Most of Waterfall Citadel had been plumbed with strategic channels that removed the wastes in the swiftly flowing water, but much of the construction that had taken place in the past two hundred years had been done without the will or access to the skill that the first builders had employed. The result was a need for the removal of human waste to the farms and pits beyond the city walls on a daily basis. The farther the group rode, the more often they saw the filth-laden carts, while the crowds thinned to a dribble, until finally Jagger reined in with a curse.
“I thought you were taking us to meet your ‘new master.’” The rogue leader bared his teeth, drawing his horse in front of Kesh’s own, and forcing a stop as yet another cart rumbled by. “No one with money would be anywhere close to these shit-wagons.” He spit at the ground in front of Kesh’s horse and gestured at the retreating cart with his switch. “What kind of hustle are you hoping to employ? It’s not too late for us to cut our price from your hide.” He glared as Mitchum and Harten both dropped hands to settle on the pommels of their long knives. “Mitchum in particular is fond of bacon, aren’t you Mitchum?” The tough man grinned and nodded eagerly.
Kesh began to sweat despite the cool air provided by the lack of partygoers. Remain calm, he thought, then snorted derisively. “And I suppose if you were a man like my employer, you would make yourself easy to find?” Kesh shook his head sadly. “Perhaps I was wrong, and bringing you into the fold won’t be such a coup for me.” He allowed his shoulders to slump, as though defeated. “Best kill me now, on the very doorstep of your victory.” He gestured to a large black building from which an intermittent stream of wagons traveled back and forth. The bulky wooden structure loomed behind an open courtyard.
Disbelief shone in Jagger’s eyes. “You expect me to believe that your employer,” he said, loading the word with condescension, “lives in the shit yard?” He answered Kesh’s snort with one of his own. “Mitchum, bacon it is.”
Rotten teeth were revealed once again in the dim lantern light as Mitchum heeled his mare forward, and Harten mirrored his action. Both men began to draw their knives as they approached.
“Wait! Truly, you are correct!” Kesh blurted.
Jagger raised one hand and rolled his wrist, indicating that Kesh should continue. Mitchum and Harten halted. Mitchum’s ugly face fell into a disconsolate pout.
“He is not here, at least, he should not be, but one who knows where he might be found this night is here.” Kesh strove mightily to keep from gabbling, and he continued, eyes fixed on the fingers of Mitchum’s hand as they stroked the well-worn pommel of his knife. “The man who manages this facility works for my employer. If anyone knows how to make contact with him, it is this man.”
Jagger eyed Kesh speculatively, creases in his brow belying his suspicion once again. He made a placating gesture and the men who had been advancing on the chancellor relaxed. “Well, then,” the scarred man said, “I suppose we should proceed.” Jagger turned slightly in his saddle to address Mitchum. “Time to earn your keep, my lad.” The rogue leader began to turn his horse as he spoke. “Harten stays with me. The rest of you become Lord Piggy’s shadow. If he gives you any trouble or seems to be trying anything at all to cheat us, you have my blessings to get that rasher you have so longed for.” He presented the switch he had been carrying for days to Mitchum as if it were a prized family heirloom. Mitchum’s horrid smile was on full display as he pretended at honored surprise. He leered horribly at Kesh while wielding the stick like a scepter.
Elation welled within Kesh and threatened to overrule his sense of control. “Wait... You’re not coming?” His voice squeaked slightly.
The scarred rogue gave Kesh a level stare, his eyes void of emotion.
“You underestimate me, my high and mighty piglet. I am above meeting with trivial men.” Jagger’s expression had been completely bled of any previous humor he had displayed in tormenting Kesh. “You will make no betrayals here, because if you do, you will be the sole object of my time and attention until I feel fully compensated for my losses.”
The implied threat hung in the air, sending a chill down Kesh’s spine. He didn’t have to act when putting on his most weary expression and dragged his words out tortuously. “As you say. I had tried to save you from this demeaning task outside of the city, as I’m certain you will recall.” He dared a glance at Jagger’s face to see if his words and posture allayed the brigand’s suspicion.
The rogue’s eyes remained fixed on Kesh, and only when the chancellor felt his ruse was about to crumble did the horrid gaze break. Jagger reined his horse around without a word and signaled for Harten to follow.
Kesh allowed himself a small breath of relief and heeled his mare back into motion. His confidence began to grow as he recognized the man standing before the heavy gates that sheltered the public from the filth within.
Bon was a grossly fat bald man who approached the height of King Hathorn. Clad only in breeches and a vest that failed to cover his bloated belly, he stood in a wide-legged stance before the open gates of the courtyard. In his beefy hands he held a tally board that he checked as each cart left or returned. Small eyes peered up suspiciously from the depths of a pale face as the chancellor approached. If a flicker of recognition passed over the man’s pockmarked features, it was lost in his scowl.
Kesh fought the gag that rose in his throat as the smell of the central courtyard wafted through the open gates. Noises from behind him gave him some satisfaction that his discomfort was shared by his tormentors.
A cart emptied its load onto the flat slab of a dock and a waiting barge was tied before the slab. Several men, whose faces were obscured behind cloths, were plying shovels and wheelbarrows to move the pile of waste from the slab to the waiting low dock on the river. Bon stepped forward. “Whut you want?” the bald man said, regarding the four men with eyes that glittered behind fat cheeks and a brutal lowered brow.
Kesh drew himself up. “Chancellor Tomelen, here to see Micount Wartel.” Kesh said with his most imperious air. It was ruined a bit by a hitch in his voice as bile rose in his throat, but he mastered himself and sat tall, trying to ignore the stench. Perhaps his encounter with the pen at the old ruin had bolstered his tolerance for rankness, for one of the men behind him retched, sending vomit to splash on the cobblestone street.
Bon’s eyes didn’t move from Kesh as the tough behind him emptied his stomach. “N’body sees ’count,” the fat giant grunted. “B’gone wit you.”
Another man began to heave, and Kesh fought to master his own twitching gut. “The time for cleaning waits for no man, least of all three,” he said quickly but quietly, while reciting a quiet prayer that he had remembered the correct words. He began to feel his control slipping as the sounds of more splashing came from behind him.
His words wrought a change on the pale features before him. A smile split the thick layer of blubber that was Bon’s face. “The ’count will see you now.” Reaching into a small box behind the wall that housed the gate, he produced a grubby handful of moistened black cloths and held the nest aloft for Kesh. Strong camphor-like smells wafted from the pallid, fleshy hand, and Kesh hastily grabbed the bundle and extracted a cloth, holding it before his face and breathing deeply. The rancid odor from the courtyard was almost completely drowned in the bright, powerful odor of the spices that soaked the cloth, and Kesh could feel his desire to vomit recede immediately. He turned in the saddle to offer the remaining cloths to the men behind him.
Crester was standing next to his horse, one hand on the pommel and the other stuffed into his writhing abdomen. The villain looked like his knees might drop him to the fouled paving any moment, and Dale, though he retained his saddle, was in a similar condition. Only Mitchum remained straight-backed in his saddle with a determined expression on his green-tinged lips.
Relief flooded Mitchum’s strained features as he snatched the bundle from Kesh’s proffered fist and held it to his face, breathing deeply in imitation of the chan
cellor. He turned to pass the remaining rags to his retching men.
“Oy!” Bon shouted to the men loading the barge. The raised voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a large man. Two of the workers laid down their shovels and loped across the yard.
“You be takin’ tally for Bon,” the behemoth said to one. “You tell the ’count, Bon be bringin’ cleanin’.” His meaty finger jabbed toward the other.
The street accent and malformation of the man’s mouth made it difficult for Kesh to truly understand, but the two men he had summoned suffered no such issues. The first man nodded and took the chalkboard from Bon, and the second ran across the yard to disappear into the recesses of the building to the right of the dock where the barge was moored.
Mitchum’s voice was somewhat muffled behind the cloth he held to his nose and face. “Where’s he going?” he demanded, but to whom it was unclear.
Kesh addressed the question, as it appeared no one else was going to. “He is going to let Micount know we are here to speak with him. Patience, my friend.”
Mitchum growled, behind his scented veil. “I’m not yer friend, Piggy. This best not be a waste of time, or I’ll be stickin’ my knife in ya.”
Kesh once again held his hands before him in a placating gesture, and the four of them followed Bon across the yard toward a massive wooden door decorated with heavy wrought iron hinges.
Fresh air puffed into Kesh’s face as he passed into the small sanctum beyond the rank courtyard. He had only been to this facility once before, but he knew the interior of the building was supplied with clean air from a chimney that rose high into the air along the flowing river. A water wheel had been rigged to a fan that pushed fresh air into the entire structure during all hours of the day. Micount may have made a fortune keeping the city free from the odors of his courtyard, but that didn’t mean he equated the smells of filth with money.
Kesh sighed and reveled in the hidden sanctuary as it pushed away the stench of the courtyard. Bon, grinning as though he, too, felt relief, gestured the quartet into the hallway, which was lit by occasional lanterns in tapered globes. He preceded the other men while turning frequently to wave them on, deeper into the structure.
The giant pulled to a stop at another large door and hauled it open with a bow that might have been courtly but for his bulk. The mass of his belly protruded and kept him from bending entirely. Wheezing breaths mingled with the softly sighing breeze that flowed through the hallway as the four men passed beyond the bowing man into the room beyond.
A stout man with flowing mustaches sat in a large chair at the far end of a table that ran almost the length of the room. Papers weighted with stones lay in neat piles across the smooth, dark wood and at either side of the room, men stood with crossbows leveled at the door.
“What the...” Mitchum began as a thrumming volley sounded.
Kesh dove to one side, narrowly dodging a speeding bolt.
A quarrel slammed into the ribs of the switch-bearing thief, causing his breath to explode from him in a cry of pain. “Damn!” Dropping the symbol of power Jagger had given him, Mitchum scrambled with clumsy fingers for his sword.
Kesh smiled in satisfaction from his place on the floor. He heard the crunch of Crester’s neck breaking as Bon seized the man’s head in one mighty hand and wrenched it around. Crester never even had a chance to cry out, and his shocked eyes regarded the giant who had killed him with blank horror.
The second quarrel had not found its mark in Dale, and the thief was cursing as he drew his dagger. Shouting with excitement, Bon seized the limp form of Crester and hurled it into Dale. The impact of his companion’s dead weight slammed the surprised man into the wall behind him, and his knife clattered to the floor.
Giggling excitedly, Bon crashed over to the pair of fallen men and proceeded to stomp his massive, hobnailed boots without regard to which body he was crushing. Bones audibly snapped and crunched beneath Bon’s broad feet and each cry from Dale seemed to double the massive man’s glee. His feet rose and fell rose at a rabid, frenzied pace.
“Piggy,” Mitchum rasped. “At least... I will see the end...of you.” He had managed to pull his sword free from its scabbard, and now the weapon was clutched in a hand dripping with his own lifeblood. Rage alone seemed to be keeping Mitchum on his feet.
Kesh could see his own end painted clearly in Mithchum’s blazing eyes as the thief stalked him. Kesh scrambled backward desperately.
The rogue’s arm flew up, flinging droplets of blood into the air. Kesh could see the ruby glint in the lantern light and it fascinated him. So close, he thought. I was so close.
A second and third quarrel slammed into Mitchum’s ribs before he could bring the sword to bear. He spun into the wall, and then slid to the floor next to Kesh, where he lay twitching.
“Curse… you...piggy,” he whispered, and then lay still.
Bon’s gleeful mayhem was arrested by a steely voice that rose sharply from beyond Kesh’s sight. “Bon! Stop!”
The fat man’s obedience was instantaneous. The giggling ceased as though it weren’t truly laughter at all, but a line in a play subject to the director’s cut. He paused with one dripping boot raised above the pulped mass of one of the two corpse’s heads and looked expectantly at the source of the command.
Kesh heard the scraping hum of the chair being slid across the rough-hewn floor, followed by the clomp of boots as they made their way around the long table.
Bon held his position, balanced on one foot in the tangle of limbs that had been Crester and Dale. He remained there until the three men came into view.
Micount Wartel was a solidly built man of perhaps fifty years, who radiated a rigid authority from behind his lined face and the immaculate twin horns of his mustaches. His garb consisted of loosely sewn but well-fitted blue trousers, which had been tucked into black boots that were turned down at the tops of his calves. A grey shirt and dark vest completed the outfit.
A lined hand came up to lie upon Bon’s shoulder and pat it twice as if the blubbery man were some sort of pet. “You did well, Bon.”
The madman’s pasty face broke into a huge grin, basking in the praise.
“Now, I need you to bring the cart and see to the disposal of our former guests.” Micount Wartel waved at the bodies on the floor.
Bon’s foot came down quickly, splashing into the blood pooling on the floor, and the giant’s face was shining with adoration for the older man. “Yes ’count,” he agreed, nodding his head eagerly. “I bring da cart. Chopsy up da mens and ’way wit da poo. I do!” He chortled over his rhyme. The large man moved off down the hallway, occasionally laughing as he went. “Poo-do!” wafted back over the receding, stomping footfalls.
Wartel watched Bon go before turning serious grey eyes on the still-recumbent chancellor.
“My Lord Kesh,” Micount said with a very slight bow. Rising from the bend, he gestured to one of the men to assist the chancellor back to his feet. “I must say, this is a surprise. I had thought you dead.”
Kesh took the hand of the guard who immediately stepped back to his position behind his master and watched him cautiously place one hand on a long dirk strapped at one hip.
“No, Micount. I still live, and in no small measure, thanks to you.” He brushed at his clothes, soiled from his many days on the road and the less-than-gentle treatment he had been forced to endure. Despite the filth, he felt as if he were truly back in control for the first time since he had stabbed Kinsey. “I need to speak to Banlor immediately, though. There is much to tell him.”
The grey eyes regarded Kesh steadily for a moment as he straightened himself. “Then I suggest you clean yourself up, at the least,” Micount said. “I think it unlikely that your current state will do anything but dissatisfy your master more.” He turned abruptly and began striding back toward his piles of paper. “You may leave the gold for these three on the table before you go.” One hand waved at the tangled bodies as he walked, tailed by his two gua
rds. “Lord Banlor is likely home at this hour.”
Kesh lost a measure of confidence at Micount’s mention of the gold. He had forgotten that only Banlor was permitted to use the services this man offered without payment. The arrangement between Banlor and Micount was… unique. “Ah, yes. Well, the gold I have has been purloined by these very men you took care of, so you can just see to removing it, and that should settle our... transaction.”
Micount froze for a moment before settling back into his chair. He took one sheet of parchment from a stack to his left and very carefully sharpened the nib of his pen before dipping it into a pot. Never raising his eyes from the sheet, he said, “What is on the bodies is mine already. It has always been thus.” He scribbled a couple of notes, then looked at Kesh from below his lowered brow. “For the relationship I have with your employer, you will be allowed, this once, to have credit.” His eyes returned to the page, and more notes flowed onto the ledger. “Thrice the usual accounting, no later than one month from today, will serve as both my premium for such grace, and your contrition for abusing my rules.” For a long moment, the scuff of pen on paper was the only sound except for the hush of air coming from the vents behind Micount’s chair. “You may go.”
Kesh opened his mouth to protest and ask for help with Jagger, who was doubtless still waiting outside with his thug, but the humming sing-song return of Bon closed it with a gulp and a swallow as he glanced at the remains of Dale and Crester. He found himself only able to issue a quick thanks, and then he fled into the night.
Stepping away from the washbasin, Kesh eyed his reflection in the lamplight. His green eyes stared back at him from their deep-set cavities. The remains of the clothes he had been wearing when he arrived at his home lay in a heap on the floor behind him. He shuddered as the sight of the horribly stained cloth brought back every indignity he had been forced to endure over the past few weeks. The distinct smell of the night soil barge he had ridden from Micount’s facility rose softly from the sodden pile. It had been necessary to wheedle his way onto the flat-bottomed boat in order to avoid leaving the facility and facing Jagger and Harten in the street. It had been the final horror in the trip back from Pelos, but, as with so many things he had done, it had been necessary to ensure that he lived to see his inevitable triumph.
Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) Page 39
