Rogues Gallery (14 page)

“Master Becket! How wonderful to see you. I am heartened to witness the stunning transformation of your home. You’ve done some great things thus far, but I believe I can improve the décor. You Sea Haven residents are always so blunt about art. A sculpture isn’t a pole axe, you know.”

Becket found himself grinning. Jerome was much better company than he was accustomed. It was good fun.

They strolled around his home, starting in the foyer below the double staircase where Becket had already set up three paintings on each side where the stairs went up, and a sculpture in the center.

“Have you thought of a fountain here instead, Samuel?”

Becket had. “Well, there’s a fountain out front, so I didn’t see the point; it seemed redundant. Was I wrong?”

“Oh, no, not wrong per se, my dear. But I think it might lend some nice continuity to the whole flow of the entrance. People walk by the large fountain outside, they come in, see a smaller one here… the water adds a nice earthy feel to the room as well, which is what you were going for, correct?”

Becket smiled. “Indeed.”

Jerome always had a way of cutting through Becket’s internal objections and getting to the point of things. It was nice not having to be responsible for every decision in his personal life; much different than his professional one.

They did some more work, made some decisions, and retired to Becket’s dining room. He had only a couple servants, unlike most men and women that lived in the wealthy quarter. Becket did most of the day to day things needed in running his home himself. It had only four rooms downstairs, kitchen, dining, the servant’s room, and main foyer with a small sitting room he considered part of it; with three more upstairs, two bedrooms, and his office.

There was a full time cook, an older man named Benson, and a cleaning girl, a club footed young woman named Tessa. They shared the servant’s room and were more or less like father and daughter in how they acted towards one another. Bessie wasn’t very attractive, and Becket figured she would die an old maid and be servant for the rest of her life.

He and Jerome sat and drank wine. Becket finished his first glass with one gulp.

“Ah, my dear Samuel! It must be stressful this day for you. I’ve never seen you so incensed on imbibing. Tell me the stories I’ve heard are true! How goes it with the guild?”

He told Jerome as much as he could in confidence, leaving out details only members of the Guild should know, and the man took it in like Becket took his wine.

“How delightful! So exciting. I’m sure you are exhausted, but life is for the living, and you are only living when the threat of danger and lurking fiends is present, correct?”

Becket wasn’t so sure, but he liked Jerome’s enthusiasm. Later they sat together in the small sitting room and finished off a second bottle of wine. Becket sat in a large chair, with silken padding while his guest sat on a comfortable couch.

Jerome wore a crooked smile. He got up and stood in front of Becket’s chair, facing him. His cologne was rich, a fragrance both masculine and smooth. Becket took a shuddering breath.

Jerome lifted his chin with a manicured finger; Becket didn’t realize he had been dropping his head.

“Come now, my friend. This has been coming for some time. I see you looking at me, you see me. Why play games?”

Becket glanced up and grinned. “Some games are fun to play.”

Jerome smiled. “Well said.”

They kissed, and Becket felt not only carnal pleasure but a release of fear and trepidation. He should have approached the man earlier. All that wasted time….

Some shouting outside spoiled the moment, and they stopped. Jerome stepped back, looking worried. He put a hand to his mouth.

“Oh dear, sounds rather bad, Samuel. What is it?”

Becket didn’t know, but he felt a trill of fear rip through him. His cook, Benson, came rushing over, his white face more pale than usual, and the platinum tuffs of his hair that hung around the edges of his head stood out to the side in a mess.

“Master Becket, there may be a problem.”

Becket stood up, his Dock Master persona taking stage. “What is it?”

“Men outside. I don’t know what they want, but they seem to be pounding on doors around the neighborhood. They appear as ruffians, Master Becket.”

“That’s fine, Benson. Keep calm. It’s obvious what they want. They want to steal from me. Stay here, Jerome.”

He went to the front door where off to the side were too large bay windows. A group of ruff looking men outside, chatted with one another. They noticed him looking and yelled. Then a rock sailed through the air and collided with one of the four windows, paned and bracketed by a wooden frame. Becket jumped back as it shattered, and he ducked away.

They could kill him and take whatever they wanted. The neighborhood guard were nowhere to be seen. They hired men to watch their homes. They had a guard shack near the gated front entrance and a rotating patrol scheme for each section of the wealthy quarter.

“What’s happened, sir?”

Benson stood in the foyer looking more frightened than Becket had ever seen. ‘I’ll give you credit for standing tough,’ Becket thought. He rushed over as the men on the street continued to yelled obscenities. Another rock hit his window and smashed another.

“We’ll go to your quarters,” Becket told his servant and saw Jerome creeping up out of the sitting, hands on the side of the doorway, his face pale. “It’s the most secure room I think. We can lock the door from the inside and wait it out.”

They did that and found a terrified young Tessa hiding by the door. Becket instructed her to get back as the three of them rushed in. The shouts from outside grew louder, and Becket knew the men were in his home. There was nothing they could do but huddle in the small room. The candle light flickered, praying for rescue. It wasn’t Becket’s idea of a fun night.

* * * * *

Work on the Eastern Road halted. The workers, common laborers for the most part that hung around the Southern Docks or near the shipping yards when there was work to be had, stood around listless and bored. Among them were a few masons and foreman. They were mid-level bosses more annoyed than the regular men, for they had more money to lose due to the work stoppage.

The city had been hit with a heat wave in recent days, and the sun beat down upon bent backs and sweaty faces. A few water girls and boys went from worker to worker to ladle out refreshment, but it did little to lighten the mood. Even the nearby trees and mountains in the background seemed oppressed as if every entity within view, living or dead, shared in the despondency.

Muldor recognized several out of work dock workers among the construction laborers. Business had slowed at both docks, and therefore many men and women had nothing to do to make money. He was attempting to correct that by shifting many workers to construction activity at the docks, but that was more specialized work, and not all were qualified.

A small, grubby young girl came up to him and offered a cup of cool water. He took it with a rare smile.

“Thank you,” he said. She lowered her gaze, but when he was done drinking, he lifted her chin with his fingers. She shied away at first, but discipline built from the strict environment of the city’s orphanage kicked in, and she obeyed, standing still.

“Your face is dirty, little one. Here.”

He pulled out a small cloth from his silk robes, which were now dirty, and dipped it in the water. He washed her face with a gentleness most people in the city would be surprised to see him use. His robes had been white and clean at the hanging of Raul Parkins and Dollenger, befitting the Guild Master. Now he wore his customary grey since he hadn’t bothered having them cleaned well.

“There,” he said. She looked up with cautious surprise in her eyes and smiled. “What a lovely smile you have, my dear. Don’t hide it. What is your name?”

“Polly, sir.”

“Thank you for the water, Polly. You are doing a wonderful job.”

She beamed, and he patted her head before walking by.

The orphanage often used child for such menial tasks and was paid for the service, but they never gave money to the children of course. It was a source of both pride and shame that he had spent much of his young life there, from age nine until sixteen, while also training with the thieves for some time. When he had shown aptitude with numbers, he had gotten a job as a scribe with The Guild.

His mother died giving birth, and his father passed away when he was nine. An older uncle had handed him off to the orphanage. When he first starting working, he had been ecstatic to be free of the harsh conditions at the orphanage. Young Muldor was content loading boxes and crates at the Southern Docks, but it soon became apparent his true skills lay elsewhere.

His father had taught him well. Muldor had a way with numbers at an early age, saw the sums in his head when asked specific questions, and picked up more complex disciplines fast. His father had always said that a man without an education was doomed to a life of cruel endless physical torture. Muldor had seen enough hardship from the workers at the docks in the last quarter of a century to believe that statement as a fact.

The years at Sea Haven’s orphanage were some of the darkest of his life, full of abuse, both physical and emotional with constant fear of reprimand. He felt afraid for the children working here under that yoke. He had tried many times over the years to improve the living conditions there, but he found himself blocked by powers unseen. The children were better off on the streets, where at least they could survive off the kindness of others.

He stopped and spoke with the head foreman, Fallows, who regarded Muldor with a warm countenance at first.

“Guild Master. A pleasure to see you this fine morning. I take you are wondering about the work stoppage, yes?”

“Show me your current work order.”

Fallows blinked, pulling out a sheet of papers from his waist band. “Sure thing, Master Muldor. Says on page four if we haven’t been paid for seven consecutive days, we don’t have to work. Today is the eighth.” He smiled, and Muldor did not appreciate the mirth. “See, part of my job is to count. Bricks and whatnot. Workers and such.”

Muldor stared at him and did his best to sound neutral, but no doubt his annoyance was evident. “Thank you for assuring me of your education. I’m certain it has been adequate. Now, as to the work being done, I have here with me a receipt of payment from my office, so I know it has been given to you. My people do not make mistakes. Are you refuting this claim?”

Fallows looked agitated. “
Partial
payment, sir. Partial. I can show you the cash receipt if you want, but I know you have it. What I don’t have is the other half. The Guild paid its share, and I thank ye for it. But the city is responsible for the rest. I was under the impression this was a joint effort, but we have yet to receive the money from them. Been a week, it has.” He stood straight and put his hands on his hips. “We don’t get paid, we don’t work.”

“Quite. A man with your education understands the concept of deferment, no doubt.”

Fallows’ busy eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, I’m aware of it, but why don’t you explain the details. Would there be a bonus involved, perhaps?”

Muldor knew what he meant. A bribe of course, a bonus for him if he got the workers going again. Even without the full payment supplied by the city, he could get it done.

“Yes,” Muldor said. “Come to my office and we will go over the details. The workers will be paid upon completion, the full amount, but meanwhile they continue to build. Or, if you wish, all of your men could be replaced.”

“What’s that now? Replaced?”

“Yes. The Guild has plenty of strong backs in need of a good day’s work. You have many dock workers among your ranks now. It would be a simple thing to make this a complete Guild project. I have some masons in mind as well. A road is a simple thing to build, is it not?”

Fallows knew what was what and nodded. “Like you said, I’ll meet in your office.”

“Good. I suggest you and your men get back to work. Delays are bad for business.”

Without another word, Muldor turned away and went back to his guards. Styles, one of his most trusted runners, stood to the side of Muldor’s horse. The young man had light brown hair and crooked teeth that were appealing in a sort of impish way. He was out of breath and holding a rolled up sheet of several missives.

Muldor reached out his hand. “Give it to me. The most important one”

“Yes, sir. It’s from Lieutenant Dillon. He isn’t happy, Muldor.”

“He never is,” Muldor said and read the note. It was a formal request for funds for the new jail and renovation of the older building. Interesting, Muldor didn’t think the man could read or write. It was a well-worded demand for The Guild to fulfill his promise from a few months ago.

The jail was overflowing with thieves, former professionals and scabs alike. Muldor wondered how Castellan might go about solving the problem. He would have them all hanged. Done, problem solved. No more thieves in the jail and a deterrent for those thinking of stealing.

“What is it?” Styles said. “You looked happy for a moment, now upset.”