War of the Posers

by Eric Ugland

  Titus sighed. “It’s just that I’m tired of these idiots,” he whispered, almost violently.

  “I know. Me too. But we can’t just run around like chickens with our heads cut off. We do that, and they win. We gotta be smart about all this.”

  “We’re moving too slowly, though.”

  “Okay, so what if we don’t talk to the guy?” I asked, the wheels in my head turning ever so slowly. “What if we just take a look around his house, see if he’s left something out that would give us a little more insight into his relationship with these other friends?.”

  “What would you be looking for?”

  “This guy, your new lover—“

  “Shut it. Don’t need the wife to get a slice of gossip and be concerned.”

  “Fine, my new lover—“

  “Better.”

  “He’s clearly running the, you know, for the, uh, them.”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s probably got ways to contact his friends. Addresses of their homes or places they like to frequent, right?”

  “That would make sense.”

  “Or, and this is a little more out there, it’s possible they have a similar arrangement as we do, where they’re all living in the same building.”

  “Nope,” Titus said. “Already checked. The man has his family in there.”

  “A family man? I wonder how deep he’s tied to, uh, them.”

  “He’s got a wife, and three children. Young children.”

  “More of a reason not to do what it was you were going to do.”

  “Because of his children? What about what he does?”

  “We don’t know what he does, do we?” I asked. “As far as I know, this guy is just the man who runs the broth— the place we think might have something to do with those, uh, guys. This is exhausting — can we maybe have this talk somewhere we can be a little freer with our words?”

  “Were there a place like that around the Bright, I would have had you meet me there. This is the best we can do. But, you are correct in what we know about the man. He is just the manager.”

  I popped the last bite into my mouth, and chased it down with the remaining milk.

  “Okay,” I said, wiping my milk mustache off with a napkin, “let’s go look at a house.”

  “Lothar’s watching it right now,” Titus said, pushing off the bar and heading out the door.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The Bright is a nice neighborhood, as anyone living there will tell you as soon as they meet you. They’ll point out the beautiful stone work of the roads, and the dignified statues in their squares. They’ll mention the plentiful fountains and the small parks everywhere.

  They won’t tell you that they abut the wall of the city, and that if an army were to come in from the east, the Bright would be the first neighborhood put to the torch. Of course, the cheapest homes in the Bright are closest to the wall, and our friendly brothel manager had a home that was just one block from the wall. We followed the road’s gentle curve as it went north, away from the main avenue, and while there were a few commercial properties, it was pretty much row houses all the way up. Finally we stopped at a tiny row house tucked between other large, more ornate houses. The shabbiest house in the nicest neighborhood. Not that it was bad, just that it was bad in comparison to the other more, um, gilded homes in the area.

  We found Lothar, looking every bit the out-of-place arena fighter in the neighborhood, sitting on a bench about a hundred feet from the house. He was eating a rather large meat pie.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Eating a pie,” he said, “watching a house.”

  “Anyone home?”

  He nodded.

  Titus and I sat down on either side of Lothar.

  “The wife and kids just left,” Lothar said, “heading to the park. Perfect time to go in and have a little chat with--”

  “Change of plans,” Titus said. “Ran it by the big guy here, and he had some thoughts. Some good, some a little disagreeable.”

  “So we’re not doing what we said we were going to do?”

  “We, that is, you and I, are continuing to, uh, not be obvious about watching the house. Our noble leader will pay a visit to the house.”

  “Surreptitiously,” I added.

  Lothar shrugged. “Gotta say,” he said, because he gotta say it, “I prefer doing it this way. There’s your man leaving.” He pointed to a portly, middle-aged man stomping out of the house and heading down the road in a hurry. Clearly irritated at the world in general.

  “That’s my cue,” I said, getting to my feet. “I guess let me know if he comes back. Or anyone does.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” Titus asked.

  “Improvise,” I replied with a smile.

  Getting into a row house can be challenging. I always hated getting into that kind of house in New York. But townhouses in the city always had the very best loot. Manhattan didn’t exactly have many alleys, so it was always a pain in the ass to find the right backyard. But because this city still relied on things like horses and wagons, there was a narrow street that led to the backs of all the row houses on either side of the block. And while normally I’d have to at least have enough wits about me to count houses, this time I just had to find the narrowest house, so it was extremely easy to pick out my target.

  I skulked through the narrow carriage street, wishing there were deeper shadows to hide in. Quick glances at the windows told me that no one was keen on their neighbors looking in, because every single window was covered with thick drapes of some kind. Which, you you know, meant I could walk proudly down the middle of the road without being seen. But why take the chance?

  As soon as I got to the right backyard, I hopped the fence. His backyard was a garden, and my feet immediately sank in the mud between his carrots. It was deep, dark dirt, and though I knew next to nothing about gardening, it looked fantastic. Carefully, I stepped around his various vegetables and fruits, and on to the small stone path leading up to his back door. Down the path, and up the stairs, and I paused at the door. I was still cautious touching anything because I didn’t have gloves on. Old habit, considering no one bothered with looking for fingerprints now.

  The door was locked, so I pulled out a lock-pick and did a little work on the door. I heard the tumblers tick over, and opened the door. Peering inside the house gave me pause. It was nice. Very comfy, homey. There were toys around, and good smells lingered in the kitchen. I had to wonder if, you know, maybe, this was a good guy. Maybe he was just a decent fellow working a job at a business owned by a bunch of assholes. Wouldn’t be the first time. The downstairs was simple, a kitchen, a dining room, entrance hall, and a library. I darted up the stairs, and found a master bedroom and a small washroom on the second floor. No shower. Third floor held four small bedrooms, with one clearly meant for an adult. I hoped it was a nanny of some sort, and not the wife forced up there.

  I went back the first floor, and checked for a basement. It was more like a root cellar, which, in fact, held roots. Mostly. Potatoes and turnips and the like. Nothing overtly secret.

  I decided the library was the best place to look.

  There were quite a few books on the shelves, and a very large fireplace. A wide wooden desk took up one corner, with a small love seat opposite. A heavy leather chair with wide arms squatted near the fireplace, and given the mostly-empty glass of milk sitting on the side table, I assumed it was most often used by the kids.

  I checked the books on the shelves first, and was sorely disappointed. Ninety-five percent of them were fake. Just the ends of books glued onto pieces of wood. I mean, I understood. Books were incredibly expensive in this world, and this was certainly a way to make it look like the library was full. But that meant all my hopes were pinned on the desk.

  There were three drawers on each side, the bottom ones larger and locked. Or, had locks. I pushed the chair out of the way, and got down to it. Drawers one and two
were basic office type things: paper, quills, pots of ink, that sort of thing. More paper in the other top two drawers.

  Locked drawer one was so simple I barely need to pick it, and there was really no need to open it. It had a bottle of booze and a single glass. From the look of it, it seemed like our man had been hitting sauce pretty consistently.

  I was about to get started on the next drawer when I heard something. Kind of like a bird, uh, dying. It was a really unpleasant and disturbing sound.

  Quickly followed by another unpleasant sound: a key turning in the front door.

  I had to hide.

  There was nowhere to go, not really, since the front door was right outside the library. And the door to the library was open. The manager, or his wife, was about to come into the house and see me.

  I vaulted the desk, then hurdled the loveseat, hitting the wall a little before dropping to the floor. I held by breath and hoped I was hidden enough.

  The front door opened, creaking just a little.

  “... but I told you they aren’t polite men,” I heard a man saying. “I warned you.”

  “You didn’t tell me—“ a woman started to say, but the man with her shushed her.

  “Before you say anything else, go into my office and make sure my children aren’t home.”

  Angry footsteps came into the room, while another, heavier set, moved around the house.

  Someone fairly threw themself into the chair by the fire.

  A moment later, more footsteps. The door closed, and someone sat behind the desk. I heard a drawer open.

  “Drink?” the man asked, setting the bottle and a glass on the desk.

  “Not at this hour, no,” the woman replied sharply.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. He poured a healthy swig, tossed it back, and then returned bottle and glass to his drawer.

  I heard the man clear his throat. “Before you say anything,” he said, “I warned you about this.”

  “I didn’t know what you meant,” she snapped back.

  “How much clearer could I have made it? They are criminals with a lot of money and they wanted—“

  “Do you know what they are doing?”

  “Not everything, and that’s on purpose.”

  “How can you work for them then?”

  “Because before I was working with them, my wife and I had to take turns on who got to eat the one meal we could afford every other day. Now, my nanny eats multiple times every day.”

  “So it’s for money.”

  “Of course it’s for money. Why did you agree to clean up after these criminals, other than that they were paying exorbitant rates? Did you think you deserved that because you were had a mop skill level of a hundred? Are you able to make beds and do laundry better than anyone else in the city?”

  “You don’t have to get mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you, I’m just frustrated with you. I don’t understand what you don’t understand.”

  “They are violent.”

  “Toward you? Have they hurt you?”

  “Would you care if they had?”

  “Yes. Have they?”

  “No. But I’ve seen other things they’ve done.”

  “Don’t watch them.”

  “How can I not?”

  “Close your eyes. Go in, do your work, leave. Don’t socialize with them. Go when they aren’t there?”

  “When aren’t they there? They lounge around their clubhouse all day! Or sleep in their rooms. Or eat disgusting meals in the cantina. There are twelve of them. Twelve! And their rooms—“

  “I don’t want to hear about how messy it is; that’s why you were hired. They don’t want to clean up after themselves, so they pay for the privilege not to. And they pay well. Do you need more hands—“

  “I was not told I would be cleaning up blood.”

  “They are young men! Of course there will be blood.”

  “What if it is blood from killing someone?”

  “It’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we have an agreement, and they don’t do anything of that sort within their clubhouse.”

  “You think they’ll stick to it?”

  “Yes. They’ve upheld every single contract and agreement I’ve made with them so far. They will agree to this.”

  “Or what? You’ll—“

  “I don’t know,” the man yelled. “I am doing my best to mitigate the risks and challenges we all face dealing with the Iron Silents, but there are issues I can’t handle because I don’t know enough about them. I told you what you should expect, and you said it was worth the gold they were paying. Have they hurt you? No. Have they insulted you? No. Have they had any direct contact with you in the slightest?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “So I’m sorry it’s unpleasant there,” he continued, “but that was the deal. If you want to stop working there, that’s fine. I can find someone else, and I won’t fault you for it. I know what working with them is like. Gods, I know what working with them is like. And yes, it’s for the fucking money and I need the money if I am to survive with my family. Especially to live out here.”

  “You are selling your soul.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m willing to sell mine so my children don’t need to sell theirs.”

  “You are a monster like they are.”

  “Madam, I have lost my patience with you. Do you wish to terminate our arrangement?”

  “Yes. And I think I might go to the watch.”

  “Annalise, I would advise against that.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. I am warning you. Do you think these men have issues with the watch? If you go, they’ll just give the watch a little coin, and then you’ll be killed. Or worse. Just take the payment and go, find another job and forget you ever had anything to do with these men.”

  There was an awful silence. I felt like I could hear the woman’s brain spinning out of control. She was starting to realize the situation she’d put herself in, and how bad it really was. Their conversation made me wonder about how useful the manager could be. He was clear-eyed about what he’d gotten into, he recognized the particular brand of evil of his bosses, but so far he could rationalize it.

  What if we could talk to him without him going to the Iron Silents? If he was a man who was in it for money, maybe we could offer him an alternative. Turn him to our side.

  “I would like to stop working there,” the woman finally said, her voice barely audible..

  “I can understand that,” the manager replied. “I won’t mention any of this to the Iron Silents. Don’t worry about that. I will just tell them you accepted a job nearer your home.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a clink of coins and a scrape of a chair against the floor, and then the two walked out of the room.

  I considered hopping into the chair, to be waiting there when the man returned. But I was as of yet undecided when he came back into the room, mumbling to himself and stomping across the floor. He sat down violently, got another big drink from his drawer bottle, and let out a painful-sounding belch.

  “Now, where are you going to find another maid willing to work there, Simon?” he asked himself. “Where indeed. Enough trouble with that first one, and you couldn’t be bothered to talk her into continuing? Foolish you are, Simon Siddall. Just as your father said.”

  He stood up, and started pacing back and forth in his library.

  Meanwhile, I said a quick prayer to the god of luck that this man liked talking out loud to himself.

  “Tabitha...” he said suddenly. “She’s... no. I placed her with the Cousins family. Would she leave? Oh, no, she has room and board with them. Who do I know who lives in the Grand Market?”

  The front door to the house opened again. I tried to pull myself into an even tighter ball behind the loveseat.

  “Why was Annalise here?” a woman said as she strode into the office.

 
; “I’m sure you know the reason, dear,” Simon Siddall said.

  “She quit.”

  “She did.”

  “Those boys are a bother.”

  “They are a bother that make our lives possible.”

  “Please tell me you have a plan to get out of their control.”

  “If I did, I would be lying.”

  “Simon.”

  “I can say your name with concern just as well.”

  “I am concerned.”

  “I know. But we are where we are.”

  “What is it you need?”

  “Besides a way out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need a maid with a strong stomach and a flexible moral code.”

  “Is that all?”

  “For the moment. I’m sure they’ll have additional requirements as soon as they can think of them.”

  “I know someone who might fit the bill.”

  “Not your sister, it’s not a--“

  “Not my sister. A young woman, an arena fighter. She lost her foot in a tournament, but she’s still quite active.”

  “And can she clean?”

  “How hard is cleaning?”

  “I don’t know, dearest, I leave that to you.”

  “It’s not hard, and I do wish you’d help a little more.”

  “I am up to my eyeballs—“

  “I know, but—“

  “I can’t right now. Not until—“

  “I know.”

  I heard something I couldn’t quite identify, something that sounded a little wet. I peeked around the edge of the loveseat, doing my utmost to keep my head hidden, and saw the two kissing.

  “Where shall I tell my arena fighter friend to meet you?”

  “Their clubhouse is in the market district. Two blocks up from the Grand Bazaar, on the corner of Lavinious and Elm.”

  I could hear the scratching of a pencil on paper.

  “I will go to see her now,” the wife said. “Unless—“

  “No, I can wait here for the children,” he said. “I need not be to the Gilded Garden until later this evening.”

  “We’ll get through this,” she said softly, and kissed him once more on his head.