She took his silence as an invitation for more information. “It's nothing too dirty. Just tasks they need taking care of. It means the coin isn't as prominent as the more...” she trailed off but Geron knew what she was implying. Murder and other such nefarious deeds. His attention was lost once more.
“Wait!” she exclaimed, most exasperated at his reluctance to delve into a life of crime. “All I'm asking is for you to tag along on my next task.”
“Task? You make it sound so innocent,” he chuckled, incredulous.
“Fine, my next job. I'm not entirely confident about how smooth it could go and having someone there to watch my back would make me feel a lot better.”
He pursed his lips most unconvinced, until the figure of a fifty-fifty split arose with sultry tantalisation. “I am not sure what kind of intimidation I could provide,” he said grimly, as he lifted his arm.
Mallagy smiled as she lowered his raised shoulders, disarming the unconvincing fighting stance. “That doesn't matter, with the Spider’s Legs, it is all about appearances.”
Convinced he had accepted her proposal enough to be held to his word, Mallagy departed, announcing as she left that she would call on him later tonight, keeping the 'task,' as she termed it, sufficiently shrouded in enough mystery to leave him apprehensive.
2
The picture of professionalism, Geron was awaiting Mallagy for several hours after sunset. His mother had dismissed his loitering as idle stargazing and left him to it with no imposing questions.
“I don't suppose you'll tell me what we're doing before we get there?” he asked Mallagy as they took a shortcut through the neighbouring fields. The discretion their means of travel had taken was already beginning to unsettle him.
“It's just a transfer, simple business.” She tapped the purse tied to her belt. “We need to exchange this for a parcel.”
“And that's it?” Geron asked with trepidation.
“That's it,” Mallagy smiled reassuringly. The simplicity of the job was but one of the benefits. The thrill of eluding the law was another. Something that she was certain to remind him of. “If there are Kingsmen about, act natural. The Spider’s Legs may be all secrets and shadows, but there are enough of them in penal dungeons to prove they are real.”
Accepting the code of silence felt oddly formal, but he was a little relieved to hear her refer to her supposed new colleagues as 'them,' rather than a condemning 'us.'
At last they arrived at the meeting spot. Geron was alarmed to see Jerquin there, a trader his family had dealt with numerous times. Another lost number in the dwindling markets. Although it was now clear why, for he had found another means of income. However, he had taken to this new line of work as well as Geron had, tensely stood at the crossroads sign, clutching the parcel with such an inauspicious grip that any passer-by would know its worth.
Jerquin noticeably relaxed when he saw them approach. There were no cordial greetings nor coded subterfuge. The respective items traded hands with aplomb and immediately each party turned to depart. Geron was about to quip about the timely nature of the deal when Jerquin's cry of outrage stopped them. Whatever was in the purse, he was thoroughly displeased at the contents.
“This is only half,” he protested, thrusting the palmful of coin back inside the cloth.
“That's... all I was given,” Mallagy said with an innocence that Geron knew to be put on.
He too was surprised to hear such playfulness in her voice, treating the affair like a cheery game. “And you do not want to question Spider’s Legs’ integrity, do you?” She turned to leave, passing Geron with a wink, her face looking like it was creasing, on the verge of laughter.
Geron felt a firm push as Jerquin barged past him, hands outstretched towards the parcel.
“Give it back,” he hissed. “This isn't what was promised.”
Watching on with the passivity of a disinterested party, Geron had to be reminded of his role in this transaction by a firm calling of his name by Mallagy.
Reprimanded, he grabbed Jerquin by the arm, pulling him aside, knocking them both off-balance. The two rolled down the sloping road, Jerquin's tumble brought to an end with a crunching collision with the signpost, which both provided directions to the nearest four towns, and a sufficiently incapacitating blow to the head.
Jerquin gave a low moan, rolling onto his back. Racked with a sudden and most burdensome guilt, Geron went to check on him, but was intercepted by Mallagy who helped him upright.
“You're a natural,” she laughed and grabbed his hand, yanking him erratically from the shoulder as she raced on ahead.
Breathless they ran, through the fields and over the walls. The grace and sophistication of an underground criminal job cast aside for youthful exuberance. This breathlessness remained in Geron after she departed his gate.
An elation that persevered throughout his slumber, into the rendezvous and the subsequent jobs. The thrill of the implied danger, name-dropping the association with the criminal syndicate. Breathless in excitement, it was the truest form of joy Geron had found since returning to Rivermouth.
“I'd be lying if I said I hadn't grown to like it,” Geron stretched back in the creaking chair, resting his boots upon the table, enjoying the spoils of another successfully completed 'task.' The Caretar's glared at the brazenness but remained silent, placated in bountiful coin.
Mallagy smiled. “Yeah, I could tell you were. You're more like my partner than a sidekick,”
“The fifty-fifty split says so too,” he winked and tossed back the last of the tankard. The traditional celebratory drink often turned into a half-dozen, but upon the payroll of the Spider’s Legs, financial woes were less considered these days. Something Geron carried guilt for however. The spare coin, he should put it aside, carry the farm through these bad times. But the numbing quells of the tavern's pour eased such pronging feelings.
“But,” she emphasised, wagging her finger toward him, “as my muscle, or nearest thing to, you need a nickname, one that inspires fear.”
Geron scratched at his chin most uncertainly, he could feel the fickle hairs of maturity peeking through, but nothing in the realm of the intimidating full growths the Kingsmen possessed.
Mallagy slammed the tankard on the table, an idea forming. “Well, if the legendary pit fighter Champion Romes was known as the Walking Weapon and you're pretty handy, so how about the Walking Tool.”
“Rolls off the tongue,” he laughed.
The Caretar sisters, though pockets lined with coin, still tutted in disdain at the continued presence of Geron and Mallagy as they clumsily exited the establishment, but not before inadvertently toppling two tables, three candlesticks and the ceremonial overhanging moose head. Mallagy flicked an additional coin for the troubles onto the bar as they bade the sisters good night, stumbling out onto the town square.
Their laughter echoed on the bare stones recoiling down the side streets, prompting cries for silence and threats of the Kingsmen. The latter rallied them on their way, merriment was not a thing to be sacrificed for the Sonkiller's finest.
Life before the war had seemed rather sterile and static, each day bleeding into the next with little prospects beyond their town. This pessimism was all but realised upon Geron’s return to Rivermouth, where he saw no future beyond napping in the barn and attempting to negotiate his feelings for Mallagy. But fate and destiny are rarely what one expects and Geron was thankful for this change in fortunes. He knew that this affiliation with the criminal syndicate grew riskier the longer he was involved, but for now he was content to cease peering at the horizon and enjoy the day, the fortunes and the company.
His front gate was to be the location. He could see it in the distance and was already planning what he would say, dismissing prepared drafts and content that he could improvise in the moment. This preoccupation meant however that he was not fully paying attention to what Mallagy had been saying these last few minutes, nor did he see figure that awaited them at t
he front gate. He knew his mother did not hold them together in any semblance of esteem, but this was an innovative step.
But instead of maternal disapproval, a disgruntled trader roused himself from his perch upon the gate. Jerquin had evidently been waiting a long time, and seemed almost relieved that they had at last arrived. But it was a fleeting positivity that gave way to the anger that darkened his demeanour once more. Mallagy went to question either his presence or his actions when the glinting of steel, catching the moon's light, answered those inquiries.
“You stole from me. And then when I went to the Spider’s Legs to tell them, they stole from me too. A 'tax' for saying their name in public. That tax was everything I owned. I went to the Kingsmen and they locked me up for working with them. I got this...” he tapped the blade's edge against the side of his scar-riddled cheek, the knife's spine dipping and rising through the inorganic waves, “from members of the Spider’s Legs in the penal dungeon, for speaking to the Kingsmen.” He laughed, though neither Geron nor Mallagy could see the punchline. “And so I racked my brains trying to figure out how things could have gotten so bad, how my life turned to absolute muck. When I realised it wasn't the fates, it wasn't even the Spider’s Legs, it was... you!” He turned the knife, pointing the tip in accusation towards Mallagy. “You alone stole from me. And you ruined my life.”
Jerquin advanced, taking measured but deliberate steps toward them. The knife was small, but if needs be, a quantity of strikes over quality, would see him accomplish his task.
The drunken haze had long since lifted, banished by the sobering prospect of danger. Geron stepped forward, blocking the path. He had met Jerquin but a handful of times, yet still hoped this familiarity could defuse the situation. But Jerquin was to have no attempts at civility, anticipating the conversation. “You helped her, young man, count yourself lucky you're not next.”
“Well, that's not fair,” Mallagy started, about to appeal this with the evidence of the fifty-fifty split, but Jerquin was committed to the deed, lunging forward with a swipe that was born from emotion rather than any practical training. Thus Mallagy was able to elude the projected strikes, but with each lunge they were growing errantly sloppy and desperate, just as dangerous as precise skill.
By utilising the limb advantage, Jerquin was easily able to dismiss Geron's attempts at disarming him, pushing him away each time he reached for the knife. Frustration was overriding panic, but this numerical advantage was turned as Mallagy ceased her retreat and joined Geron in a mutual endeavour after a particularly close call. This combined three handed effort defeated Jerquin's mere two, and his flurry was stopped, attention turned instead to escaping their grip. Hands inched towards the knife, centred now in an entanglement of fingers. Jerquin cried out in a howl of pain as Mallagy chomped her teeth upon his forearm, but as the blood eked towards the knife, the hilt remained fastened to his grasp as if it were a dependant part of his body. The ground beneath this scuffle was slick with the evening's light rain, and eventually Jerquin's footing could hold out no longer and the three bodies slid to the ground in a crumpled heap.
Groggy from the fall, Geron still had the wherewithal to muster some degree of taunt at Jerquin who had scrambled upwards and made haste toward the town.
His shoulder had not borne the brunt of the tumble well, and Geron took a moment to shake some life back into it, stopping when he saw that Mallagy was still lying prone upon the ground.
Inquiries to her well-being were met with a muffled response, Geron approached her warily, knowing that something was awry. The hilt of the blade stood proudly in her sternum. Mallagy stared down incredulously at it, as if the sight was too much to process and withholding her acknowledgement was all that what was keeping her alive.
With swears numerous and whispered, Geron turned to flee, in search of help, but first decided that he should probably inform her of this choice of action. Mallagy gritted her teeth, the tears that had formed escaped as she scrunched her face in anger.
“I always did like you, even if you were the only boy left in Rivermouth,” she smiled through bloodstained teeth.
Geron choked a confused question, but knew the time for answers had gone, he let her hand slip away, standing up on weakened legs, his breath shallow. He had seen so much death during the war. Of Arconan and of Tallagate. Both cohort and stranger, but for the first time he saw the slaughter from a personal standpoint.
The body was lit differently by the morning's light. Shadows of night lifted, revealing the continued nightmarish presence. Geron did not hear the words his mother spoke, nor those of the Kingsmen when they were summoned. Nor the embalmsmith as he carried her away. Their words locked behind a deafening veil of sorrow.
Geron awakened with a start. He was certain he could hear his name being called. But upon recollection of his senses, realised that the racket was coming from the passing protest. It had been one year since King Lornus had passed the Beastslaying Decree. And the people of Rivermouth decided to mark the occasion by renewing their distaste for the Sonkiller with a noisy pilgrimage towards the town's tavern.
The din pierced through his ears, rattling around his skull, until at last a culmination manifested in retches that started wet but soon turned dry. Sidestepping the mess, he tripped over the bottle he had brought to the barn with him. The remnants spilled out onto the hay, desperately absorbing the liquid. Sufficiently queasy from its consumption, Geron was content to shun its rescue and proceed towards the house. He had not intended to spend the night in the barn, but knew he was a clumsy drunk. And with his mother still bed-bound, he did not want to disturb her rest.
The afternoon sun blared across the derelict farmland, casting the dry weeds ablaze in a tantalising hue of amber, where once hearty crops would dance in the day's wind.
The tray rattled with the contents, bountiful in simplicity, Geron set it down in front of his mother who issued her thanks with a weak smile.
Staring hungrily at the meal, he realised that he too should likely consume something nutritious. The entirety of Tallagate had been on the brink of famine ever since the war's end, the teetering growing more precarious with each passing month. He spent every waking moment of his home-time caring for her, perhaps for the sake of self-preservation he should begin to pull himself out of this self-destructive mire and look after himself too.
This debate about the qualms of forgiveness and redemption were halted by his mother who looked past the food at her son sat in the corner, absorbed in his own thoughts. She interrupted this musing with a simple question. “Where does the coin come from, Geron?”
He glanced down at his clothing; the adaptations brought on by experience. It was not the attire of a farmer, but of one wanting to conceal blades and to have blades be thwarted in return. It would be futile to lie.
“I looked out the window yesterday,” she said softly. “The fields are bare; I don't hear the call of the animals. The farm is dead, Geron.”
He shared her view; the fields desolate and grim with their lost potential. “Rivermouth, well Tallagate as a whole is going through some hard times. The King's obsession with the beasts-”
“I know you mourned for Mallagy,” she spoke so suddenly and with more emphasis that Geron had heard her utter for months. It was startling, doubly so to hear her say Mallagy's name.
“You carry that grief with you every day. But you are travelling down a road that will only lead to her same fate.”
The room started to spin, Geron fought nausea as he stumbled from the chair to the door, unable to commit to the answer of her demanded promise.
The Spider’s Legs were an organisation ran by intimidation, rather than any system of methodical proficiency. Fear had allowed their reach to penetrate almost all aspects of commerce outside the realm of the King's taxation.
Geron's physical status had earned him a passing respect in the town. But as the tasks continued to be completed with minimal complications, word escalated through whatever passed
for communication channels, and eventually Geron was the recipient of an anonymously delivered letter. Without garish decoration nor formal tone it merely invited him toward a meeting that very night.
The Caretar sisters’ trademark dour expression was instead affixed with a glum reverence as Geron stepped through the tavern doors. The bustle of footsteps and scraping furniture was absent, the licking of the flames upon the scattered logs in the fireplace the only sound as Geron was escorted through the emptied tavern towards the solely occupied table.
Enveloped in a cloak that either served a purpose of concealing one’s identity, or another curious Arconan fashion trend had crossed the borders, the seated man gestured for Geron to join him. The array of attendees, each carrying the characteristic of burly, ominous or burly and ominous, all stepped back, giving the meeting a semblance of privacy.
He did not introduce himself, nor did he heap praise upon Geron for his excellent representation of the criminal syndicate. Instead his ring-laden finger tapped upon the parchment that lay in front of him. Taking the initiative in this silent interaction, Geron retrieved the sheet, whilst also sneaking a side glance at the mysterious figure, only to be disappointed by a regular face tucked behind the heightened collar.
It was a list of names.
A detail Geron brought up. In his defence he uttered such a non-complex observation as a cue for further information, but the cloaked man instead saw this as either disrespect or ignorance. Regardless, his ire was stoked sufficiently to turn and glare straight at Geron. The most regular face now shadowed in a glare that many had seen as their last sight.
“Yes, you tripin’ fool. It is a list of names. And by next season, I want each name to be indebted to us. Understood?” It was always the same way with these rural runts, good for action, not for talking. Just once he longed for a conversation on these meetings. Instead it was issuing death orders and back on the road to Fateskeep once more.
The Dragon's Custodian Page 2
