“That is handy,” she agreed. “How independently do they operate?”
“Very. Within a gang the leader has nearly undisputed authority. But by tradition the entire Crew obeys the local boss first, regardless of what their local captain says. Master Luthar has undisputed authority in Vorone. They are remarkably disciplined, for a band of cutthroats,” he added, admiringly.
“Where are they operating? I assume you have at least some basic intelligence?”
“Of course – I’ve been taking notes on them, since my father died. They work out of several locations, based on their territories. The first gang, under Opilio the Knife, controls the Market ward, focusing on protection schemes and petty theft. They are perhaps the most sophisticated gang, and the most lucrative for the Crew by far. They also control the southern wards beyond the river.
“The second gang focuses on the docks and the garrison, supplying illicit pleasures and loaning money. They also control the smuggling, such as it is. Their boss is a highly paranoid bastard by the name of Ransung Bloodfinger. He got the name because if one of his clients gets behind on a payment, he’s willing to work it out . . . if the client is serious enough to cut off their own finger. It apparently keeps folks from getting too far in arrears.”
“So it would,” Pentandra nodded.
“The third and largest gang is in charge of the refugee camps, ruled by a former petty Wilderlord known as Harl the Huntsman. They’ve made great gains in their various enterprises in the last two years, though the disappearance of most of the children last year was a blow. They made a pretty penny on catering to the town’s darker vices.
“The fourth gang is more insidious. It focuses on the palace, and controlling the city’s government through bribery, blackmail, and threats, if loans, favors and persuasion won’t do. Its run by a weasel called Jarek Blackcloak. He used to be a mercenary in Enultramar, before the Brotherhood sent him north. He was Lord Jenerard’s local contact and muscle, arranger of bad things, when he was still at the Palace, back in Lenguin’s court. He’s been rewarded for his efforts. The smallest of the five, we think, but nearly the most clandestine.
“And the fifth . . . honestly, we don’t know what the fifth gang does,” he admitted. “Their lair is hidden and their boss is unknown to us. But we know he exists. We theorize that they act as a control over the other gangs, a private enforcement gang that the local Rat, Master Luthar, can call upon against the others. Or it could be here to keep tabs on Luthar for his masters in Enultramar. Or both. But while we know of their existence, we know damn little else about them, save that there are at least eight enforcers in the group.”
“That’s . . . a lot of Rats,” admitted Pentandra. “How many members typically in a gang?”
“Opilio the Knife’s Market ward gang, has fifteen or twenty full members and employs about thrice that many local toughs. The Docks gang has about that many under Bloodfinger, with a few more locals, mostly unemployed stevedores or dockside brawlers willing to beat people up for day wages. Harl the Huntsman’s gang in the camps has almost fifty Rats, and hires gangs of toughs to help enforce their rule. The others . . . likely seven to ten, with some attendants.”
“Less than two hundred men holding an entire town hostage to their greed,” Pentandra said, shaking her head sadly. “Do we know where their lairs are?”
“We know two definitely, suspect two others, and have no idea where the fifth might be. But the one time I was able to convince Baron Edmarin to go after them, a few years ago, we raided their warehouse and put nine rats in prison. Within a week they had been replaced and set up business in another warehouse. Four of my men were assassinated off-duty as a result. The rats bribed Edmarin’s lawbrother to give them simple fines and they were back up and running their enterprises by the end of the month,” he said, disgusted.
“Then let us establish the fact that we know, for certain, the facts that must be investigated, and the questions that need to be answered, before we take any rash action,” Pentandra decided. “Can one of you gentlemen write? Then let’s begin by starting a parchment detailing everything we know and suspect, first. That will be where we will begin.”
“My lady,” he asked, disappointedly, after a moment’s pause, “we were told that you would be employing magic in aid to our mission.”
“Magic is an art, Constable,” she replied, calmly. “Like swordsmanship. When you duel another man, you study his weaknesses as much as possible before drawing a blade. Here we have not one man with one weakness, but an entire army of men, only some of whom are known.
“If you want magic to work, and not merely impress the common folk, then a bit of preparation will be required. And that includes lists, plans, and more parchment than you want to admit. For the next few weeks I want your men to collect as much information through observation as they can . . . and report it back to me. Before we take the first step, I want to know everything that can possibly be known about our foe. Every name of every thug. Every lair. Every weakness, every strength. Power without control is pointless, in magic, gentlemen. And control without intelligence is impossible.”
Pentandra and Vemas spent an entire day working out procedures and policies for the clandestine enterprise. It didn’t take long to establish some basic security schemes for observation and reporting, and they were learned by rote by all of the the stalwart guardsmen Sir Vemas assembled. For this first part, they all agreed to don civilian clothes and skulk about the wineshops and taverns, the docks and the refugee camps, watching, remembering, and reporting.
By the end of the week the lonely parchment on her table had multiplied thirtyfold as the guardsmen dutifully reported after their late nights out. The scope of the Crew’s operations was impressively sophisticated, she had to admit to herself when she got a better picture of it.
Each gang operated in distinct areas, with specific areas of specialty, preventing their business interests from competing with each other. The captains of each gang were constantly attended by bodyguards and lackeys, whether they were in their lairs or walking the district on business. They were armed, personally, but tended to rely on their lieutenants for violence. They wore no distinctive clothing or badge, doing their best to resemble prosperous merchants or petty nobility, though Ransung, the captain over the Docks district, had a love of gold jewelry that he displayed, and the Market ward boss Opilio sometimes carried an ornate gilded walking stick that was reputed to conceal a blade.
Day by day more names of their associates trickled in from the guardsmen-turned-spies. They had no trouble looking the part of disinterested barflies, Pentandra decided. Though while in their uniforms the men looked the part of guardsmen, once they donned civilian clothes, a layer of grime, and various affectations of character they looked like any of the thousands of vagabonds who filled the wards of Vorone.
They had respectable names of townsmen: Andolos of Northwood, Carastan the Cooper, Dalls, Fen the Quick, Mastril Ironhand, and her two favorites, Hanrei the (ironically) Handsome, an ugly little man with a razor-sharp wit, and Tolgan Falconeye, who was the most observant man Pentandra had ever met.
They possessed unique talents and skills among them. Dalls had been a housebreaker before joining the guards and knew his way around locks and chains. Carastan was powerfully built and physically intimidating, and who used to run with a gang of youth in the southern wards himself. Fen the Quick had skills as a pickpocket, and Ancient Andolos had an amazing talent for picking up gossip from the unlikeliest of places.
There were others, but those seven seemed the most adept at the task of collecting information, and they were the ones that Vemas used to both spy on the Crew and guard Pentandra.
She thought the gesture silly. She had proven she could handle herself, and any thug who attacked her would be in for a nasty surprise. But the Constable insisted, Arborn agreed, and Pentandra relented. She soon came to enjoy the informal discussions with the guardsmen more than their reports. She learned an aw
ful lot about the people and the town from their experiences and observations.
For one thing, she discovered that the guardsmen did not take issue with crime, itself, but saw the invasion of Rats as an unacceptable development in the criminal ecosphere. Indeed, several of them had connections of friendship or kinship with the older gangs, and were partly motivated by a desire for retribution for the bloody way their friends were deposed.
If she wanted to start a fictitious street gang, she decided, she had some of the raw talent here to do it, she decided.
Pentandra found herself becoming more and more distracted by her evening activities, particularly in the absence of Arborn. She rationalized the time and energy (both figurative and literal) she invested in the enterprise as careful attention to her duties, but in secret moments she knew she craved the danger and excitement of the clandestine action.
Being part of a group dedicated to a cause in such a passionate and bloodthirsty way was addictive. It helped Pentandra keep at bay the feeling that her new marriage was stifling her.
Arborn didn’t exactly disapprove of her activities with the guardsmen, but he was also concerned for her safety. He never directly confronted Pentandra about his misgivings when he was home for a day or two between ranges, but she could tell from a dozen subtextual clues that he was concerned.
On the one hand she found it endearing that he worried so much about her; on the other hand, it irritated her that he did not feel she could take care of herself.
That became an issue, soon enough, as a more complete picture of the Crew emerged. Pentandra began seeking out particular pieces of information at night, by magic or in disguise, herself. She was always cautious, she rationalized to herself . . . but she knew it wasn’t necessity that drove her. It was a craving for excitement.
Despite her best intentions she found herself downplaying the increasingly dangerous escapades with the guardsmen to her husband. And while she told herself that it was to keep from worrying him, there was part of her that knew - and felt guilty about - her growing attraction to Sir Vemas.
It was confusing. In Arborn’s absence Pentandra found herself constantly flirting with the young constable, enjoying his company and being entertained by him as they plotted the serious business of dismantling the Rat Crew’s activities. She was charmed by his passion for the mission, his acidic wit, his charismatic manner and the way his men were truly devoted to him. Sir Vemas was always well-dressed and groomed, and if he had ever departed a courtly demeanor. Pentandra had yet to see it.
He was an intelligent, dashing man doing dangerous, important work, and doing it well. Pentandra could tell he was equally attracted to her, and only his duty and his honor kept him from pursuing her . . . and he frequently dropped hints about how versatile his honor might be. It was a flattering temptation to even consider . . .
But then Arborn would return before she could seriously consider it. The Kasari captain’s presence seemed enough to put to flight any thought Pentandra might have of other men. Compared to Arborn, even the witty, charming Sir Vemas seemed lackluster, a well-made linen of a man when Arborn was made of the finest, toughest silk. An hour being crushed under his body or delighted by his boldly masculine form was enough to banish any thought of infidelity. Then he would be gone again, leaving Pentandra with the sympathetic Sir Vemas.
It was, Pentandra had to admit, a very entertaining and very frustrating relationship.
It wasn’t as if court dalliances weren’t common. Indeed, the halls of power attracted such clandestine relationships as a matter of course. Sex and power were intimately connected, Pentandra knew. She’d seen it play out on every political stage, from the smallest manor to the court of the King and Queen. To some infidelity was a tactic, to others a game, to others a desperate pursuit of private compulsions.
Pentandra did not intend on using any of the available rationalizations popular at court for betraying her marriage. She was not unhappy. She desired no one better than her husband. She loved Arborn, and cherished his visits. She pined for a real home, and a real home life, with her new husband.
The fact that the idea also filled her with dread was part of her confusion. She tried her best to bury her growing attraction to the charming Sir Vemas and refocus her efforts on the task at hand.
After two weeks of steady work she had the beginnings of an idea of just who she was facing. As the information from the guardsmen’s nightly forays was recorded, it began to give shape to the problem. Pentandra had nearly a sheaf of parchment full of notes detailing the names and habits of the Crew.
Each captain, their lieutenants, their bodyguards, and their enforcers now had a name and a position on her list. There was a definite division between the upper levels of the organization, which was exclusively from southern Alshar, and the strong arms they employed were local Wilderlands men, either from rival gangs or recruited from refugee camps, the river docks, or the gutter. There was tension between the two groups, but the southerners had a firm grip on the situation.
They decided to focus their initial efforts on the Market ward and its captain, Opilio. The Market ward was closest to the palace and one of the most lucrative territories for the Crew. It made sense to assess it first.
Within a few days she knew Opilio’s lieutenant, Gorne, and his three bodyguards by their faces and had a much better idea of what the Market ward captain did when he wasn’t shaking down honest merchants or making illegal loans. She knew he liked to eat at a tavern for luncheon every day where he met with his various business interests. He spent the afternoons either dealing with specific issues, collecting funds, or simply walking through the slushy streets with his gaudy cane like a duke, surrounded by his men, intimidating the entire ward.
More important still was the growing list of business interests and customers the Crew had, everything from smuggling to high-stakes gambling and high-interest lending to legitimate enterprises taken from their owners in a hostile manner. That was key, she knew. Criminal organizations tended to exist only to make money. Discovering the sources of their revenue would be essential.
She began to ask specific questions to her spies. How often does someone from the Crew stop by a business to collect funds and oversee operations? What happened if someone didn’t pay their protection? Who showed up if there was a problem? Quietly the guardsmen shambled back into the house in the ward and dutifully returned an answer, or she discovered it herself.
Much of the business involved protection money from merchants and even guilds. One in seven of the businesses along the High Street, from what they could tell, were paying a portion of their profits to Opilio’s thugs every week, and the pressure on all the rest to conform was growing.
Ancient Andolos, one of the more thoughtful guardsmen, explained the process to Pentandra one morning over tea.
“The Rats look for businesses or merchants who are in financial distress, but who cannot secure funds from a patron, a moneylender, or a temple. They send in a very reasonable fellow first, one who dresses like a noble and throws coin around like drops of piss. He casually proposes a loan just in time to save the day, at reasonable terms. Then he extends a line of credit. Then the terms change, and another fellow comes around, if payments aren’t made to the Crew’s satisfaction. He’s less reasonable.
“That’s when things get ugly. Threats and intimidation, beatings, even worse. Eventually, if the poor bastards can’t pay on terms – very unreasonable terms at this point – then the Crew takes over the business. Sometimes they let it run undisturbed, just taking a larger cut of the profit. Sometimes they use it as a cover for some other, more sinister enterprise, or loot it at their leisure. With local conditions as bad as they’ve been, there have been a lot of unfortunate souls who have fallen prey to them.”
“But that’s just the beginning,” Andolos continued, grimly. He was a commoner, the son of a wheelwright, who had been in the town watch for years before joining the palace guards. He saw the rise of the
Crew with a watchman’s eye. “Once they get into your business, they own you. Not just the business, but your entire family. That’s when the Crew starts asking for ‘favors’. Not much, at first, and folk are happy to help, just to keep the thugs at bay. But then the requests start getting more serious.”
“How serious?”
“The Crew is efficient,” Andolos sighed. “If they have a problem with a customer, sometimes instead of sending in their own thugs, they recruit an unwilling gang of other customers in the ward and force them to beat the man and menace his family . . . or face the same fate themselves the next night. Being forced to participate in such brutality reinforces just how easily their turn could come, and the guilt keeps them cowed.
“Last summer one man, a carter over on the east side, reneged on a pledge to repay a debt to the Crew. Instead of beating him, they bound him in his chamber . . . and then compelled all of his neighbors who were in debt to them to have at his wife while he watched for two silver pennies a turn, until the interest was paid. The poor woman drowned herself in the river in shame. The carter joined the Iron Band, died on patrol. Pity. Nice couple.”
“That’s ghastly!” Pentandra said, shocked. “That’s not merely crime, that’s terrorism!”
“That’s how the Rat Crew operates. It’s worse in the docks – Bloodfinger is a right bastard, and thinks everyone is out to cheat him – and far worse in the camps where the Huntsman prefers public beatings. The things they do to the poor souls there . . .” he said, shaking his head. “We’ll deal with them in their turn,” he promised. “Back in my day they’d rough a man up, or cut off his pinkie, but they wouldn’t destroy him, his family, or his relationship with his neighbors. Nothing like this, my lady. Those Rats are evil. They’re milking Vorone of everything they can, milking it dry.”
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 22
