Dark Legion (29 page)

“Not sure. We can put a job posting on the noticeboard by the port. That thing has been bare since we last advertised.”

 

We passed the newly constructed train station. After many months, the purpose behind the construction in the forest had come to light. The project had been much delayed thanks to Kaleb's continuing efforts to free the slaves constructing it. The cost of constantly bringing in more slaves had gotten too much for the emperor, so he had relented and hired laborers to do the work. With his work complete, Kaleb had finally left for the oasis himself.

While I hated that slave labor was used to construct it, I had to admit, it was impressive. It consisted of long metal rails, called tracks, that extended from Morwynne to Sagemont, and it was constantly getting longer. On these rails, he'd placed specially built wagons and carriages, with metal wheels shaped to stay on the tracks.

To pull these contraptions, he'd trained three-horns, the massive reptiles we'd first encountered in the imperial warehouse. The wagons and carriages were hitched together, and depending on the number and what they contained, it took as many as ten of the reptiles to pull the train. It was not fast, but an impressive amount of goods could be moved that way. Most trips even included passenger wagons, and nobles flocked to Sagemont just for the novelty, though the price of such a trip was steep. Only two dozen such trips had been completed, but many more would follow.

 

Marcus and I soon arrived at the gambling den. There were a few groups of men standing outside, but all conversation stopped as we arrived. While we looked nothing like our usual selves, Neysa sure as hells had not make us look inconspicuous. We probably made quite the sight—an old man and a hunchbacked giant. We approached the two big men on the door, and they took a step toward us with their arms crossed.

“One of 'em brewing places 'as hired us to serve this 'ere ale,” Marcus said, tapping the barrel. “They ain't none too 'appy with some'un else stealin' their business. So they made this stuff to compete wid'dem Bleeding Wolf peoples. Want people to see if they like it any. We reckoned we'd come see the people dat mattered… think they'd want some free piss?” Marcus gestured at the door. The groups outside affirmed their willingness to sample the ale and approved heartedly of the price. The doormen looked suspicious, but they cast a wary eye at the boisterous men now surrounding us, then held the door open to let us through.

 

The smell of the place and of those inside overwhelmed me as I walked in. The stink of filthy bodies, rotting meat and general desperation was rank. It was brighter inside than on our last visit, but the torches did not help the ambiance of the place in the slightest. The fighting pit was hidden from sight by a wall of men.

The few woman in the place—I would not call them ladies—were not there for the fighting pit. They lined the walls or sat in the laps of men at the bar. They nonetheless took part in a different sort of fight: a fight for attention, a fight for coin. An older man, gut hanging out of his shirt, had one hand on a tankard and the other up the skirt of a blank-eyed girl. These were the cheap whores that would line the damp alleys of a larger town. Prostitutes in general disgusted me, and while I recognized their right to choose how they made their living, I could not respect the choice they made for themselves. And the type that sold themselves to the likes of
these
men… I could not imagine how desperate one would need to be to come to that decision. I supposed that, having been raped by my former master, I could not accept that anyone would throw themselves at the mercy of these types. Their similarities to Angus were too great. The crescendo of the mass around the pit spoke of a coming end to the fight, with the shrill calls of the reptiles nearly lost in the cheers.

 

We set ourselves up in a corner, filling several tankards with nothing but ale. During our previous visit I had failed to notice the statues of Eriel's handmaidens in the corners of the building. Had I not been to the temples of Eriel before, I might not have recognized the disfigured statues for what they were. Eriel, the goddess of water, was important to my people, who were always in need of rain.

The fight was soon over, and judging by the din of those around the pit, I assumed that an underdog had taken the fight. The barman came around first, asking pointed questions about what the hells we thought we were doing stealing his business. When we explained the situation to him, he admitted his relief. It turned out that he was running low on ale, as “those arseholes” at the Bleeding Wolf were charging an arm and a leg for a barrel. He was now relying on the few taverns that had not been bought out, and he was running low that night. These men would not take kindly to being denied their drink.

The men from outside lined up first. I found it amusing that men such as these would revert to such schoolboy habits as forming an orderly line. The first man had a weather-beaten face, a long, braided beard and so many earrings that they caused his ears to sag. The sailor, as I assumed he was, took a big swig from his tankard as he moved from the line, grunting his approval. As the filled tankards disappeared from Marcus's hands, I started filling the white tankards. These were soon in the hands of four men and one whore.

A cheer went up, signaling the end to another fight. A large black man stepped up with a crossbow and shot the remaining reptile. Another jumped down into the pit and soon returned, dragging two bloodied reptiles behind him by their tails. Marcus continued pouring the normal ale, and I kept an eye on those with the white tankards. At first there was no sign that the sedative had had any effect. After a minute or two, all of those except one—the whore, I should note—were blinking more rapidly and occasionally shook their heads. The effect did not last long, so I found myself filling the green tankards. When the recipients of these had drained their vessels, all five fell where they stood or sat, separated by little more than a minute.

“You've spiked our drinks,” one man shouted when his friend's face met the floor, tankard shattering. However, those around him soon mocked him, pointing at their own tankards. “Your mate just ain't got the head for a serious ale. A bit of a lady, I reckon. Even Evonne is still standing,” one said, pointing at the whore who was doing her best attempt at a curtsy, graceful as a pig on ice. In the meantime, we kept pouring and the men kept drinking. Those horizontally inclined test subjects got up, one after the other, when about five minutes had passed. That wouldn't do.

I next poured five red tankards, each with three drops of sedative at the bottom. At this point everyone had been served, and many were lining up for a second round. I took care to hand the red tankards only to those who had not “volunteered” previously. We served these to three men and two woman, though one of the women had a rather pronounced Adam's apple. These, too, dropped to the ground after a couple of minutes. We continued to pour untouched ale, but those on the floor did not get up. The crowd hardly seemed to notice, and one man propped his foot on a floored man's arse. I went to check on them when a quarter hour had passed, but they were all still alive and breathing. The ale ran out an hour later, so we packed up our things.

We asked the remaining crowd what they thought of the ale, and a loud cheer filled the room, distracting even those around the pit. I was not sure how much of their enthusiasm was for the ale as opposed to the price.

 

We were soon wheeling the empty barrel back through the streets, the crescent moon lighting the way. It was well short of curfew, but the streets were empty.

“That went better than I could have hoped for,” I said. “I honestly expected things to go tits up.”

“You could have expressed your doubts before this foolishness,” Marcus said.

“And give you the chance to back out? No, what's done is done. I have what I need. We can now calculate how much of the sedative to add to each of the barrels marked for the toasts.”

“Marked?” Marcus asked.

“It was in that letter, remember? Different barrels, marked in different colors.”

“Gods-damned empire has rules for everything, even getting pissed,” Marcus said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Positions Vacant

 

The next morning, I pinned a sheet of paper to the noticeboard. The sheet sat against the otherwise-bare cork like a lone tree on a hill. Listing several vacancies, it immediately got the attention of those around the port. A small crowd had gathered before I had taken as much as twenty paces. Unemployment was rife in Sagemont, and it was hardly surprising that my listing got the attention it did.

 

It was a busy day for us, filled mostly with interviews. Dozens of applicants came past before lunch, and a line of hopefuls yet stretched around the corner. Exhausted, we took a break at our usual table.

“We can employ more people,” Marcus said.

“We don't need more people than we advertised for.”

“But they need us,” Marcus said. “Come on, Saul, we can add a couple of people at least. Can't you see their desperation? Besides, it would pay to have a few extra hands for when one or more of the others are sick.”

I rubbed my thumb over the faded patch on the table where I'd left a stain so many months ago. It felt like a lifetime. I never did get around to sanding it down, but my continual rubbing wore it off all the same and faded a spot around it. It became a habit, and I could not help myself.

“I thought we were equal partners. Are you going to take control of the tavern, as you tried to do to me?” Marcus asked.

He was a childish bastard. More and more, he came to use my foolish act to pressure me into things. I thought to raise the point that bullying people into doing what he wanted was not too far removed from what I had done. But I was too tired to raise the energy for the argument. “Fine, two more people,” I said.

 

The interviews continued well into the evening, and when the last hopeful applicant walked out, we looked at each other and sighed. It was an exhausting day. A small mountain of paper sat in front of me, covered in notes on each applicant. The actual list of potential employees was much smaller. “The way I see it, we have a good list of people for our openings. Except one,” I said.

“Someone to manage this whole thing?” Marcus asked.

“Exactly. It's probably the most important role, and no one fits the bill.” I stood, walked to the fireplace, and tossed the largest part of my paper mountain into the fire. The pages curled into black ash.

“A bit dramatic, don't you think?”

“You know me, always a show-off,” I said, sitting back down.

The door burst open, and the fire swayed and danced in the fireplace beside me. The wind curled around the room, sending two leaves of paper flying. They slowly glided to the floor as the door was shut. A figure stood silhouetted, a wide brim hat on his head. “Evening, Adair,” I said. “We will be closing shortly—how can we help you?”

Warden Adair walked in, pulled up a chair, and sat down at our table. “I am here to apply for a position,” Adair said.

I looked at Marcus. “I don't think the taverns need a warden… sorry, Adair.”

Adair took off his hat and tossed it on the table behind him. “Pfft—I don't want to be a damned warden,” Adair spat. “I want to run this business,” he said, gesturing at the tavern.

“Convince us that you are up to the task,” I said.

“Does this information stay confidential?” Marcus and I looked at each other before nodding.

Adair's answer was long in coming. “I wasn't always a warden,” he said at last, twiddling his fingers. “I once ran a branch of the Imperial Bank in Morwynne.” It surprised me, but the job instantly seemed more fitting for the man. “I was good at my job. Very good. But one of the noble-born arseholes running another branch had aspirations of moving up in the world, dealing with imperial taxes. Word got out that I was the chief candidate for the position. So he planted false information and alerted the emperor. He made it look as though I'd had my hand in the bank's purse. There was a trial, and though the evidence looked sketchy, the noble arsehole was given the benefit of the doubt. Lacking the proof to hang me from a tree, they stripped me of my job and everything I owned and sent me to this chamberpot of a town as the new warden. The people here hated me, still do, for taking the place of the former warden. He was a well-liked man, and truth be told, a much better warden than I. I am sick of this thankless job. I work tirelessly, but no one gives a damn. The legion are forever getting in the way of me doing my job, and that's if the bloody
Dark
Legion doesn't throw me into my own cells.” He took a deep breath, then released it as a long sigh. “I am the only man even remotely qualified for this job, and I would appreciate it if you would consider me,” Adair said. He stood up, retrieved his hat, and bowed to us before spinning on his heels and making for the door.

I looked at Marcus, who nodded. “Adair,” I said. The man spun around to face us. “You start tomorrow—don't be late.” Marcus walked to the shocked former warden and hugged him. To my surprise, Adair giggled like a boy. “You know…” I said. “When we first met, you struck me as an accountant. I guess that wasn't too far from the mark, after all.”