by Will Molinar
It was quaint to have a bit of the outside world within his home. Later, he had a visit from a specialist, a man known for his design work inside homes for the wealthy. His name was Jerome, and he was tall and lanky like Becket but a few years younger, with a high forehead and thin jaw. Becket considered him handsome in an aristocratic sort of way.
“Master Becket! How wonderful to see you. I am heartened to witness the stunning transformation of your home. You’ve done some great things thus far, but I believe I can improve the décor. You Sea Haven residents are always so blunt about art. A sculpture isn’t a pole axe, you know.”
Becket found himself grinning. Jerome was much better company than he was accustomed. It was good fun.
They strolled around his home, starting in the foyer below the double staircase where Becket had already set up three paintings on each side where the stairs went up, and a sculpture in the center.
“Have you thought of a fountain here instead, Samuel?”
Becket had. “Well, there’s a fountain out front, so I didn’t see the point; it seemed redundant. Was I wrong?”
“Oh, no, not wrong per se, my dear. But I think it might lend some nice continuity to the whole flow of the entrance. People walk by the large fountain outside, they come in, see a smaller one here… the water adds a nice earthy feel to the room as well, which is what you were going for, correct?”
Becket smiled. “Indeed.”
Jerome always had a way of cutting through Becket’s internal objections and getting to the point of things. It was nice not having to be responsible for every decision in his personal life; much different than his professional one.
They did some more work, made some decisions, and retired to Becket’s dining room. He had only a couple servants, unlike most men and women that lived in the wealthy quarter. Becket did most of the day to day things needed in running his home himself. It had only four rooms downstairs, kitchen, dining, the servant’s room, and main foyer with a small sitting room he considered part of it; with three more upstairs, two bedrooms, and his office.
There was a full time cook, an older man named Benson, and a cleaning girl, a club footed young woman named Tessa. They shared the servant’s room and were more or less like father and daughter in how they acted towards one another. Bessie wasn’t very attractive, and Becket figured she would die an old maid and be servant for the rest of her life.
He and Jerome sat and drank wine. Becket finished his first glass with one gulp.
“Ah, my dear Samuel! It must be stressful this day for you. I’ve never seen you so incensed on imbibing. Tell me the stories I’ve heard are true! How goes it with the guild?”
He told Jerome as much as he could in confidence, leaving out details only members of the Guild should know, and the man took it in like Becket took his wine.
“How delightful! So exciting. I’m sure you are exhausted, but life is for the living, and you are only living when the threat of danger and lurking fiends is present, correct?”
Becket wasn’t so sure, but he liked Jerome’s enthusiasm. Later they sat together in the small sitting room and finished off a second bottle of wine. Becket sat in a large chair, with silken padding while his guest sat on a comfortable couch.
Jerome wore a crooked smile. He got up and stood in front of Becket’s chair, facing him. His cologne was rich, a fragrance both masculine and smooth. Becket took a shuddering breath.
Jerome lifted his chin with a manicured finger; Becket didn’t realize he had been dropping his head.
“Come now, my friend. This has been coming for some time. I see you looking at me, you see me. Why play games?”
Becket glanced up and grinned. “Some games are fun to play.”
Jerome smiled. “Well said.”
They kissed, and Becket felt not only carnal pleasure but a release of fear and trepidation. He should have approached the man earlier. All that wasted time….
Some shouting outside spoiled the moment, and they stopped. Jerome stepped back, looking worried. He put a hand to his mouth.
“Oh dear, sounds rather bad, Samuel. What is it?”
Becket didn’t know, but he felt a trill of fear rip through him. His cook, Benson, came rushing over, his white face more pale than usual, and the platinum tuffs of his hair that hung around the edges of his head stood out to the side in a mess.
“Master Becket, there may be a problem.”
Becket stood up, his Dock Master persona taking stage. “What is it?”
“Men outside. I don’t know what they want, but they seem to be pounding on doors around the neighborhood. They appear as ruffians, Master Becket.”
“That’s fine, Benson. Keep calm. It’s obvious what they want. They want to steal from me. Stay here, Jerome.”
He went to the front door where off to the side were too large bay windows. A group of ruff looking men outside, chatted with one another. They noticed him looking and yelled. Then a rock sailed through the air and collided with one of the four windows, paned and bracketed by a wooden frame. Becket jumped back as it shattered, and he ducked away.
They could kill him and take whatever they wanted. The neighborhood guard were nowhere to be seen. They hired men to watch their homes. They had a guard shack near the gated front entrance and a rotating patrol scheme for each section of the wealthy quarter.
“What’s happened, sir?”
Benson stood in the foyer looking more frightened than Becket had ever seen. ‘I’ll give you credit for standing tough,’ Becket thought. He rushed over as the men on the street continued to yelled obscenities. Another rock hit his window and smashed another.
“We’ll go to your quarters,” Becket told his servant and saw Jerome creeping up out of the sitting, hands on the side of the doorway, his face pale. “It’s the most secure room I think. We can lock the door from the inside and wait it out.”
They did that and found a terrified young Tessa hiding by the door. Becket instructed her to get back as the three of them rushed in. The shouts from outside grew louder, and Becket knew the men were in his home. There was nothing they could do but huddle in the small room. The candle light flickered, praying for rescue. It wasn’t Becket’s idea of a fun night.
* * * * *
Work on the Eastern Road halted. The workers, common laborers for the most part that hung around the Southern Docks or near the shipping yards when there was work to be had, stood around listless and bored. Among them were a few masons and foreman. They were mid-level bosses more annoyed than the regular men, for they had more money to lose due to the work stoppage.
The city had been hit with a heat wave in recent days, and the sun beat down upon bent backs and sweaty faces. A few water girls and boys went from worker to worker to ladle out refreshment, but it did little to lighten the mood. Even the nearby trees and mountains in the background seemed oppressed as if every entity within view, living or dead, shared in the despondency.
Muldor recognized several out of work dock workers among the construction laborers. Business had slowed at both docks, and therefore many men and women had nothing to do to make money. He was attempting to correct that by shifting many workers to construction activity at the docks, but that was more specialized work, and not all were qualified.
A small, grubby young girl came up to him and offered a cup of cool water. He took it with a rare smile.
“Thank you,” he said. She lowered her gaze, but when he was done drinking, he lifted her chin with his fingers. She shied away at first, but discipline built from the strict environment of the city’s orphanage kicked in, and she obeyed, standing still.
“Your face is dirty, little one. Here.”
He pulled out a small cloth from his silk robes, which were now dirty, and dipped it in the water. He washed her face with a gentleness most people in the city would be surprised to see him use. His robes had been white and clean at the hanging of Raul Parkins and Dollenger, befitting the Guild Master. Now he wore his custo
mary grey since he hadn’t bothered having them cleaned well.
“There,” he said. She looked up with cautious surprise in her eyes and smiled. “What a lovely smile you have, my dear. Don’t hide it. What is your name?”
“Polly, sir.”
“Thank you for the water, Polly. You are doing a wonderful job.”
She beamed, and he patted her head before walking by.
The orphanage often used child for such menial tasks and was paid for the service, but they never gave money to the children of course. It was a source of both pride and shame that he had spent much of his young life there, from age nine until sixteen, while also training with the thieves for some time. When he had shown aptitude with numbers, he had gotten a job as a scribe with The Guild.
His mother died giving birth, and his father passed away when he was nine. An older uncle had handed him off to the orphanage. When he first starting working, he had been ecstatic to be free of the harsh conditions at the orphanage. Young Muldor was content loading boxes and crates at the Southern Docks, but it soon became apparent his true skills lay elsewhere.
His father had taught him well. Muldor had a way with numbers at an early age, saw the sums in his head when asked specific questions, and picked up more complex disciplines fast. His father had always said that a man without an education was doomed to a life of cruel endless physical torture. Muldor had seen enough hardship from the workers at the docks in the last quarter of a century to believe that statement as a fact.
The years at Sea Haven’s orphanage were some of the darkest of his life, full of abuse, both physical and emotional with constant fear of reprimand. He felt afraid for the children working here under that yoke. He had tried many times over the years to improve the living conditions there, but he found himself blocked by powers unseen. The children were better off on the streets, where at least they could survive off the kindness of others.
He stopped and spoke with the head foreman, Fallows, who regarded Muldor with a warm countenance at first.
“Guild Master. A pleasure to see you this fine morning. I take you are wondering about the work stoppage, yes?”
“Show me your current work order.”
Fallows blinked, pulling out a sheet of papers from his waist band. “Sure thing, Master Muldor. Says on page four if we haven’t been paid for seven consecutive days, we don’t have to work. Today is the eighth.” He smiled, and Muldor did not appreciate the mirth. “See, part of my job is to count. Bricks and whatnot. Workers and such.”
Muldor stared at him and did his best to sound neutral, but no doubt his annoyance was evident. “Thank you for assuring me of your education. I’m certain it has been adequate. Now, as to the work being done, I have here with me a receipt of payment from my office, so I know it has been given to you. My people do not make mistakes. Are you refuting this claim?”
Fallows looked agitated. “Partial payment, sir. Partial. I can show you the cash receipt if you want, but I know you have it. What I don’t have is the other half. The Guild paid its share, and I thank ye for it. But the city is responsible for the rest. I was under the impression this was a joint effort, but we have yet to receive the money from them. Been a week, it has.” He stood straight and put his hands on his hips. “We don’t get paid, we don’t work.”
“Quite. A man with your education understands the concept of deferment, no doubt.”
Fallows’ busy eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, I’m aware of it, but why don’t you explain the details. Would there be a bonus involved, perhaps?”
Muldor knew what he meant. A bribe of course, a bonus for him if he got the workers going again. Even without the full payment supplied by the city, he could get it done.
“Yes,” Muldor said. “Come to my office and we will go over the details. The workers will be paid upon completion, the full amount, but meanwhile they continue to build. Or, if you wish, all of your men could be replaced.”
“What’s that now? Replaced?”
“Yes. The Guild has plenty of strong backs in need of a good day’s work. You have many dock workers among your ranks now. It would be a simple thing to make this a complete Guild project. I have some masons in mind as well. A road is a simple thing to build, is it not?”
Fallows knew what was what and nodded. “Like you said, I’ll meet in your office.”
“Good. I suggest you and your men get back to work. Delays are bad for business.”
Without another word, Muldor turned away and went back to his guards. Styles, one of his most trusted runners, stood to the side of Muldor’s horse. The young man had light brown hair and crooked teeth that were appealing in a sort of impish way. He was out of breath and holding a rolled up sheet of several missives.
Muldor reached out his hand. “Give it to me. The most important one”
“Yes, sir. It’s from Lieutenant Dillon. He isn’t happy, Muldor.”
“He never is,” Muldor said and read the note. It was a formal request for funds for the new jail and renovation of the older building. Interesting, Muldor didn’t think the man could read or write. It was a well-worded demand for The Guild to fulfill his promise from a few months ago.
The jail was overflowing with thieves, former professionals and scabs alike. Muldor wondered how Castellan might go about solving the problem. He would have them all hanged. Done, problem solved. No more thieves in the jail and a deterrent for those thinking of stealing.
“What is it?” Styles said. “You looked happy for a moment, now upset.”
Muldor grinned. “Your observations remain pertinent. Yes, I am both amused and disconcerted. I have an idea to fix the latter. Come, Styles, I have a job for you and a mission for the both of us.”
They mounted up, Styles going behind one of Muldor’s brawny guardsmen and headed to city hall. Both men he wished to speak with should’ve been there, Lord Governor Cassius and Lieutenant Dillon. It was busy, with many scribes and aides scrambling about the hallways and up the stairs of the stone building.
Muldor saw Lord Damour fussing about near a new wing, one rebuilt by Muldor after the cannon fire from Janisberg’s navy. The king’s cousin shouted and pointed at a large room, whose doorway was being refitted.
“This room is too small, I say! I was told it would be bigger. Why can’t you make it bigger? It’s half the size of Cassius’!”
The poor architect had little to say. He was a small man with dark skin, someone from the southern climes. “This is what you have assigned, my lord. Nothing can be done.”
Lord Damour was not accustomed to being denied. He stomped his feet, and his thick jawed face got red. “But this is unacceptable! You-you will talk to Cass-to the Lord Governor for me and get me a different office. This is the new wing. There should be a better one around.”
“This is the best one we have.” He shook his head and began walking away.
Damour stared. “What? You can’t walk away from me! I’m the City Planner, the Master of City Affairs! Do you know that? I have responsibilities. My job is important! I must be able to work.”
Muldor walked on while the man fumed, wondering how anyone got any work done at all with him there. Styles walked behind him, glancing around at the large hallways and rooms, almost in a haze.
“You built all this, didn’t you, Muldor?”
Muldor allowed himself a soft chuckle. “No, not with my hands. I hired men with the proper skills and tools to build and let them do their job.”
“Still, it wouldn’t have gotten done without you. I remember the hole in the side of the building from that, uh, battle thing, the ships. It was all broke. You did this.”
Muldor wasn’t sure how to feel about the praise, but it was only hero worship from a young man that didn’t know any better. They reached the outside of Lord Governor Cassius’ office, and when they stood there, many of the courtiers and aides stared and whispered to each other. Then they ignored them.
Muldor approached the desk and asked to see Cassius
.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Not for today, but as I am a member of the city council, I do not need one in special circumstances, and this is such a case. Place me in the front of the queue and tell Lord Cassius I am here to discuss an urgent matter.”
The aide tried to argue, but Muldor would not have it. He stood there until the aide had another aide enter Cassius’ office. Muldor told Styles to run off and find Lieutenant Dillon. The young runner returned a few minutes later.
“Someone told me he isn’t here. I’ll go to the jail.”
By the time he returned, he had Dillon with him, and Muldor smiled to himself at the young man’s speed and resourcefulness. Dillon looked wary but expectant.
“Is this about the new jail? I need money, Muldor. You promised me.”
“We are being shown in to see Lord Cassius this moment,” Muldor said, putting a single hand up. “Be patient. I have a solution that may aid us all.”
Dillon shut his mouth and held back a retort, but he didn’t look happy. Once inside, Cassius was sitting back and looking rather surprised at the men coming into his office. The politician put on his best smile and motioned to the chairs in front of his desk.
“Please, be seated. What a nice surprise to have a visit from fellow council members. Are we having an emergency meeting about something? How marvelous. I trust it is important.”
“It is,” Muldor said and stayed standing. Dillon started to sit, but when he saw Muldor and Styles the way they were, he stopped and stood with his arms crossed. Cassius smirked and looked amused.
“We have two overlapping issues between our three offices,” Muldor said. “One, the building of the new road that will allow trade speed and profit to increase and two, the building of a new jail that will allow room for more criminals, the vast majority of which are thieves. The primary problem to each of these situations is money. As much of the city and Guild’s budgets are tied up with the completion of the Sea Haven Navy, I have a solution to both.”
