by Eric Ugland
“Who are these mystical folk?”
“Just a group of like-minded individuals.”
“They have a name?”
“The Biscuit Union.”
“I’m sorry?”
“They’re called the Biscuit Union.”
“Certainly not the sort of name that strikes fear in the heart.”
“They’re from a different age. Run their organization out of a bakery that primarily makes cookies.”
“I mean, I guess if you’re going to have a cover operation, could be worse.”
“Like these pits.”
“Not what I meant. But I suppose, yeah.”
“If you can handle the nature of the job, how about you run a bag of metal over to a shop in the Industrial district, then kick up north and find this bakery.”
“Where is it?”
“South side of the Arena.”
“There’s an arena?”
“You haven’t heard of it?”
“No.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, insular upbringing.”
“Well, you’ll know it when you see it.”
“Sure, I’ll take some metal over.”
Matthew patted my arm and went into the cottage. He came out with a large leather sack, struggling a bit with it, and dropped it in front of me. He then got a pad of paper and started scribbling something on the top sheet.
“Have a nice walk,” Matthew said. “You want me to say anything to Nadya for you?”
“No.”
“I’ll make something up.”
“Do not do that.”
“See you here tomorrow, you can see some actual magic happen here.”
“Actual magic?”
“Just be here tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
I hoisted the bag of metal on my shoulder and gritted my teeth as I tried to make it seem like it wasn’t heavy.
Matthew gave me a very cheery wave, then pressed a folded note into my hand and gave me a shove out the gate.
45
It was not easy to haul the metal across town, and I definitely stopped and looked inside. It was a glossy black, looking almost like obsidian, but significantly heavier. And it was mostly in very small pieces. I had to start channeling, running the stamina regeneration spell so I wouldn’t die on the sidewalk. It was definitely starting to be one of my favorite spells.
The place I had to take it to was a metal shop by the name of Tim’s Smithie. The shop looked as if it had been divided nicely at one point, an office on one side of the building, the forge on the other. But someone had torn down most of the walls, just not the doors. Tim was a large man who looked like he never missed a meal, and had the hair on his person burned off on the regular. He sat in a chair, leaning it back on two legs, his two legs up on the desk. He was a cheery guy who was in the middle of razzing one of his employees about being late after a date when I showed up and set the metal on the desk in front of him.
“What’s this, then?” he asked.
“Metal from Matthew Gallifrey,” I replied.
“From the pit.”
“Yes.”
“Pit metal is always a bit odd.”
He let his chair drop, then reached over and picked in the bag. He stared. Reached his hand in and scooped a handful of little chunks out.
“Lucky son of a troll,” he said quietly. “Tell him I’ll owe him double, but I’ll take all of it.”
“Can do.”
“Good lad,” he said, a dreamy look in his eyes.
I was insanely curious, but Tim snagged the bag with one hand, and lifted it easily, taking it into the forge portion of the shop. His underlings swarmed him, but Tim shouted at them and got them to back up. Tim knelt at the back, opened a big safe, and put the metal in there. I chose to leave before he turned around, not wanting to be caught watching. Besides, I was reasonably sure Matthew would tell me what the metal was when I showed back up at work.
Gallifrey was right about the Arena. It was pretty hard to miss. It was basically like someone had cast enlarge on the Colosseum. It was a massive structure that boggled the mind. I had no idea how something like that would be constructed prior to things like cranes and concrete pumpers. There were huge banners hanging down from the top, stylized animals and people with names I didn’t recognize. People were making their way through wide entrances, and the sound of people clapping, cheering, and screaming echoed up from inside.
There was wide open space around the Arena, some of it green space, most of it just cobbled over with bricks. Lots of benches, lots of stalls selling small goods, food, and drink. The buildings around the Arena were all commercial in nature, and quite large. Breweries, bakeries, and taverns. Essentially, bars and restaurants near football stadiums. On the south side, tucked between a mead hall and a brewery was a tall thin building with a small sign hanging over the front door: The Biscuit Union.
It looked empty. There were people going into all the other buildings, but this one remained untouched.
I, however, had a note. A piece of paper that would give me entreé into the place. Or, you know, it was an elaborate practical joke on the part of Matthew. When I opened the door and saw what was inside, that theory gained a considerable amount of credence.
The Biscuit Union’s front room was a coffee shop. Or the medieval equivalent thereof. There was a glass case that likely would have been filled with baked goods at one point, but that only held plates, crumbs, and crushed dreams now. There were coffee pots, empty, and teapots, hopefully empty, and a number of tables spread out in the empty space in front of the counter.
Three men sat at one of the tables. They were old. Like white hair, wrinkled skin, curmudgeonly air about them old. The way they dressed, and the style they kept their hair and facial hair, it was all different than anything I saw out on the streets now. They had a card game going between them, and as soon as I came through the door, there were six eyes on me. Well, five. One eye was definitely off on its own little journey.
For a moment, the four of us engaged in an awkward bout of silence.
“Elven place is on the other side of the arena,” one of the old men, the one with the longest beard and hair, said. “Think they still offer traditional fare there.”
“Do they?” His neighbor, the one with the eye, said.
“They do,” Beard replied.
“You wouldn’t know,” number three snapped. “You have never been there, and you have never done the traditional elven meal.”
“Like you have?”
“I did with Lewis Craddock—”
“Toothless Craddock?”
“His father.”
“Is he—”
“Dead.”
“And Toothless?”
“Dead.”
“Shame.”
“Is it?” Number two asked, eye still wandering around on its own.
“No,” three snapped. “Toothless was worthless. Hence the name.”
“Name was because of his teeth,” Beard said. “Or lack of.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
All eyes were back on me. (Almost.)
“I’m looking for the Biscuit Union,” I said. “Or a representative thereof.”
The three men looked at me, then at each other. Then at me. Then at each other. Then they leaned their heads together and whispered.
It was all quite bizarre.
Finally, after what seemed like quite the whisper argument, the men leaned back in their chairs.
“What’s this in reference to?” The bearded one asked.
I held out the folded note.
“Letter of introduction,” I said.
“From?” Beard asked.
“Matthew Gallifrey.”
“Gallifrey?” Eye asked.
“Can’t be,” number three said. “Gallifrey is in the Legion.”
“He went back?” Eye asked.
“Never left,” Three replied.
�
�He retired from that nonsense,” Beard said. “And never went back. Just went civilian. Got married. Works in the pits.”
“Working the pits is the pits,” number three said.
“You sure he’s not back with the Legion?” Eye asked.
“Dangit Colin,” Beard fairly shrieked, “stop asking questions.”
Silence.
“The letter,” Beard said, his ancient hand extended. “Please.”
I set the letter in the man’s hand. He unfolded it, harrumphed, then did a little work to get the paper in the exact right spot where he could read it. Then he read it. I think twice. Then passed the letter to his right so Colin, Eye, could read it. Colin passed it to Three to read. And then they whispered again.
At the end of which time, Colin got up from the table, with the letter, and walked behind the counter and through a door.
We were back to awkward silence.
I glanced out the window. Dusk.
“Got someplace to be?” Beard asked.
“Leave the kid alone,” Three said. “Dark’s coming. He just wants to get home.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Been spending enough time in the dark, I’m almost used to it.”
“Get used to it,” Beard said, “and that’s right when it gets ya. Keep that fear. Healthy.”
“Noted.”
“You know what coffee is?” Beard asked.
“I do.”
“You want some?”
“Dying for some.”
He cackled, well, I think he was just trying to laugh, but it came out as a cackle. But he got up faster than I expected and basically raced behind the counter. He started puttering around with all sorts of things, and I heard a whistle of steam far faster than I should, and a moment later, there was a small steaming cup of coffee on the table next to where the old men were playing their game.
“Sit, young man, sit,” Beard said. “Letter says your name is Clyde. Hatchett.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“That sack of complaints across from me is Nelson Grundham. I’m Rowland Tamblyn.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Nice to meet us, he says,” Nelson said, a glint in his eye. “Clearly, he has no idea who we are.”
“Thanks. Actually kind of true.”
“Just walk around visiting random bakeries with letters of introduction, do you?” Nelson asked.
“I don’t make fun of your hobbies.”
Rowland, the beard, cackled again, slapping his hand down on the table and spilling his own cup of coffee.
“It wasn’t that funny,” Nelson snapped.
“You lost your sense of humor after that incident with the gargoyle,” Rowland said. “Never been the same after that.”
“No one would.”
“What was the incident?” I asked.
Rowland held a finger up as if he was about to tell me the story, but then Nelson shook his head once. Hard and sure.
“Might have to table that tale,” Rowland said. “Right now, have to keep out too many details for it to make sense. But it’s a good story.”
“About as good as you and the succubus,” Nelson said, laughing.
It was Rowland’s turn to be unamused.
“That was trickery and deceit of the highest order,” Rowland said.
“And how much money did you lose?”
“None of your business.”
“A pile of gold like you’ve never seen,” Nelson told me, choking back laughter. “And just poof, gone!”
“The number of times I regret my actions in the dock saving you.”
“Bah, you still owe me.”
“You owe me!”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said today. Me owe you. How could you possibly figure that?”
“You’ve lost at cards for the last five years, and how often have you bought back into the game?”
“We weren’t talking about money.”
“You never talk about money.”
“It’s impolite.”
“Only because you never have any. I may have lost some gold to the succubus, but at least I still have plenty.”
“That’s because you’re nobility, you—”
“You said you’d keep that a secret!”
“Worst kept secret in the Empire.”
“That’s not true, what about the one with Valamir—”
“Young man,” Colin said from the open doorway he’d gone through. “If you would, please follow me.”
I stood up, took a sip of the scalding coffee, which was really quite delicious, and smiled at Rowland and Nelson.
“A pleasure, gentlemen.”
And then I followed Colin into the back.
46
He led me through a big kitchen, it looked very much like a modern kitchen, with a few notable differences, naturally. The big ovens were wood-fired, there was a giant hamster-type wheel on one side which would allow someone to walk slowly and turn a big turntable inside the oven. There were plenty of work surfaces, but instead of steel, these were made from stone. Four doors led off the room, one we’d just come through, a big metal vault-like door that could maybe be a refrigerator of some sort, and then two other wooden doors that looked like they were, you know, doors. On the far side of the room sat a massive slab of brilliant white marble, and I had a feeling it was used for making candy or chocolate. Only one of the ovens was lit, and there was something that looked like bread inside, getting nice and golden. An old man and an old woman were standing near the oven, and it was pretty clear to me that they’d been working, but they just stood and watched Colin and me walk through.
Colin went to one of the wood doors, he knocked twice, then opened it up. An office. A big one that was almost more of a suite. There was a desk on one side of the room, but a seating area was on the other. A heavy-looking couch with comfortable looking cushions and two oversized armchairs. All made out of some form of patterned leather. There was a beautiful coffee table in the middle of the seating area, with a remarkably intricate vase sitting dead center. Flowers were in it, beautiful blooming flowers that gave off the most incredible scent. Striking artwork was on all the walls, and a friendly fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. I couldn’t help myself, I smiled.
A man was at the desk, reading over some papers. Younger than anyone I’d seen so far, but not by much, he had an air of distinction about him, a full head of hair that was just beginning to have streaks of white in it, a shave that had clearly been done by a professional recently. His nails were perfectly manicured, and he wore a shirt and trousers, but there was a dark blue coat hanging on a hatrack by the door. As was his hat. Also blue. But muted. Nothing loud or flashy about the man, just total confidence in each of his decisions.
Colin and I waited at the door for a moment while the man at the desk finished whatever it was he was in the middle of, the man paying us no attention in the slightest until he scribbled something in a notebook, then closed everything and finally looked up.
“Thank you, Colin,” the man said.
Colin gave a slight nod of his head, then exited the room, closing the door as he passed.
The man stood, and walked around the desk, holding a piece of parchment, Matthew’s letter, in his hand.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the sitting area.
I sat down in one of the chairs. Seemed odd to sit down on the couch when I was trying to have a meeting.
He, however, sat down right in the middle of the couch, set Matthew’s letter on the table in front of him, then leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table.
“Clyde Hatchett,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you know who we are?”
“Biscuit’s Union?”
“That’s our name, but do you know anything further?”
“I have a few guesses, but nothing concrete, no.”
“Guess then.”
&
nbsp; “A gang? Syndicate? However you want to call it?”
“I suppose you can consider us something along those lines.”
“A thieves guild?”
“That does have quite a nice ring to it,” he said with a bemused smile. “I like that. We are a collection of like-minded individuals who tend to play on the other side of the law. Currently, I am the leader of this thieves guild, Victor Woolf.”
“Clyde Hatchett.”
“I know,” he said, pointing at Gallifrey’s letter.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Certainly the pleasure is mine. I am curious, though, what you’re doing here.”
“I, uh, I don’t know what the letter says, but I’m interested in, uh, doing essentially what you guys are doing.”
“With us? For us? Just curious, looking to apprentice to one of us?”
“I mean, maybe? Yes? I don’t know. I’m new to the city, and I’m looking for, I guess, help.”
“It is intriguing that you have come to us. Not many are, well, I doubt many realize we exist any longer. Matthew only does because of his past. Presently, we really do little more than run this eatery.”
“But it wasn’t always the case, right?”
“Of course not, we are one of the oldest thieves guilds, if you will, in Glaton. Been here since the founding of the Empire, should you believe our history. Which you should. Only embellished ever so much.”
“So why, I mean, what made you leave the game? Matthew calls it the game.”
“Many do. It’s odd walking around and talking about a life of crime. I suppose we’re being open and honest about it now, that crime is what we are talking about, right? I haven’t misread this.”
“No, I want to be a thief. To steal from the rich and powerful.”
“They really are the best to steal from. I tried stealing from paupers before, but, really, all you usually get is lice.”
“Noted.”
“What happened to the Biscuit’s Union,” he started, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling.
I followed his gaze and saw that there were intricate carvings all over the place.
“The carvings are from the Imperial Palace,” Victor said. “The first palace. As far as I know, this newer palace one has remained largely free from the activities of our kind.”
