The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four

by Daniel Lawlis

  “But by the time you buy it from a wholesaler and turn around and sell it to the retailers, it will be more expensive than if they went directly to the wholesalers themselves, something they’re likely to know how to do, I would expect.”

  “But the retailers would be each approaching the wholesalers individually and buying much smaller amounts than what I could buy, which means I should be able to buy in bulk and get a good-enough discount to be able to sell it to the retailers for about what they would pay one of the wholesalers for that quantity. Even if it is just slightly more expensive for them that way, it would be preferable to going outside their territory and dealing with a stranger. I’ve got good rapport with the retailers. They know they can trust me.”

  “It sounds brilliant. Go for it. I wish you the best of luck.”

  Righty could see Chalky was a bit apprehensive.

  “There will be a ten percent tax.”

  Chalky looked dumbstruck. He dared not speak. He dared not move a muscle. But anyone with two eyes could see he was seething.

  “Let me break this down for you, Chalky. Have you ever taken even one minute out of your busy day to think about why all these great opportunities are unfolding for you?”

  Chalky dared not answer, but his silence was answer sufficient enough to his lack of thought on the matter.

  “Do you think any of this would be happening if Sam were still around? He aimed to squash you like a bug or relegate you to the lowest rungs of his organization, where you would be making little more than you would earn as a clerk at a hardware store. I got rid of him. Now, there are free agents moving about with serious cash and massive clientele looking for a new source. This gang has prestige because it stood up to Sam. But this gang is ME!!” Righty said, his voice thundering.

  Righty scanned the eyes of everyone there, and to his pleasure he saw nothing but submission and agreement to his truthful observations. Many of them were looking scornfully at Chalky, as if a word from Mr. Brass was all that was needed for them to set upon him like hyenas.

  “You’ve got it, Mr. Brass. I-I-I’m sorry. This is all kind of new to all of us. You’ve got it. Ten percent tax on every falon made from a separate connection.”

  “I’m glad you’ve seen reason,” Righty said with an edge in his voice and steel in his eyes. “And I owe all of you an apology for not being able to provide to you. I realize that as leader of this gang, that means I have failed you. But it is temporary, and I’ll soon be able to provide this product to you at a quality and price where you can line up all the wholesalers you want underneath you, and you won’t have to worry about pesky things like taxes on sidelines of business.

  “And I want to say this before all present. Chalky has the right mindset. You should be thinking boldly and expansively. And I wish him the best with this temporary sideline of business. Soon enough that wholesaler will be a client of mine—remember my words.”

  But while Righty closed with these kind words on Chalky’s behalf, he gave Chalky a severe glance to let him know it would be a fatal mistake to think failure to pay the ten percent tax would be anything other than a capital offense.

  With that, he bade the men adieu one by one with a solid handshake and set off on foot towards the countryside.

  With a lot on his mind.

  Chapter 6

  Tats also had a lot on his mind. As darkness neared, he prepared to do the unthinkable. The stories of his father’s alcohol abuse had served as a strong deterrent to that particular substance, and from what he had seen of many of the Smokeless Green addicts, that was also not a substance with which he desired a relationship.

  Yet as the evening went from dim to dark—the moon alone providing some luminary guidance—the utter state of his non-preparation began to weigh upon him heavily. He was a city boy through and through and had never so much as camped outside a night in his life.

  The only weapon he had on him was a medium-sized dagger (he hadn’t had time to look for the means of concealing his sword), and he didn’t feel the dagger would help him much in a fight against more than one or two people. He had no idea what to expect in terms of highwaymen or other malefactors, but he preferred to take his chances wide awake, rather than risk being roused from a peaceful slumber to see a grinning devil with a knife held to his throat.

  But the problem was he was getting tired. Very tired. He was beginning to have trouble making sense of the lines on the map. There was a main road that had brought him from Sivingdel to some unimportant town called Ringsetter. He had passed that at around 3 p.m. About an hour after that he had passed a weathered sign written in both Seleganian and probably Sodorfian (though his Sodorfian was extremely weak) welcoming him to Sodorf.

  After that, however, he found that the “road” began to stretch the proper meaning of the term. Even in daylight, he had found any hint of the road to be faint at best. In places, it was just a matter of the grass growing a little less thickly there. And in the forests, it was sometimes a matter of the trees being just a little less crowded together in the area that was presumably the path.

  But when it became dark, it was becoming more and more challenging to discern the pathway, and his increasingly heavy eyelids weren’t helping matters much.

  He had heard that if taken in small amounts Smokeless Green could function a bit as a performance booster, even though most preferred to take it in large doses and mix it with alcohol so that they could party all night long. He had an idea, from what he had seen, of how much the usual dose was to get high. He wondered what would happen if he just took a really small portion of that.

  As his eyelids drooped again, he decided the debate was over. He brought Valiant to a halt (he had already decided on the horse’s name) and took out the sack that carried the merchandise for his sister—which was no easy task, as it was fairly well hidden inside his saddle bag—and pulled off just the slightest pinch from one of the bulbs. He then rubbed it together with his fingers until fine sand-like grains fell onto his palm.

  It looked to him like a small amount compared to what most people took to party, so he went ahead and sniffed it. He felt nothing at first and began wondering what all the fuss was about with this stuff anyway.

  Then it him like an avalanche against a small cabin at the base of a large hill covered with boulders. The sensation nearly knocked him off his horse, so unexpected was the rush. He felt all of his thoughts sharpen and all of his energy levels go from near depletion to the top of the scale and then about a mile above it.

  There were no droopy eyelids now, and he began to wonder how he could have ever thought it difficult to notice the traces of wagon wheels, horses’ hooves, and boots. He dug his knees into Valiant’s side, ready to prod him on, but found he got less than the enthusiastic response he had been hoping for.

  He figured that if he could handle the quantity he had just had, his horse could handle at least twice that, given his size. He prepared the dose, dismounted, and gently stroked the stallion’s neck while simultaneously lifting his palm towards Valiant’s nostrils. Valiant, perhaps thinking it was food, quickly lapped it up.

  Tats wondered if the effect would be considerably weaker that route, but he had little time to give the subject a proper analysis because he suddenly noticed Valiant shudder and then start to fidget uneasily. He realized then that he better mount fast, or he would be on foot with lots of energy but no horse.

  He jumped on Valiant and dug his knees in, and this time he got more than the response he was looking for. He had to lean down tight towards Valiant’s neck to avoid being thrown off. It seemed Valiant had gotten the general idea of his master’s aim, which was to follow the treaded-upon ground, and Valiant soon proved himself more than his master’s equal in this regard.

  He burst into a full gallop, and Tats noticed with satisfaction that he was keeping towards the path.

  This gave Tats the ability to begin thinking about another matter, something that had been in the back of his mind ever si
nce this morning. When Chalky had seen him riding along on a horse, he had said, “I’ll get one better,” and while he said it in his usual good-natured tone, he seemed to detect malice in his stare, something that went beyond mere jealousy over the horse. Perhaps jealousy of Tats’ position as second-in-command in the gang, and perchance jealousy over his secret mission.

  This made Tats aware of a daunting fact. He had vouched for Chalky (as well as Crabs) when Mr. Brass made it known to him that Chalky’s name had rolled out of that worthless slug Stiches’ mouth as one of five traitors in the gang. Now, he was beginning to repent his voucher. The very day after Sam had been slain, Chalky had begun mentioning some wholesalers from Sam’s old organization that they ought to approach to make them customers.

  There was nothing wrong with that as far as business was concerned, but just how did Chalky so quickly become aware of who these wholesalers were? Stitches had said Chalky was on Sam’s payroll. Tats supposed there was a benevolent interpretation, which is that now that Sam was dead it would be impossible for him to be Sam’s agent, and if he had been Sam’s agent in the past perhaps he had repented of this mistake and was now just trying to use his old connections to help the gang move product faster.

  And furthermore, who could blame him for having worked for Sam during the long period where Mr. Brass barely showed his face around the junkyard and they needed a new supplier? And who could justly expect him to come forward and announce that he had been previously working with Sam once Mr. Brass took over the gang as its official leader?

  Perhaps those acts could be justified, but what if he had continued to work for Sam even after Mr. Brass took over? That would be a different story. And it was precisely what Stitches had accused him of. But even if it had been wrong then, there wasn’t necessarily anything wrong with him utilizing his prior contacts now. After all, surely expansion was the goal. His current mission seemed to prove that. So, if Chalky wanted to utilize his prior contacts for the benefit of the gang, what was wrong with that?

  What was wrong with it was that if Chalky had continued to work for Sam even after Mr. Brass took over that meant he had betrayed him once. And he who betrays once will betray again. He suspected that, if he even breathed a word of this to Mr. Brass, Chalky would be deader than a doornail within twenty-four hours. He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted that on his conscience, especially since it was possible Chalky might have just been good at snooping on Sam’s gang.

  But if you keep your suspicions to yourself . . . ?

  If he did that, Mr. Brass might end up getting assassinated, after which that ambitious Chalky would likely take over the gang and probably kill Tats just for spite, if his look today had been any indicator of what he thought about his superior rank.

  Or, Mr. Brass might come to this conclusion separately and then think Tats a traitor and co-conspirator for not having come forward with this information. That could also bring death. Then and there, he made a snap decision. He would tell Mr. Brass just the bare facts, and it would be his job as leader to decide what to do about it.

  As for now, he decided he would be better off focusing on his current mission and forgetting about Chalky. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry.

  Tats’ energy was sustained for about six hours, at which point his eyes began to droop again. He almost considered taking another sniff of Green, but he didn’t want to make a habit of it. His plight was ameliorated by a glow in the sky which suggested the cruel night was finally breathing its last.

  Tats then decided that a little assistance from Sleep would perhaps be the best remedy to his fatigue, rather than risking addiction to this pernicious substance. The thought of sleeping during the day also seemed less terrifying than in the cavernous night. He nudged Valiant over to a grove of trees, and as soon as it seemed they were safely tucked away from the sight of any passersby, he tied up Valiant, who then promptly lay down and breathed slowly and heavily.

  Tats lay down against Valiant, using his warm, soft side as a pillow, and before he knew it he was out like a light.

  Chapter 7

  When Tats woke up it was sunny out, but he could tell right away that the zenith of the sun’s ferocity had likely passed. He checked his watch and saw it was just slightly after 4 p.m. He patted Valiant on the side, and he quickly stood up and then parted company with a material whose stench gave Tats more than sufficient incentive to get moving away from there.

  He untied Valiant, mounted him, and set off.

  He found the pathway much easier to follow now, so he figured that was a sign he was getting closer to Sodorf City, as most people called it—though it was formally the City of Sodorf. He didn’t feel any terrible aftereffects from the Green he had had last night, something he attributed to the very low dose he had taken. Nonetheless, he was amazed at the boost of energy it had given him at a time he was sure coffee would have delayed sleep no more than another thirty minutes.

  His mind tried to wander back to the issue of Chalky, now that the road was clear enough (for it now seemed more than a mere pathway) to not require any significant amount of mental concentration, but he found this to be an extremely unpleasant topic, so he banished it. He instead began to direct his mental faculties towards the pleasant surroundings.

  The green grass, the verdure of the forests, the blue sky all worked together to provide picturesque entertainment during what would otherwise have been a dreary journey.

  About five hours later, just when the sun was beginning to rapidly succumb to nightfall, he started to see the outline of buildings. Not too much longer, he began to occasionally notice a passerby. Then, he could see lights from various building. Several minutes later, he entered the city proper.

  He realized nighttime was the best time for him to seek out his sister if she was still engaged in the occupation that had been her mainstay before police problems had prompted her to seek a drastic change of venue. Rebecca Havensford was eighteen years Tats’ senior. She knew all about the terrifying episodes of violence between Tats’ mother and deceased father. She had seen many of them firsthand, and little slips in conversations over time had informed Tats that Rebecca had had her fair share of abuse herself from the old monster. And not just beatings.

  But somehow Rebecca had emerged from it all tougher than nails. Of course, what Tats thought of as “tough” others may have thought of as terrifying. Tats had either never seen the almost demonic aura emanating from her eyes or had chosen to overlook it. All he knew was that Becca always took good care of him growing up, and he had missed her terribly when she left the country.

  He had been about fifteen at the time and was now twenty-two. She had always “done what it took” to survive. Although Tats’ mother had always been somewhat doting—at least as doting as a dirt-poor parent could be—she had been rough on Becca, and the two hated each other fiercely. Tats had quit school around age twelve, due to his mom’s inability to pay the meager fees the school charged students to borrow textbooks (purchasing them was even further from being a financially viable option), so sixth grade had been the last year of his academic career, even though he was usually an A or B student.

  Becca had given him a variety of jobs to keep him busy. He would let out a special whistle when the cops were coming to pay her establishment a visit. He had been a bit naïve at first as to what went on in the various buildings (the location changed about as regularly as a lady’s hat), but he noticed all of Becca’s workers were women and all the customers were men.

  By the time a year or two had passed, he was well versed in the precise nature of her prostitution organization and knew that Becca was a well-respected madam who was able to provide pretty girls for a fair price. She also had a bit of a vicious reputation when dealing with anyone trying to bilk her.

  Stories of noses being cut off, tell-all letters being sent to prominent clients’ wives (in cases where such news would not be superfluous), and throats being cut abounded. There were stories of still more vicious act
s, but Tats tried not to think about these things. People did have a tendency to exaggerate after all. But he realized she must have done something right because references to her being cozened were scarce, and whenever he heard people talk about her it was fear if not respect. And in Tats’ mind, the difference was not particularly important.

  But she had met her match when the chief of police’s son had scammed her. He had run up a large bill after he and about ten of his high school buddies stopped in to celebrate their graduation. The way the story went, they only had enough to pay for about half their bill. Given the police chief connection, Becca would have likely been willing to let the bill wait for a time before escalating matters, but when Albert, the police chief’s son, had told her, “My dad’s the chief! What the hell are you gonna do about it?” she had answered his inquiry by throwing a small lasso around his neck—something she apparently kept hidden in the sleeve of her dress—and then, in no apparent hurry, slowly strangled the life out of Albert in front of his stupefied companions, who gaped and awed but dared not lift a finger to help wrest him from the clutches of the cold-blooded killer in front of them.