Death's Reckoning (3 page)

Lautner raised a hand and got a soldier’s attention. “Captain Duval. Take the men outside and wait for my instructions. You may go.”

The armored men left, clanking and shuffling around the table until the door closed behind them. Lautner watched them go and then turned his attention back to the others. Muldor felt a rush of vindictive pride swell in his breast. They would show these interlopers whose town this was.

“Now to the list of charges,” Grayme Lautner said. “These are violations of the law set down by our king’s decree. I will now read them to you.”

“A moment, please,” Cassius said. “I thought this meeting was of specific charges you feel your town is owed, the specific property or goods and their value. I was expecting a number, and then we would discuss a settlement. I remind you again this is not a military tribunal, and as an ambassador you do not have the requisite authority to bring charges against this city.”

“Then I will keep it focused on our demands. First of all, you will hand over all prisoners of war. We have already provided you with a list.”

“And we are working on finding and identifying those specific people,” Cassius said, with a hint of irritation as if he were tired of hearing about it.

“This city will pay an amount equal to the stolen goods, plus a fee for the loss of crew hours, transportation and any charges the various buyers might incur upon Janisberg’s export businesses. I’ll show you the details now.”

Lautner held his hand up, and one of the Janisberg representatives handed him several pieces of parchment. Then Lautner handed the copies to each member of the city council. Muldor looked it over. The amount was ridiculous, for he knew the exact amount owed. The money funneled to Castellan’s mercenary operations was a large amount of coin but not this much. He lowered the paper and regarded Lautner. His visage had not changed, and he looked like someone who expected complete compliance. This whole thing would be more difficult than Muldor thought.

Raul scoffed and shook his head. Muldor could tell he wanted to say something, but the City Watch Commander was out of his element. He said nothing while frustration boiled underneath. The others did much the same, save Cubbins. He didn’t give it more than a glance. It was obvious there was something more on his mind.

Muldor gathered himself, making a quick calculation in his mind, adding the numbers on the page, and faced Lautner. “Even considering the amount you claim was stolen, and any subsequent fees that might be incurred from buyers, transportation fees, etcetera, this amount is over that mark by twenty percent. Explain this discrepancy please.”

“Simple. This is a twenty percent fee my city has determined you must pay. For our trouble.”

Some at the table scoffed, and Cassius frowned. Muldor held back the urge to speak up, for he and The Guild were already exposed. Speaking would only expose them further. Janisberg was in the superior position. Muldor wasn’t. Allies were needed before making any moves.

Cassius saved him. “That is your prerogative of course. People make demands. It is only human nature to feel affronted, injured, and even afraid. Our city’s reputation is fearsome, and foreigners are often afraid when dealing with us.”

“Personal feelings are not part of this, Lord Cassius. This is our demanded, nay, our
required
payment, and this city is responsible for it. Pay or face more severe repercussions. It would be a shame to involve the king in these matters since all of us can resolve this situation here and now.”

“Of course,” Cassius said and sat back. The mention of the king was enough to mollify his temporary confidence. Muldor heaved a mental sigh and tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

“Ambassador Lautner,” Muldor said. “Your grievance is with The Merchants Guild. Our former Guild Master, Castellan Du Sol, was the main perpetrator of these crimes, and he is now imprisoned by you. Do not involve the city council any longer. I am now Guild Master, and I will see to it you are satisfied.”

Lautner let his confusion show, perhaps on purpose to make what he said more dramatic. “But the Guild is part of the City Council. There is no separation, responsibilities are shared. The city knew about the Guild’s activities and did nothing to curtail them. Thus you
all
are culpable.”

Cassius pursed his lips, and Muldor felt a tension among the others save Lord Damour who looked bored. The foppish man twirled a lock of his dark hair in one fattish finger and yawned. Cubbins looked attentive for the first time, curious even. Raul looked serious. His mind twisted as if he had thought of something not considered a moment before.

Muldor wished for the return of the missing council members, for their replacements were unknown to him. Peterson had been an ally, Stewart a known associate he worked with all the time. The Guild and commerce department had obvious ties on a day to day basis. But they were gone.

Cassius looked at Muldor, and the others followed, making the new Guild Master uncomfortable. This was not his element. He wasn’t a politician. Castellan was. Lord Falston had been. And Cassius was the epitome of the term. Smooth and congenial, likable and smart.

And now Muldor was the object of his attention. The Acting Lord Governor smiled, an almost paternal countenance taking over his features, and inclined his head.

“A most noble attitude, Master Muldor, but I believe your sentiments are misplaced. The Guild is as much a part of the city, and we will face this situation together as a united front.” He made a point to look at Lautner. “We have a greater strength together, facing foreign challenges as they come.”

And there it was. Muldor felt suspicious. They continued their discussion, finalizing the details of the condition of surrender. Several of the Janisberg officials became involved, yet Muldor found himself a patient yet nervous listener. His mind churned at the implications, what it meant for himself and The Guild.

There was a sickening in his heart that was troubling.

Chapter Three

The bar top felt wet and sticky. Too many spills, too many drunken unconcerned hands toppling their drinks. No matter how often the bartender wiped away the grime and gunk of alcohol, it returned to trouble no one but himself.

And even though rain punished the city, wracking the dock workers on and off duty, the tavern dwellers kept the windows open, much to the dismay of the employees. The barkeep ran around, shouting orders at the floor sweeps to clean up spills and spots of water that dribbled over the window sills. One serving wench slipped, and one brawny tough, part of Marko’s brigade, swept her up in his arms and set her right on the ground. Her laughter was shrill and good natured.

Others shouted at the tough.

“That’s the only way you can get a girl, Bruno!”

“Why’d you let her go? You pluck off the floor right!”

Bruno smiled and made an exaggerated bow, very theatrical, much to the delight of those watching. Others were grim faced and sullen as they sipped their drinks. Perhaps one or two rounds of ale were all they could afford that night. Those tight lipped men stayed as far from the windows, where this other, free-wheeling portion of the crowd reveled in the wetness and potential danger. The treacherous flooring gave rise to more incidents of falling.

This younger crowd, compared to the older beaten men and women, comprised of spirits desiring to live without a care, unconcerned with their station. They toiled during the day, working their battered bodies into exhaustion. The people considered it their due to enjoy themselves when they could.

The older crowd, so beaten down after the weight of years, had worn their backs and knees to creaking and constant pain. They considered it their due to be left alone with their suffering and drink. The young folk would learn. Someday they would sit right where the old fogies sat and do the same. The older ones knew this because they had been similar in their younger days.

A lone tavern denizen opted out of all activity, curmudgeon or otherwise. Giorgio sat by a window level with his chin. He didn’t mind getting wet from time to time as the wind gusted the downpour into the tavern. It spattered rain on the tabletop. The lone man looked thin, gaunt even, with sharp features, tan skin, and dark hair that hung limp and lifeless, much like his dead eyes staring at the untouched drink before him. Threadbare, loose-fitting clothes draped his skeletal frame. His brown breeches, dark cloak, and a long sleeved shirt were torn in places. His leather belt held several pouches and knives strung about in easy reach.

“Not drinkin’ much tonight, eh, Gi?”

Giorgio turned his head, a nonchalant motion that had all the weight of a handshake from an old crone. His neck seemed to creak. The speaker, a grubby dock worker, sat with several other men at the closest table. He gave a wary smile and rubbed his hands together, nodding at Giorgio’s drink.

“Been nursing that thing for over an hour, I say.”

The thief had been. Giorgio shrugged at the man, not bothering to acknowledge the statement. He stared at the man, but the speaker wasn’t looking at Giorgio at all. Instead, the fellow scooted a chair closer to Giorgio’s table and pointed to his mug of ale.

“Damn shame to waste a good drink like that, I say it is.” He licked his lips.

Giorgio pushed the cup over towards him. “Take it.”

The man laughed and took it off the table as if it was a chest of gold. He slammed the tankard, burped, and slapped Giorgio on the shoulder. “You’re a damn fool, Gi, but a good one! Ha, ha!”

That brought a round of laughter from the other dock workers sitting at the man’s table. He left Giorgio, and they went back to their normal conversation. Some of their looks still lingered on the former thief as he sat there in a stupor.

The sullen thief heard and saw nothing. Emptiness dwelled in his soul, a barren expanse of nothingness, a dry rocky plane of vast coldness; there was no spark of motivation, nothing to clasp onto. Even the bawdy speech of the younger men, where several toughs laughed and told stories of their latest sexual exploits while flirting with the serving girls, failed to rouse Giorgio out of his funk. Even when drunks, men and women alike, bumped into his table, he did not stir.

The night passed. Bit by bit the tavern crowd dissipated. Soon, only Giorgio and the tavern workers were the only ones in the building. He sat near his window. The cold blast of wind ruffled his hair but not his spirit. His cold eyes remained vacant and bloodshot.

The workers swept the floor, set the chairs on tables, and cleaned the counters. Two or three stood near the bar and stared at Giorgio, whispering. After several moments a burly bouncer grew brave enough to walk over and confront him.

“Uh, sir, we be closin’ up here, now. It’s time to leave.”

Giorgio flicked his eyes upwards. So devoid of humanity were these orbs, the man stammered and gasped, stepping back. The room became colder. A strong chill swept from not only the open windows, but from the soulless man Giorgio had become. Everyone else held their breath.

Though the man looked brittle and weakened, his form yet retained a weathered strength. He was stiff and unyielding as if it were a hardened oak or a toughened leather saddle. His clothes covered in dirt and dust, powdered remains of a canon explosion stained his clothes and his face. His calloused fingers twitched. The bouncer stiffened, glancing at the bevy of daggers around the thief’s waist.

But Giorgio stood not making a sound. Even the chair underneath him made not a whisper against the floor. The tangible fear of sorcery omnipresent filtered through their superstitious minds.

One of the workers, a wizened old man, wailed and scampered off, tripping over a chair on his way towards the back of the tavern. A few serving girls began to cry. Even the brawny bouncer paled and backed away from Giorgio as he went to the door.

The streets were deserted. To him, the lights seemed bright, like the sun blazing down at noontime. His breath came fast and heavy; his chest constricted by an irrational fear. Everything the night had to offer lay within his senses.

A nest of crickets chirped to his right in a pocket of loose stones by the side of the tavern. They answered call to his left by three others, perhaps cut off from the main family. A crow perched on the roof of a building, not making a sound or moving, yet Giorgio could see every single feather on its frame.

Giorgio glanced from side to side, overwhelmed yet alive for the first time in days. Since the incident at the docks, since Sea Haven had been conquered by the invading armada of Janisberg, he had wandered in a daze. Something shifted within him that night, having lain dormant, and now it bubbled out and gripped him with the hand of death.

The salt water air felt acidic, burning down his throat unimpeded. People laughed and shuffled behind closed doors, loud and incessant to his spectral ears. Giorgio raised his hands, feeling the raw eldritch power in the limbs. He flipped them over and peered at the almost translucent skin. His bones shone through a pink veil of flesh.

Vibrant energy poured through him. The night was his to explore.

* * * * *

Madam Dreary closed the hatch on her window and shivered. A strange chill had carried along with the wind blasted through her second storey room. She put her arms around her shoulders and hugged, feeling the pert nipples of her bosom stand out and poke through her nightgown. It gave her a thrill of both narcissism and physical pleasure.

She chuckled. “Oh, you still have it, girl. No doubt about that.”

Closing her beautiful curtains of thick red silk, she stepped away and relit the candle holders on her table. Her room was well appointed. Red silk was one of her favorite substances in the world, and she made sure there was plenty around. It covered every piece of furniture, every pillow, and used in every tapestry that draped all four walls.

A beaded curtain hung over the section of room where her bed resided. It twinkled in the candlelight. The curtain reached the plush white carpet, such a lovely combination with the red silk she always thought. Everyone who walked on it with bare feet never failed to mention the incredible softness and warmth. Their comfort pleased her as this was her vocation.

Madam Dreary kept a very select clientele of her own. Only the wealthiest men in town could afford her services as a high end prostitute, and the visits were by her will alone.

She pushed up the side of her strawberry blond hair, and it bounced back firm and tight. “Lovely, my dear, just lovely,” she said and smiled. A red ruby lay in the middle of her chest right above her bust line. It glinted the candlelight in a satisfactory way. It was of the highest quality, a gift from a client of course. Most of their wealth at the brothel was from appreciative men and women when their desires had been fulfilled.

The Madam of Sea Haven’s lone whorehouse opened the top portion of her dresser and pulled out a cloth, dampening it in a water basin. She cleaned her face, taking off the make-up she wore during the day, noticing the barest glimmer of crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes. They were only preset when she made certain expressions, so she avoided doing them. “Plenty more juice left, dearie. Plenty more.”

It was her pain to lose her youth, to lose that power she had over men. Madam Dreary consoled herself with the fact it was no longer up to her. Her girls were the main players in her game. Their youth could be used.

It would dry up in time as well.

The bed was a lush appointment with thick, deep cushions and red silk sheets. It was given to her by the Duke of Trombay, a far southern kingdom. She lay back, naked, reveling silk on her skin. She grabbed a large book off her end table. The tome entitled, “The Second War of Thurbian Arms,” and she was almost finished.

Reading about war not only intrigued her but also allowed her to learn more about men and what they wanted. Men were the sole reason war existed in the world. Let women control things, and war would disappear.

Sondabar Awelien led the Thurbian troops against their hated oppressors some eight hundred years ago with an army comprised of slaves. The grueling war lasted thirteen years and ranged all over the deserts and cities of Thurbia. Halfway through, dozens of provinces took arms against the government, siding with the slaves, but in the end, the rebellion was defeated on the Gallyon Plains.

Awelien was executed, and the culture that spawned him went about their lives as if he had never existed. Slaves continued to toil, masters continued their iron rule, meting out justice as they saw fit.

Madam Dreary was certain people mourned. Many thousands of families were shattered, but there was no mention of it in the text. Oftentimes she read similar stories of war and political upheaval, and time and time again these little details were left out. This particular history presented Sondabar as an usurping tyrant, petty thief, murderer, and overall social misfit.

The general was revered by many in the same land to this day as a freedom fighter and savior of the poor. She had a strong suspicion this was a closer representation of the true life of Awelien Sondabar. But history was written by the victor and those with their own agenda.

She yawned, feeling the relaxation reading brought to her late at night. She had a long day of pushing her business, helping the girls get paid, and doing all the other things that a hard working madam did. The hour was late.

A loud bang followed by a shout startled her. She turned her head, the book hugging her chest and sliding down her torso. A muffled argument reached her from another apartment.

They weren’t uncommon when money and sex were involved. Emotions escalated. Tempers flared. Madam Dreary was accustomed to dealing with it, always the peacekeeper, always siding with her girls.

This one was different however. Some underlying pent up rage, a mean-spirited edge to the fellow’s voice she didn’t like. This was not a normal dispute.

Dreary sat up, a trill of fear hitting her as the man’s voice rose in volume and anger. A nasty, hateful tilt rippled through his tone though she couldn’t understand the words. She rose, slipping into some pants, boots, and an appropriate top, one with a dagger on the belt. The man should have been screened better.

Stepping into the hallway, the volume increased and several girls already stood outside their rooms, peering down the end of the corridor. The words became more distinct.

“…never said that, you bitch!”

“I told you before, I said—”

“Lying slut!”

Madam Dreary heard the wet smacking sound of flesh striking flesh, and she ran down the hallway. The other girls shouted, and some of them followed her. They reached the room and stood aghast at the scene before them.

A half-naked man stood over one of Dreary’s girls, shoving her face into the carpet. He cussed and screamed at her. The other girls were screaming and begging him to stop, but no one made a move to intervene. Except Madam Dreary.

She bull rushed him from behind, slamming her shoulder into his back. He went sprawling and tumbled over a small couch. The Madam squatted down over the young girl and held her head. The girl sobbed.

“There, there, dear one,” she said but kept her eye on the man. “All is well. We’ll take care of you. Shush now.”

“You bitch!” The man stood. Blood gushed from his nose that dribbled down his sweaty face and chest. His eyes were on Dreary, wrath on his features.