by James Evans
Marrinek stepped out into the cellar and waited while Fangfoss locked the door and reset the two remaining traps. He sighed.
“I’ll have to fix that later, then get someone down here to re-plaster the bloody ceiling,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ll get you a key to the door. No sense in you wrecking the joint every time you want to rob me.”
Marrinek grinned at him.
“You’re taking this better than I had expected. Better than Hitton did, certainly.”
“Let’s talk upstairs,” said Fangfoss, “where I can’t see the mess you’ve made of my cellar.”
Fangfoss led the way out of the cellar and back up the stairs to his room on the first floor, collecting a large jug of ale from the kitchen on the way through.
“Between you and me, Hitton was not one of life’s great thinkers. He was a decent organiser but his loss won’t really slow us down. I’d like to believe I might be a bit more flexible, a bit more, well, realistic.”
He poured ale into two mugs and sat on the bench near the window, sipping.
“I’ve been here a long time. I’ll probably be here long after you’ve gone. I might lose a bit while you’re here but I might gain a bit of something else. I’ve always known this life wouldn’t last forever, that I’d need to move on. Maybe your arrival will bring that forward a few years.”
Marrinek sat down at the other end of the bench and sipped his beer.
“I like a man who can see the opportunities that lie beyond his present difficulties. It suggests a degree of intelligence. Tell me about the money. How fast is it coming in and from what sort of activities?”
Fangfoss sat back, leaning against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him.
“The money? Well, the value you ‘liberated’ from the cellar is about three months’ profit from our work across the northern end of the city. We have other interests in the surrounding towns but those are rather less profitable and we don’t bring the money into the city. Smuggling is a big part of it but we also run some bath houses and inns, some gambling dens, fight pits, a few loans and various other little bits and pieces. The Duke’s river taxes and duties have been good for us, since there’s now plenty of room for smuggled goods.”
He paused to fill his mug. He waved the jug at Marrinek, who shook his head.
“What about the nobles. Any action with them?”
Fangfoss grimaced.
“Tricky. Risky and dangerous. Some of them like to gamble and some struggle to pay their debts but we have to tread carefully when collecting. Anyone else who doesn’t pay gets a beating but the nobles have their own protection, so mostly they pay with little favours. You know, they turn a blind eye to something or bring in some contraband from the country. The Duke knows about it, I’m sure, but he just doesn’t care as long as the city is peaceful.”
He finished his ale and set the mug down on the table, then walked back to the door and called downstairs to the maids. He closed the door.
“And obviously we have to steer clear of the Aviary. Can’t afford to attract their attention.”
Marrinek raised an eyebrow.
“The Aviary? I haven’t heard that one before.”
“Yeah,” said Fangfoss, “I’m not surprised. The Duke has a secret police force, very small, very close. They sit within the City Watch but run their own games. Mostly they keep an eye on the nobles - make sure none of them are getting too close to the Duke’s throne. They run a network of spies across the Duke’s territory and sometimes they stumble onto something we’re doing. That can be awkward; we pay off the City Watch to make sure we’re left alone; the Aviary is something else entirely.”
“They can’t be bought?”
Fangfoss shrugged.
“Individually, maybe, but they would be expensive and just as likely to break a deal as keep it. Better to stay away. We just drop anything they stumble into and back off. You really don’t want to get dragged into their dungeons beneath the Palace.”
“And the Flank Siders. What about them?”
Fangfoss made a face.
“Tough bunch, not that I’d say that to my guys. They run most of the same gigs we do but on the other side of the river. We steer clear of them.”
“What about the brothels? The houses on Eastside Bath. They run them too?”
Fangfoss spat on the floor and looked Marrinek in the eye.
“You know about that? Yes, they run the brothels. Not all of them, we have a few of the smaller, crappier ones, but all the big houses are theirs, everywhere you might actually want to go if you have enough coin.”
“Even on this side of the river?” asked Marrinek, although he already knew the answer from Madame Duval. Fangfoss paused and grimaced before nodding.
“We discussed this with them a few years ago,” said Fangfoss bitterly, fingering a long scar on his arm, “and they won. Now we stay off Eastside Bath and leave the top of the market to them. They either own the houses or they take a cut. We don’t get a look in.”
“How do they do it, if that’s their only action this side of the river?”
“Like I said, they’re tough.” He was silent for a moment, as if making a difficult confession. “They’ve got a couple of talented enforcers and they’re not scared to use them, out on the street.”
Marrinek waited while Fangfoss wrestled with his pride.
“We’ve just got the edges, right? The small fry. I talk the talk but the Flank Siders have the best gigs, best brothels and that gaming den, the one that stands next to the bridge on the west side. Huge place, lots of people, lots of money, lots of profit. They really don’t give a fuck about us as long as we stick to our side of the river and stay off Eastside Bath.”
“How many people do they have?”
Fangfoss raised an eyebrow.
“Really? You want to take them down?” Marrinek nodded and Fangfoss shook his head. “I don’t think it’s possible. They’ve got a couple of hundred all told, maybe more, and the Watch is on their side. They outnumber us, and some of them are real nasty.”
“And this gaming den. What’s it called?”
“The Palace of Providence, if you can believe it, but it’s known as the Lighthouse ‘cos of that damn great spire and the lantern they keep burning in it. You can see it for miles outside the city, or so I’m told. That’s where they run all the good stuff. And that’s where they make all the money.”
“And everything else?”
“A pub, the Groaning Platter. Much like here, really. They run all their small stuff from the Platter. A dozen enforcers, maybe, and a load of thugs. Nothing smart or clever about it, just business, like we do only with the prospect of promotion to the Lighthouse if you’re smart enough.”
Marrinek leant back in his chair, thinking. Then he nodded.
“Just the two bases?” Fangfoss nodded.
“Yeah, one high-end, one low. If they’ve got other stuff going on it’s so small that we haven’t heard about it, and we hear everything that goes on, sooner or later.”
“So the Lighthouse is the key, yes?”
Fangfoss nodded wearily. He didn’t like the way this conversation was going, not at all. He’d known Bay was mad as soon as he’d seen him but this was a whole other level of delusional detachment.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Fangfoss running his hand through his hair. Marrinek nodded and Fangfoss just shook his head. “What you did here, to me and my crew? It ain’t gonna be like that over there. You’re not gonna just walk in and threaten them into submission.” He shook his head again and leant forward, as if passing a secret.
“Lorn Artas is stronger than me,” he hissed, “stronger than you too, maybe. His friends are stronger too and he has the nobles.” Fangfoss leaned back in his chair. “You know why they leave us alone? Because we’re strong enough to hold off the competition but too weak to challenge them. We’re their buffer, their shield against other gangs. We do the nasty work, down in the g
utters, keeping the pests under control so that Artas can pull in the big money. Our stash downstairs is nothing compared to what they’ve got at the Lighthouse.”
Marrinek nodded and grinned.
“You’re fucking insane,” said Fangfoss, pouring more ale, “the Aviary will be all over you if you try this, and the Watch. The nobles, too, and they’re not without resources, if you know what I mean. It’s suicide.”
There was a pause. Marrinek said nothing while Fangfoss sipped at his ale, letting him work through the problems in his own time. Eventually Fangfoss sighed and put down his mug.
“I can’t help with the Lighthouse. I’m known, marked. So are all my crew and everyone who works for me, even down to the pot boys and the bar maids. None of us is getting close to the Lighthouse, let alone inside. They have people watching, serious people, making sure that people like us stay away from the nobles.”
“I don’t need help with the Lighthouse,” said Marrinek, hoping that he wasn’t underestimating the scale of the challenge as Fangfoss raised his eyebrows in surprise, “I have a plan. Instead, I need you to focus on their wider network. They run everything out of the Groaning Platter?” Fangfoss nodded. “So take it down. You know what to do.” Fangfoss nodded again, although he wasn’t enthusiastic. Marrinek leant forward. “If this works, we both win. You’ll be rich.” Fangfoss still wasn’t convince and it showed on his face.
Marrinek dealt his final card.
“And the same deal applies, of course. A share of the profit from the Lighthouse will be yours, starting with a portion of the contents of their vault if you pull off your end of the plan.”
And that was it. Greed trumped caution and Fangfoss nodded, a broad grin spreading across his face.
“Right,” said Marrinek, leaning back and sipping at his beer, “so here’s what I want you to do.” The plan was simple and Fangfoss nodded as Marrinek laid it all out for him. By the time they’d finished their beers, Fangfoss was completely sold on the idea and had even contributed his own suggestions. They spent another half hour thrashing through the details then, satisfied that they had a solid, if massively risky plan, Fangfoss summoned some lunch.
A maid arrived in a few minutes with a tray of bread and fresh cheese, which she laid on the table. As she bustled around clearing the empty mugs, a tall woman with dark hair tied back in a long braid came into the room and stood just inside the door, leaning against the wall. She kicked the door closed behind the maid and pulled a chair across the floor, spinning it so she could sit facing Marrinek and Fangfoss but lean her elbows on the back of the chair.
“Isn’t this cosy,” she said, her smile suggesting anything but warmth, “are you recruiting from outside the city now, Fangfoss? Local talent not up to snuff so you’re hiring Imperials?”
She glanced at Marrinek, running an appraising eye over him in much the same way that a farmer might gauge the quality of a goat offered for sale in a market. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Marrinek found her gaze unsettling in a way that wasn’t at all pleasant.
Marrinek returned the appraisal. The woman was tall, almost as tall as Marrinek, and she sat with the easy grace of the long-lived. Her clothes were practical and simple but well made from high-quality material. She wore a sword at her hip and moved easily with it, as if she had long carried it and was used to having it around. A fighter, of some sort, then, with power and money and talent.
“Bay here is my new,” Fangfoss paused, looking thoughtfully at Marrinek, before continuing, “how shall we put it? My new business partner. We’re going to be working together on a few projects.”
“Advisor, really,” said Marrinek, by way of clarification, emphasising his Imperial accent, “an associate, rather than a full-time partner.”
“Really? And on what will you be advising, the latest in fashionable court wear?”
She smirked, clearly amused by Marrinek’s poor quality boots and ill-fitting shirt.
“Your beard is at least tolerably well-trimmed, so maybe you’ll be helping Fangfoss with his. Looks like a badger died on your chin, Stern, old friend. You really should get it seen to. Or maybe you could just give it a decent burial.”
“Oh ha, ha,” said Fangfoss, “Bay, this is the Lady Mirelle. She does... things... for the Duke. She probably knows more about me than I do,” Fangfoss sighed. Not for the first time he found himself wondering if being involved in Lady Mirelle's schemes might be bad for his health.
Mirelle looked at Marrinek again.
“What about you, then? Imperial citizen, former soldier, talented, recently fallen on hard times or,” she glanced again at his boots, “so staggeringly out of touch that you just don’t care about style. Probably both. I’d say you know how to use that stick but you’ve probably got other things squirrelled away for emergencies.”
She beamed at him.
“How did I do?”
Marrinek sucked his teeth and fixed an expression of polite, even courtly, disinterest. He stood and gave Mirelle an elegant bow, sweeping low to flatter.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he said, then he collected Bone Dancer and left.
Mirelle turned back to Fangfoss when they were alone.
“Talkative, isn’t he,” she said,
Fangfoss sighed again.
“What do you want Mirelle? It’s damned early, the day has started badly, I have things to do and it’s not like you’ve just dropped in to chat with the staff or take tea with my new partner.”
She leant forward, all hint of a smile abruptly gone from her face, as if the humour had blown away like fallen leaves in the first storm of autumn.
“What do I want?” she asked, sneering at Fangfoss, “I want to know what the hell is going on and why the streets are littered with the corpses of your idiotic gang members.”
“Ah,” said Fangfoss, “that.”
He tried a faintly sickly half smile just to see if she was maybe still in a joking mood but her face just hardened further and he quickly dropped the grin.
“There was a falling out, a disagreement amongst thieves, if you like, over a game of cards and it er, escalated. All sorted now, though, no more trouble, back to business as usual, laughs and smiles all round.”
She stared at him, clearly not believing a word he had said.
“Four men dead over a game of cards. Is that the story you would have me pass on? That’s the story you’re going to lean on if someone suggests it’s time for a change? Really?”
“Actually, it was five, if you include Gander. Although that was a totally separate matter,” Fangfoss added quickly, his own face hardening as he caught a grip on the changing atmosphere, “completely unrelated to the other four. He crossed the wrong person, did some things he shouldn’t have done and handled the consequences poorly. Definitely no more to worry about from that direction.”
Mirelle just stared at him, wondering if she ought to push it further. Eventually she decided she’d got what she really wanted, even if the truth of the matter was still shrouded in fog. She pushed herself up from the chair and stood up. Tugging down her jerkin she looked at him unhappily.
“Well, I don’t know what to make of this, Fangfoss, I really don’t, but if those men died over a game of cards then I’m a baked potato.”
She jabbed a finger at him.
“We have a deal, Fangfoss. Five men dead in a day isn’t part of that deal. Keep your house clean, keep the corpses off the streets and don’t do anything to bring me back here in a hurry.”
Fangfoss just nodded, although he had no idea how he was supposed to keep control of a psychopathic and homicidal former Imperial soldier with top-grade fighting skills and enough power to level buildings. He raised his mug in salute and gave her a confident grin as she opened the door to leave.
“Always a pleasure, my lady. And don’t worry, we’ll keep things tidy.”
She looked at him and snorted in disgust, then swept out of the room.
C
HAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LADY DROCIA WOKE before dawn and lay for a few minutes listening to the muted early morning noise of the city. She planned out her day as she washed, using her established morning routine to settle her mind and help her achieve a degree of inner calm and focus after yesterday’s disturbing news about Marrinek. That little snippet of gossip had threatened to disrupt some of her long-running plans and today was going to be long and busy; she needed time to think and consider.
Fortunately, as supreme spiritual leader of the province, she had both considerable resource and a wide degree of freedom within which to act. Her position meant that she was technically the third most powerful person in the Empire, after the Emperor himself and the Lord High Council. In practice, she was guided and bound by the decisions of both the provincial Council and the High Council in Khemucasterill, as well as the requests of her peers. It was, to her mind, an almost perfect balance of influence and responsibility.
The main benefit was that Lady Drocia’s position gave her the freedom to go where she wanted and do what she wanted, as long as she appeared to stay within the somewhat arbitrary limits imposed by her clerical order. It was just over a week to the Summer Solstice, the next major event on the religious calendar, so she could spare a few days for a visit to The Farm even though the timing of the trip might be viewed by some of her more conservative staff as controversial.
Established shortly after the founding of Esterengel by her predecessor (in what Lady Drocia couldn’t help but think was an unusually forward-thinking move), Yirdale Seminary and the estate that surrounded it had grown considerably over the last two hundred years.
Known universally by its less formal name, The Farm now served as a spiritual retreat, a school and a secure rural base for the Lords Spiritual in addition to its role in the production of foodstuffs for the temple complex in Esterengel. The seminary accepted students from across the Empire, taking enthusiastic and other-worldly applicants and turning them into effective clerics and administrators before spitting them back out into the world.
