Death's Reckoning (6 page)

Cassius furrowed his brow. “You have? But how did you… ah, I forget to whom I speak. The man with all the contacts, whispering lips, yes. Very good, Guild Master. Please, inform me of your thoughts.”

“It’s too high of course,” Muldor said. “You know this. What else I might say on the matter is unimportant.”

“I knew they would do this. It’s not surprising in the least. I figured this would be a sort of jumping off point during negotiations. Where to go from here would be to offer a counter proposal, one much lower than their number.”

“I doubt they will take a lower offer. Ambassador Lautner is not a man accustomed to compromising.”

“But they must! They must!” Cassius more or less shrieked and looked chagrined. He recovered in a moment and calmed himself. He glanced at Muldor, once again the smooth politician. “We cannot pay this amount. The city’s coffers are strained as they are, what with the repairs going forth. If the Guild wishes to assist, that would be grand.”

“I have already set aside an amount.”

Cassius’ eyes gleamed. “Oh yes? Is it possible to pay the full amount? I mean, if we had to do so. A hypothetical question of course. If there is insufficient gold within reach then perhaps a compromise is in order.”

Muldor said nothing.

Cassius frowned. “Come now, Master Muldor. The Guild is now an official part of the City Council and must be accountable to its actions, former members included. There was major malfeasance on the part of The Merchants Guild, and it must be held accountable for said actions.”

Muldor regarded with a hard stare. “I’m quite certain other city agencies acted on their own best interest during the coup-de-ta of my former associate Castellan du Sol, including members of your office. I possess files. I can attach witnesses.”

Cassius put up his hands. “That isn’t necessary. I was only illustrating a point that we are all in this together. But there are those that wish to place the entire blame on one or another agency.”

“Do tell.”

Cassius frowned. “I am here for you. Believe that, Muldor. It is in everyone’s best interest to work together. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We go forward together with steadfast determination, to the mutual benefit of all. I have been informed our new regent arrives next week. Security is of the utmost importance.”

There were a dozen questions Muldor wanted to ask but knew he wouldn’t get an honest answer from Cassius. Something was going on behind the politician’s façade. From then on caution was of utmost importance.

Cassius left a few minutes later. They spoke of other minor details about The Guild’s new role within the city’s government, what to expect when the regent to the crown arrives, on and on, all simple direct things, but Muldor didn’t respond much. He agreed and nodded.

Later that night, Muldor left the agreeable tranquility of his office and walked about the dock area, near the storage buildings. The rush and push of the various workers, supervisors, security men, the few Dock Masters he saw (old and gruff Melvin Crocker in particular looked to be in fine form, yelling and pestering his loaders to hurry so they could off load the shipment faster, they would get paid more if they got another shipment to his warehouse), felt like home to him as the cool evening air ruffled his thick black hair.

Everything seemed normal until one figure strolled towards him out of nowhere. He disrupted the ebb and flow of the working dock. It was Raul Parkins, City Watch Commander, and Muldor was his obvious target. Parkins waved at him and rushed over.

“We need to talk.”

Muldor heaved a mental sigh and turned back towards his office.

“No, not in your office.” Raul looked around and pointed to the side of one of the mammoth structures. “There. The less people that see us the better.”

Muldor followed him. “Your flare for the dramatic is tiresome. Everyone sees us this instant. I suppose you expect to erase their memory by some enchantment?”

Raul frowned but kept walking.

They reached the side of the building, out of earshot of everyone, but a few people that wanted to see them, could.

“Things are happening, Muldor,” Raul said, keeping his voice low and looking over his shoulder.

“Do tell.”

Raul snapped his eyes back to Muldor, and his face grew red. “Dammit, man. For once in your miserable life will you be serious? This is important. I asked for your help before. The council is in shambles. No one knows what to do; no one knows who to trust.”

“I’m sure the regent will set things in order when he arrives next week.”

Raul’s laugh was short and harsh. “You really think they’ll send someone here? This city is a mess. It isn’t safe for anyone, and the crown knows this. They won’t send a regent of noble birth into this disaster area, mark my words. We have to rely on ourselves.”

“Remind me to make you an honorary member of The Guild, to best utilize your consummate skills in negotiation.”

Raul tightened his lips. “Look, you need me. We need each other. There will come a time when you need allies. Peterson’s dead. Castellan is in jail. The others will come for you, trust me.”

“Forgive me if I seem less than excited by that proposition, Raul. Tell me, if you would, what you wish to speak to me about. As you can see, we are very busy here with Guild business. I’m sure you understand.”

The rat faced man composed himself with considerable effort. Muldor almost laughed at the way his temple throbbed.

“I asked you for help before with our budget. Money you know we need for the City Watch. Now, I’m giving you some warning of what is coming. I’ve spoken with some of the Dock Masters, Maggur is with me… I’m building alliances. You need to be with us. This shake up with the City Council ain’t over yet.”

Muldor softened his tone, but his impatience grew. “I can see you’ve spent a lot of time thinking on this, so allow me to make my position clear. I am responsible for the safety and functioning of The Merchants Guild. Anything else is not my concern. Making us a part of the city council was neither my doing nor desire. Play your politics with someone else. I have work to do. Good day.”

Raul looked about to say something further, but Muldor walked away. He heard Raul’s voice at his back, and it was better than a dagger. “This isn’t the last of this, Muldor.”

The Guild Master didn’t stop walking.

* * * * *

The next several days gave them no new leads on the grave robbers, yet another cemetery was hit. This one was in a larger, more prominent location on Hampshire Road, where the socialites and wealthy people of Sea Haven were buried. Cubbins was lambasted by Lord Cassius since he in turn was approached by several nobles whose relatives’ graves were defiled.

Their regular patrols netted them nothing. No one had seen anything; no one had heard anything; no one knew anything. This led the police captain to believe the perpetrators knew they were on to them. He decided it was time to go down to street level and see if it was possible to learn anything from the people. The regular folk, people he had lived with, grown with and later moved on from, were a great source of information.

Cubbins left his uniform at home, but his arms were close at hand, a short sword at his waist and a dagger in his boot. He covered a worn chainmail vest under his brown doublet, an item given to him by his predecessor. It hadn’t saved the man’s life because he had been stabbed in the throat. Several police captains down the line wore it, and Cubbins saw no reason to break tradition.

He picked a table near the back of The Frothy Tankard, a popular spot close to the Southern Docks, a favorite of the dock workers because of the cheap drinks and loose women.

A couple of old friends sat with him. A man named Harvey, and a man named Merin. Cubbins tried to act nonchalant, as if he wanted to talk about old times in the neighborhood, but it was impossible to ignore a nagging sense of paranoia. Images of the dug up graves and violated bodies crept into his thoughts even among the revelry of the tavern. The atmosphere didn’t give a damn about anything but the moment.

“Bet it’s nice to be out, isn’t it?” Harvey said. His thirty one years was only three more than Cubbins, but he looked more than a decade older, with graying hair and dirty skin. He slapped Cubbins’ thigh and laughed. “I’ll wager a trip to Dreary’s is in order, eh? What do you think, Merin?”

Merin shrugged his thin shoulders, such a contrast to Cubbins’ thick, muscular torso. Merin could be mistaken for his son though they were the same age. A frown creased his pimpled face. “If he’s got the gold, sure. It’s his money.”

“Hey there, Merin. Maybe we could swing some of it. It’s the least we could do. The guy spent a week in jail, he did. His own jail! Ha, ha!”

Harvey laughed and slapped the table while Merin didn’t crack a smile; instead, he sipped his drink. Cubbins had to admit he liked the sound of the idea, but there was too much on his mind to spend time at the house of ill repute.

Their conversation turned to other things, and other people joined their table. It was something he counted on. With friends already present, it would appear natural that he would be there, socializing with everyone. Most citizens didn’t trust the police. They didn’t hate them either because Cubbins forced them to be nicer to regular people than his predecessor had, and his recent jail time had bought him some credibility as a man of the people. The captain would use it for all it was worth.

“Ain’t right what they did to you, Cubbins,” a sailor named Archie said. He was a big man, taller and fatter than Cubbins. He took a drink from his mug and belched. “Ain’t right at all, damn bureaucra-bureau….”

“Bureaucratic,” Harvey said and snickered.

“Yeah, bureaucratic bastards. You wanna do your job, and they wanna hang you for it. Ain’t right.”

“They need him too much to hang,” Harvey said and slapped him on the back. Cubbins bought them another round of drinks and received more praise and applause for his bravery and dedication for his job.

His motivation for the generosity was less congenial and more manipulative. Drunken men had looser tongues and oftentimes let things slip when they wouldn’t otherwise. They spoke. Cubbins listened. There was nothing about the recent grave robbing, no buzz of conversation even from the other tables. All they did was bitch about the city and officials behind the government. And how shitty their lives were. Cubbins had heard all that before, countless times.

Later he left The Frothy Tankard and visited a dive called Stern’s Place. A dirty rat hole frequented by pirate scum, murderers, and members of the local toughs. Cubbins and his ilk had put them behind bars all too often. Cubbins knew Marko, the nominal leader of the toughs. The band of street youths used their strength, brawling ability, and no questions asked attitudes. Marko was young and impressionable but had a strange sense of honor and loyalty about him.

Stern’s Place was a rough spot, but Cubbins decided to chance it. All eyes turned his way and things went quiet for a beat until he walked over to the bar and ordered a drink. People went about their business.

The bar tender regarded him. “Whatcha want?”

Cubbins took his whiskey and leaned back to the bar to watch the room, breathing easy. He’d let his facial hair grow out a bit in the last couple of days, in hopes the scruff made him look more like one of them. Not every citizen knew what the police captain in Sea Haven looked like.

Some of the toughs were engaged in a contest of strength. They grappled with each other, hand to hand; fingers intertwined overhead, and the crowd yelled for the man they had placed their bets on. Betting outside the tents or arena was illegal in Sea Haven, but Cubbins would be damned if he would put a stop to it that night. He valued his life too much.

The two toughs, young and thick about their shoulders, their shirts cut off above the arms, the black v-shaped clothing the tell-tale sign they were members of their group. They grunted and bellowed as they struggled back and forth across the floor.

They were mirror images of each other, perhaps brothers, and the fight seemed a stalemate. Their fingers were locked tight, the flesh drained of blood, whitish and straining. Their arms bulged with blood, pulsing red. One of them turned his shoulder and bumped it into the other man’s chest and tried to leverage his opponent’s arms lower.

The other man stumbled, only for a second, but it was enough for the more aggressive man to clamp his hold down tight and put the man on his knees. The crowd cheered, and the defeated man nodded. They both smiled and slapped each other on the back as they went back to their table to drink some more.

Cubbins had to smile at their antics. At least they knew how to have fun when they could get it. He ordered another shot, thinking to do the same.

The tavern had an interesting architecture, near as it was to the western tip of the Southern Docks. Below the wall opposite was an open section of floor, led through by a sloping walkway. A simple ramp dropped away from the main floor and led to the outside. Men used it as a fishing spot sometimes as they could dangles their feet over the edge like the side of a pier. The tavern owner used it as a quick supply route since a small ship could dock there and unload its wares.

More than a few men had used it for a quick escape out of the tavern, dumping themselves into the drink, either swimming to freedom or drowning in the process. Cubbins figured it was better than a knife in the back. Running and living to fight another day was always better than death.