by Luke Webster
“The wishes of a dead man are worth little, but still I might see value in you. There is a man I can contact… a thief.”
“A thief?” Damian’s face screwed up at the thought.
“That is what you need, to steal your friend. I will hire him on your behalf.”
“And payment?”
“That will come one day. I view this transaction as an investment.”
“If you can save Fredrick, I will return the favour ten-fold when I have the opportunity.”
Gerard smiled stained teeth.
38
James Pierce’s broad back stood before the council, one knee pressed to the ground, his giant shoulders rounded. Each of the council took turns reading their script.
“Sir Pierce of the house of Reitlin, serve now and protect the future kin of Ironwood. Swear to the Manati and the Foundations of Stone,” they repeated.
“I set my path to the protection of the kin,” James repeated six times.
Master Freeman stepped forth as the longest serving councilor.
“Sir Pierce, you have been granted the duty of warden to the children of the late Ivan Steward. Take this burden with care, do not stray from your duty both to your kin and the Iron. Rise as ‘ex-Governt Regent’.”
Pierce stood tall while Freeman struggled to tie the ceremonial cloak around his neck trunk. From the side Damian and Haylee stood, agitated from the long procession. At either side of the hall were two representatives of El-Manati, their presence required to officiate the warden. From their hands clung incense urns, swinging back and forth, the heavy musk clouding the timber-decked hall.
“I hereby proclaim that Sir James Pierce, of the House of Reitlin, born of James Pierce the Elder, is to be known from this day as ‘ex-Governt Regent’, standin regent until Sir Steward’s decided heir comes of age,” Freeman finished.
Pierce turned to face the watching mass, a wide grin plastered across his bearded face, his hands upraised in a symbol of victory. Some claps greeted the announcement along with the odd cheer. Most of the audience remained silent, observing in amusement.
Freeman returned to the ranks of the councilors, a raised eyebrow questioning the wisdom of selecting Pierce. Pierce was large, loud and obnoxious, traits that did not sit well with the old man. The other councilors had argued on his behalf, suggesting that the slow-minded noble would prove easy to manipulate. The house of Reitlin was known as a forward thinking family, one that employed modern sciences and corporations to run their affairs. They were without a traditionalist thought, a concern that had dogged Freeman.
The representative for El-Manati stood forth to dictate a strict code of chastity and obedience to the Manati. In it he chastised the crowd for their past sins and ordered them to repent. He struck out at the gluttony of the nobles and sought an oath from Pierce. Under practiced speechcraft Pierce recited the oath of fidelity, gaining the support of the church. Once this had finished the court band struck on with ‘Blessed Wings in the Stone City’, the trumpets deafening the audience.
Pierce stood back, striding to the children and knelt, scooping them up in two thick arms. Damian and Haylee wheezed under the bear hug, the large man overexcited in his promotion.
“Sir,” Damian gasped. Pierce let go and the children peeled themselves off to the chorus of his rampart laugh.
“Do not despair now, fair children,” he chuckled. “Uncle James will protect you both.” There was a whiff of Danick ale on his breath.
Each of the councilors approached the lord in turn, offering a handshake in congratulations. Pierce took each one, showing restraint in not hugging them. The church representatives did not wish thanks, preferring to leave during the band’s performance, set to report back to the church.
As the band finished Pierce retook centre stage, inviting all the guests to dine in the banquet hall. The musicians grabbed their gear and followed the flow of bodies. Freeman advised Haylee and Damian to join in at least for a short time. Locked hand in hand the children stayed back from the flood, taking a relaxed speed.
“He’s crazy,” Haylee whispered.
“Drunk… I think,” Damian replied.
“Does he really want us to call him uncle? I could never imagine myself related to that.” They were hurried up by a stern, over the shoulder look from Freeman.
“You must not seem distraught in public,” he chided. “Until you are of an age then Sir Pierce will be your adopted guardian. Do not let the casual observer think that you are opposed to the idea.”
“But we are,” Damian bit back.
Freeman nodded. “That is not the concern I have. Your family needs to show a united front now more than ever. Weakness breeds invite to attack. Sir Pierce is a good fighter, popular among soldiers. He may not play the diplomat well but he will serve to protect you.”
“What of our mother?” Haylee asked with an unusual tenseness.
“They will have no connection. Your mother is dreadfully aggrieved, as I am aware you two are. She will not have to suffer his rudeness, she will get her rest.”
It was enough for Haylee. When she had been told of the adoption she pictured someone rushing to the wedding bed of her mother. It had torn her up for days, the thought of some stranger forcing himself into Kayla’s bed. She had not spoken of it before due to a feeling of silliness.
As they reached the dining hall the crowd had already set themselves to the long banquet table. Pierce stood at the head, cheering a toast to the house of Reitlin. His jubilant mood was wearing off on the crowd, soon sharing his laugh and loud voice. Servants flirted through the mass carrying drinks on trays, the cups vanishing with speed so that a constant stream of alcohol had to be injected through the kitchen’s swinging doors.
Damian and Haylee stayed with their mentor, eating sparsely and exchanging few words. They forced tight smiles whenever a question reached them, though thoughts of their lost father and sister plagued the pair. As the ruckus grew Freeman let them retire, doing likewise himself.
Across the table Pierce was caught in a drinking contest of Last Man Standing with three of his brothers. Each one lined up with a dozen cups, replaced as soon as it emptied. They were sculling to the cheers of the drunken mob. Gehrig stood at the front, cheering on while the other councilors stayed behind speaking in soft tones. Pierce’s youngest brother passed out, collapsing face first and slamming his head into the steel rimmed table. The oldest brother spat up his drink at the sight, laughing out of control and falling himself. The contest remained between Pierce and his remaining sibling. They continued hammering through the rich ale before James could go no further. A combination of fish, cheese and ale churned in his gut. With a sudden spasm his cup shot away with the force of a spewing giant. The stream splashed out across the drinks and remnants of food, guided by the cheers and yells of a drunken crowd.
Pierce patted his brother’s back, congratulating him on the win, beard full of vomit. As he stood back his knees buckled and he fell, passing out amongst the revelers amid a sea of cheers.
The children visited their mother, Kayla Steward. Since the loss of Ivan and Ammba she had looked worse than death, her skin grey and greasy, the light dulling in her eyes. Damian tried to run his fingers through her hair, the oily clags catching his hand. He reeled back in disgust, ashamed by his action a second later.
Haylee did not notice her brother’s barely hidden revulsion. She had placed her head on the pillow next to her mother’s, ignoring the stink that Kayla expelled. She hummed in a gentle voice, remembering a song that her mother had sung to her growing up in better days. She thought back to the time before her father was regent. Haylee had been born in the Imperial Capital though had few memories of the place. They had returned to Ironwood a few years after her birth, taking the journey through early summer to avoid the worst of the weather. For weeks they travelled in the coach, her mother heavy with Damian. Haylee had played with Ammba most of that time, pretending to be mothers themselves, looking after th
eir own babies. On that journey there had been little to do but sing and tell stories. Her favourite hymns came from that time.
They had returned to the city after their first uncle was granted the regency, Ivan invited to act as councilor. It had been a busy time, her father concerned with state affairs, her pregnant mother trying to support him. Damian’s birth weakened Kayla and she never returned to her vibrant self. At first it was a mild fatigue that dogged her daily activities. Over time the sickness grew, making it harder for her to escape bed, spending less time with the children. Haylee looked across at Damian, he had never known their mother like she had. It told in his manner, he was playing the part of dutiful son rather than a grieving one.
Three stone floors down the drunken Pierce had regained consciousness and was locked in a drinking match with a young Northanian merchant.
39
Thomas Longshore stared into his cup, watching the herbed Dermleaf foam in the Regale liqueur. He was not a drinker, the expensive tastes that his father shared not instilled in the child. Across from him his father sat watching, assessing how the boy reacted to the news. He wasn’t angry, Senior Longshore could tell by his body language, displaying more of the pose of a man concerned with his own wellbeing.
“Where does this put us?” Thomas ventured, watching the leaf break up and sink into the thick liqueur.
“It makes us director,” his father replied, swishing the end of his own serve. “Directors of the future regency.”
The young man did not respond, touching the rim to his lips and holding back a grimace as the fiery brew burnt his palate.
“Tell me son, where do you see yourself in five years time.”
Thomas looked up into his father’s composed face.
“Following duties,” he replied. “Working with the business until you wish to accede it to me.”
“The house of Longshore did not rise to power by plying itself to trends,” Senior Longshore informed. “We are a house built from the returns of risk, climbing over the wrecks of slower, stupid families. I will continue to charge, where I see profit for us.”
“It’s a serious crime though.”
“A risk,” his father restated. “Chances build regents and kings.”
“And what would you have me do?”
“This Ammba girl needs a rescuer. You say that she has rejected you before… as a bumbling flirt no doubt. She will not dare refuse you as her saviour.”
“You wish me to storm her captors?” Thomas said, eyes wide at the thought.
“Of course not boy, you would not be at risk. The girl is held by criminals, long to hold a grudge but also willing to sell their own for the right price. Negotiations are already underway. You would be taking the girl back under armed escort without interference.”
“But still,” Thomas was unsure, the idea of risking himself for the girl not in line with his philosophy of self-preservation. “Maybe someone else should be sent to capture her. What if I am suspected of being part of the plot?”
“Stupid boy… Do you think that your father would simply bundle a crude rescue and hope that no one would bother asking questions? The Muhjhan syndicate is full of those that would sell out their own for profit. Truth is only a question of coin. There will be plenty of evidence bought to support our innocence.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment, reflecting on the idea.
“Why would an informant deal with the Longshore family?”
His father sighed, growing weary with the questions.
“They wouldn’t. They would be dealing with one of my agents.”
Thomas ‘ahhhed’, unaware that his father even had agents.
“I will be travelling with a rear guard, just so my presence is noted. The select apartment will be surrounded by the best Longshore men before you drown in glory. The criminals you kill will not be armed.”
Thomas felt his mouth dry, the liqueur not helping. Despite his quality with a sword he had never killed before. Harmond’s gored body haunted his dreams long after the incident.
“Okay,” he whispered, sliding the cuplet to one side and leaning forward. “When?”
“There will be a wait,” his father said. “News never travels that fast in the city. Observers would expect a drip system of information that might take a while to feed into the noble’s ears.
“So what do I need to do?”
“Prepare yourself… and keep quiet. This will test you child. A test to see if you deserve the Longshore name.”
40
“My lord, I did not expect to see you this morning,” it was a genuine truth Freeman told, staring at the pale giant as he crossed the council hall decked in heavy plate. Pierce did not answer, preferring to grunt his way past the other councillors and planting himself in the regent’s chair.
“It’s a little too early for me to shirk my duties,” he managed after settling in.
“If you feel unwell then perhaps you would be more comfortable…” the Master was cut short by a raised finger and a scowl.
“Where is Gehrig?” Pierce asked.
“Sir Gehrig sent a message to inform that he would not be attending this morning,” Stephen answered.
“Then have a message sent that if he’s not here soon I’ll strip him of his station… and more.” It was said with command, several councilors beginning to question their expectations of the guardian.
“Before he gets here I have some changes to make,” Pierce informed them, placing a mailed fist on the table and turning to Freeman. “You are the senior councilor here, correct?”
“Uh… yes,” Freeman’s voice stuttered in surprise.
“And you were opposed to me?”
“I… I…”
“Yes or no?” Pierce roared at the frail man, like a lion preparing to gorge.
“Yes… yes…”
“And why?”
“I… I… I preferred a Bartlett.”
“Then you were wrong,” the thunder continued. “I have no use for a senior councilor that cannot sway his own council. Get out,” the room seemed to shudder with the ferocity of his voice.
Freeman stared at the giant, his tongue flapping about in his skull like a drowning fish.
“You deaf old man?” Pierce’s face snarled like a rabid dog’s. “Get out or I’ll throw you out piece by piece.”
The Master stood with palms outwards, hoping to explain himself. Pierce did not give him the chance, standing too and swinging a mailed backhand into the old man’s face, knocking out the teeth on his left side. Freeman flew back, cracking his head on the oak table and rolling off to the side, spluttering incoherencies. A guard came and dragged the ex-councilor away to seek medical care while Pierce returned to the faces of stunned onlookers.
There was a moment of silence as the guardian measured their reactions, enjoying the uncomfortable silence he had created.
“Good morning,” Damon spoke, breaking the void.
A wide smile cracked Pierce’s lips as he barked.
41
Peter and Terrance held heavy eyes, diluted to black spots through prolonged drug use, helping them to keep watch throughout the morning. They squatted in a soiled apartment in Poor Man’s Quarter, the doors fortified to withstand a break in. They held duty till midday, told to make sure no one tried to enter the building or let their hostage escape.
“Who is she anyway?” Peter asked, closing the peephole in the bedroom door and returning to their game of cards.
“Don’t know mate, some little piece of arse that needs watching, who am I to care?”
“You know, the money’s good on these jobs but by hell are they boring.”
“Go jerk one out then, I’m sure she won’t mind.” Terrance cracked a laugh.
“That’d be right, I could imagine old Iron Teeth screaming at me now, ‘you were meant to watch her, not splash her with your seed’.”
They both cackled, returning to their game. Iron Teeth was the right hand of Puello DeYemond, f
ather of the Muhjhan crime syndicate and responsible for handling the most sensitive of jobs within the family. He had picked Peter and Terrance as they were proven loyalists to the family and old hands.
“You know, I can still remember meeting Iron Teeth for the first time, would have only been ten or so back then… scared the shit out of me.” Peter laughed, sipping at bitter water.
“You wouldn’t be the first, you remember Greasy Paws? Used to get so scared around Iron Teeth that the old man was convinced he was mute. Ended up having a bet on it with him…Next time he spotted Greasy shaking away he went up and planted a big kiss on his face.”
“What happened?” Peter asked, sure he had heard the story before.
“Greasy snapped to and called the old man a ‘finger wringler’. Don’t think he liked that too much cause he bit off one of Greasy’s fingers.”
Peter threw in his hand, waiting for a new deck to be played.
“That would get it done,” he mused, reaching for his cup again.
“I don’t know how you can drink that stink.”
Peter shrugged, looking at the murky water.
“I’m thirsty,” he admitted. He had been chewing Hardweed to keep himself alert, the brittle root drying out his mouth.
“So am I, but you wouldn’t catch me touching that rusty puke water.”
“I’d love something else,” Peter agreed, touching the rancid liquid to his lips again.
Terrance stared at him for a second before smiling.
“Go into the kitchen and check behind the stove.”
Intrigued, Peter went away, returning with a mischievous smile and a bottle of Danick whiskey in his hand.
“Don’t drink too much,” Terrance warned him, taking a glass off the younger man. They toasted to Iron Teeth, each bearing the harsh liquor with pride. The powerful drink threatened to choke them, the toxic brew leaving an enticingly sweet aftertaste. Terrance dealt up, handing another poor card to his counterpart, a second deck hidden in a special sleeve pocket.
