by Will Molinar
Abashed, they changed the subject. They all started talking at once, but then one of the tavern employees came over and stood at their table. Jerrod craned his neck up at him.
The man was annoyed. “You folks all need to keep it down. We don’t want you here anyway, so iffen you gotta stay, then you best keep quiet see?”
The toughs looked hang dogged and dropped their heads, nodding.
Jerrod eyed the man, venom in his words. “You ever speak another word to me again, I’ll gut you and feed your innards to that dog.” He nodded to the mutt near the door and watched the man’s face for reaction. At first he looked offended, but when he saw the depth of pure hatred and potential death in Jerrod’s eyes, he stuttered and backed away.
He looked back to them, his previous question still hanging in the air. Donald cleared his throat.
“The arena is doing good, boss.” He had a bandage across his nose and two black eyes. He looked as tired as Jerrod felt a day ago. “Thruck is still the main attraction. They got that monster doing everything these days. Feats of strength, battle royales, all that. People can’t get enough.”
Jerrod grunted and thought about the last time he had seen the beast, about the ultimatum to fight him.
“The tents have a problem,” one of the other toughs said.
“What problem?”
“Some of the table managers have been skimming.”
“They always do that,” Jerrod said.
“Not like this. It’s more than usual. It’s getting bad, and they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Jerrod smiled. “Good. Let’s make it look like Zandor’s fault. Some of them will take a handout and plead the case to the higher ups. One of you will make a delivery for me later. Got it?”
They did and made plans to do the same at the arena. It was a tried and true method to undermine an operation, and it worked better if trust was an issue, and no matter what Zandor had done for them in the past, he was still an outsider. When someone got fired—or killed—everyone else toed the line. It was a classic move, and Jerrod started warming up to the idea of being back in his element. Maybe he had learned something from the little shit after all.
There was more. The police were acting strange. And the jail was even stranger. Jerrod narrowed his eyes.
“How so?”
“It’s empty,” one of them said. “Never seen anything like it. There was some kind of amnesty while back, yeah. They made ‘em go work on the road there by the wealthy quarter.”
“Sure,” Donald said. “But when the money for materials stopped coming, they couldn’t work on it. All the workers went home, including the thieves they had locked up at night and working during the day. The police were pissed off. I guess they went on strike or something because I haven’t seen many around much the last couple of days.”
Jerrod considered. The men at the tavern the other night fit the description well. They hadn’t fought him at all, and he had assumed it was because he was an ultimate badass kind of guy, but that was not all. They didn’t want to arrest him because of some tiff with the city.
If they weren’t working, it made it easier for him to do his job. He sat back and let them talk amongst themselves, spouting out more rumors around town he was not interested in.
The police on strike made the city wide open. It wasn’t that Jerrod ever feared a reprisal from the police. They were easy enough to handle, but it made robbing people easier. All they would face would be whatever security men they had at whatever place they chose to rob. Such men were neither armed nor paid well and thus easy to overcome.
They could have robbed the taverns or anyone they wanted with impunity, but the taverns had access to more money. Jerrod could start his own group of thieves, thugs that would swoop in and smash the fools before they knew what hit them. They wouldn’t be like the other thieves that stole with stealth and subtlety. The toughs weren’t like that.
There was no need for financial backing to get at Zandor. All they had to do was steal and foster the idea he was part of the skimming that was taking place.
It would work. A plan formed in his mind on how to approach it all. It would work out better than he could have imagined.
* * * * *
Sunlight spilled through the window and silk curtains to land on the floor of the palatial bedroom. It provided superficial warmth to spread across the area. The room’s lone occupant did not care for the extra heat, preferring it dark and cool.
Lord Governor Cassius hated the summer months and was glad for their passing. It was always so difficult to stay cool, and sweating wore out his middle-aged body like nothing else. When it was cold, it was so much easier to bundle up with warm clothes or start a fire.
The servants should have gotten thicker curtains to block out the sunlight, blasted incompetents. Perhaps it was time to hire a new crew that could anticipate his needs; that’s what good servants did for their masters.
Cassius reached up behind his pile of pillows and grabbed a handle that was connected to a series of bells. It warned the staff of his awakening, and he pulled another to let them know he wanted breakfast served as fast as possible.
He stretched and dressed, hearing a knock at the door. “Come.”
“Good morning, Lord Cassius. Your breakfast is on the way. It shouldn’t take but a moment.”
Cassius turned from his mirror and glanced over, annoyed. “I need it now. I have a busy day ahead of me and need nourishment.”
The butler made a slight bow. “Forgive me, lord. We only just now heard the bells rings, and as it is earlier than you take it.”
“I don’t want excuses. I want my food. Either do your job better, or I will find someone who can. A good butler anticipates his master’s desires even before they have them.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The butler nodded and rushed out to do his bidding as two maids came in to assist him in dressing and washing his face. His staff had become complacent. That was obvious. He finished washing and dressing and tapped his foot while waiting for his food.
The door burst open and, a tray rolled forward by two servants, the butler behind directing them towards Cassius, but he no longer felt like eating. The lord waved them off.
“I have no time for this. Take it away. Next time I ask for my meal, it better be ready faster.”
The two young men pushing the cart almost frowned, but they knew better than to argue and so did the butler. They left.
Perhaps it was time for a new staff altogether. He strolled through the upstairs hallway of his home, the governor’s mansion. Lord Falston had been a stickler on its cleanliness, and Cassius was no different, keeping the place looking more or less as it had before. In fact, the staff was holdovers from the previous tenancy, and perhaps that was the problem.
Firing the butler first would put the rest of the staff on notice. The man was supposed to be in charge of the entire household, and this disaster all came back to him. It was decided. Cassius would fire him later that day.
Outside his home was a stone walkway that led to a gated wall. At the front of which was a stone guardhouse, where his men sat and watched for prowlers, thieves or anyone else that didn’t belong. It was built like a military fort: with a rack of weapons inside the shack and entry access only on that side. It meant the gates could not be opened from the outside in any possible way.
A separate guard was up higher inside the shack on a tiny outcropping, sort of like the loft level of a barn, and when he saw Cassius coming, he cranked the wench that would unlatch the gate lock. At least someone did their job. The other guards were not so attentive. Several sat around, either inside the shack or leaning against the wall relaxing.
They stopped laughing so loud when he neared and jumped up straight. Some even bowed; very nice of them. Cassius stared at them. Laziness was everywhere this day. Perhaps he should fire all his guards as well.
“Mornin’, lord,” one of them said. “A bit early today
I see.”
“Have my horse and escort brought around at once. I shall broker no delay this morning.”
“Right away, my lord.”
The man whistled, and another guardsman popped his head out of the shack. His face flushed with annoyance. “What you want?” Then his eyes went wide as he saw who was standing there. “Oh.”
“Get Lord Cassius’ mount readied and here this instant! We’re to move at once.”
“Yes, sir!” He scampered away like a shot.
Cassius waited with growing impatience. People were so undisciplined, weak, lazy, and stupid. People wanted the easy way through life. They expected not to work, to be handed everything. They would work when pressed but not sooner. They had no drive, no ambition. They would not take the initiative; they had only naturalistic concerns.
Men with power had it because they were not like this. Men with power took what they needed through force of will.
His retinue arrived and included a sleepy eyed scribe. Cassius had never bothered to learn his name. They came and went so often there was no need to exert effort on such things. The young man yawned and nodded in Cassius’ direction. His hair was thick and ruffled; he had not bothered to comb it. How typical, how unprofessional.
Cassius sighed.
“I trust you had a pleasant sleep, my lord,” the scribe said.
“Yes, good morning, um….”
“Sabine, my lord.”
“Yes, good morning. I’ll need you to dictate as we ride. I must have the budget proposal ready by the time the meeting takes place. This is important so pay attention.”
“Wonderful,” the scribe said and pulled out some writing utensils out of his satchel. It took a while for him to get his balance settled, but when he was ready, he breathed deep and steadied himself in the saddle. “Begin.”
Cassius felt ruffled to be ordered about, but at least the man was working. He rattled off some figures contemplated the night before. His proposed budget would have righted some wrongs. The fiscal year would next month, and the City Council was going to institute some budget cuts, so they could pay the city’s bills.
The fleet had cost more than Muldor had calculated, and while The Guild paid their share, it cost the city too much money. The construction of the Eastern Road was also a source of contention for Cassius, and as far as he was concerned, they would no longer lend money to the project. Material for the new jail cost money too, and even with free labor from the work release program, it was projected to cost a fortune.
The police could do without for a while, and the road was unnecessary, a contrivance Muldor was planning to use against him some way. Cassius didn’t know how, but he knew the scheming, conniving Guild Master cared only about his precious organization. He didn’t understand the importance of frugality when running an entire city.
They neared City Hall where a lot of people stood about, including police officers. Others were homeless dregs, and a pair of them approached their cavalcade with outstretched palms, begging for coin or food. Cassius didn’t listen to their pleas.
“Keep them away from me,” he said to his guards. They responded by pushing their horses forward into the slugs and yelled, but they could not fight against such beasts and determined men.
The air was charged with aggression as Cassius dismounted and stepped around the bustling brawl. He glanced over across the street and wondered why the police just stood there. He hurried into the city hall building, the scribe right behind him.
They climbed stairs and walked fast down hallways until they reached his office, where they completed his dictation.
“Show it to me,” Cassius said. “It must be perfect.” It appeared to be. There were some departments that would not be satisfied, but there would be enough votes on his side to push it through. The police were only one vote, the City Watch was on his side, and no one else would oppose his will. Plus in the event of a tie, Cassius could veto whichever way he wished.
After the recent shake-up and deaths of a few council members, including the troublesome Royal Guard commander and former City Watch leader, Cassius now controlled almost every member. Only Cubbins and his crew were outside of his reach.
Oh, and the Guild representative but they did not matter. And perhaps the new treasury man but then again maybe not. Cassius heaved a mental sigh and concentrated on the work at hand.
The Lord Governor and the scribe continued to work on the budget proposal long into the morning hours in his office. Later on, Lord Damour showed up with the same complaints as always.
“Lord Damour,” Cassius said in his most patient voice. “Your duties are important. As City Coordinator, you liaise between various city agencies.”
Damour frowned and stomped his feet. “But what am I supposed to do? I’m bored. You told me my position was important, but there is nothing for me to do. It’s not fair. Why can’t I be city watch commander? That sounds exciting!”
Cassius sat back and considered him. Damour was not a stupid man and had figured out his position was nothing more than busy work for a potential pawn. Cassius had to think of something for him to do, so he would stay out of his way but not something too important so as to keep the man from any power or influence.
“Fine, then,” Cassius said. “You can sit in with us now. We are discussing the upcoming budget meeting. Please, join us. The meeting is scheduled for tomorrow.”
Damour took a seat, looking haughty. He smoothed his thick blue doublet made of imported silk and sniffed. “Important, is it? Good, my talents need an outlet, you understand. I’m sorry if I was brusque, but I feel I am being wasted on anything less.”
Cassius grinned. “Do not mention it.”
The scribe outlined each city department and their budgets from the previous fiscal year along with the proposed budget for the coming year, based on what Cassius thought they would need. There was the Royal Guard, which Cassius now controlled, with a minor detail responsible for Damour’s safety; the City Watch, which had a new commander after the recent hangings; the police of course, who, even though had a royal charter and were answerable only to the king in matters of city safety, still had to abide by financial decisions made by the City Council; there was also the commerce department which worked very close with The Merchants Guild.
Cassius wanted to change the latter and increase the influence of the Treasury, so he could better control what they did with their money. But the current man who ran it was not under his wing. Maybe he would fire him next. There needed to be a good reason for it, though, or the rest of them would grumble.
There were minor departments that did not have a permanent seat on the council, including sanitation, the city brothel which Cassius put under the same umbrella as the asylum and orphanage. They paid taxes but had no sway with how the city was run. And of course the arena and betting tents were his to control. It worked the way it worked because he made it that way. Even when Falston ruled as Lord Governor, it had been Cassius who made the real decisions.
Tranquility’s Palace, however, the lone cathedral within Sea Haven’s borders, that was another matter altogether.
Damour fidgeted. It had only been perhaps twenty minutes, and yet he glanced around the office, studying a plant near the couch. When Cassius asked him what he thought on the decision to perhaps add the sanitation department to the City Watch Commander’s purview, Damour looked confused for a moment. The scribe and Cassius looked at him, so he cleared his throat and said it sounded like a good idea.
Minutes later he kept fidgeting as if his chair was covered in snakes.
“Is there something wrong, Lord Damour?” Cassius said.
“Um, what? Not at all. There’s um, sorry, but there’s another matter that requires my attention. I should be going now. Thank you for the invite, but it is very important.”
Cassius smiled. “I’m sure we’ll manage fine without you. But please let me know when I can schedule you for your first meeting with the various departments. I
can have you lined up with one within the hour after the budget meeting ends if you wish.” Cassius held up the large stack of papers, and Damour looked at it as if it were on fire.
“Oh, no, I’m certain they are fine. Really, I must be going. I’ll… see you soon. Good bye.”
“And farewell to you, you fool,” Cassius said under his breath as Damour all but ran from the room.
Later in the afternoon, when he felt they were as close as they could get to having the perfect, most convincing draft of the budget, three men came into his office that would not be denied. Under normal circumstances, he would have a buffer to stop them, but these men were of too high a rank to be stopped.
Cassius dismissed the scribe and regarded the three Guild men. They looked ready for a fight, and the Lord Governor wondered the best way to deflect their coming vitriol. He put on his best smile.
“Gentlemen, so nice of you to come. I am very busy as you can see, but I suppose I can spare a few minutes to speak with you. How can I help you?”
“How gracious of you,” Muldor said.
Cassius took the veiled sarcasm in stride and indicated the chairs in front of his desk, just enough for the three men. Muldor nodded and waved a gnarled arm in front of them for the other two, but they waited for Cassius to speak. He wondered if this annoyed Muldor, the big bad Guild Master. The man’s more physical than he gave off with a thick build, like a wrestler.
“Please,” Cassius said. “All of you relax. Sit and enjoy the comforts of my office. Would you care for any refreshments? Some wine perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” Muldor said and sat.
The taller one, the one with the sandy blond hair, curled and styled, he sat down but looked nervous. Cassius was not aware of the hierarchy within the Guild but assumed these were the three most senior members.
The younger one, his name Dawson or something similar, was more fidgety then Damour had been. The man couldn’t keep still. He looked around the room, wrinkling his brow and even frowning when something caught his eye.
Muldor wore the same white silk he had worn since the hanging. Cassius couldn’t remember the name of the former dock master that hung at the gallows. It didn’t matter. Muldor had seemed to embrace the life of an aristocrat, to take his place among the city elite, yet here he was with wrinkled robes fit for burning. They were clean but not pressed nor even in fashion.
