by Eddie Han
“I—trust me with what?”
Felix sighed with growing impatience. “Do you believe in fate, Dale?”
“I don’t know,” Dale replied. “Sometimes.”
“‘Sometimes?’ You sometimes believe in fate? Well, what if—what if someone dear to you, a family member or, or a lover, let’s say, was dying of an illness. An extremely rare one. One that requires an organ transplant.” His expression hardened and his tone grew grave as he continued. “And suppose the only donor is this young, healthy fellow. As fate would have it, one evening, you alone stumble upon him, the donor, lying unconscious along the tracks from a long night of heavy drinking. And a train is fast approaching. If you do nothing, he’ll surely die. Yet his organ will remain intact for argument’s sake and with it the chance to spare your loved one’s life. If, however, you risk your own life to deliver him from certain death, all hope will be lost for yours truly. Tell me, Dale, what would you do in that situation?”
“I don’t know.”
His palms were sweaty. He rubbed them against his trousers.
“Indulge me a moment. Consider this a personality test, if you will. How you answer gives me insight into your character.”
Dale said nothing.
“It’s a simple question, Dale,” Felix added. “Do you let the donor die or do you try and help him?”
“Is the donor a derelict?”
“What’s revealed is all you know.”
“You’re asking me to choose between a loved one and a stranger.”
“I suppose I am.”
“Then I’ll let him die.”
“Why?”
“Because I value the life of those I love more than a stranger’s.”
“And you find that morally justifiable?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’m responsible for his irresponsible behavior.”
“Yet fate has brought you to him.”
“After it abandoned him on the tracks. Who am I to meddle with fate?”
There was a long pause.
Dale held his breath, half-expecting the Fat Fox to pull a blade and stab him from across the table. It would not have been out of character for him to do something so callous and erratic. The Lotus House Massacre aside, it had happened before. During a sold-out gladiatorial event at the Arena, the Fat Fox resolved a verbal altercation by stabbing his combatant. No witnesses testified. He was never charged.
To Dale’s relief, a smile slowly stretched across the Fat Fox’s face.
“I like this one,” he said, looking up at Remy. “Congratulations, Dale. You passed the test.”
The enforcer removed his hand from the pistol. Remy placed a satchel in front of the Fat Fox who slid it across the table to Dale.
“I hope two thousand marks will suffice. You will find there a deposit of five hundred in banknotes. A gesture of good faith. If you have any plans to travel outside the city, cancel them. I expect you to be available when we send for you. Remy and my men will provide you with the remaining balance of fifteen once the transport has safely docked. Any questions?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Felix signaled his guards who made way for the waiter with the next course.
“Here we have Feoldis supreme best-end with Listain veal reduction.”
“Get me a bottle of Tartarus Raki,” said the guild master, waving the waiter away.
“Of course, sir.”
He returned with a sealed bottle the size of an inkwell and presented the weathered label. When the Fat Fox nodded, the waiter laid out two thimble-sized glasses and carefully poured.
“I insist you have a drink with me before I send you on your way.”
When the waiter had finished pouring, the guild master sprinkled a pinch of sugar into both glasses. He held it up between his thumb and index finger, admiring its contents.
“This little serving would go for about eighty marks, you know. Takes twice a lifetime to process a single bottle’s worth to perfection, so enjoy it.”
Taking his cue from Felix, Dale slowly sipped. Barely a drop touched his lips and he immediately felt the burn rolling down his throat. Dale would later describe it as “a sweet concoction of molten lava.”
“My predecessor once said that friendship is forged between a shared drink,” the Fat Fox added. “This makes us friends.”
Remy leaned down and whispered something in his ear. Felix nodded, clarified something or another, and then returned his gaze to Dale. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I want you to know that I’m an incredibly resourceful man. I know you were a lieutenant in the Republican Guard, that you’re a trained soldier. I know you have a brother who is a major, recently transferred to the Ancile. I also know that your uncle owns a bakery near the waterfront and you have a cousin that performs on occasion at the Halo. I share all of this to illustrate a point. I’m choosing to trust you, Dale. And though I’m sure it’s unnecessary to remind you, given the nature of this particular operation, I can’t stress enough how important it is that all of this, and especially everything you’ll bear witness to, remains in the strictest of confidence. If you betray this trust, you will cease to be my friend. I only have friends and enemies. Nothing in between. If you betray me, you will be my enemy and nobody wants that. Are we clear?”
Dale nodded.
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
CH 13
THE ASS OF THE VELVET FRAY
Located not far from the Loviett was the Red-Light District. At its center was Fancy’s Alley, a short back street lined with window displays of scantily clad men and women. Some were in costume, others in chains and assorted bondage devices, and still others were put on display stark naked. It was all there, no matter the particularity of taste or want, for the young and old, locals and tourists, nobles and commoners, the curious, the discreet, the shameless.
Nestled between the Red-Light District and the entertainment quarter was the Velvet Fray Hotel and Casino. Not by design, it served as a buffer between the two extremes in recreational indulgences. The Velvet Fray could not be missed. It had a gaudy glowing sign, a white palatial façade replete with columns and archways, and a garden atrium housing a fountain of fake pearls. Its bright marble hall presented a contrasting background to the somber late afternoon scene. A handful of men with long faces were putting down the last of the little they had on losing bets. They had been at it so long, having won and lost so many times, they were no longer thinking.
Dale walked on to the main floor and stopped the first hostess he saw.
“Excuse me, do you know where I can find Arturo? Thin guy, dark hair. Looks a bit nervous.”
Her nametag read “Doris.” Unlike the nightshift hostesses, Doris was an unattractive, older woman. She wore heavy make-up, which accentuated her yellowed teeth.
“Arturo Lucien? Why? You a friend of that rat?”
“Not quite,” Dale replied.
“He’s over at the Caravaggio tables in the back.”
“Thanks.”
“If you’re looking to collect, don’t hold your breath. Bastard still owes me a bundle. Do me a favor and tell him he’s an ass for me.”
Dale tossed a copper coin on her drink tray and walked over to the tables in the far corner of the casino floor. Sure enough, Arturo Lucien was sitting with his eyes fixed on the Caravaggio wheel. He held a smoke close to his face, but wasn’t smoking.
“Arturo. Hey, we need to talk.”
“Dale! I didn’t think you’d actually come. Sit down.”
“That’s all right. Can we step outside a minute?”
“Sure thing, buddy. After this spin. Georgie, give me three on the odds and a high pass.”
Dale had been thinking about Arturo Lucien ever since Remy Guillaume walked into his office. All through Dale’s meeting with the Fat Fox, he thought of Arturo Lucien and the reason he was there. And so on his walk over to the Velvet Fray, Dale had grown increasingly agitated. Dale d
id not like being forced into a bind. The Fat Fox annoyed him from the moment he laid eyes on him. An annoying man pushed him around and then for good measure, threatened his family. All because of Arturo. So when Arturo told him to wait, Dale could not contain his anger.
“Did you tell the Fat Fox that I was volunteering my breaker for some sort of transport?” Dale blurted.
The dealer and the two others sitting at the table looked up at him, startled.
“Because I just had a meeting with him. And somehow he’s got the impression that I did.”
“Georgie, cash me out, will you?” Arturo asked in a hushed voice. Then he turned to Dale, and said with a nervous chuckle, “Not sure what you’re talking about.” He kept chuckling. “Fat Fox? Come on man, I don’t know. Hey, look, first of all, let’s just calm down.”
Dale grabbed him by the back of his jacket, and said into one ear, “I am calm. If I were not calm, I would be choking you on this floor.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s sort this out outside.”
“Let’s.”
Arturo quickly gathered his winnings, shrugged and said, “Gentlemen.” With that, he left the table and led Dale back across the casino floor out into the atrium.
“What’s wrong with you? You can’t just walk into a joint like this and talk about his business like that.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I swear. I mean, all I said was that you might be interested, for the right price. That’s it. That’s all I said.”
“I told you I wasn’t interested!”
“Calm down.”
“You tell me to ‘calm down’ one more time, and I swear to God, Art, I’m going to start swinging.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“If I knew it was the thieves’ guild you were talking about—”
“Keep your voice down,” Arturo whispered, as he moved further away from the door and into an isolated corner of the garden.
“Are you one of them?”
“You see a black rose?” asked Arturo, holding up the bare lapel of his coat. “Look, I didn’t have much of a choice here, okay? I needed something to offer him. My contact at the port who was supposed to set me up with a dock got pinched. I already made the deal; I needed another spot for the transport. Your breaker’s perfect. It’s right on the edge of the bay, hidden from the main port, and you’ve got a sheltered hangar. What was I supposed to do? I mean, if I didn’t get him what he needed, if I don’t deliver, that’s it for me. It’s just a transport, Dale. For me, it’s life or death. Now, you have every right to be upset. I understand. It’s just, I had nowhere to go. And, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it really is easy money.”
“I don’t want to be involved with those guys.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m trying to run an honest business.”
“Did you listen to the deal, though? There’s no contraband. You don’t know what it is. You don’t have to be there. Is there an easier two thousand marks anywhere?” Arturo looked genuinely puzzled by Dale’s reluctance to seize an opportunity at easy gains.
“I don’t care about the money. I just don’t want to end up in the Fat Fox’s pocket. I know how things like this work.”
Arturo dismissively swatted the air. “You’re not going to end up in anyone’s pocket. Not if you’re smart about it. And it’s not like you owe him anything. If anything, you’re doing him a favor.”
“What if something goes wrong?”
“What can go wrong?”
“That’s the question you ask before everything goes wrong.”
“Look, it’s just a simple transport, okay?”
“What’s he transporting then?”
Arturo scoffed. “You think the Fat Fox would tell me something like that? It’s my job to get him what he wants. Not to know his business.”
Dale would’ve found the inconsistency in Arturo’s deductive reasoning amusing if he weren’t so annoyed. “Then how the hell do you know it’s just a simple transport?”
Arturo opened his mouth as if he had an easy explanation. But he stammered, then started again and stopped, until finally he gave up with a sigh.
“I swear, Art, if it turns out to be slaves or drugs or something like that—”
“Come on, Dale. It’s nothing illegal or, or, criminal. Do you think the Fat Fox would go to the trouble of lying to you about that? You’re not going to get in trouble. Trust me.”
“Trust you? Trust you?”
Arturo Lucien looked back at Dale, curiously fearful. He stood in a pathetic slouch. The expensive clothes hanging on his thin, drooping frame made Arturo look like a kid wearing his father’s clothes—an old-looking kid with a receding hairline. Dale could not remain angry at the tragically absurd figure.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“I’m sorry, Dale. I had no choice.”
“Of course you had a choice. You always have a choice.”
“No, Dale, I didn’t. Really. You don’t understand. There are no second chances with the Fat Fox. I promised him a dock and arranged the transport. And he paid real well for both. If I didn’t come through for him, he wouldn’t have just killed me. He would’ve killed my wife and my kids.”
“You have a wife and kids?” asked Dale, taken aback.
“Ex-wife, actually. My boy and two girls live with her.”
His eyes fell.
“Well, you didn’t give me much of a choice either,” said Dale. “Now you got my family by the gallows.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. Really, I am. But if we play this right, it could turn out real good for both of us.”
Dale gave him an icy glare.
Arturo rubbed the back of his neck. Then he pulled out a smoke and lit it. Dale resigned to his fate. With a weary look, he told Arturo that he was heading home.
“Good idea. Get something to eat and don’t worry so much. It’ll be a piece of cake. Just keep thinking about how you’re going to spend your two thousand when you’re up. You’ll see. You’ll thank me later.”
As far as Dale was concerned, encouraging words from Arturo was like a gift-wrapped box of spring-loaded shit.
“I doubt it,” he replied. “By the way, Doris says you’re an ass. When you see her, tell her I agree.”
CH 14
SANCTUARY
In all of his years of service as the Marshal of the Vail Templar, Alaric had never noticed the ceiling of the training barn. The oak beams, the thatched roof, the cobwebs in the corner. He was lying on his back in the middle of the matted floor trying to catch his breath. He had a wooden sword in hand. Both hand and sword lay passively on the floor. The end of a different sword was to his throat. Holding it there was the young blue-eyed cleric.
“Yield,” said Selah, hovering over him with a look of self-satisfaction.
It was a victory she wrested from the templar while he was distracted by an intrusion. Aided, but a victory nonetheless. And she had no qualms about claiming it with enthusiasm.
“I yield,” Alaric finally said with a grunt, before rising to his feet and turning his attention to the intrusion. His junior, Sir Thomas Grail, stood at the entrance. “What is it, Thomas?”
“Forgive me, m’lord,” said Thomas. “The Bene-seneschal would like a word with you regarding the prisoners.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
The younger templar bowed and left the barn.
Selah approached Alaric as he removed his sparring vest.
“I thought the role of the Vail Templar was to protect the clerics, the temple and its relics. To keep the peace.”
“It is.”
“Since when did that include the taking of prisoners?”
“Since the SSC began unlawfully detaining Emmainites under allegations of collaborating with the Shaldea.”
“The SSC?�
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“The State Security Command,” Alaric replied, wiping his face with a towel. “It’s the Republic’s equivalent of the Ciphers.”
“What exactly is the nature of our relationship with them?”
“As you know, the temple ground is an autonomous state. So the SSC brings suspects here since we are not under the legal codes of their command directorate. We are commissioned to conduct the investigations. An inquisition, as we call it.”
“So we’re basically the Republic’s proxy torturers?”
“Hardly, child. Torture is never sanctioned and certainly not on hallowed ground, which is why we conduct the inquisitions, not them. Our approach is one of mediation rather than enforcement. I prefer to think we’re guardians of the people caught in a war between the dissidents and the establishment. Furthermore, we offer those found innocent Sanctuary.”
“And if they’re found guilty?”
“The SSC takes them.” Alaric stored his equipment and took up his templar sword. “Now, enough of this,” he then added. “You better return to the college before the matron begins asking about you.”
Selah gathered her cleric’s robes and started for the bathhouse adjacent to the training barn. She stopped at the door.
“Alaric? What does the SSC do with suspected Shaldea collaborators? After they take them away, that is.”
The templar paused, fishing for the right words. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, child,” he finally replied. “Now, off with you.”
Alaric had no time for a bath. He left the training barn after Selah and entered the temple sanctuary. He passed the main altar and made his way down the south transept into a corridor at the end of which was a door that led into the Bene-seneschal’s study. It was guarded by a templar squire.
He knocked.
“Yes?” said a voice from within.
“Champion Linhelm here to see you, Your Grace.”
There was a brief pause.
“Show him in.”
“Alunde andra, Champion,” said the Bene-seneschal, without looking up at Alaric.
He stood, focused over a chessboard in the corner of the study. Judging by the many pieces on the board, the match was in its early stages.
