Rogues Gallery (10 page)

“Get the ship back here,” Becket said to Johnson, and the man gave a reluctant nod. Becket turned to his colleague. “I know my duties. You should know your place. My purview lies within Piers One, Two and Three, and as Senior Dock Master here, I am your boss.” Becket looked around for the police, but none of them had come yet. Maybe they wouldn’t get here at all. They’ve been busy.

Crocker scrunched his wrinkled face, and the lines there deepened. “This affects us all. The entire Guild is in danger when you take on responsibilities above and beyond your station. I am warning you.”

Becket started turning away, but Lawson wouldn’t let it go.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Lawson said. “It’s one guy. We know for a fact he’s one of Lurenz’ men. This is important, Crocker! Who do you think has been stealing from us? Huh?”

Crocker didn’t back down. “And I suppose you were there,
Master
Lawson? Hmm? You were on board when the man was captured. You’re privy to information the rest of us are not. A master mystic would be envious. You are basing your assumptions on heresy, both of you. A professional would not.”

“What? No, I wouldn’t. Wait, what?” Lawson looked confused for a moment then realized Cocker might’ve been insulting him. “Hey, wait a second! You can’t talk to me like that, you old buzzard. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Becket stepped between them and put a restraining hand on Lawson’s shoulder. “Gentlemen, please. This is not the place for this. Let’s talk elsewhere.”

Crocker grumbled about improprieties, but he followed back to Becket’s office. Lawson stared a hole in the doddering old man’s head the entire way. Crocker refused to sit and so did Lawson. Becket was about to go to his desk and relax, but it seemed strange to sit while they stood. They all stood by the door. It felt very weird to Becket, but it was better than having a fist fight out on the docks in front of everyone.

Crocker folded his arms. “Before either of you go into a speech about the good of The Guild or some nonsense, I’ll have you know the regulations are clear, and I am in the right. The police will back me up on this.”

“Yeah, right,” Lawson said. “The police have enough problems. All those thieves around here… damn it, don’t you get it? We have to do something! The pirates are stealing from us at sea, the thieves are out of control in the city, and we have to get this under control!”

“And what does your vast experience lead you to believe we should do? Hmm, young man? I was running my dock before you were walking. I know the rules and I abide by them. I’ve been….”

Becket felt his mind wandering as the two bickered back and forth. He had two choices: butt heads with Crocker and make a mess of things because of the man’s stubbornness or deflect and take another route. Crocker would not let it go.

“You’re right of course,” he said to Crocker, making his voice loud enough to be heard.

“What’s this now?” Crocker said and raised an eyebrow.

Lawson stared, but before he could speak, Becket gave him a look that said for him to shut up and let him handle it. Lawson frowned but kept his mouth shut.

“I’m saying how right you are, Crocker. All this trouble with the raiders… I’m afraid Lawson and I are a bit overwhelmed right now. We’ll be needing your vast experience in these matters to lead us through these difficult times.”

Crocker harrumphed. “Will you now? That’s, um, different then.” He almost smiled but then looked at both of them, and his demeanor changed to wariness. “What are you playing at, Samuel Becket? I won’t be condescended to, nor ignored. I’m warning you.”

Becket shook his head. “No, no, not at all. Of course not. I only wish to assure you of your superior expertise in this matter. If you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them.”

Lawson snickered. “Yeah, let’s hear ‘em, old man. What do we do about all these stolen shipments? How do we stop Lurenz?”

Becket wanted to step in again and keep playing the game he thought Muldor would have. But he didn’t have the energy to point out to his opposition how lacking his own argument was, and thus make Crocker dig his own hole. He went to his desk and sat.

Crocker stood in front of Lawson and did his best to look formidable. It was silly, but they were almost the same height. Crocker had fire in his eyes, and the grit in his voice made up for his frail frame.

“Master Lawson. I have neither the time nor patience to educate you on how to do your job. This what I suggest. Stay out of other people’s business! If you wish to follow Castellan to jail or Muldor into madness, then go right ahead, but sever your ties to The Guild when you do, so as not to sully the rest of us.”

Lawson grew still. “What? You saying I should quit? You trying to get me fired?! I don’t think so, you old coot. You wanna come at me? Go right ahead. Come down to the Southern Docks someday, and I’ll show you how we handle fools like you. We’re tougher down there, you know, gotta deal with all kinds of gangs you don’t have here. You hear me?”

Lawson stepped towards the older man and looked like he might even strike Crocker. The older man backed away and looked at Becket.

“Master Becket, heel your dog this instant! There will be serious consequences, I can promise you. I will take the matter up with the police, I will not be harassed. I will not be treated this way!”

Lawson’s eyes scrunched up. “What? Did you just call me a dog? You son of a bitch!”

Lawson charged him and grabbed Crocker’s robes. He twisted them in his left fist and raised his right. Crocker glanced at Becket, his eyes pleading. “Becket!”

Becket slapped the top of his desk with both hands and walked over to them.

“Gunnar,” he said and stared at his younger colleague. “You want to kill him? It would be pretty easy, wouldn’t it? He’s only an old man after all.”

Lawson’s bluster went down a notch, and he backed away, but he held on to Crocker’s robes. “Hey, man. I didn’t say anything about killing anyone.”

“Here,” Becket said and pulled his dagger out from his cloak. “You wish to use mine? I thought we all had them now for our protection. Take it! Slit his throat. That way he won’t cause us any more problems.”

Lawson stared, not sure if Becket were serious or not. Crocker grew silent, his face neutral.

Becket held the blade closer to Lawson’s face, and the man swallowed. “C’mon, take it! That’s how we resolve problems in this town, isn’t? Don’t you live in ‘Murder’ Haven, Gunnar? Were you not born here? It’s in your blood. Crocker wasn’t born here. He’s weak, trouble, like all outsiders, so kill him. Right here, right now. That will solve everything.”

Lawson looked back at Crocker. The man looked older at that moment, frail and weak. Lawson hung his head and backed away, letting go of the man, but there still gleamed a hint of defiance in his eyes.

Crocker straightened his robes and stared. “Don’t ever put your hands on me again, or I will have you put up on assault charges.” He walked out.

Lawson let out a breath he had been holding for a while and rubbed his eyes, chagrined but peeved. “That was messed up, man. I know I got mad, but you didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what? Point out what a fool you are? Forget about Melvin Crocker. He’s all bluster. And now we have another enemy. He won’t go along with anything we propose.”

Lawson frowned. “Yeah, I guess. Sorry. What have you heard about Bolvin and Muldor, by the way? Have your people seen anything weird?”

“Nothing. What about Miller?”

“Not a thing. So what do we do about this prisoner?”

Becket shrugged. “I have no idea. For now we wait and see if we can get a translator. After that, it’s anyone’s guess.”

Chapter Four

The irony of the situation was somewhat lost on Marko. The lead tough was one of the most respected fighters on the streets, and his activities at Stern’s Place did not go unnoticed by many. He honed his skills every night. He was strong as an ox, fast, with improvisational leanings that made him unpredictable.

As Jerrod might’ve said, “Let ‘em come.” But he had never fought at the arena. Nor had he ever even seen a match as a spectator; in fact, he had never watched them. The toughs had been too busy working the crowd and seeing to under the table betting Jerrod was so serious about, to see much of what went on during the matches. Marko knew the results, but had little experience with the techniques of each fighter or even how the matches were structured.

Standing in the back preparation room with seven of his toughs, he started to feel the dawning of real fear. They weren’t prepared for this. He had confidence in his boys’ ability of course. He’d seen them fight, true fighting on the street with no rules, but this was different.

“Hey, Marko!” Donald said behind him where the rest of them were warming up for their exhibition. “You alright?”

Marko turned. “Sure. Renner, take them through some throws.”

Renner stood in front of Tuy, each of their arms locked around their shoulders. He nodded and disengaged. Marko went over to him, and the rest paired off, four groups of two toughs, with one row on one side of the room and the other opposite facing.

“Hip toss!” Renner said. “Right side!”

Renner grabbed Marko’s shoulder, and the man on his side shifted their hips, planted their feet, and threw their partners. Marko felt his feet leave the floor and the room spun. Nailed boards and flying black vested bodies blurred in front of his vision.

He landed on his back and slapped the ground with one hand. The blow absorbed the brunt of the impact. His partner Renner grabbed his hand and helped him up. They switched sides, Marko tossing the taller, leaner man over his hip as if he were a child. Marko was shorter than most of the men, but no one was stronger.

It was nice to have Renner issuing orders. It was consoling to have someone else take responsibility. A deep seated twist in his gut struck him. He was responsible for these men, had signed the contract that put them in a position where the outcome was unknown. If someone else, like Jerrod, were in charge, there would have been no worry in his mind. It would not have been his fault if things went wrong, not his decisions that caused them all to die.

They went through some more throws, and the physical activity made him feel more relaxed and comfortable.

“Special exhibition! Let’s move it, now! You have five minutes. Hit the lower ramp and get ready!”

The call came from one of the arena workers, a skinny man with a loud voice and bald head. He had a mustache so large it looked like some kind of animal living on his upper lip. It came alive whenever he spoke.

Marko felt his stomach drop as they stopped their exercises and walked up the ramp. They were close to time. He rolled his neck and felt it pop. The toughs swung their arms and shoved each other in a playful manner as they yelled and stomped their feet.

The excitement of it all hit, and Marko smiled. He pushed Renner back as the man cackled and whistled. Inside his mind, though, the fear grew. Zandor wouldn’t have planned this unless there was a chance of winning whatever it was. Jerrod was absent.

It didn’t make sense to Marko, but there was no more time to think on it. They were about to fight. This was what he knew best, man against man, strength against strength, skill against skill.

He had made up an order for them to go in; Renner would lead them off, followed by Donald and Tuy for the first half. Marko would lead Greaves and Sanders. If they wanted to test their combat skills, Marko and his boys would show them what they could do.

“Move, move, move!”

The man’s mustache quivered, and Marko almost laughed at the way it crinkled on his face. It was as if he were chewing on a squirrel.

They marched up the ramp and out into the arena proper. The force of sound that struck Marko didn’t seem possible. It hit him like a wave from the sea and pulsed in tune with the crowd’s voice, hundreds, thousands of men and women there to watch them bleed.

It was louder than he remembered. He winced as they stumbled forward down the rickety ramp that led to the arena floor. A blaze of light struck them, so much brighter than it had ever seemed down amongst the crowd when they worked security.

The fighters fought on a stage five or six feet higher than the actual floor, and the lowest level of bleachers were not considered good seats. Most people stood on the tops of their toes and peered over the edge. Marko saw them down below their position, peering over the lip of the squared platform.

The ramp put them closer to the torches. They were strange, for Marko did not feel heat from their wavering flicker. Mustache man continued to yell at them to get moving, and they trudged down the ramp towards the pit. It was a wide area, perhaps fifty paces by seventy, and covered in some kind of canvas material, a light brown muddled by stains of dirt and pockets of dried blood.

They spread out, still blinking, still buffeted by the noise. The crowd roared a moment later when their opponents entered from the opposite side, running down the ramp, screaming and throwing up their arms. Marko studied them, his eyes narrowing as they neared.

They wore armor, small pieces of metal attached to a variety of body parts. It almost seemed random. A couple of them had armor shoulder guards, with thick straps of leather crossing their chests and nothing else. Most had shin guards, thick pointed steel that could gauge eyes, and gauntlets, simple forearm coverings with either ridges or sharp points on both ends.

Renner pointed and the rest of the toughs muttered amongst themselves. “They came armored, I didn’t think they would.”

Marko had not thought about that potential aspect at all. The crowd got louder as the arena fighters hit the floor. The bustling bodies and waving arms, the sheer sensory input threatened to drown him.

Someone slapped him on the back. It was Renner. The taller man grinned and pointed to the crowd. “This is what we came for. Let’s give ‘em a fight they won’t forget, eh?”

He yelled and got the rest of the toughs riled up. Soon they were all shouting and waving to the crowd like the arena fighters were. Marko joined in but was more reserved so as to study their opponents.

Six men that bled and fought to kill every single night, stood on the other side. Many people believed them to be the hardest men in a city of hard men, tougher than anyone else, Marko’s gang included.

“Get ready, boys!” he said, feeling ready to rise to the challenge. This is what they did, they fought. They did it every night, they were the best fighters in town, he would swear on it. And now they had a chance to prove it.

The toughs responded and started shoving each other and head butting. It felt good. Marko popped Donald one hard enough to split the skin, and the big man smiled. He shook his head and sent blood flying.

But then the arena workers started handing out weapons to all the fighters. Two large men pushed a cart, and another grabbed a random weapon from within. He handed one to arena fighter to arena fighter and then to Marko’s men.

They had not said anything about using weapons for the exhibition match. The toughs stood back, looking at the proffered weapons as if they were snakes. They didn’t fight with weapons; they fought with their hands, their arms, and their legs.

Marko faced the arena personnel. “Sirs, we’re here for the exhibition match. The ‘toughs’ gang. I think you might be confused. We don’t do matches with weapons.”

The man scoffed and gave him a look that said he didn’t care. “You will tonight. Or you forfeit the match. You signed up for it, I seen the contract, and this line-up calls for weapons. If you wanna walk out like a coward, go ahead.”

Marko didn’t want that. The crowd might’ve tore them apart. “Sir, wait a moment, we need some time.”

“Look, it’s your choice. Fight this way or not at all. The match will be recorded either way.”

Marko realized he had to make a decision and make it fast. They could walk away and be branded cowards or fight in an unfair situation where the odds were stacked against them. They had used weapons before of course. When Castellan tried to take over the city they used them so might as well been here.

“What’s it gonna be for the toughs, huh?”

Marko glanced at his men. They looked a bit shaken but also resolute.

“We fight,” he said.

The crowd noise drowned out any sound from Renner or Donald, who had crowded behind him. Marko waved the other closer as the arena man handed out weapons.

“What’s the deal, Marko?” Renner said.

“We came here to fight, so we fight.” They looked doubtful but stayed where they were. “If we leave now, we lose our credibility on the street.”

“That’s right,” said Greaves. “We’ll be a joke to everyone.” He was around Marko’s height but somewhat thicker with more fat. He grabbed a short sword and hefted it in his meaty hand. “Let’s mash ‘em up good.”

They agreed and snatched up whatever weapons were closest. Marko didn’t even think to get the best one and grabbed a war mace. The balance was good, and he had no further time to ponder his choices.

Mistakes would either cost him his life, or he could have grinded it out with his tenacity and skill.

The match started.

The arena fighters came forward, each pairing off one on one in a battle royal. Marko sized up his opponent with a quick glance. He readied himself by bending his knees and squaring his shoulders with the man. His opponent was tall and lean, with rippling muscles and armed with a trident and net.

Marko moved in, lifting his mace, thinking of what the heavy weapon would do to the man’s head. It wouldn’t be pretty. He rushed forward, but the man stabbed with his trident, and the superior reach made Marko dodge to the side.

The follow up with the net caught him off guard and off balance. He understood the strategy of the duel weapons. They worked well together.

The man struck again with the net, and when Marko threw his hand up to ward it off, it left his torso exposed. He started to turn and get his mace up higher to protect himself, but it was too late, for the arena fighter had already thrust forward his trident.

Marko tried to turn but the sharp edge of the spear hit his right side and pierced the flesh. He twisted away but not before it raked across his ribs, bursting his senses into fiery pain. The shock made him wince and suck his teeth.

But his opponent was not done attacking. The arena fighter stabbed over and over, the crowd noise rising and falling in rhythm with the action of the man’s arm.

Then Marko heard someone scream, and the crowd moaned in sympathy. He flicked his eyes over to his left and saw Greaves on his knees, trying to hold his guts in with both hands. The entrails slipped through his fingers to make a puddle on the floor. His opponent showed mercy by stepping forward to slash Greaves’ throat to end it.

A sudden, undeniable realization struck Marko at that moment. They were all going to die.

* * * * *

Anders felt tired and hungry. These were two conditions to which he had become accustomed of late. It was common among beggars within Sea Haven’s slums. Now the thieves suffered along with the other dregs. Everyone was a thief now, and he and his fellows were shunned and pushed to the side like trash.

The streets were busy but subdued. Near the southern docks, where a lot of thieves hung out when they weren’t trying to work the marketplace or western docks, security was tighter. He ducked into one of the many empty buildings around the mammoth warehouses where the dock masters stored their extra goods.

Inside stood a few other former professionals, and Anders felt a pang of how far they had fallen. Their clothes were ratty and threadbare. It wasn’t that they had ever been rich, but they had been better off than the homeless. They had gotten by; it had been enough.

Delora eyed him and flashed a crooked smile. She had lost a couple teeth the last few months fighting the police. She and the others were going through some boxes. Anders went up to them.

They were full of clothes, simple looking frocks and brown pants, similar to what the dock workers wore every day. Wage slaves, blind to world, good as dead.

“These should do,” Anders said and picked up a grip of them to try on.

A lookout stood by the door as they stripped. Delora eyed the men with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Best thing about clothes is takin’ ‘em off, boys.”

The men chuckled, but Anders wasn’t in the mood for levity. He lifted his arms as he took his shirt off and felt a stab of pain in his side, where a long scar went from just above his hip and up to where bone met flesh on the bottom of his right ribs. He had gotten it trying to save Muldor when Dollenger’s men had captured him. Anders had almost died and was still recovering.

Delora’s body was difficult to ignore as she stood there naked, and Anders caught that look from her again, a lusty, come hither glance that bespoke of times past. She had a nice, lean body, tight where a woman should be but curvy as well. She was a bit mannish in the face and was often mistaken for one when they were all together, but she was still pleasant looking enough.