by Will Molinar
He went to their table and asked if he could sit with them. The two other men eyed him with suspicion, and the women wouldn’t make eye contact. One was pale blond, the other black haired. They were young enough to be their daughters.
Tomlinson grunted. “Who are you?”
Direct. Good on him.
Zandor made a bow. “Yes, yes,” he said with a slight accent. “I am Tevin de Sunni. How please to meet you. I am seller of fine jewelry. Would have words with you, if no mind.”
Tomlinson thought for a moment then indicated a chair.
“Ah, many thanks, good sir. Yes. I understand you are man to talk to on marketplace, yes?”
Tomlinson shifted in his seat. “Well, I’m liaison with the Guild if that’s what you mean. But you’ll have to speak with them about membership. We don’t take independent sellers.”
“Ah, no. No independent sellers?”
“We have four slots annual. But those are already taken. You will have to apply like everyone else.”
“Yes, yes. So is good to be member of guild, yes?”
“If you wish to sell your jewelry at our market, you must be.”
Zandor smiled and ordered another round for their table, assessing the other two men. They were bodyguards. He saw no easy camaraderie among them, only stiff acceptance of their stations. Plus they were armed. It appeared the guild higher ups were starting to use bodyguards.
The dark haired girl looked with curiosity at Zandor, and when she stared too long, Tomlinson grabbed her hand and whispered something in her ear. Zandor was too far to hear, but it was a castigating remark.
His attempts to pry some more information about all things guild and merchant related confirmed his suspicions. They had an ironclad monopoly on the inner city transactions. Nothing got sold or traded without the guild getting a piece.
The dearth of any black market operation was somewhat shocking to him. It was impossible. Every city had a black market, where stolen goods could be sold to a third party cheaper than bought through regular means. He wondered what the thieves did with the items they stole. Thieves didn’t hang on to silver candle sticks or jewelry. They sold them for coin.
Tomlinson was outspoken on most of the topics, with a quiet reserve about him. He was proud but matter-of-fact about his job. It was obvious the man had worked hard to get to his current position, but he was guarded about information on guild membership. He continued the mantra that interested parties should go to the dock master’s offices and speak with them on getting an application.
Zandor thanked him for his time. “Tevin de Sunni bid you good night. Chen qua.”
Tomlinson managed a slight smile, and Zandor walked away liking the man. The guard’s looks burned a hole in his back. At least the slobs at the arena knew how to have fun.
The city’s influence was exerting itself onto him, a subtle whisper here, a none too gentle nudge there. It added up to a general feeling of paranoia and unease. Zandor knew from experience, it was difficult for anyone, no matter how strong willed, to repudiate the environment in which they were raised. The attitudes, behaviors, and beliefs of a particular culture became ingrained.
It was the biggest reason Jerrod was the way he was. The stubborn fool was raised here, not only on the streets but by the streets. If everyone around you were thieves, murderers, and liars, it was easy to become, one and because of the dangerous man’s particular natural ability and build, he excelled and dominated his peers at a young age. Violence begat violence and the man knew no other way. It was an unending cycle of stupidity and madness.
Zandor sighed and drank his drink. Cassius did not show up that night or the next. On the third night, Zandor changed his disguise to a simple garb of yellow silk that felt fabulous against his skin though he kept his regular clothes on underneath, complete with throwing knives. He wore a black wig and colored his skin to match that of a man from a southern climate.
Such heavy make-up was a risk. If someone bumped into him or rubbed hard enough, it might have come off. The product he used dried well, but extreme caution was needed.
Standing by the bar, earrings gleamed in his ears by the firelight, and he made a point to be as loud and obnoxious as possible, flirting with the serving girls and applauding when the band of skilled wind instruments finished each song.
“Bravo! Bravo! Wonderful, very good! Yes!”
The rest of the crowd was more subdued with a general lassitude permeating the rich and servants alike. They were in a protective bubble as if the shallow sheen of guards and thin walls could shield them from the dangers of the outside. Zandor wouldn’t let them stay comfortable. It was time to stir the pot.
A sudden thought struck him. He didn’t belong here. There was this strange prejudice against anyone not from here. Murder Haven was tough on outsiders even to good men like Jon Baumgardener. Poor kid. Zandor had no idea what happened to him.
No one had heard of him back in Janisberg, and Zandor had to assume the young man was dead in a ditch somewhere. The city had churned him up and spat him out like trash. Only Zandor’s next level skills allowed him to survive and even thrive. He felt a sense of guilt over Jon’s fate, but then people were tools, to be used and cast away.
Nothing on the third night either, but he kept the disguise for the fourth night, and at last he spied the Lord Governor enter. Cassius came inside with no retinue, and that surprised Zandor, but of course they were outside waiting in the cold. According to Zandor’s people, the man never went anywhere without protection and other hangers around him. Runners, scribes, assistants, aides of any and all kinds were his to call upon.
‘Too good to drink with your men, eh?’ Zandor thought.
The tavern workers rushed to his table, which was right in front of the stage, and put on a new tablecloth, a new candle, and a flagon of wine before he even sat down. Cassius had been at the Prancing Pony before.
The beautiful young singer was back. Zandor wondered at her origin for a moment. The same harpist accompanied her, and they had the same fellow playing the lyre to back up her dulcet tones. Since they were not performing at the Prancing Pony every night, he wondered where she went off on other nights.
She sang a few songs with the Lord Governor watching. All the while he sipped his expensive wine and snapped his fingers instead of clapping. Zandor had to scoff. Cassius’ rings glittered in the candlelight, and his silken robes hung off his fat arms. He was so comfortable, basking in his power, his authority, his riches.
Zandor walked over to the stage during her next song and stood in front, blocking the view from Cassius’ table. She managed a smile, but the performers looked uncomfortable as they began the next song. Zandor clapped and urged them on.
“Very good! Play, play! Yes, magnificent! I like very much.”
They played, but the tension in the air increased. Someone coughed behind him.
“Pardon me, sir, but you are blocking my view.”
Zandor continued to watch and clap. “Yes, yes, play! Wonderful! I like very much. Play!”
Cassius raised his voice and asked again for him to move, but Zandor acted as if he didn’t hear him. Then he turned and smiled, indicating the stage.
“Is wonderful, no? They are magnificent! I love to hear them.”
Cassius frowned. “Yes, I know. But as I said, you are blocking my view.”
Zandor boomed an obnoxious laugh and turned away. “Yes! Play! I love it!”
They continued the song. Zandor heard activity behind, and no doubt Cassius the pig was calling for security to come and help him since he couldn’t have done anything other than wipe his ass without someone’s assistance.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder halfway through the next song, a sad melody about unrequited love and suicide. Zandor had heard it before.
“Sir,” said one of the male servers. “Please move to the side, so the other patrons can to enjoy the show.”
The man grabbed his elbow, and Zandor turned. “Wha
t?! I wish to see pretty girl sing her song! I pay good money for wine.” He wheeled on Cassius and pointed a finger. “You do this, yes?”
The lord only stared, a look of bemusement on his face. Zandor tossed his wine in his face. The politician’s eyes went wide in shock, and he yelled for his guards. Zandor stood his ground as security men from within the tavern came forward with their clubs, much like the dock security. Zandor began cussing in a southern language and throwing his arms about.
They stood back. The music stopped.
Zandor stood forward to the Lord Governor’s table, still cussing and wagging his finger. The politician paled and looked around, yelling again for his men. At that moment Zandor knew for certain what kind of man Cassius was.
A moment later, the door busted open and armored men rushed in. There were three of them. They assessed the situation with a glance and stormed over to Zandor surrounding him. They did not draw swords but looked ready for action.
One of them was older, with grayish hair, a thick goatee, and seemed to be the leader among them. He also moved like a warrior and looked like he could handle himself in a fight.
“My lord?”
The Lord Governor stood, taking a napkin from a serving girl and wiping his face. He walked over to stand in front of Zandor, smug but with an underlining cruelty. Zandor thought a slap was coming, but the lord only motioned to the guards and smiled.
“Take this man outside.” He looked at one of the tavern employees, an older, well-dressed man with a long beard. “This is no place for a disruption, Marcus. I think we should have a talk on your in house security some time. This is a travesty.”
Marcus made a bow. “Many apologies, my lord. This will not happen again.” He flicked his head to the security men, and they grabbed him before Cassius’ guards could. Zandor made a show of protest as they dragged him to the door.
“No, you do not touch me, fiends! I will not stand to be touched by you! I will see city magistrate about this. I will see you punished.”
Cassius’ smile was wicked. “This city does not have a magistrate, sir. There are witnesses, you are guilty of assault. That is all.”
Zandor cursed and struggled like any man would, and prepared himself for a fight outside in case they tried to get too carried away. There were people waiting nearby. Men that would have come and helped him, but he doubted he would’ve needed it. These boys were easy.
Outside, the streets were deserted, in stark contrast to the bubbling atmosphere of The Prancing Pony, and the other sections of town at night. People didn’t loiter in the wealthy quarter.
Zandor bellowed in mock outrage. “You men! I demand you unhand me. You do not put hands on me! Where are you take me?”
They grunted and marched him to the edge of the neighborhood, passed the gated mansions and picturesque landscapes to the main gate. There, two of them held him while the other spoke with the gate guards. One of them ran off, to fetch the police, Zandor assumed. A few minutes later, two officers came and spoke with the tavern security.
He heard bits and pieces of the conversation.
“… did he now?”
“No, I don’t think….”
“… Lord Cassius, is it?”
A few minutes later, the cops nodded and grabbed Zandor, but they did not put him in irons. Yet.
“We’ll take it from here.”
Maybe he would let them arrest him and toss him in jail. It was easy enough to escape, and he could have learned something about what was going on there. The more he learned about the city, the better. They went a few blocks away from the wealthy quarter, then the men stopped, and Zandor tensed, ready for anything.
They glanced at each other and then walked away.
* * * * *
Journal 1301
Everyone was impressed with our work, and I take no shame in having pride at my personal accomplishment in building our fleet, our instrument of rectitude. It began as a work of necessity but became a labor of passion and commitment I have seldom encountered. It is an extension of my love and servitude to The Guild and all its components.
I admit this building of ships, vessels capable of changing the very course of history, gives me a sense of power. Our scope is not beyond any level Castellan could have ever dreamed. The men shall board our ships. These many hundreds and thousands, will do as I command and hunt our enemy into extinction.
Lurenz deserves nothing less than death. Our reprisal to his butchery, theft, and destruction cannot be unexpected. We did nothing to inspire his wrath. Our merchant vessels wish only to do their business and be unmolested while moving about the seas. How is this some kind of affront to the affairs of a pirate? I understand this is in their nature, but the level of loss is beyond belief. Lurenz has made this a personal vendetta, and I can do nothing less but the same.
Some would argue the stolen goods are acceptable losses, part of doing business. Trading is not for the weak, as my father was fond of saying, and often times we are forced to play things under the table so to speak. We deal with merchants of less than savory reputation, but it is always done within the confines of our own organization. We have rules. Larceny may thrive in our business, but this is beyond the normal graft known from the onset of our induction.
If we possess means to combat these seaward knaves, is it not our responsibility to do battle, in order to protect the interests of the individual Guild members, who in turn look to us for leadership? I say it is. It is the easiest decision I have made in my short time as Guild Master. Their products are why we do business, and shipping from shore to shore is how we conduct this business. It shall not be interrupted by this level of robbery. I will not allow it.
The fact that the total cost of the fleet’s build exceeds the current cost of the lost goods, is not lost on me, but I stress the concept of current losses. How must is too much before we must do something? I say the time is now! Some may very well raise their brows at the cost and tighten their purses, but thus far the majority is on boards with my initiative. In truth, this has been a combined effort with the city, and they have given over the gold as well as I can expect. This is one of the few orders of business with which we all agree. The Pirate Lurenz must be stopped.
My closest colleagues seem impressed, even the curmudgeon Melvin Crocker. I have seldom seen the old man’s eyes gleam as they did when I unveiled the flagship. I share their giddy excitement for what we can accomplish with the fleet. This begins a new age of prosperity for The Guild and all its members, from the richest merchant to the lowest worker.
It is all done for them! This is what many of my colleagues fail to see. They do not understand. They do not see what the common dock worker suffers though day to day even though they witness their suffering. It is shocking to me they cannot comprehend we can give them all a better life. Better working conditions, higher wages, more shifts so they can feed their families. None of that will survive if The Guild falls. A fool’s errand on my part? Perhaps. But I soldier on regardless, all in the hope that I am making the world a better place for the people under my care.
Master Becket continues to be evasive when asked what was such an issue in weeks past. What was once a top priority has now disappeared into coyness. I know there is something bothering him, and for whatever reason he no longer has the desire to approach me with this information. I wish for all my colleagues to come to me when in need, but they are grown men and must also deal with their own problems as much as they can, in deference to my authority.
The amnesty for theft in Sea Haven has begun in full effect. No theft within the last six months can be prosecuted by any members of the law. The city council voted and this was the results, in part to my recommendation and also in part to the need of able bodied workers on the Eastern Road. Construction has begun again, and though prisoner escape continues to vex the police, there is no alternative. Not all convicted men agreed to the deal. They refuse to lower themselves to such menial labor, but I am happy to say the maj
ority has taken to the idea of this work release system.
They work on the road during the day and sleep in a large section of space near the shipping yards at night. They remain under guard and shackled while they sleep, but there is a trust developing. Each man knows what is expected and understands this is best for all. The police are none too happy. They believe this is an affront to work already completed by capturing these thieves and more work in supervising their labor on the road. Ah well. One cannot lease all involved. My directive is being followed as well as it can.
The Thieves Guild is missed. Even I did not realize the full extent of its presence in our city. Perhaps abhorrent to other “civilized” nations on this continent, in a locale where crime is rampant and raging, having an internal organization that polices its own helps keep it under control. No “common” thief would dare steal from the market or docks when the Thieves Guild was in operation. The police knew who was a member and who was not. In a strange situation of irony, police and member thief worked together to keeps the sides in perfect clarity.
Theft, lies, and killing are as inevitable as the dawn in the city of my birth. I do what I can to protect those that need it and help those in need, but there is only so much I can do. I am only a man.
Chapter Eight
The marketplace swarmed with people. Lines of carts stacked in haphazard rows, boxes of goods, wooden crates with all manner of items. A battlefield might have been less chaotic, and its generals less fierce than the merchants in the few block radius of Sea Haven’s famed marketplace.
They acted as if it was a battleground, each pushing and shoving to get their wares in the best place possible. Some spots were better than others, and the veteran sellers, regardless of their position relative to seniority, fought to increase their coverage in the market.
