Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  He glanced at the fireplace and sniffed, trying to guess what might be for supper. The guards had the task of hunting small game for their dinner and bartering, buying, or stealing vegetables to go with it. Options were limited by knowledge and ingredients, leaving a choice of roast or stew. When Jorgeson visited the town to canvass the pubs, one soldier always went along to purchase bread, cheese, whiskey, and ale. Rations weren’t plentiful, but he had survived on worse during campaigns. And it far surpassed the fare at the prison.

  There must be a way to find the Valmondes, he mused.

  Later that night, Jorgeson slipped out to The Plow and Ox, a pub on the side of the main road by the river ports. He looked the part of a dockhand or laborer, not rough enough to cause concern, but no one anyone would notice.

  “Ale,” he replied when the bartender asked. He glanced up when the tankard was put in front of him.

  “I’m looking for work,” Jorgeson said. “Know if they need anyone down on the river?”

  The bartender shrugged. “No idea. Best way to find out is to wander down there, see who needs a hand with the cargo.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” Jorgeson replied. He sipped his ale and focused his attention on the conversations around him as the bar began to fill with patrons. The rural accent irritated him, and the ale tasted flat and watered. He had grown used to the best Ravenwood had to offer in his capacity serving Machison, but that life was gone forever.

  “… they’re together—until her husband finds out.”

  “… won’t say it’s him, but we all know who the father is.”

  “… stole those sheep. Of course, he won’t admit it, but they were in his pen.”

  The local gossip bored him as much as the people themselves. He finished nursing his ale and reached for coin to pay the bartender.

  “Should be more coming in tonight, if you liked that. I can guarantee a good price. Cut out the extra costs, if you know what I mean.”

  Jorgeson didn’t dare turn to see the speaker. Two men stood behind him, talking in low tones, sure the hubbub around them drowned out their voices. He stilled, listening intently, and hoped he didn’t look like he was eavesdropping. He had much more experience as an assassin than as a spy.

  “You bring it up the river; I’ll have a buyer for you, no questions asked.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  The men moved on, and Jorgeson thought he had lost them until he saw two strangers go to the other end of the bar to order drinks. He managed to get a look at them, memorizing their faces. Neither stood out in the crowd, though one of the men looked rougher than the other. Jorgeson guessed he was the seller, and the slightly better dressed, somewhat more polished man was the buyer.

  When it appeared that the two men intended to stay for a while, Jorgeson paid his tab and slipped out. He rode toward the river, unsurprised to find few people traveling as the evening wore on. Though he had left the guards back at his base, Jorgeson had no fear of cutpurses. He carried enough weapons beneath his cloak to handle ruffians, and he brimmed with frustration, welcoming a fight.

  The smell of the docks reached him before he could see the river, and he tied his horse behind a row of shops closed for the evening. Then he headed toward the waterfront. An empty wagon sat with a driver and a horse, waiting for someone. Down by the water, several men stood together, smoking pipes and talking. Jorgeson headed their way.

  “Nice night,” he said as he approached them. “Mind if I join you?”

  Grunts and shrugs answered, but the men yielded a few steps to open their circle. The smoke of their tobacco hung heavy in the air, and Jorgeson withdrew his pipe and filled it, lighting up in camaraderie.

  “You’re new.” The speaker stood to Jorgeson’s left, a red-haired, broad-shouldered man who looked like he had spent a lifetime of heavy labor. The carefully neutral tone provided neither invitation nor provocation.

  “Heard there might be work.” Jorgeson took a long drag on his pipe.

  “Maybe,” one of the men agreed, a short, thick-set man to Jorgeson’s right. “Never know until it happens. Ain’t no tellin’ ‘til the boats show up, if they’re gonna show.”

  They stood and smoked in companionable silence. Jorgeson hung back, listening to the others trade news about sick cows and children with fevers, impugn the questionable honor of a few of the village women, and speculate about when it might rain. The conversation reminded him of his time in the king’s army, when men made small talk because boredom became more uncomfortable than finding something to gossip about.

  “Looks like we’re getting lucky tonight, boys.” The red-haired man said, pointing toward the dark waters of the riverside docks.

  Jorgeson saw the shuttered lanterns of several small ships drawing closer. He followed the others down to the waterfront and joined in when ropes were thrown to haul the ships to the docks.

  The red-haired man moved to speak with a tall man in a dark coat who climbed ashore from the first of the boats to dock. “You need help? I’ve got men here if you can pay.” A few moments later, the negotiating finished and the leader of the dockhands whistled for his crew to get to work.

  Jorgeson took his place in a line as crates were handed off the ships and passed from man to man into the wagon. He strained in the moonlight to make out any of the markings on the boxes.

  The suspicion that formed back in the pub grew as he watched the unloading process. Why bring small ships upriver in the middle of the night? Look how impatient the boat captains are to get unloaded—they’re worried about staying too long. And the marks on the crates have been burned or altered. They’re smuggling. But what sort of goods? And who’s behind it?

  He could hear the red-haired man talking with one of the ship captains. The captain had an accent that Jorgeson had heard before. Sarolinian. I’m sure of it.

  When the ship captain walked away, a stocky man with a worried look on his face jogged up. “Hey Boss, we found the bodies from that crew that said they were attacked—no idea who killed them,” he told the red-haired man.

  “Find out.” The boss snapped. “Did the rest of the crew say anything else?”

  “They said they saw lights in the cemetery above the harbor and figured someone was spying on them—maybe guards. Bunch of rough-looking guys jumped them, and killed several of their crew, but didn’t chase after them when they ran away.”

  “I want to know who those men are, why they were there, and who they work for,” the boss growled. “And then I want them dead.”

  Jorgeson melted back into the shadows. Lights in a cemetery at night… rough-looking men—hunters. I’m sure of it. Maybe the Valmondes. Which means they’ve got to be based near here, or else they’re just wandering around the kingdom, looking for haunts.

  He made certain that he held one of the final crates to be unloaded and walked it to the wagon, then hung back until the others left. While he wouldn’t have minded a few extra coins—Aliyev’s miserly stipend barely covered essentials—he knew the others would be busy collecting their pay. That bought him a few precious minutes to pry the lid off a box and look inside.

  He caught his breath. Bolts of cloth and skeins of dyed yarn filled the box in the colors and patterns that were distinctive to Sarolinia.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The driver came around the side of the cart, a big man with the squashed face of a brawler. “Stealing, are you? Got a way to deal with that.” A knife appeared in his hand, glinting in the moonlight.

  Jorgeson would have preferred to keep his presence unnoticed, but the wagon driver gave him no choice. He went on the offensive, attacking with the practiced moves of an experienced soldier, and had the driver down and his throat slit before the man knew what had happened. Jorgeson dragged the body into the bushes at the side of the road and paused as an idea struck him.

  He peeled the cloak and hat off the wagon master’s body and rolled the corpse farther from the road, then climbed into the drive
r’s seat and waited.

  “Everything loaded?” A man Jorgeson had not seen before climbed up to the seat beside him.

  Jorgeson grunted and nodded his head, keeping his hat low on his face. “Where to?” He made his voice as deep and rough as he could, hoping he sounded like he had a cold. His ruse would only work if the stranger did not know the wagon driver well, and the destination was not the same every time. He had a knife ready in one hand in case of trouble.

  The man muttered directions, and Jorgeson flicked the reins. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt sweat on his back although the night was cool. Coming out alone to the pub was already risky. Going down to the docks even more so. And this? This was suicidal. But if he could get through it without discovery, he would have valuable information that might reveal more about the smugglers—and which would buy him more time from Aliyev.

  His passenger said nothing during the ride. Jorgeson had a vague familiarity with the roads, but rarely had reason to travel this way. He noted landmarks without appearing too interested and wondered if the drop point changed with each shipment. That would certainly be safer, but more confusing. In his experience, people tended to be lazy and repeat what was familiar.

  The stranger directed him to a large barn. The dark approach gave Jorgeson little confidence, but shadowy forms appeared out of the night and opened the doors for them, revealing a dimly lit interior.

  Several men approached and began unloading. His passenger climbed down and went to talk with three men who Jorgeson guessed were the buyers. They were too far away for him to hear their conversation, but their dress and manner suggested that while they had the appearance of merchants, they had risen from rough beginnings.

  Inside the city walls, the Guilds kept a tight grip on their merchants. Jorgeson did not doubt that a shadow trade existed of goods sold without the appropriate taxes and fees, obtained from dubious sources. But the penalties enforced and the vigilance of the guards kept its impact minimal.

  Since he had been outside those walls, Jorgeson discovered a disdain for the Guilds and the city’s authorities that surprised him in its bitterness and magnitude. That explained, in no small part, how the Valmondes and their hunter friends had been so successful in eluding capture. Now, Jorgeson felt certain he was witnessing some of that shadow trade in action, as smuggled goods from a neighboring city-state made their way through an inland port and into the hands of merchants he was sure had no Guild affiliation.

  “Why don’t you take the driver outside and pay him,” one of the merchants said to the man who had accompanied Jorgeson.

  “Come on,” the stranger said. “No need for you to stay. We’ll get the rest unloaded.”

  Jorgeson trailed the man, appearing unawares. When the knife flicked toward Jorgeson’s throat, he grabbed the man’s wrist, and within seconds pinned the man to the ground, his arm bent painfully behind, the knife digging against the pulse in his neck.

  He took a kerchief from the man’s pocket and shoved it into his mouth. Then he used the stranger’s belt to tie his wrists behind his back. “You’ll do as you’re told, or I’ll kill you,” Jorgeson whispered, prodding him with his knife.

  Jorgeson steered the man into the dark scrub of trees beyond the barn. He knew they had only minutes before someone noticed that his captive had not returned.

  “I’m going to remove the gag, but my blade is against your throat. Scream and you die immediately. Answer my questions; you live longer. What’s in the boxes?” he asked with a jab of the knife.

  “Fabric. Lace. Spices. Tobacco. Whiskey,” the man replied.

  Jorgeson poked him again. “Where do the boxes come from?”

  His prisoner glared at him but apparently did not consider the information to be worth his life. “Sarolinia. The smugglers get around the tariffs and taxes so the goods are cheaper.”

  This time, Jorgeson twisted the point of the knife in the muscles of the man’s chest. “Spices aren’t a Sarolinian export. You’re leaving something out.”

  The prisoner cursed. “All right, all right. Some independent captains bring in cargo from ships that, uh, had problems at sea and needed to unload early.”

  “You mean, pirates.”

  “That’s a nasty word.”

  Jorgeson pressed the knife against the man’s throat.

  “Yes. Yes! Pirates. They work with the smugglers to bring in cargo at low prices.”

  “Outside of the League treaties.”

  “Screw the League. What does it do except drive up costs and keep honest men from making a living?” The man kept his voice at a whisper, but Jorgeson could not mistake his bitterness. “Those treaties benefit no one but the city Guilds and the Merchant Princes.”

  Jorgeson held his tongue, knowing the penalty Kasten and the lesser League partners paid in the Cull. “What else?”

  “Let me go. You can take my money. Please, don’t kill me,” the man begged.

  “What else can you tell me about the smugglers?” Jorgeson made a shallow cut against the man’s Adam’s apple.

  “There’s no regular schedule to when the boats come—that’s why the roustabouts stay near the harbor,” the man said, babbling with fear. “When the boats do come, a runner heads out to a location one of the boat captains gives him—different each time—and meets a contact. That contact makes sure there are workers to unload and buyers ready to take the goods.”

  “Who are the smugglers working with in Ravenwood?” Jorgeson’s patience was wearing thin.

  “I don’t know.” Jorgeson dug the point deeper. The man grunted in pain and writhed against Jorgeson’s hold. “I don’t! I swear by Oj and Ren on my soul! I’m just the go-between. I get the goods from the port to the meeting point.”

  “How did they know I wasn’t the regular driver?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Then why—”

  “We kill the driver. Can’t leave witnesses.”

  “Tell me something so important I’ll spare your life.”

  Jorgeson had the man pressed up against him, one arm across his chest, knife blade to his throat. He could feel the man’s heaving breath and thudding heart, smell the panicked sweat and the odor of urine as the terrified man pissed himself.

  “The smugglers must have a patron,” the man said, his words tumbling out in a panic. “Their goods are quality. Someone’s putting money into this.”

  “How long?”

  “Months.” Another jab. “Three months. At least, that’s all I know about.”

  “How about in Ravenwood? How did this start?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t!” the man squawked when the blade cut him again. “But the harbor master is never on duty when the smugglers come in, and the patrols don’t come down the wharf like they usually do.”

  “Someone’s paid them off?”

  “Maybe,” the man said. “Or someone in town is in on it.”

  This is bigger than a village scheme. Someone else has to be behind it, a minor noble, a big merchant, maybe even one of the Merchant Princes?

  “Who lines up the buyers? Where do the goods go?”

  “I don’t—I only know what I overhear. I’m not part of it.” The man was close to hyperventilating. “Whoever’s at the top has some connections. The wagons go out to all the major trading villages on this side of Ravenwood. Probably turns quite a nice coin for whoever it is—the goods cost a third of what the Guilds charge.”

  “I want names!”

  “And if I could, to save my life, don’t you think I’d give them to you?”

  “What about the Guilds?”

  The man in his grip snorted. “Guilds? That’s something for city folk. Out here? They take their fees and do nothing in return. We get by. People work their trades. Now and again, the Guilds demand money. Do they give us anything? Do they protect us from the monsters?” He turned and spat on the ground.

  “No. They’re leeches, the Guilds. That’s why nobody minds the smugglers
. Cheers for them, really. Cheating the cheaters. Putting one over on the high and mighty,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “I’m proud of what I do. You can kill me if you like, doesn’t change a thing.”

  “Proud of undercutting the League and undermining the Merchant Princes?” Jorgeson snapped.

  “No. Proud of cheating the leeches that profit off us,” the man tossed back.

  “You have no idea—” Jorgeson began.

  “The city takes everything we have,” the man said. “Our crops, our grapes, our young people. And what do we get back? Whatever the trade agreements promise never makes it past the city walls. We’re on our own out here; always have been. Can’t fault a man for trying to do the best he can.”

  “No, I can’t.” Jorgeson drew the knife swift and clean. The man fell in a heap at his feet.

  All the way home, the dead man’s words haunted Jorgeson. I know one truth. But did the man I kill speak another? It’s different out here. The city is so far away. The Guilds dominate inside the walls, but out here, they’re nothing, just another tax.

  He could hardly spare sympathy for the rural fools. The only way he would evade the noose and his commuted sentence was to satisfy Aliyev’s orders. Pity is a fool’s game. And this is a contest I intend to win. If it’s a fight to the death, I’ll be the last one standing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’ve already given your smugglers protective amulets and taught them sigils to mark their boats. There’s nothing else I can do.” Nightshade bent to add a few clippings of belladonna to his basket of cuttings. A moan came from one of the scarecrows suspended from a wooden cross in the garden.

  “Can’t you shut those bloody things up?” Neven snapped.

  Nightshade stood and eyed his garden decoration with artistic pride. “Now where would be the fun in that? It’s rather like the howl of the wind. Sounds of nature.”