by M. Walsh
He and his crew found good fortune returning on the Spade Sea. The winds favored them, and they were able to make the voyage in just under a week. According to the letter he received in Aster, things in Seba were deteriorating at a rapid pace. No specifics were given, and all he knew for certain—coming as no surprise—was Krutch Leeroy was at the center of it.
“Commander Dune!” Elliot called, rushing into the dungeon. The skinny Magistrate was sweating and not wearing his usual monocle. “I’m glad you’ve returned.”
“I was notified in Aster,” he said. “I must report to Clock. He’ll want to know—”
“Pardon me,” Elliot cut in. “About Lord Clock … you see …”
He stammered and cleared his throat, and Dune noticed Vident dragging Leeroy himself into the dungeon. The pirate appeared to have been on the receiving end of an interrogation from Clock’s guard-dog.
“Is that Leeroy?” Dune asked as he was thrown into another cell.
“Yes,” said Elliot. “You see, um, I don’t know what you already know, but—er—it seems the situation has … uh …”
“Clock’s gone,” said Vident. “We think Leeroy has something to do with it.”
Dune listened as the stuttering Magistrate explained what had been happening in Seba while he was away. Vident chimed in, which was preferable, but neither of them painted a clear picture. From what he was able to gather, Leeroy had managed to play everyone in the city against each other, start a fire in the Tombs, rile up the Goblins, and murder Clock’s wife. And, on top of everything else, Clock himself had disappeared.
“Who’s the girl?” Elliot asked, looking into Cassie’s cell.
“Cassandra Synclaire,” he said. “My trip to Gain led me north. It seems Jonathon Gash is—or was—attempting to secure Roderick Bane’s Gauntlet.”
This caught Vident’s attention, which Dune noted, but the Magistrate looked confused. “For what?”
“To overthrow Clock, I would imagine,” he said. “The exchange went bad, and the Gauntlet ended up in the hands of this girl’s brother. I took her and left him a message: if he wants her back, hand over the Gauntlet.” He cleared his throat, feeling tired and irritated.
“Not that any of this matters if Clock is gone. You’ve received no word?”
“Nothing,” said Vident. “No ransom. No threats. No trace except his pocket-watch. And a single tooth placed on top of it.”
“And we think Leeroy is responsible?”
“Who else would be?” Elliot asked.
“Gash,” he said. “Maybe the Goblins in retaliation, if they’re as angry as you say. I find it peculiar Krutch Leeroy would be so cunning and capable as to make Sebastian Clock disappear, but unable to avoid capture himself.”
“I think what’s important, gentlemen,” Elliot said, “is we maintain order, regardless of who’s responsible for Clock’s disappearance. That is why, as Magistrate, I am ordering you, Commander Dune, to alert the militia and institute martial law.”
Although he kept his gambler’s face, Dune felt compelled to laugh at the little man. He looked at Vident, and although the scarred bodyguard also kept a straight face, Dune imagined he felt the same way.
“As you command, Magistrate,” he said. “I’ll get right on that.”
“Excellent,” Elliot said, breathing a sigh of relief. “In the meantime, I’ll try to keep business running as usual in Clock’s absence. Vident, um, come with me.”
If at that moment, Vident had twisted Elliot’s head off, it would’ve come as no surprise to Dune. Instead, he nodded and followed the Magistrate out of the dungeon.
Cracking his neck with a sigh, Dune went upstairs and sought out a chamber of the tower that contained liquor. He helped himself to a bottle of whiskey, found a glass, and started drinking on a balcony overlooking Mannix Square. The sun beat down on him, and the city stank as it always did. The streets were crowded as ever, but there was a sort of calm to Seba that afternoon—the kind before a storm.
“What do you think, General?”
Behind Dune, three of his most trusted officers joined him on the balcony—Morris, an old soldier who’d fought with him in many battles throughout the years, Jones, a former mercenary believed to have been trained by Scimitar warriors, and Kline, an ex-Sentry Elite.
“For one thing,” he said, sipping from his glass. “I believe that so much going wrong in my absence confirms how essential I was to this city.”
“What do you suppose happened to Clock?” Jones asked.
“Dead, most likely,” he said. “No trace but a tooth..? The message is pretty clear: he’s not coming back.”
“How..?” asked Morris.
“Kline,” said Dune. “You stayed here while we were gone. How many Wraiths did we lose in the Tombs the night of the fire?”
“Eleven,” said Kline. “A loss, but all things considered, not terrible.”
“Was there anything unusual? Anything worth reporting?”
“Yes, actually. One of the fallen was missing his uniform.”
Dune took another sip and sighed. “Was anyone notified about this?”
“I believe Clock was informed, but …”
“But he didn’t think anything of it. So no one was warned there might be a possible infiltrator. So someone walked into this tower, made Clock disappear, and no one noticed.”
He smirked and shook his head. Well done, Sebastian, he thought. And you thought you were so damn clever.
“So what happens now?”
Dune looked out to the horizon and considered that. With Clock gone, there was a power vacuum in Seba. Elliot was already assuming leadership, but if Vident didn’t kill him, someone else would. Gash will make his move—now he doesn’t even need the Gauntlet. And of course, if the Goblins go mad, there might not be much of a Seba left for anyone.
“What’s the last head count?” he asked.
“Just over two thousand strong,” Kline said.
He finished his drink with a final gulp. When Sebastian Clock was solidifying his power in Seba, he employed Vincent Dune to bolster an elite militia force to maintain order in the unruly city and act as his own private army.
Dune personally oversaw the vast sea of warriors and mercenaries that drifted in and out of Seba. Contrary to popular belief, not all of them were renegades, cutthroats, and pirates. Some were men and women of ambition and desire with goals higher than garnering enough gold to pay for a night’s pleasure at the brothel. They weren’t idealists, but they were soldiers who could appreciate vision.
Clock kept their pockets filled with gold, but it was to the General they pledged their loyalty.
For Dune, working under Sebastian Clock was only a means. He always knew the time would come for him to move on. And now with Clock gone …
“Morris, Jones,” he said. “Spread the word. Tell the Wraiths to get ready. Kline, report to me all inventory.
“Our time has come.”
50
It took longer for Deck to reach Seba.
He was a day behind Dune from the start, and when he reached a port, he needed to wait another two days for a ship that would take him down the Spade Sea. Once the voyage was under way, unlike Dune, Deck was not blessed with strong winds, so the trip took an additional six days.
Deck knew the voyage would be confining and frustrating, but the delays only made it worse. He hated the idea of his sister in the hands of people like Vincent Dune. He knew the stories of Seba, and he hated she was taken there. He paced around the ship’s deck or sulked in his private room, feeling tense and helpless.
The time alone and with nowhere to go forced him to reevaluate what he’d been doing since coming to Graylands. His actions—however noble he told himself they were—were reckless and endangered his family and friends. Despite being the eldest brother, he’d been the one acting immaturely.
As he stared out to the southern horizon, anticipating the skyline of Seba any day, he resolved he would need to gro
w up if he and his family were to endure in Graylands. Lock had been right all along—Vigor was gone. Playing the hero was a childish dream.
Saving Cassie was the priority now. Her life was on him, and if the worst should happen, her death would be on him as well. The time was soon coming when Deck would have to prove whether his years training to fight were worth a damn.
I’ll make it up to you, Cassie, he thought. I swear it. Just hang in there.
Deck sailed past the port near Gain and kept going to Frank. He reached the district just before sundown and covered himself with a hooded cloak. Having heard tales of Seba and her Three Sons, he kept his hand at his sword in case of trouble.
But to his surprise, Frank seemed like a ghost town. Most of the homes and shops were closed up, and the streets were almost deserted. What Deck did notice, however, was tension and urgency in the few people he passed—as if in a rush to get somewhere before nightfall.
He looked ahead at the great city sitting atop its plateau, knowing his sister was somewhere in there, and anticipated how he was going to get her free. As much as he wanted to hunt down Dune that very moment and storm whatever castle or tower Cassie was held in, Deck remained patient. He needed time and a plan.
He came across a tavern that rented rooms called the Ugly Pig. He walked inside, only to be greeted by the bartender with: “No! We’re closing up! Drink somewhere else!”
“May I at least rent a room?” Deck asked, removing his hood.
The bartender, who was boarding up his windows, grumbled and said, “You’re not planning on going anywhere are you?”
“No,” he said. “I just need a place for the night.”
“All right,” said the bartender. “Let me write you in.”
The bartender sighed again and walked behind the bar. The place was empty, and chairs were stacked atop the tables despite how early it was.
“Sign in here,” the bartender said, handing Deck the ledger.
“Closing kind of early, aren’t you?” he asked, writing a fake name.
“This damn place is going to hell,” said the bartender. “The Goblins are worse than ever.”
“Goblins..?”
“They’ve always been bad with the beatings and the robbing and the killing. But something’s going wrong up in the city. Before it was just sport … now they’re mad. And the Brute Squad is gone. Not that they were much help to begin with, but they’re all in the city for some reason. We’re on our own down here.” He took the ledger and money from Deck, shaking his head. “Ever since Krutch Leeroy showed up, it’s all been going wrong.”
“Krutch Leeroy..?” said Deck. “Really..? He’s in Seba?”
“That’s what I hear. I don’t know what the hell is going on up there, but it’s nothing good. All we can do is hope it doesn’t spill over on us too much.”
Deck nodded and went up to his room—wondering how this changed his situation. If things in Seba were deteriorating, did he gain an advantage?
Or a deadline?
* * *
The night Deck Synclaire arrived in Frank, the Three Sons were spared serious Goblin attacks. But that was only because they focused on the Slums.
Being the section of Seba where the poor and lowest class dwelled, there was little security or defense when the Goblins started marauding. There was nothing to steal, so the invaders focused on destruction instead.
Several fires were started and the few Wraiths posted there were forced to retreat. Deeming the Slums not worth defending and unwilling to risk losing men, Magistrate Elliot let the fire and attacks go on through the night.
* * *
Regis Tuco was an influential exporter and suspected pirate in Seba who—via Denholm Mitchell, a casino owner in Roller’s Place—arranged shipments for Sebastian Clock. Clock, as he preferred to do, kept his involvement in the deal minimal. As far as Tuco knew, he was acting at the behest of Mitchell.
With Clock’s disappearance, Tuco’s payment for his latest shipments wasn’t delivered. With no explanation, he took matters into his own hands and had his employees attempt robbing Mitchell’s casino.
The robbery was a failure, and Mitchell responded by having his men torch one of Tuco’s ships. Tuco retaliated by having the casino burned.
This would escalate.
* * *
Katrina drifted in and out of consciousness for some time. She didn’t know how long, but some functioning part of her noted she was healing a little more every time she came back from the blackness.
She was lying on a cot in a small, plain room made with what appeared to be plaster walls. A single window allowed sunlight to shine through at certain times of the day. It was hot all the time, and she was sweating and itching beneath the bandages she was wearing.
When she fully regained consciousness, her first thought was how thirsty she felt. Luckily, whoever was taking care of her was kind enough to leave a pitcher of water beside her cot. Cringing and moaning from her injuries, she sat up and poured herself a cup of water. It was warm, but she didn’t care.
The pain in her knees had dulled to a minor ache. Her sides felt okay, so long as she didn’t move too much. Her back and neck were sore, but nothing too serious. Her hands, though, were in the worst shape. Clawing her way out of her coffin and through the dirt had done some damage to them. They were both covered in bandages, and she’d lost a few nails.
Her left hand was in the worse condition. When Jagger was beating her, he focused special attention to it.
“I was always better with my left hand,” she whispered to herself, her voice sounding even more hoarse and raw than usual. “You remembered.”
She tried clenching her left hand and felt bolts of pain fire all the way up into her arm. She ground her teeth, and her eyes began to tear. It was healing—and she was a fast healer—but it would take some time before her hand was back to full strength.
Taking another sip of water, she got off the cot and limped to the window. She had an open view of the desert east of Seba. Wherever she was, she was at the edge of it. The sun was high above, behind the house, and the air was dry and still. Refilling her cup, she found her sword beside the cot and went outside.
Stepping out the door, she saw Seba proper. She was in one of the districts, but didn’t know which one. The great city shimmered in the sunlight, and the thought kept intruding on her mind: Jagger is there. He’s in there somewhere … but he tried to kill her.
“Better..?”
She turned and found Scifer Olc sitting in the shade beside the hut she’d been sleeping in. He was lazing in a wooden chair with his feet up, smoking a cigarette, and looked relaxed and pleased with himself.
“How long have I been out?” she asked.
“Been a few days,” he said. “About a week, give or take. You’re quite a fast healer.”
“I’ve been told,” she said, limping to a wooden crate next to him and tenderly sitting down. “Where are we?”
“Ivan. The southeastern district. Your boyfriend buried you not far from here. I suspect you’re not the first person he’s made disappear in this desert.”
“Why did you help me?”
“Technically you helped yourself.”
“Just answer the question.”
“I told you,” he said, taking a drag from his cigarette and offering her one. “I find you interesting.”
Accepting the cigarette, she muttered, “Which doesn’t tell me anything.” After lighting and taking a drag of her own, she asked, “Have I missed anything? Does anyone know I’m not buried? Should I expect trouble from Clock?”
“Funny you should mention him.”
“Why?”
“Before I went to retrieve you from your premature burial, I stopped to pay Mr. Clock a visit.”
He looked at her and grinned, and she saw a malicious glint in his eyes that made her shudder. “You mean you..?”
“I strapped him down to his big, concrete desk, slit him open, and showed him his
insides. I hollowed him out until he died, and then I made him disappear as if he never existed to begin with.”
Katrina stared at him, too thunderstruck to think or say anything. Her cigarette dropped to the ground and smoldered in the dirt at her feet. All at once she wanted to go back inside and sleep.
“But,” she said. “But Clock said if he dies …”
“I know,” he said. “I told you, I heard his whole speech about that.” He paused to chuckle. “He wasn’t bluffing.”
It took a moment for that to sink in, but when it did, Katrina felt a chill go through her blood. “Did you think he was?”
“No,” he said, holding in laughter. “In fact, I made a point to ask before I started carving. He was telling the truth, and Seba is going to shit even as we speak. The Goblins are pissed. Magistrate Elliot is trying and failing to keep control. Jonathon Gash is uppity about some secret plan he’s botched, and once he finds out Clock is gone, he’s going to do something drastic. People are saying Krutch Leeroy’s up to something huge. There are even rumors of the Jackal coming.” He grinned like a child with a new gift. “It’s going to be something.”
“But … but … why..?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to watch a city burn.”
* * *
All together, the Brute Squad numbered close to two hundred men.
After his attempted assassination, Jonathon Gash ordered them all to guard his estate in Oasis Slope. The sudden influx of violent, ill-tempered fighters was not welcomed by the other residents, and the Squad—used to doing as they pleased in the Three Sons—had to find other means of stimulating themselves.
By the time Clock disappeared, there had been several assaults and even more robberies. The Brute Squad helped themselves to breaking into the homes of Gash’s neighbors and passed the time picking out random people in the streets and beating them. At least three victims were killed.
