by M. Walsh
“Boss,” said Arkady, materializing through the fog. “We’re in the hotel. The keeper said you passed out in the lobby.”
He felt sick, confused, and suddenly irritated. He attempted to say, “What’s your problem?” but it came out as: “Whashyer perblim?”
“Come on, Lee,” said a woman’s voice, hovering somewhere nearby. “Let’s get you to the room.”
Even in his drunken state, Krutch knew only one person called him Lee. He groaned and mumbled to himself, “I hate being called Lee.”
Audra and Arkady pulled him to his feet and carried him through the hotel lobby to the stairs. “What did they do to you, boss?” Arkady asked. “Where’ve you been?”
“I been meeting everyone,” he said, waving his hand.
“Have you been drugged?” Audra asked. “Did they drug you?”
He stuck his tongue out and scoffed. “I’m roses. You know me. I’m the big bad Krutch Lee …”
He didn’t finish. He hunched over, threw up all over the floor, and passed out again.
* * *
It was always cool in the tower. Sebastian Clock had a low-level mage keep the place comfortable, but even without him, Roderick Bane’s tower always felt a little cold. He assumed it some lingering trace of the Black left by the sorcerer. If affected his sleep from time to time, but he otherwise didn’t mind. He got used to it.
It was even cooler in the lower levels, where the dungeons were built. During the hottest days, sometimes he would go down there and sit in front of the massive locked door where Bane supposedly hid his treasure. A mage once told him he shouldn’t do that, suggesting any trace of the Black in the sealed chamber might affect his mind.
On the contrary, he did his best thinking there.
Clock stepped outside the dungeon cell and washed his hands in a stone basin. His pink suit was wrinkled and damp with sweat. The sleeves were rolled up and his collar loosened. The blood washed away and faded to dull brown in the water.
Drying his hands, he noticed Vident approach. “So..?”
“Leeroy is passed out in Treehorn Plaza,” said Vident. “Your wife met him again, as did Gash.”
“What of the woman?”
“Rien never left the inn after you met her. No messages received or sent.”
Clock stepped back into the dungeon cell, and with a sigh, returned to work. “You really don’t think they’re in this together?”
“I don’t,” said Vident. “Even if they were, and Leeroy was behind what happened in Gain, wouldn’t that be a move against Gash and not you?”
“If Gash is meeting with him in secret, then I doubt it,” he said. “It could be smoke-screen. It could be part of something bigger. I don’t believe Krutch Leeroy would come all this way to waste time on Jonathon Gash.”
Clock grimaced as he threw another punch. They were out there—the parasites. Scurrying about and trying to do their work. Gash, Elliot, Evelyn, Leeroy, the Goblins … and now this Rien woman. Whether individually or collectively, they all sought to bring his downfall.
Sebastian Clock prided himself in being able to maintain order within the chaos that was Seba. Sometimes chaos itself was a means of order. To run a city populated with cutthroats, mercenaries, thieves, drifters, and killers, sometimes the best way to keep control of the animals was to let them fight among themselves. To stay on top, one only needed to know the angles.
“Speaking of Gash,” said Vident. “Are you not concerned he’s meeting Leeroy?”
“Gash is nothing,” he said, stopping to catch his breath. “He won’t dare move against me directly—not while I can tell the Goblins his little secret. He’s just leeching off Leeroy.” He reached into his pocket and took out a metal flask. “All I have to do is remind him of his place when we meet in the Tombs.”
“And your wife..?”
“Nothing Evelyn does surprises me. But Leeroy is smart enough to avoid that road.” He took a swig from the flask. “All the same, I’ll bring her to the Tombs, too. She and Gash can both use a reminder.”
“Should we expect Leeroy in the Tombs?” Vident asked.
“… please Master Clock … please … I didn’t …”
“Shut up!” he barked, gouging his thumb into the man’s eye. “He did ask about them. Have the Wraiths on alert. No chances.” He took another swig from his flask before going back to work on Raul.
Graylands was a land of aliases. Jonathon Gash was a fake name. Evelyn’s name had been Mary. And he knew Rien was not that woman’s real name either.
He preferred people with aliases. Perhaps because he identified with them—as Sebastian Clock was not his real name either—but mostly because he knew how to exploit those people. A person with an alias was someone with something to hide. Gash had his secrets—secrets he would kill (or pay) to keep hidden. And Rien had secrets—it was just a matter of knowing when to squeeze.
It was the people who used their real names that troubled Clock. A person who used their name was someone too stupid to know better—like his father—or they had nothing to hide. As effective as Vincent Dune was, Clock would be damned if he ever trusted that Asperan bastard. Better to send him to Gain … and away from Leeroy.
Perhaps that was why he despised Leeroy most of all. He flaunted himself without a care in the world, leaving all who met him to agonize over his plans and thoughts. How could anyone deal with such a person? Who could predict him?
“When I heard Krutch Leeroy was coming to Seba,” Clock said. “I was prepared for many things. But I never expected him to play the drunken fool.”
“You should just let me kill him,” said Vident. “I could do it tonight and be done with it.”
“No,” he said. “No, I don’t want to provoke him.”
“My lord, even if half the stories about him are true, he is nothing to fear.”
“I’m not afraid of Krutch Leeroy,” Clock barked. “I just don’t want to move against him if I don’t have to. Not until I know his angle.”
“… M-master Clock … please … I beg you …”
“All right, Raul,” he said, washing the blood from his hands. “I’m done with you. Vident, keep this going another hour or so, then dump his body in the moat. Make sure he’s still breathing when you do.”
Raul, the servant boy, wept and pleaded. His face was a broken ruin. Both of his eyes were gone, as were his teeth. He begged for mercy and forgiveness as Clock gathered his things.
“Sorry, Raul. But of all days … of all days … you should not have embarrassed me today.” Clock left the dungeon with Raul’s screams echoing behind him. “Not in front of Leeroy.”
Once in the main hall, he entered the lift and headed to his chamber—for he almost never slept at home anymore. He was not afraid of Krutch Leeroy. He could have Vident attack him, but what if that was what he wanted? What if the purpose for his acting like a quiet fool was to trick Clock into making the first offensive?
“No,” he muttered to himself. “I won’t take that bait.”
He was not afraid of Krutch Leeroy.
Sebastian Clock had been born Freddy Dustin—a common name for a common son of a common farmer. The type of farmer who found himself taken, used, and thrown away by the kind of man Clock would grow into. He did not mourn his father—he took it as a valuable lesson.
In this world, there were people on top, who ran the show, people in the middle, fighting and clawing to get on top, and the people at the bottom, who got trampled by everyone else. Freddy swore he would go beyond his meager beginnings. Moving to Graylands—a land without empires, kings, or nobles—he knew he could stake his own mark.
His ability to find order and mechanism out of chaos was one of the reasons he chose the name Clock for himself. Some people used false names. Some used their real names. Some could be anticipated and exploited, others needed to be watched.
There was only one type of person Sebastian Clock feared: the person with no name.
A man or woman who
used no name—who drifted through life with no attachment, no identity, and no secrets—was nobody. Someone who dwelled in their own world, harken only to their own rules. They couldn’t be exploited, explained, or reasoned with.
Nobody was someone who didn’t care. They were beyond having nothing to lose. They were nothing—and nothing was the only thing Sebastian Clock truly feared.
29
Deck awoke from what little sleep he managed groggy and sore. It was another beautiful day in Aster, and the house glowed with sunlight. But that only served to sting his eyes. He had little appetite and only drank a glass of water while everyone went about getting ready for the day.
Troa and Seria said they would look into contacting the Guardian Mages about the Gauntlet. He and Lock were to go to the Sheriff and tell him about it. He still didn’t like involving more people and would’ve preferred handling it himself. He supposed alerting the authorities was the wise course of action, but there was something about running to the militia that bothered him.
Either way, he didn’t have the energy to argue about it, so he let it be.
Cassie awoke later, after Troa and Seria had gone and Lock was getting ready. To Deck’s surprise, she too looked like she had gotten little sleep. Her eyes were darker than normal, and she shared a similar grogginess. She nibbled on a muffin Seria baked earlier and stared at him.
“You were in another fight, I see,” she said.
“Just a skirmish with some bandits,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Nothing serious.”
“Nothing’s ever serious for you, is it, Deck?”
He looked at her, about to ask what she meant, and realized she was angry.
“I heard you and Lock arguing last night,” she said. “Was it about this latest ‘skirmish?’”
“Not exactly,” he said. “Cassie, what’s wrong?”
“I heard that Lock had to kill a woman during your previous ‘skirmish.’”
“He did,” he said. “He handled it well.”
Her frown deepened to a grimace, and Deck saw a fury in his sister’s eyes he’d never seen before. “Don’t you even care?” she said, barely keeping her voice under control. “Our brother had to murder someone. And all you can say is he handled it well?”
“Cassie, calm down,” he said. “We were attacked, and we defended ourselves. That isn’t murder.”
“That’s not the point, Deck!”
“Yes, I know. Listen, I’m not happy Lock had to kill someone. But that sort of thing happens here. It’s something we’re going to have to learn to live with.”
“No!” she shouted. “No, we don’t! You made us come here! You made us move to this disgusting country! This place of thieves and murderers! And now Lock has blood on his hands!”
“Cassie,” he began, but she was already running out of the kitchen.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. First Troa, then Lock and Seria, and now he was getting grief from Cassie. He should never have brought the Gauntlet back home, he thought. The moment he found it, he should’ve gone …
“Was that Cassie?” Lock asked, entering the kitchen. “Was she yelling?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Are you ready to go to the Sheriff? Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
Sheriff Rieko was a middle-aged man of average build and height with dark brown skin and a graying beard. Lock had met him after his and Deck’s run-in with bandits, and he seemed a competent and helpful fellow. That day, Deck had done most of the talking, as Lock was still reeling from his first kill. Today, Lock did the talking, as Deck seemed content to sit and sulk.
He explained how Deck came to be in possession of Bane’s Gauntlet and that it was hidden in a cemetery. He was quick to point out they had no intention of keeping it in Aster and were looking into contacting the Guardians for its safe removal. Despite these reassurances, Sheriff Rieko was understandably perturbed.
“Is this going to be a thing with you Synclaire boys?” he asked. “First the bandits … which, I’ll grant, can happen outside the town walls. Now you come to me with this magic gauntlet, and you’re telling me about trolls and sorcerers …” He sighed and wiped his forehead. “If you kids want to be heroes fighting demons and warlocks, you’re in the wrong town.”
“I understand that Sheriff,” said Lock. “Believe me, the last thing we want is to bring that kind of trouble here.” He glanced at Deck and added, “Don’t we?”
Deck sat with his arms crossed, looking almost petulant. “No,” he said. “No trouble.”
Hearing his brother’s tone, Lock resisted the urge to punch him again. “Like I said, our Eldér companions are looking into contacting the Guardian Mages as we speak. Hopefully this will be taken care of without incident.”
Rieko shot Deck a grim look, but turned to Lock and said, “Fair enough, son. So what do you need from me?”
“We just thought it’d be wise to keep you and your men on alert,” he said. “I don’t know if anyone else is looking for this Gauntlet—”
That’s a lie.
“—but just to be safe, maybe your men and Aster’s guards can take special care to watch out for any suspicious people trying to get into town.”
“Seems fair,” Rieko said, nodding. “But this Gauntlet—where did you say it is now?”
“It’s safe,” Deck barked before Lock could reply.
“Would you like us to take you to it?” he quickly added, ignoring the frown it inspired in Deck. “Would it be better if we bring it here?”
“I have no idea,” said Rieko. “This sort of thing is out of my jurisdiction.” The Sheriff dragged his hands through his hair. “Tell you what: if you boys say it’s safe, I’ll take your word for it. For now. In the meantime, I’ll send word to the Guardians myself. Hopefully official notice from the Sheriff will move their asses a little quicker.”
There were more questions and assurances, and the meeting ended shortly after. Deck wasted no time in exiting the building, mounting Dian, and riding off. Watching his brother’s behavior, Lock could’ve strangled him.
As he left the Sheriff’s, Rieko stopped him to say, “Just so you know, I’m trusting you on this. I can tell you’re no fighter looking for trouble. I saw that after you boys ran into those bandits.”
“Sheriff,” he said. “I just want this mess to go away.”
“And I believe you,” Rieko said. “But keep an eye on your brother. That one’s got a chip on his shoulder. If he doesn’t get himself killed, he’s going to get someone else.”
Lock nodded, mounted his horse, Aries, and caught up to Deck. He decided to wait until they were approaching the house before he said anything. He wasn’t looking for an argument, but if it came to that, he didn’t want it to break out in the middle of Aster for everyone to see. Deck said nothing, deep in his own thoughts, and imagining what his brother was thinking only made Lock angrier.
They passed the archway, and on the empty path leading to the house, he broke the silence: “Are you trying to make this worse than it needs to be?”
“What do you mean?” Deck replied.
“Don’t give me that,” he said. “What is it? Going to the Sheriff not heroic enough for you? Is contacting the Guardians not legendary?”
“Look, I’ll accept going to the Sheriff,” said Deck. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to tell anyone who asks where the Gauntlet is.”
Lock groaned and shook his head. Deck “accepted” going to the Sheriff. It was as he thought—if Deck had his way, he’d be doing this alone. Because that’s how it happens in the great stories: the lone hero against the world, defending it from evil. Deck was acting out his own private adventure, and little things like acting rationally interfered with that.
“Okay Deck, let’s say we handled this your way. What exactly is your endgame? We have the Gauntlet and … then what..? If not contact the authorities or people who know what to do about this sort of thing
, what..?”
Deck scowled at him, and though he didn’t reply, Lock knew he was getting through.
“Do we destroy the Gauntlet ourselves?” he continued. “Great. How? How do we find out? Where do we go? Is Cassie coming with us? Wouldn’t transporting the Gauntlet ourselves be even more dangerous?”
Deck still said nothing.
“I’m sorry going to the Sheriff, sending a letter to the Guardians, and waiting for them to pick the Gauntlet up doesn’t sound very epic. But it’s realistic.”
Deck remained quiet as they reached the house and put the horses in the stable. His sullen silence and constant frowning made it difficult for Lock to feel sympathy for his brother. Although he didn’t say it aloud, and part of him hated to admit it, he considered maybe Cassie was right after all: Deck should’ve just joined the Sentry Elite a long time ago.
“Lock,” Deck said before they entered the house. “You’re right.”
He hesitated. His train of thought had been so focused on how irresponsible his brother was that Deck’s words left him stunned.
“You’re right,” Deck repeated. “Going to the Sheriff and contacting the Guardians might not be the grand adventure, but it is the right thing to do.”
“I … I …” Lock tried to speak, but he couldn’t find any words. Hearing his brother, usually so bull-headed, concede was in its own way more shocking than finding the Gauntlet in the cellar.
“Relax, little brother,” Deck said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll give you this one, but don’t get cocky.” He then smiled for the first time all day. “Let’s get something to eat.”
“Well,” said Lock as they entered the house. “I guess the important thing is no harm was done.”
* * *
Three nights later, east of Aster, six hooded figures looked over what was left of several dead men and a rotting troll.
The bodies were in varying condition. Most of the men—the ones ripped to pieces—had been dead for some time. The troll—what was left of it—was killed later, but it too had been dead for over a week. What was peculiar about the troll was it seemed to have been dissected after its death.
