by Will Molinar
Two men came forward from within the bowels of the arena, both tall and heavy, arguing with each other. Castellan smiled, for he recognized Derek and Desmond.
“…we must talk this out. This will not do,” said the taller, thinner one, Derek.
“No, no, no! We are exposing ourselves.”
Castellan approached them as Thruck was carted off without incident. Castellan was in control of everything and had the power of their Almighty behind him every step. Nothing could oppose him.
“Please, please, gentlemen. I’m certain we can come to an understanding.”
Desmond and Derek looked at him. Derek spoke. “We have a contract with the city to operate on these premises. I demand to know what this is about. You have caused willful damage to our arena and payment for its repair will be forthcoming! I promise you.”
“That contract is null and void as of today. For far too long this has been a blight upon our landscape, and it will no longer be tolerated. If police Captain Dillon would be so kind as to explain further.”
Dillon looked at both parties and swallowed. “Well, yes, see, there is a new edict, put in effect this morning by city council. Can’t let this business operate no more. We have to shut it down.”
Castellan held out his hand. Dillon pursed his lips and handed him a rolled piece of parchment.
“The edict,” Castellan said and showed it to them. They looked it over and conferred to one another, ignoring Castellan.
“We will fight this,” said Derek. “Understand that litigation will be pushed to the fullest extent of the law.”
Castellan wanted to say that he was the law now, but he held his tongue. This wasn’t the time for verbal attack. “Place them under arrest. All of them.”
Dillon had no choice. Castellan saw in his moments, the man was torn. He hesitated but in the end, Derek and Desmond were put in chains along with everyone else involved with the operation of the arena, even the spectators.
A row ensued a few minutes later as they continued to clear out the interior of the pit. Castellan flicked his eyes towards the sundered opening as a familiar figure emerged. It was Jerrod, cursing and shoving his way as officers attempted to corral him into their embrace.
Castellan smirked but felt an inner turmoil. Perhaps he should let the assassin stew in jail for a few days if only to teach him a lesson. Then again, the Guild needed Jerrod and his men, for the next few days were critical.
“Officers,” Castellan said and stood before them. “This gentleman has been kind enough to do some recognizance work for The Merchants Guild and to infiltrate this den of depravity. Without his information we would not have been successful in this mission. Please, he is to be released and not harangued for today’s work. In fact we should commend the effort.”
Some of them frowned, but none dared argue. They let him go, and Jerrod glared at them while Castellan smiled. Jerrod looked chagrined for a moment. Good enough for now. The man knew whom his master and keeper was.
Soon everyone else would understand.
Chapter Six
The dipping, spinning, lilting pull of the ocean became nothing more than a normal feeling after a few days. One got used to anything after enough time. Still, some men became seasick, as Zandor’s men were not accustomed at sea for any length of time. It never bothered Zandor. He’d spent a lot of time on board ships, as a merchant’s guard in fact, right before the current job with the magistrate. Or perhaps it was two jobs ago.
Whatever the case, there was no possibility to be working for Harper again. The men had plenty of room to stretch their legs since the ship’s crew was gone. They were the only ones that walked the deck or slept within the quarters. Enough men to run the ship but not enough to feel crowded. It was the waiting that pried on their nerves, and Zandor didn’t blame them. But he wouldn’t listen to the complaining either. Let them stew.
A few men milled about above decks as Zandor strolled along. He felt a bit bored himself. He sighed and decided to do something about it.
Down to the captain’s quarters, where he kept the magistrate under guard, the man looked at him, and Zandor knew something wasn’t quite right.
“What is it, Al? Someone shit in your porridge this morning?” Al shifted and started to speak, but shut his mouth. Zandor didn’t let him off. “Out with it.”
“Sir, I-I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t know we was doing all this. Out here with the magistrate. He ain’t happy. Keeps ordering us to let him go.”
Zandor held up a hand. “I know. Don’t like it myself. But listen.” He lowered his voice and dipped his head, making a motion for the youth to come closer. “This Harper is an odd fella. This happens all the time, says it’s good training, see? Wants some adventure, too. You got the goods to see this through? The other boys say you ain’t got the balls for real. I don’t believe it. ”
The youth stiffened and stood straight. “I’m your man, Zandor. I’ll prove it to you.”
“Good boy,” Zandor said and patted his arm. He unlocked the door and entered.
Harper was stared out the lone port hole on the far wall. He turned and glanced at Zandor, and his face flushed with annoyance. “How long do we continue this folly?”
Zandor kept his face neutral as he strolled into the room. He went to the lush couch by the right hand wall where a beautiful bookcase lay. “As long as it takes.”
Harper sighed and turned back to the calm waters outside. “Haven’t been out on a swell for some time. It is beautiful, calming in a way. I suppose I should thank you for this solitude, for getting me out from behind a desk in a stuffy office. It is important to do so from time to time.”
The light from the porthole lanced through his red hair and beard and set it alight as if his head wreathed in flame. “This is foolish, Zandor. This will not end well for you. The kidnapping of a city official is a serious crime, and my office will prosecute. It is punishable by death, and I will have no choice but to pursue the strongest case against you.”
Zandor didn’t flinch. “Who said you’re ever goin’ back?”
Harper’s face went through a myriad of expressions, starting with confusion, then disbelief, to shock, then straight to anger, and finished with a shimmering and shaken confidence.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Zandor harrumphed. “Yeah, well, I tell ya. When a man gets threatened, I think he’s got a right to defend himself and survive. Don’t you?”
Harper stared and swallowed. He sniffed once and turned back to the window, to the swell of the ocean. His shoulders slumped. “I suppose you have a point. We sometimes forget our actions have consequences and thus can be at the whim of others and their particular agendas. You have yours, and I have mine. Do what you must, Zandor.”
Zandor said nothing for a few minutes. The rocking ship rolled beneath his feet. He went to the door, speaking over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything, Magistrate Harper.”
Above decks was a calm sea with gentle winds. Several of the more experienced sailors tied down sails, reset the rigging, or talked with smoke by the bow.
Some of them gave him odd looks. They weren’t happy, but he let them be. Zandor had enough of his own men, including Kurgi and his ilk, to keep these little shits under control so he spent some time leaning against the rail and enjoying the cool breeze.
Two sea gulls cawed and flew overhead in a lazy arc. Zandor smiled and shook his head. The sea never changed. It would outlive all of them. A few minutes later there came a ship on the horizon, a small speck at first that grew to a visible outline.
It came to rest at the side of Zandor’s vessel, and the men threw a rope ladder over the side. A man climbed up and set foot on their ship. He was smallish and wore a dark cloak with hood. He handed Zandor a note. Zandor thanked him and told him to get below and warm.
Zandor went to his cabin and put the note on a table while he fished out a glass and bottle of wine from a cabinet. He stared at the note.
Of course, things were never as simple as they could have been. There were always complications. It appeared more drastic measures were needed. A good murder or two should do the trick. He crumpled up the paper and made his way to the deck again, his drink forgotten.
“Snap to it, boys! Raise the sails and get us back to port. Get us underway!”
Zandor had a way of changing the inflection of his voice, so people would listen. The men didn’t hesitate. Soon they were headed back to Janisberg.
* * * * *
The tavern was almost empty, much like the others in town. It didn’t surprise the lone figure; a thin, even gaunt man with a grey hood pulled low over his face. His dexterous fingers always moved, always twitched for something as if they were trying to twirl a phantom string.
Giorgio couldn’t remember the last time food or sleep had touched his life, but the desire to do either was lacking.
A few people chattered together in the corner by the fireplace wall. The bartender spoke with a pretty couple by the bar stand. A serving girl, very bouncy and smiling, went back and forth from table to bar, table to bar.
Giorgio felt the ground crunch under his feet. It felt sticky, like dried blood. The dog followed behind but stopped to lick its hind legs for a moment.
He stopped and rubbed its neck. It whimpered when the thief touched it. It stayed by his side though afraid of him. It licked his hand but made a face that was halfway between a growl and a whimper. Letting the animal be, he grabbed a passing worker, a cleaning man. He stopped short and winced at Giorgio’s iron grip.
“Slow night?”
The man nodded, and Giorgio released him. “Yeah, on account of them foreigners. Nobody wants to be about these nights.”
Giorgio nodded and let the man go about his business. The dog tried to nuzzle up to his leg. He ignored it though. Part of him was pained by the separation.
The bartender served his regular, and the stricken thief picked up the crude glass. He sniffed it catching only the barest hint of alcohol. No surprise they watered things down. This wasn’t the part of town where goods were what they seemed if that was possible at all. He brought the glass up to his lips and blew on the liquid.
It was an involuntary action but produced a strange result. The rim glimmered with frost, and the liquid grew cold around the edge. He downed it in one gulp and heard laughter from outside. There were some bullish sell-swords through the windows, and the people in the tavern squirmed at the sight.
The drink trickled down his throat; a slight burn then nothing. It disappeared before it hit his stomach, or else he was numb to the sensation. Giorgio put the glass down on the counter and knocked it away. Paranoia flashed in his mind after a quick glance around the room, but no one noticed him.
Giorgio left the tavern. The dog hesitated but followed him. On the street, the night air came warm from the south. The thief went north, towards the center of town, and soon reached an area with stretches of street with lanterns. They hung above the road every half block.
Rounding two more corners, there was some commotion up ahead. People yelled and cursed. He came to an open square the fighting arena once stood proud. Now a boarded up collection of placid wood, a mob gathered. Men and women with dirty faces and scabby hands held torches and various implements; garden tools and brooms and even small kitchen knives. Rolling pins were common amongst the women.
A much smaller group of mercenaries stood against them, outnumbered ten to one. They held their weapons at the ready as some tried to push the crowd back. They were better armed with wooden staves used to quell riots. The leading the mercenaries were some of Jerrod’s toughs, brawny youths with black, shirtless vests, and swords.
Giorgio smiled as he heard the crowd shout.
“We don’t want ya here, ya got me? So go back where ya all came from!”
“Get outta here, filth!”
Others agreed while the mercenaries stood their ground.
“This is our city,” a grim faced man said, holding a meat cleaver. “You people don’t belong here.”
One of the mercenaries scoffed. “Gold made us come here, old man. And only gold’s gonna make us leave. So unless you can pay up, shut your mouth.”
The crowd didn’t respond well. They shouted and swelled the square and some parts of the surrounding streets. Giorgio moved off to the side of a building and stood beneath an eave to watch. There weren’t many people on that side, as most of the common people faced that direction while the mercenaries had their backs to him.
Some in the crowd got rough with the sell swords, shoving them back and shouting in their faces. Another group of mercenaries, with a few toughs mixed in, came down a side street and stood up to support their fellows.
The dog growled at his feet, and Giorgio let him. It was time everyone got a little pissed off.
The situation before him escalated. It needed only a tiny push to tip it over the edge of a riot. Giorgio pulled a knife from under his cloak and flicked it towards the crowd. It struck a man in the shoulder. He cried out in pain and spun. A woman screamed. People around him bellowed in anger when they saw the wound. Then chaos erupted.
The mercenaries called for order, as did a few police that had come up to see what the commotion was, but the crowd had had enough. They exploded forward and smashed into the thin line of opposition with their hate and frustration. All that had built up spewed forth upon them in the form of physical violence.
That made Giorgio happy.
* * * * *
The riots lasted all night and well into the next morning. It spilled throughout the town. From the decadent section of town in which it began and then later into other streets and neighborhoods not known for such lawlessness.
Muldor believed it could only help them in their cause, a happy accident that came at the perfect time. Castellan would be busy squaring things away in the slum quarters as more riots were sure to erupt, and Muldor hoped it would spread. Anything to take pressure off of them was a blessing.
Nicoli Peterson met him at their prearranged place, a large abandoned warehouse on the far east side of town, sometimes used for storage before goods went on to the foreign markets. Muldor entered and saw Peterson talking with his captain. All of his royal guard were there, some forty armored men. They looked resplendent in their plate mail and heavy swords. Muldor hoped they were a match for Castellan’s cadre.
Peterson smiled Muldor’s way. “The police are entertained quelling this riot. Good work. Now we are primed to reclaim City Hall.”
“The matter is complex. It is not time to smile and congratulate ourselves quite yet.”
Peterson nodded. “You are right. Forgive my enthusiasm, but I am anxious to right some wrongs.”
“And so you shall. Come, it is time.”
They left the warehouse and marched towards the city’s municipal buildings. Some parts of the riot had reached even that far east, and remnants scattered about. Shattered wood, bits and pieces of trash, and even discarded weapons remained in the roadways. A few spots of blood coagulated in cooler pools. Let it stain the streets. Perhaps then the city council would understand the power of the people.
“Perfect,” said Peterson. “I heard there were forty arrests last night. The constables must be busy at the jail.”
“Forty four. And with the arena fiasco, the jail is fit for bursting. This is a boon for us, to be sure. But also incidental, I’m afraid. Larger issues must be dealt with. The police must be turned to our cause, or there is no hope for success.”
“And the docks, what are we to do about them? Without control there….”
“Yes, the city is doomed to Castellan’s rule. But I think we may yet catch him stuck in city hall. So arrogant he has become, I think the Guild Master would never consider them prone to loss.”
They said nothing further, and soon they reached their destination. It was early in the day, a mere two hours after dawn, but Muldor knew Castellan would be there. His runner Styles had told
him as much. Very few other people were about the grounds, and when they saw an armored contingent coming their way, they scurried away like cockroaches under the glare of a light.
They reached city hall, and Muldor noticed it looked different, more martial. Bars lined the windows on the first floors. Several groups of mercenaries, police, and Castellan’s guard stood by out front, milling around smoking and talking.
At the sight of Muldor, Peterson, and their armored might, they roused themselves. No doubt the previous night’s activities had made them wary.
Muldor and Nicoli Peterson approached them unabashed, the men right behind. Their armor clinked and their swords ready. Muldor recognized Castellan’s guard captain, Lance Peyton, and spoke with him.
“I think you had better summon your boss, young man. We have some things to discuss with him.”
* * * * *
“You know,” Castellan said, “I am very disappointed in you, Jerrod. I had higher expectations on how you would behave.”
Jerrod kept his mouth shut, though there were a thousand things to say. However, to yell at his benefactor at the moment was not a good idea. He wondered if Castellan were sleeping here at city hall in his office. It looked that way.
The Guild Master looked fresh and ready as if he had been up for hours, yet it was only an hour or so past dawn. His armor hung on a wooden dummy off to the side, polished and clean. Castellan sat behind the desk and gave Jerrod an expression that demanded a response.
Jerrod gave a mental sigh and pursed his lips as anger spurned him on. “So this is my fault, is it?”
Castellan sat forward, and his voice had an edge to it. “I’ve charged you with maintaining order in the streets, and first I find you playing games in the arena, and then there are riots destroying our fair city? Is that not a failure on your part?”
