The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four

by Daniel Lawlis

  Righty gave him a close look to make sure Tats wasn’t getting smart, but he saw this was a serious question.

  Dodging the question for the moment, Righty began: “You know—you two have a lot of guts. It was me they were really after. You could have run off with your ten pounds and left me to get my face ripped off and my guts poked out.”

  “That’s not how we do things,” Tats said. “Especially not with you. We admire you. You’re the one with the guts.”

  Spider nodded solemnly.

  “Two of your men died today, standing by my side. Take this in their honor,” Righty said, removing two of the wads of cash and giving them to Tats.

  Tats looked astounded.

  “Three of my men ran today and made me and my crew look bad,” Tats said, declining the money. “One was Skinny. He was a full member of my gang, but now there’s no hole deep enough for him to hide in.” Tats said ominously. “The other two were just lookouts; they’re still going to get a good tongue-lashing though.”

  “Listen, fellas,” Righty began. “There’s a lot of money to be made in this business, and believe me—we haven’t had our last battle, but after the skulls we split today, there aren’t going to be too many people itching to fight with us for a while. Nonetheless, it might be a good idea if we switch meeting places for a while.”

  Righty pulled out a map of the city and focused on the junkyard and showed it to them. “You guys know this area like the back of your hand; you pick the next meeting spot.”

  Tats looked at it carefully and then pointed out a spot. Righty put a mark next to it with an ink pen.

  “How about another ten pounds for $100,000 next week, same time? I need to do a little recovering.”

  “Sounds good, Brass,” Tats said.

  Chapter 32

  As Righty rode home that day, a lot of thoughts were going through his mind, and they each competed so fiercely for his attention that he was having a hard time taking them on one by one.

  First and foremost in his mind was the realization that he almost died today. And not just him, but also his seven customers, four of whom had surprised him unspeakably by standing and fighting with him rather than leaving him to a certain death at the hands of the dozen thugs who had ambushed him.

  As a result, two of his customers had died today, and if not for the sudden appearance of that strange, freakish creature that—either by luck or due to some inexplicable vendetta against Righty’s would-be assassins—had selectively chosen Righty’s enemies as the target of its afternoon amusement, both Righty and all of his customers would have been cut to pieces today.

  That thought had a sobering impact on Righty’s mind. He knew from the get-go this was going to be a dangerous course he was taking in life—both in terms of risk from the police and from those he would deal with in the underworld—but never had he expected to find himself so hopelessly outmanned, caught off guard, and inadequately armed.

  He realized that if he was going to continue on this course, he was going to first get a sword. And not just any sword. A top-notch, bona fide killing tool and preferably one that could somehow be adequately concealed. Secondly, he was going to have to learn how to use the darn thing. And not just how to twirl it around a couple of different ways, but to make it an extension of himself—to use it like a brush in the hands of a master painter.

  And lastly, he was going to have to get some better armor. He didn’t ever want to take a shot like that to the knee again and find himself incapacitated. The next time no savage beast was going to emerge from the sky to do away with the jackals lurking above his incapacitated body.

  He didn’t have the foggiest clue where or how he was going to accomplish any of those three things, let alone all of them, but the resolution was etched in granite in his mind right now that he would do all three one way or another.

  The next focus of his analysis was that he was going to have to find out from Tats a lot more about the structure of the underworld in Sivingdel. He had plopped right in the middle of it, like an animal transplanted from one habitat to another, and he was starting to realize the enormity of the consequences associated with not knowing who the major players were.

  Not too long ago, he had killed Big Frank, and now today he faced Big Frank’s brother with eleven other men. Who would it be next time? Big Frank’s other brother . . . and with two dozen men? Or perhaps Big Frank’s cousin with three dozen friends?

  Yes, it was definitely time to have a long talk with Tats about the power structure in Sivingdel, even if only in that particular section of the city. Tats would surely see the logic in that, having just lost two of his own men today, and a third counting the crew member who had turned tail and ran, turning himself into an enemy.

  He had seen a lot of dreadfully famished-looking kids rummaging through the trash in that area of the city. Then, an idea struck him. Without even hardly touching his profit margin he should be able to make a loyal lookout of enough of those kids to be well-apprised of any unpleasant arrivals. Furthermore, truth be told, it ate at him to see human beings in such miserable conditions, although that wasn’t something he planned on sharing with Tats, Spider, or any of their gang.

  Lastly, he realized he was going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do with Janie. Fortunately, there was no liquor on his breath, so convincing her he wasn’t back to his barroom-brawling days shouldn’t be too difficult. But he was making a lot of money fast, and he knew the annuity was a one-use-only lie. He was going to have to get some legitimate business going at his new store in Ringsetter fast.

  Once he was ready to expand, he was going to need to get someone else to manage it, and then he was going to need to open up a couple stores in Sivingdel. He didn’t want to start attracting too much attention to himself in Ringsetter. He had enough already as the washed-up would-be boxing champion who had turned into a professional beer and whiskey guzzler and lumberyard man who had suddenly turned sober and started working as a clerk and who had then suddenly bought his own store.

  One more wild move like the kind he had been making, and there would be little gossip besides that of Righty Rick. And that was not the kind of thing he wanted. Although there had been no police enforcement so far of the Smokeless Green prohibition, he suspected that wasn’t something that was going to last forever, and he wanted to make sure that by the time that changed for the worse he was either out of the game or so far on top he could control things to his advantage.

  But as for right now, he was nothing more than a middle-class man who was rapidly acquiring cash. He knew that getting cash was important, but it wouldn’t mean power in and of itself. A man could have a house full of cash and lose it in a fire or in a single burglary. Cash was a road towards power, but it wasn’t itself power. Power meant having land—lots of land. It meant owning businesses. It meant having powerful friends. It meant having access to the services of deadly people. He had none of that. In spite of his growing potential, he was as vulnerable as a baby eagle just poking its beak out of its egg.

  Chapter 33

  Righty was relieved when he got home and found that Janie had still not arrived back from the library. He took the opportunity to look in the mirror, and he realized that while he was as dirty as a rat and he had blood stains all over the back of his shirt, he had no bruises or cuts on his face.

  He quickly put his blood-stained shirt in the fireplace, lit it, and went outside to their shower area. There was a barrel of water next to it and a couple of small buckets. He stripped and began pouring water over the back of his head. It stung like about twenty hornet stings at once, and he realized the flesh was most likely still torn. That meant a trip to the doctor and the risk of more gossip.

  Do it anyway! a voice told him authoritatively.

  He looked down at his knee and saw it was swollen really badly. That alone would have meant a trip to the doctor, so between his head and his knee he knew he had no alternative.

  Then, suddenly, he heard
Janie come home.

  “Richie?” she inquired.

  “In the shower!” he responded.

  To his horror, he realized she was coming to join him.

  Normally, that would have been as welcome as hot pancakes, but tonight was a little different.

  The next thing he knew he was face to face with Janie in all her natural glory.

  “Did you get an inventory arrangement?” she asked, looking at him with amorous eyes.

  Then, he realized that with the right tone he just might avoid a lot of nasty questions.

  He pulled her close to him, kissed her, and said, “Yeah, baby. Everything worked out fine. Except Charlie apparently was in a little bit of a hurry to get home for some reason, so he riled up the other horses and started the wagon up with a jerk, and I went falling right off, landed on my knee, and then on my head for good measure.”

  “Well, Ralph knew I missed you, and so good for him,” she teased.

  Fortunately, the romantic spirit and the analytical spirit coexist as harmoniously as water and oil, and thus Righty’s explanation of a lacerated scalp and puffy knee seemed like the most natural thing in the world to Janie, albeit very boring. Righty and Janie were quickly distracted by other matters, and thus, Righty realized he had had his second stroke of luck that day. Analytical Janie would have been a far more severe interrogator but alas was far away.

  Chapter 34

  The next day, Righty started out by going to the doctor. He got some stitches put on the back of his head and a brace for his knee. He was relieved beyond description when the doctor didn’t ask too many questions and even more relieved when the doctor told him his knee should heal on its own. Righty’s knee was already a bit better, although he still favored his left leg as he walked or stood. After leaving the doctor’s office, he went straight to his store. He was busy from the get-go because as soon as he got there he saw a wagon waiting outside loaded with inventory and one of Mr. Hoffmeyer’s employees waiting for Righty to sign for it and take it off his hands. To Righty’s relief, the employee was helpful in unloading the wagon, and by the time they were about halfway through unloading that inventory another couple wagons showed up.

  The men driving those wagons also helped him put the inventory into the store, but putting it onto the actual shelves was going to be his privilege as the owner. He had talked to Janie last night about whether she would be interested in working in the store, and he was immensely relieved when she had said that, while she would be happy to help out whenever he needed it, she would prefer to keep working at the library as her main job. That suited Righty just fine. He was content he wouldn’t have to be explaining himself every time he stepped outside the door.

  His knee was giving him hell whenever he tried to kneel and lift anything heavy. He had planned hiring a young clerk within a couple days, but his knee groused so adamantly about the abuse it was being subjected to that Righty went ahead and placed the following placard on the door:

  HELP WANTED

  ABLE-BODIED, NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY

  An hour or two later a young man entered and asked about the pay. Righty sized him up and thought he looked like a good fit, so he offered him ten falons per hour to start but with the promise that “hard work would be rewarded.” The young man looked around twenty and had an honest countenance. His name was Robert. He accepted the offer, and Righty put him to work on the spot.

  Righty handed him a hundred falons and said, “If you finish early today, keep the change. Otherwise, call it a day at ten hours. I’m not looking to run you ragged your first day here. I’ll be back later to inspect.”

  To his satisfaction, he saw the young man get to work with a spark in his step, and Righty headed home, hoping against hope Janie would be at the library working.

  He didn’t waste any time going out to check on his plants. He was now happier than ever that a few weeks ago he had had the foresight to buy some empty barrels and fill them up at a creek in the woods not too far from his plants. Had he been required to fill those barrels today, it would have been a task beyond his capabilities.

  He now had big money riding on these plants, and as their fortune went so would his. He wasn’t going to be happy if these plants died of thirst just because he was too injured to water them, so hoped against hope his knee would heal by the time he used up the water already in the barrels.

  He arrived and started watering them one by one. His once small garden had now turned into a miniature farm, and it extended well beyond the protective enclosure that would have kept it a secret from any but the closest observers. Nonetheless, while it had ventured beyond these bounds it still wasn’t exactly a bright sign on Main Street reading RIGHTY’S SMOKELESS GREEN FARM.

  However, Righty was starting to get a little worried that it was only a matter of time before some curious kid—as he had been once upon a time—went traipsing through the area and, even if he didn’t have a clue what crop he was looking at, realized he was looking at some kind of garden. Then, word would spread, and even if Righty didn’t end up in jail he could easily end up losing the source of his burgeoning wealth—which, while expanding quickly, was still in its infant stages.

  He considered the possibility of planting more small trees, similar to the ones making up the enclosure, in order to extend the layer of natural camouflage, but he realized this would be a gargantuan task to do by himself, and it was out of the question while his knee was still hurt.

  While he was mulling over these dilemmas, he was suddenly ripped from his reverie by a sound in the forest. He pulled out his dagger in a flash, but, alas, he achieved a standing position with far less rapidity. Joints popped so vigorously throughout his body that for a moment he wondered whether it had not been a sound produced by his battered body that had caught his attention.

  He thought he felt a slight breeze pass over his body, which seemed strange, as there had been little wind today. Suddenly, he got the eerie sensation that someone was standing right behind him. He twirled around, dagger in hand, hoping he looked more intimidating than he felt.

  There, facing him, no more than six to eight feet away was a beast unlike anything he had ever seen, although his gut told him immediately it must have been the creature that had attacked and killed several people yesterday, apparently for sport.

  Righty forgot for a moment that he didn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention to this section of the woods, but he couldn’t contain the shriek that escaped from his lips as he twirled around and began shuffling as fast as he could sideways, certain that at any moment he would feel sharp talons gripping his chest, yanking him high up into the air, and then dropping him for the amusement of this terrible monster.

  “You fool,” he heard a calm voice say.

  For a moment, his avarice—perhaps the most powerful of human emotions—dispelled from his mind the image of the horrid creature behind him. Instead, he felt sure that standing somewhere near him was a human intruder ready to begin helping himself to about four barrel-fulls of Smokeless Green. Righty was ready to maul whoever had just spoken. This intruder may have found his garden, but he wouldn’t live to tell anyone about it.

  He whipped around in a flash, dagger stretched out, but saw no one. Just the monster looking at him calmly, as if to say, Are you quite through with your histrionics?

  For a moment, the two just looked at each other. And Righty found that the longer he looked at this thing, the closer he came to regaining its calm. Its eyes seemed intelligent and piercing but unaggressive.

  Harold had no intention of getting into a tedious explanation as to why he could talk, much less an argument as to whether he could talk, so he cut to the chase: “I failed you yesterday. You were injured. I had been reluctant to reveal myself to you until I felt the time was right. I waited too long.” Harold then bowed his head briefly in a sign of deference before raising it.

  Righty didn’t know if this was some sort of sick trick the beast was playing with him to get
him to come a little closer so that it could then show him how much fun it is to go hurtling up into the air at breakneck speeds only to then be tossed down and break his neck.

  “Why would you want to protect me?” Righty asked—still suspicious as to whether this conversation was really happening and that he wasn’t simply suffering delayed effects from his years of alcohol abuse, and doubly suspicious as to whether this thing would indeed seek to help him.

  “My duty is to protect you. I owe you no explanations. Perhaps, in time, you will earn them.”

  Righty found himself oddly liking the bird upon receiving this thorny response. He admired people that didn’t tell more than they needed to, and if this thing really was talking, he saw no reason why he couldn’t admire that trait in an animal. Trust, however, was going to be hard-earned with something that could tear him to shreds upon impulse.

  “Well,” Righty began slowly, not sure quite what to say, but feeling he had better say something. Running was hardly an option. His left-foot shuffle was unlikely to outpace a creature he had seen yesterday use a human club to whack the daylights out of someone sprinting madly.