stews. The fishy odor turned Fenrir’s stomach today, however. The walls were decorated with beautiful landscape paintings of the Tulanques and the Fullane River, all nailed to the wall, and instruments of war, all of these being replicas but, nonetheless, still anchored to the wall as a precaution. It was busy, too, as crowded as any normal tavern. The House had a great number of moving parts, from errand-runners to protectors and enforcers, servants and spies, merchants, leaders, and unknowns. The latter group was simply a label that Fenrir had made up to describe members who had no discernable talents or purpose, and yet still seemed to have a relatively high standing. Fenrir assumed that they were rich, men and women who bought their influence in the house with cold, hard yets.
Many people insisted on donning masks whenever they were at this location, being afraid of potential blackmail due to their association with The House. As a result, the tavern reminded Fenrir of a freaky, interspecies menagerie, with birds, wolves, mice, and some grotesque monsters milling about, drinking and eating together. Fenrir never bothered with a mask. He wasn’t important enough to merit notice. Anyhow, too many folks already knew about his involvement. Fenrir had thought that he had some modicum of protection just by being a member, but perhaps that wasn’t the case.
He scanned the jungle for Tennyson and didn’t see him in the common room. His benefactor always wore a distinct silver mask of Ultner, so he was hard to miss. Knowing that he was likely in the offices upstairs, Fenrir started heading in that direction, ignoring a few calls of “The Bull is here,” and “Have a beer, Fen!” Though he had an aching thirst for a tall one, carousing was not on his mind at the moment.
A protector stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the rail with his arms folded. Fenrir didn’t know this man personally, but he had seen him in passing. Another big man like himself, but six inches taller. A man who had the casual bearing of a warrior but the obviously fuzzy face of a Wasmer. Not many of them in Rostane; Wasmer weren’t exactly welcomed with open arms, nor did many Wasmer decide to enter the gates.
“I’m here to see Tennyson,” Fenrir nodded to the protector.
“You be the Bull? I believe he be expecting you. Proceed upstairs,” said the Wasmer, his mouth moving just a bit differently than a human’s—a byproduct of its accommodating the extra canine teeth. This one had obviously filed them down, though, to more closely resemble a human. The practice was scorned by the traditionalists in the Wasmer society, but was more and more adopted by young Wasmer as the years went by. Of course, he wouldn’t pass as a human unless he shaved his forehead and cheeks also, and lost that particular Wasmer way of speaking. The muscles of his mouth had not caught up with the teeth-filing job, either, and his diction wasn’t exactly impeccable.
“Thanks, friend.” Fenrir took a step forward. The Wasmer put a hand on his shoulder.
“He do not be happy, today. Take care. Maybe your choice of shirtless will lighten his mood.” Fenrir barked a laugh. A Wasmer with a sense of humor. His humor immediately dissipated at the thought of confronting an already unhappy Tennyson.
Fenrir headed up the stairs resignedly, pausing at Tennyson’s office door to knock five times in a specific pattern. He heard shuffling in the room then, followed by the scraping of several deadbolts being unlocked. A cautious man, Tennyson was. A dangerous man.
Ultner—at least the visage of Ultner—opened the door. The silver mask was frightening, a demon wearing a twisted smile, his face covered in spikes and horns, boils and sores. The portrayal of the god of death and the champion of Pandemonium, wearing black robes and all. The reflected lamplight rendered the spectacle even more menacing.
“The Bull. Fenrir de Trenton, third son of the merchant king, Darian de Trenton, the first merchant to revolutionize cold storage for the transport of slaughtered animals and seafood. Last surviving son of the merchant king, Darian de Trenton, still without his father’s favor. What the fuck am I going to do with you?” questioned Tennyson, his voice always higher than Fenrir would expect to echo from the face of death. It obviously wasn’t his real voice. The man really took pains to protect his identity.
“I’d consider a commendation and a promotion,” said Fenrir, all bluster as he pulled Frommis’ finger from his pocket, the valuable ring still attached. “I have a feeling that no one in Umberton will consider crossing The House in the near future.” He tossed Frommis’ moon-pale finger onto the table.
“I see things differently. I see a town that’s furious due to the excess injury of one of its most respected citizens. I see a volunteer militia recruiting heavily because one of their lieutenants—and their blacksmith—is all but brain-dead. I see representatives from that town and surrounding villages demanding that Rostane cracks down on The House, which is theorized to be out of control. I see nobles in Rostane, thought to be allies of The House, behaving in ways counter to our interests. And I see—and smell—my enforcer, the Bull, a man who can’t sneak into a dark room full of deaf children. A man who bungles half of his jobs.”
“Well, there are always different perspectives,” shrugged Fenrir, his voice holding a bit of a quaver. “And I only bungle about a tenth of them.” Had he truly hoped for a laugh from the demon in front of him?
“Any fraction is too much, de Trenton.” Tennyson scooped up the desiccated finger, ring and all, and turned to a small, discrete wooden box on a nondescript shelf. With little ceremony, he creaked open the lid and tossed in the finger. Fenrir wondered if that box was full of fingers in various state of rot. What does one do with dozens of ring fingers collected over the course of years?
Tennyson turned back to Fenrir, twisting with the grace of a dancer, considering his enforcer from behind his mask. Fenrir shifted under the silver scrutiny. “Do you know why I recruited you, brought you into The House? It wasn’t because of your bar room brawling skills, although those are relatively impressive.”
Fenrir remembered the time after his dismissal from the Plateau, adapting to his drastic change in circumstance, his relatively simple, predictable life torn to shreds. He remembered the shame and the listlessness, hiding the truth of what happened from his friends and acquaintances, trying to reestablish a new life for himself. After his wife finalized the divorce after a years-long separation, Fenrir worked odd jobs to get a bit of coin that was unerringly transmuted into alcohol. For a time, he’d run protection for one of the rowdier taverns—The Shaved Goat—and often had to break up fistfights. It was a job that he surprisingly excelled at, finding an outlet for his frustration following his attrition from the guard. He’d routinely broken arms, wrists, and legs. Unfortunately, he’d often caused too much damage to the patrons and the tavern, and lost the job soon after he’d gotten it. The night he’d been fired for literally knocking teeth from the mouth of a wealthy merchant (who had no place in a shithole like The Goat), there’d been a note and heptagram sitting on the bed in his boarding house. The note had simply had a date, time, and location.
Fenrir had gone to his first meeting with Tennyson two days later.
“No, I chose you because you know the Plateau. You know the people, you know their routines. You know the pathways, and you know the guards and the patrols. I thought you had some real pot
ential there, to slip into the Plateau and… enforce. However, after your first job, I realized that this wouldn’t be the case. You would never be more than a middling enforcer. Now, I realize that you aren’t even as good as middling.”
“Tennyson, I—” Fenrir began, an explanation heavy on his lips.
“You what? Can you really argue that you have the skills of even Garrett, that boy who has half your years and experience? Can you convince me that your blunder has not just cost The House a great deal of money? More importantly, favors?” asked Tennyson, moving forward like a snake, his voice becoming quieter, more sibilant. Bright eyes flashing from behind Ultner’s face. Fenrir felt exposed.
“I-”
“I know you fancy yourself as having a bit of a silver tongue, especially with the ladies. But, I’m no duck egg-eating country bumpkin. I’m not susceptible to your charm.”
Fenrir took a step back. Obviously, Tennyson knew more than he’d expected. Or, he’d just happened upon the most coincidental reference of the century.
“So, the question is, what will I do with you?” His hands were under his robe now, perhaps gripping the dual daggers that he was reputed to wield with deadly effect. No one had ever seen it happen but, in observing Tennyson’s stance and posture, Fenrir didn’t doubt his capacity for murder.
Solace Lost Page 6
