The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  “I’ll take that as a tacit agreement to our truce.”

  The dean glanced down at the open report on his desk. “It looks as though you are struggling with mathematics. I suggest you apply a fraction of the energy you devote to your deviant pursuits toward passing your class. It is a required course after all.”

  “Fractions are the ones with the line between them, right?”

  Dean Kelsey glared daggers at Garran. “Get him out of my sight.”

  The constables pushed him through the door and out of the building. Garran stopped and knelt next to a flower patch he had been working on yesterday with Toby.

  “Do you guys see this white powder?”

  Two of the constables knelt beside him and one said, “Yeah, what is it?”

  Garran grabbed a handful in each fist. “It’s lime.”

  He mashed the fistfuls of soil and lime into the men’s faces. The constables cried out, staggered back, and clawed at their eyes. Garran punched one man in the throat, snatched the cudgel from his belt, and brought it down onto the other’s knee. The constable’s leg buckled and sent him howling to the ground.

  Commander Elric lashed out at Garran with his baton, but the student blocked the swing and delivered a powerful punch to his midriff. The senior constable gasped, but before he could catch his breath, Garran clouted him behind the ear, leapt onto his back, and choked him with the chain securing his red cloak of office.

  Garran leaned close and whispered into Elric’s ear. “Listen close, red cloak. I am going to be the greatest agent this school ever produced. By the end of the day, I’ll know who you are, where you live, and who you love. Remember that before you ever again decide to overstep the bounds of your authority and blindly follow the dictates of a self-ordained god.”

  Garran released his grip and shoved the man’s face into the dirt. He left the constables gasping for breath and groaning in pain. He had classes to attend and was already running late. The dean was right about one thing. Mathematics was a problem, but he was already dealing with it and would soon have it resolved. A more pressing concern was getting a new door on his room. He would have to enlist Toby’s help this afternoon and get that taken care of as well.

  ***

  Garran lay on his bed sipping at a flask of whiskey to numb the pain from his drubbing. He and Toby had just finished installing the new door and reinforcing the strike plate with a slab of iron. Nothing short of a small ram would force it open now. Someone began pounding on the door. He bolted upright and grabbed the knife on his nightstand before he flipped the lock and took several steps back.

  “Enter.”

  He set the knife back on the table and sat on the edge of his bed as Gregor entered the room. The agent pulled out a chair from beneath the desk near the window and sat down.

  “Nice little setup you have here. It’s rare for a first-year student to become prefect, unheard of actually.”

  “You made a good choice selecting me to be an agent. I told you I was going to be the best. I don’t suppose you just happen to be stopping by to check on your protégé?”

  “I just had a very interesting talk with Dean Kelsey.”

  “I suppose interesting is a word.”

  “He has a powerful desire to expel you.”

  Garran shifted uneasily. “What did you tell him?”

  “Pretty much what you did from what I understand of your conversation. Garran, I will do everything in my power to see you graduate and become the agent I know you can be, but you need to know that my power is not infinite. There are lines you can cross from which not even the king can save you, and I have no doubt of your ability and willingness to test them. You are clever, but I need you to be smart too.”

  “I understand. I have a handle on it.”

  “Including your math class?”

  “It will all be taken care of by the end of the week. Don’t worry, Agent Ward, I’ll do you proud.”

  Gregor stood and clapped him on the shoulder before leaving. “I am sure you will.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Dragoslav was exhausted, both mentally and physically. He had left enough bodies behind him over the past year to populate a small cemetery, and it was taking its toll. Most of those he had killed were Free Traders who supported Remiel by collecting money for his highway and organizing supplies and labor.

  The Free Traders were like prairie gophers, no two popping their heads above ground at the same time. Finding and infiltrating their isolated cells had taken months of crafting false identities, making connections, and getting leads on other rebel groups. He was glad to get The Guild’s new orders tasking him with eliminating Remiel’s relatives and anyone who might attempt to seize the throne once they decided to remove him. At least these targets had known faces and did not hide behind numerous identities and false trails.

  Although the smell of smoke had left his clothes and skin weeks ago, it still drifted in the recesses of his memory, and the shifting breeze occasionally brought it to his nose. Dragoslav was not the least bit squeamish when it came to death, but murdering Remiel’s brother-in-law along with his entire family and a number of household staff was extreme even for him.

  Infiltrating the castle by posing as a carpenter was a minor challenge, but locking all the doors and setting the entire wing ablaze took some resolve. It was unfortunate that his children were too close to the throne for him to spare, but politics was a dirty business. He pushed the smell of smoke and the frantic cries from his mind as quickly as they intruded.

  He had done a good amount of research on Elliot Maier, the king’s first cousin and earl of Southlea and the surrounding lands. He was politically passive and preferred to focus his attentions exclusively on his expansive vineyards. With any luck, this might be a relatively bloodless conversation. Neither of his children was fit to rule. One was a simpleton and the other was born blind and deaf. Whether the problem lay in the seed or the field, Elliot had produced no more children, likely by choice.

  Southlea was a large and prosperous city, and the earl was a popular governor. This made him a threat to whomever The Guild tried to install on the throne as their puppet. His popularity also made it dangerous to assassinate him. If too many of Remiel’s relatives died too quickly, it could raise suspicions, suspicions they did not want to defend against just yet.

  Dragoslav guided his horse down the well-traveled road, admiring the vast rows of grapevines clinging to the steep-sided hills. A few miles out from the city, the road transitioned from packed dirt and gravel to a cobbled street leading into the heart of the city. Southlea was a sprawling urban center and was too large to encompass with a wall. The vineyards’ steep hills provided enough natural protection to make such barriers largely unnecessary.

  However, a formidable wall did surround the palace, and the city’s soldiery and constabulary actively patrolled the grounds. This meant he would have to devise a way to infiltrate the castle to reach his target. Such a thing should not pose much of a challenge. He might be a disgraced agent, but that did nothing to detract from his skills.

  Dragoslav stopped at a tavern to wash down the accumulated trail dust lining his throat, brush out his clothing, and clean up a bit before visiting the contracting office. Technically, The Guild controlled all of the governmental and civil contract work, but only a few knew of his relationship with the syndicate, and it was best that the knowledge of this operation was kept as exclusive as possible.

  “Sir, you cannot just go in there,” the secretary said when Dragoslav made to barge past her desk. “Mr. Dunn, I’m sorry, he refused to stop,” she said as she followed Dragoslav into the office.

  Dragoslav looked at the man sitting in a chair in front of the administrator’s desk and jerked a thumb toward the door. “You, out.”

  “Now see here!” the man behind the desk objected. “You need to wait outside like everyone else, and I will review your application in turn.”

  The former agent turned out the lapel of
his coat and flashed his pin for the man to see. “I already have a job.” He glared once more at the worker sitting in the chair who was looking confused. “Now, you can leave by the door or through the window. It’s your choice.”

  Administrator Dunn looked from Dragoslav to the worker. “Go wait outside, Mr. Schirmer. I’ll review your application in a moment and get back to you.” He waited for his secretary to close the door behind her and the applicant. “What can I do for you, Agent…?”

  “Zellweger, Darren Zellweger.” Dragoslav took a seat in the chair the worker had vacated. “Have you heard about the fire that killed Earl Hamilton and his family?”

  “Yes, just recently. Such a tragedy.”

  “There is some concern that it may not have been entirely accidental.”

  “Oh my!”

  “I need to see a list of recent palace contracts you have signed off on, beginning with the ones that have not yet been executed.”

  “Do you think someone is trying to get to our earl?”

  “The contracts, Mr. Dunn.”

  “Right, of course.”

  The contracts administrator went to a cabinet filled with bound ledgers and contract folders. He selected one and brought it to the agent.

  “These are the most recent applications granted a writ of employment. This section contains the positions filled but the work is still pending. If you like, I can bring you the pending orders as well.”

  “This should be fine.”

  Dragoslav skimmed through the list of names and jobs until he found one he liked. He took the contract, folded it, and slipped it into his coat pocket before handing the folder back to Mr. Dunn.

  “You will not breathe a word of my existence to anyone. If you so much as hint at anything you heard or saw, I will arrest you for treason. Do you understand?”

  The administrator swallowed and nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Not a word.”

  Dragoslav left the terrified man’s office and headed across town. Ernest Sorge was a mason who lived in a modest part of the city and had just been hired to make repairs to sections of the sewer and storm drains around the palace.

  After making a few inquiries once he knew he was near the man’s house, he found the right home and knocked on the door. It was a quaint home but far from ramshackle. It was the home of a man who had recently achieved Guild status. He had probably sunk all his money into gaining membership but had not yet begun to reap the potential rewards. This was likely his first contract upon achieving success.

  A man answered his knocking. “Yes?”

  Dragoslav pulled the contract from his pocket and flipped it open. “Ernest Sorge?”

  “Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

  Dragoslav pushed past him and into the house.

  “What are you doing? Are you with the contracting office? Is there a problem?”

  Dragoslav looked around the room and saw a comely woman, certainly his wife, standing in the kitchen entryway. Several children poked their heads around corners, the youngest one clinging to her mother’s apron.

  “Yes, there is a problem.”

  “Is there something wrong with my contract?”

  “No, the contract is fine, perfect in fact.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Well, I was going to kill you and your family.” The woman gasped and clutched her daughter tighter. Dragoslav moved away from Ernest toward his wife. “What is that I smell?”

  The wife’s mouth bobbed up and down a few times before she could force out the words. “Pot roast. We…we were going to celebrate Ernest’s first Guild contract.” Tears began trickling down her face. “Please don’t hurt us.”

  “It smells good, and I’m hungry and too damn tired, so maybe you can save me the trouble of killing you.”

  Ernest was visibly trembling, ready to defend himself against a man he instinctively knew he had no chance of defeating. Maybe, just maybe, he could live long enough for his wife and children to flee.

  “What can I do? I’ll do anything to protect my family.”

  “First, I want to sit down and have dinner.” Dragoslav flashed his agent’s pin. “I am going to take your place tomorrow at the castle. You and your family are going to stay here. Under no circumstances are you to leave. I suggest you do not even light the stove for tea, because if there is a fire, you are better off burning up with the house than fleeing outside. Do you understand?”

  Ernest’s head bobbed. “Yes, I understand. W-what happens now?”

  “I’m going to stay the night and start your job in the morning, but first, we eat. I’m starving.”

  No one spoke a word during the meal. Even the children felt the underlying tension in the room and ate in silence. Their reticence reassured Dragoslav that his decision not to kill them was an acceptable one. Some people could not keep their mouths shut when they were nervous and so could not be trusted. Those who were able to stay quiet showed an appreciable fear but had the discipline to control it. Had they not, this night would have gone much differently.

  Mrs. Sorge hustled the children to their beds immediately after they finished their supper and busied herself with the dishes in the kitchen. Ernest stayed seated at the table with his hands pressed against its surface.

  “What happens tomorrow?” Ernest asked.

  “Are you asking me what I’m going to do?”

  The mason shook his head. “I don’t care what your plans are beyond my family.”

  The former agent sucked a piece of meat from between his teeth. “I’m going to use your work pass to get into the castle, do what I need to do, and leave. As long as you do precisely what I tell you, I will not harm your family. You might even still have a job. In fact, I will put in a good word for you and make sure you always have the pick of Guild contracts. You can be a very successful man, and all you have to do is sit here and be quiet. You can do that, can’t you?”

  Ernest nodded. “I can.”

  “Good. I assume you and your wife have the best bed in this house?” Ernest nodded again. “I’ll be taking it for the night.”

  Ernest did not offer a word of protest as the menacing man left the table and disappeared into the bedroom. Dragoslav lay on the bed without undressing or taking off his boots, nor did he climb beneath the covers where they could slow his movements in the event he had to move quickly or defend himself. Too many men had lost their lives because they became entangled in their own beds when an assassin came calling.

  The only concession he made to comfort was folding a blanket and draping it across his chest. He was not a young man anymore, and the months on the road and the challenges The Guild had tasked him with were taking their toll. He let out a long breath when he thought of what lay ahead over the next few years. Still, it was a damn sight better than prison.

  ***

  Dragoslav woke to the smell of coffee and eggs. He found Ernest sitting in the same spot and was certain the man had not moved all night.

  “I need a hat and the ugliest shirt you own,” Dragoslav said over a plate of eggs.

  “What?”

  “A hat and your shirt, the uglier the better.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  Ernest slowly stood as if the floor might collapse and send him plummeting into the depths of hell. He felt as though he were at least halfway there already. He was certain the devil had sent the man to his home, if he was not the great evil himself. Ernest returned with a flat wool hat sporting a narrow brim, and a green and salmon checkered shirt that would have looked appropriate on a clown.

  “Ernest, my mother gave you that,” his wife said.

  “I always knew she didn’t like me.”

  “It’s a hideous damn thing and suits me fine.” Dragoslav put on the shirt and stuffed the one he had been wearing in a satchel. He turned back just before departing. “Remember, no one leaves. I have someone watching.”

  He took Ernest’s wagon laden with tools and materials to the palace. Tec
hnically, it was not quite a palace, but it was an expansive mansion and the seat of government for a wealthy and influential city. It was a simple matter to find the line of workers, carts, and wagons passing through a side gate. A pair of soldiers checked each worker’s labor pass before allowing them onto the grounds to perform their duties. Dragoslav entered the queue and guided the wagon forward until he reached the checkpoint. One of the soldiers examined his pass, but his eyes kept flicking to Dragoslav’s horrid shirt.

  The man handed back his pass and waved him through. Dragoslav drove the wagon along the base of the wall toward the aqueduct that brought fresh water to the palace. The mortar had crumbled in places and bricks needed replaced. Dragoslav was not a mason, but he could put on a convincing show as long as no one with expert masonry knowledge came along and inspected his work.

  He worked at a sedate pace, waving a trowel at the guards who regularly walked past during their rounds. The waning sun told him it was near the end of the workday and time for him to make his infiltration. Dragoslav entered the kitchen through a nearby scullery door. Several workers, mostly women, were busy preparing for the evening’s meal.

  “If you’re looking for handouts, I’ll give you a roll and a piece of cheese just to keep you out of my way,” a portly woman in an apron said.

  “I’m here repairing some brickwork. I think perhaps there is a problem with some of the drains.” Dragoslav gave the homely woman a wink. “Maybe I’ll get back to you about that roll when I’m done.”

  The woman’s hand flew to her lips and she giggled. “You are scandalous!”

  “When I’ve the time, but I need to look at those drains first.” Dragoslav made a show of inspecting the sink drains. “It’s not here. Is there a privy inside nearby?”

  “Aye, down the hall on your right is the servants’ closet. Don’t stray beyond there without an escort, and try not to disturb the household with that shirt of yours.”

  Dragoslav tipped his hat and went into the hall. He followed the passage and ducked into the room. It was more than just a privy; it was an entire room containing several wardrobes and shelves stocked with supplies and staff uniforms. He opened the door at the far end, found the privy, and waited.