Rogues Gallery

by Will Molinar

  Will the city fight me? They might. I could expend energy attempting to convince them. It is in their best interests to support this endeavor ,but I have more pressing concerns to deal with. The members of our Guild are unhappy, and I must do something to keep the merchants content, or at least make them understand I will do what it takes to protect them from harm, within the city and at sea.

  I must ensure the avenues of their business are clear from molestation, and I have failed in that duty. Can I be faulted for doing whatever it takes to reverse this? The merchants face increased theft within the city. They had to hire more guardsmen, out of their own pocket, to better protect themselves and their wares. The Thieves Guild was not a perfect system, I admit, but it worked to keep things at a manageable level. Men and women stole what they needed, and with the special arrangement with Oberon Cutter, the merchants were mollified.

  Two deals are no longer in place; the one we had with the thieves and the one bartered by my predecessor to keep travel along the coast free from attack by buccaneers, outlaws and other miscreants. The city is to blame more than I. Can the council not see the bubbling cauldron of unrest in this city? Are they so blind and cut off from the day to day misery that is the lot of the average person in “Murder” Haven, holed up in their palatial homes in the wealthy quarter that they no longer see reality for what it is?

  I believe this is the case. But we shall have our navy. And perhaps I can convince the rest of the council we should use it to blast Lurenz and his fleet of criminals into bits of driftwood. I can only do as much as could be expected as any man.

  There is unease within the cadre of Dock Masters. Joseph Miller seems an odd man, with his unusual mannerisms, but Lawson assures me he is talented in areas of math and accounting. Bolvin is learning his trade at the Western Docks where business is busier, but by all accounts he is doing fine. Becket continues to ask for an audience with me, but there is no time if it is not Guild related, and he is coy in his responses. He is senior member now and must work some things out on his own.

  Melvin Crocker does not approve of many of my decisions, and I know he believes me to be walking down the same path as the former Guild Master when I decided to sacrifice the others to the gallows pole, but what choice did I have? It was either them or The Guild. I chose the greater good, for us and for the city entire. We have survived to pick up the pieces and begin anew, stronger and wiser.

  Construction on the Eastern Road seems to have stalled, despite my best efforts. The council is toying with us again. They promised to help with the cost of the engineering enterprise but so far have refused payment. I spoke with the foremen, a shifty man named Fallows, and he says The Guild is responsible for the financing alone, but I know this to be untrue. Requests to Lord Cassius’ office for the money remain futile.

  Will the paving of our main thoroughfare to the east bring increased prosperity to The Guild and thus every man and woman associated with it? Of course. Speed of delivery is always a major concern for merchants. This is why Sea Haven enjoys such a monumental trade, as our geographical location is centered with the kingdom and makes trading with neighboring nations easier.

  We have lost business because of Lurenz and the thieves. Merchants are tearing up their contracts with us and finding alternatives. By building a paved road, we increase our ability to do more business. The council is under the impression it is not a priority. They do not wish to spend money in order to make money. They are fools.

  I know there are some that are hell bent on cleaning up this city, but they fail to understand a fundamental reality to this place. Crime will never be abolished by rules and laws. This is not a normal city. Corruption is as much a part of daily life as eating or breathing. We cannot control it. We can only contain it, so the common man can survive. I provide jobs and enough coin for men to buy food for their families. This is what The Guild does. Yes, we make merchants wealthy, but such is life.

  On my desk is another request from Lieutenant Dillon asking, nay, demanding funds for a new jail to be built. I did in fact promise this, or at least support for the idea within the council, but I may have overstepped my bounds. I did what I had to at the time. I knew he would come knocking someday demanding support, and in truth the police deserve it. A new jail should be built to accommodate the influx of the poor thieves, professional or otherwise, that are being pulled from the streets every day.

  Ah, my aching head, there is too much. I am overwhelmed!

  * * * * *

  The air was humid, and the sun bright and omnipresent at the docks. Despite the cool air buffeting wind from the sea, it grew hot standing in the sun for long. The constant yelling of labor filtered around in a stream of noise that mixed in with laughing, intermittent conversation, and the sound of the gulls overhead.

  Dock Master Becket stood by Pier One where a scrap metal merchant argued over his shipping order with one of Becket’s Pier Supervisors, a rather large man named Pierre Johnson.

  “I have it right here, sir!” the merchant said and shoved his sheet of papers in Johnson’s face. ‘Not a good idea,’ Becket thought. The man was bearded, massive, and known to have a short temper. But the merchant didn’t stop. “I was granted First Pier status on this order, and for some god forsaken reason, I was pushed back to Pier Two. Unacceptable!” He shook the papers in Johnson’s face. “In fact, most of my shipment is meant for the shipping yards. I should have special privilege to forego normal procedure and have direct access to that inlet. That’s what needs to happen, sir.”

  “Perhaps,” Pierre Johnson said, taking the whining request in stride. “But you’ll have to apply for the special privilege like everyone else. It takes at least two months to go through.”

  “What?! Two months! That’s ridiculous. It was my understanding I would get preferential treatment for this shipment, due to the nature of my goods and the need in the yard. This is a special shipment, you understand.”

  Everyone’s shipment was special, but the man had a point. The shipping yards were busy and needed materials. Becket expected a strong retort from Johnson, but he stayed on good behavior, perhaps because Becket was there.

  Becket interrupted and told the merchant he could bump him up on Pier One and try to get an extra cart or two in order to transport the items faster to the shipping yards.

  As Dock Master, Becket had the authority to do even more and push the ship through to the shipping yards direct, but he wanted to let the man stew. If he wanted to be an ass, he should suffer for it.

  Later, a small schooner sent up a red flare indicating their urgency in getting to the front of the line on Pier Two. Such was the commotion, Dock Master Melvin Crocker was summoned. Becket stood by the edge of the water, his brown sandals feeling unsteady as they always did on the wooden dock. The palisade was fence-like, and he put a hand on the nearest portion to steady himself.

  His hands were filthy. A golden ring on his left index finger was covered with grime, and he wondered how that had happened. He wiped it on his rich, naval blue doublet and sighed when it smeared a large glop of goo.

  “Master Becket,” said Crocker behind him.

  Becket turned and inclined his head to the older man. “Master Crocker. How are you?”

  The bent figure waved a palsied hand at the end of the dock. “What’s all this then? Hmmm? No need to call me here.” He had his silken, yet raggedy red cloak pulled tight over his thin shoulders. His verbal bile belied his frail form. “Can’t you handle this yourself, Becket? Hmm? You’re senior man now. Why am I here? I’m busy.”

  ‘So much for pleasantries between colleagues,’ Becket thought. He sighed and looked back to the edge of the dock, far out into the misty air. Fog was moving in; it was late afternoon. “You’ll discover why the same time as I.”

  Crocker huffed but kept his mouth shut. He folded his arms over his chest and muttered something Becket didn’t bother to try to hear.

  A few moments later, the schooner came into view. It hu
stled and bumped its way along the line of ships making anchor on the pier. Becket frowned when he thought about the fact it didn’t really matter where the small vessel landed along the wooden walkway. They could have found a spot, come off board, and walked to where he was.

  By the time they hit the side of the pier twenty feet in front of his position, a crowd had gathered behind him. Curiosity drudged up workers without work to do.

  A commotion on deck of the schooner arrested his attention as they steadied the landing. The crowd got louder and almost bumped him forward, but luckily for him, there were some security men to keep everyone back. Becket ordered them to keep them that way and stepped forward to peer at what was happening on.

  They were dragging someone forward in chains towards the gangplank. Becket was near and tall enough to see well. The man they had in custody had a dark complexion and was smallish. He was dirty and dressed like a sailor; with a loose fitting grey shirt and large earrings they should have taken from him. His beard was scraggly.

  The prisoner didn’t appreciate being chained and fought with the men. He yelled in some foreign tongue Becket recognized. The Dock Master told a couple of security men near him to help those from the schooner. They rushed off, and now four men held the captive under control as they came down the pier.

  The ship’s captain, a man named Mynter that Becket knew well, followed them down. He was short and thick around his chest with platinum hair and goatee.

  “What’s this now?” Crocker said and stepped forward, pointing a finger at Mynter. “You are not a police vessel, Captain Mynter. You do not have the authority to place anyone into custody. Explain yourself.”

  Mynter stopped in front of them and looked deflated at Crocker’s words. But a glimmer of defiance remained, and he glanced at Becket.

  “Who is this man?” Becket said. “Why have you brought him here?”

  The prisoner realized he was being spoken of and looked at all them in turn. He spouted off a litany of words that sounded like curses to Becket’s ears.

  “Well, Master Becket,” Mynter said, “there is a regulation about this sort of thing if I’m not mistaken. Damned if I know the specific one, but under the circumstances I thought this best.”

  Becket waved him off. “We’re worry about the legalities later. Tell me what happened.”

  Mynter told them a harrowing tale of strife their vessel had experienced the last several days. They were attacked by a pirate ship, a vessel much larger with a greater array of armament. The crew decided to flee instead of battle. They were cornered near the Jeirling Strait and threw up the white flag of surrender. It was a deception, though, and once the enemy vessel closed in, Mynter’s men attacked and were able to break off and flee.

  “After that,” Mynter said, “we were able to hide in a large cave within a rocky patch of stone islands. We hoped they would give up the chase, but they did not. They sent out small boats with a few man apiece to search for us, and after a couple of days, they did.

  “Before they were able to call out for assistance, we struck hard and killed all but this man here. We waited for nightfall and then made a run for it, all quiet and no torches. Then we escaped without further molestation.”

  Becket narrowed his eyes. “And you saw nothing further from them? They didn’t follow you.”

  “No. We were lucky.”

  Crocker huffed but added nothing to the discussion. Becket agreed that they were lucky. Maybe Lurenz thought since they had already gotten some much booty they didn’t need to work so hard for one tiny ship. It wasn’t worth it.

  This could be the break Becket has been waiting for. He glanced at the security men and motioned them on. “You men, take this prisoner away. We’ll keep him in custody.”

  Crocker tittered. “Need I remind you, Master Becket, that you are not an officer of the law. Your position offers you no powers of arrest! This has nothing to do with the Guild. You will allow the proper people to deal with this, this miscreant.”

  Becket ignored him. “We’ll take him to my office for now.”

  Crocker huffed. He stepped back and glanced around, almost frantic. “Now wait a moment, all of you. You are not authorized to do any of this. I will contact the police department about this situation. Wait, all of you now!”

  They ignored him though a couple of men looked worried. Becket waved them on to his office. They dragged the prisoner. The man continued to speak in his tongue and resist. Inside, the room as very crowded as Becket had not had a chance to clear any of his extra artwork.

  One of the security men bumped into a painting and knocked it off the wall. He looked chagrinned and tried to set it back up, but Becket told him to forget it.

  “Captain, why don’t you have your men wait outside,” Becket said. “Three of you security men stay. That will be sufficient.”

  The crewmen and extra security men left.

  “I need Lawson here for this,” Becket said. “He’ll be able to get something out of this man and might even understand the language. Retrieve him for me.”

  One of the security men left for to the Southern Docks. Becket leaned up against the wall and listened to the man speak and gesture with his head.

  “I apologize for not understanding what he’s saying,” Captain Mynter said. He rubbed at his grey goatee and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure it’s a southern dialect, though. We were near the Jeirling Strait of all places when they hit upon us.”

  “Yes, I know the route you took,” Becket said. “I think I understand a little of it. Something about having the wrong man, let him go, he has a family, a wife, so on. Typical things a man in his position would say, I suppose.”

  “He’s lying,” one of the guards said. “This man has no family. He was shat out of the devil’s ass thirty years ago, and Lurenz adopted him soon after.” But he stopped when he made eye contact with Becket. “Sorry sir.”

  Becket smiled. “No, by all means. I thought it rather amusing as well. Captain, do you know of anyone that might be able to speak his language and can translate for us? Your shipping routes put you in that region a lot.”

  Mynter looked thoughtful and even a bit surprised at Becket knowing so much about where he traveled. “Well, yes sir. We do go there quite a bit now that I think about it.” He stroked his goatee. “There might be a fellow I know, name of Foya. Been part of our crew off and on of late. The fella may have lived on an island in the region for a long time, wants to retire there. It’s quite pretty from what I’ve heard. He should be able to speak the language.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Mynter shrugged. “Not sure. I’ve had to let some men go. We haven’t made as many runs as usual, what with these raids and all. Things are slower.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Becket said. “Try to get a hold of him as soon as possible. I’ll make some inquiries around town. Perhaps someone else speaks it.”

  The prisoner yelled something about having to piss, at least that’s what Becket surmised. He tried to stand, but the shackles kept his movements small, and the security men shoved him back down.

  Becket frowned. “He needs to piss. I’m afraid there aren’t the proper facilities here to keep a prisoner. We need to move him.”

  First he ordered the security men to take him to a latrine. There was one outside his office, but to keep the shackles on. They looked annoyed at the prospect of helping him accomplish such a task without freeing his hands, but Becket gave them a look that brokered no argument.

  “We’ll take care of it, sir,” one of them said. “What do you want done with him afterwards? Where do we take him?”

  Becket had no idea, but Muldor would know. He would have a plan all worked out by now. In fact, he would have contingency plans already set up in case something like this happened. If they caught a pirate, do this… where the hell was Lawson, anyway?

  “Master Becket?”

  He pursed his lips. “Right. Let’s see. Captain, how long will it take for you t
o unload your wares? And what are your orders afterward?”

  “Maybe an hour or two to unload because it’s a small shipment. After that, well, we planned on staying in the city for a while maybe a day or two. Many of the men haven’t had leave in a while. I was looking forward to going to the arena. I haven’t seen that ogre fight yet. Heard it’s something else!”

  “That’s fine, Captain. Take all the time you want after you unload. We’ll use your ship for now. I’ll give special permission to off load at Pier One, and then you can drop anchor there for as long as needed.”

  Becket addressed the security men. “Put him in the hold after you take him to the latrine. Keep him under guard. I want two men outside the bars and one on deck at all times. Understood? Inform the boardwalk shifts what’s happening.”

  “Yes sir.”

  They left along with Captain Mynter. A few minutes later, Lawson arrived.

  “What the hell is going on? What’s this about some prisoner? Crocker’s called the police. They’re coming here.”

  Becket cursed and waved at Lawson, indicating they should leave the room. ‘You stupid bastard, Crocker,’ he thought as they rushed out. Becket explained the situation to the younger man on their way. They stood over to the edge of Pier One.

  “Sounds great, but Crocker said the man was too dangerous,” Lawson said. “He’s all in a tiff about the Western Dock’s resources being used for illicit purposes or some shit. Stupid git’s really going off about it.”

  Captain Mynter was nowhere in sight, and Becket assumed he was with his ship, but the schooner was not where it was supposed to be. Another merchant vessel docked where they had pulled the prisoner off. Lawson seemed excited.