Rogues Gallery (22 page)

“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter how, but we caught them. It happened a lot before but Castellan put a stop to it. It should be up to Muldor to deal with it, but he’s got other issues to deal with at the moment, and that’s part of the problem. All he cares about is keeping our precious Guild together, no matter who gets hurt.

“See, I think this may be part of his plan here. He lets the merchants get away with it, blames the old guard for all the problems he inherited and then starts again with his people. That way he controls everything.”

“’Old guard’? You mean us, right?”

“Yes. There is still some resentment about what Castellan did and how it brought us to the brink of disaster. We were part of that. It makes Muldor look bad to keep us on the job.”

“Sure,” Lawson said. “We talked about that before. The problem is what do we do about it? Damn it, man. I need a drink.”

Becket smirked and indicated the door to the tavern. “After you.”

They entered The Prancing Pony. The atmosphere had a way of calming Becket in times of stress, and the décor was marvelous. It was a nice maroon theme, with dark cherry wood finishes and steel fittings that reminded him of his bedroom. In fact, he had Jerome look into how they furnished the inn and use many of their techniques to spruce up his interior.

Images of the handsome young man and their latest tryst, interrupted as it was, came to him, and he and wondered what would happen if he invited them to the Pony. But he daren’t risk his secret to be out in the open for all to see. He would be ridiculed, derided, perhaps even hunted down and attacked. One man in Janisberg had been beaten to death by others who disapproved. Becket’s only safe haven was the privacy of his home.

There were a few in house security men speaking with Acting Lord Governor Cassius, who seemed very upset. Lawson and Becket glanced at each other as they made their way to the bar.

“What’s this all about?” Lawson said.

Becket shrugged. “I can’t fathom. But it’s none of our business.”

But even they could not help but stare as the tavern workers, including the owner, tried to placate the lord. They overheard the politician saying something about their abilities lacking, and that he was outraged and might rescind his patronage if this ever happened again. They assured him it never would, and “that man” would never be allowed in the building again. Becket wondered what had happened and to whom they were referring.

“Poncy little bitch,” Lawson said and snorted. He took a drink of his wine, chugging it, which made Becket wary. Lawson drunk was no fun. “Someone must have looked at him the wrong way, and he felt threatened. Politicians are such cowards.”

“I’m not so sure. They have courage in other areas. They make decisions that change lives, even cost men their lives. Could we do the same?”

Lawson waved him off. “Whatever.”

Such an intellectual was Becket’s closest confidant. He was in worse trouble than he realized.

They leaned back on the bar and enjoyed the dawning oblivion alcohol could give. Lawson drank more. And faster.

Becket enjoyed the music. He watched the pretty young singer and accompanying harpist and sitar player, enjoying how they harmonized. They supported each other well, with her singing leading the way but not dominating the background music. They had played at The Prancing Pony before; they were regular performers for a reason.

Many more security personnel were present that night. They needed them. The thieves were coming into their space, attacking with knives, hammers, swords, and harsh intents. If things kept going the way they were, there wouldn’t be any homes left.

‘They will keep coming and coming and kill us all,’ he thought. ‘Then they’ll steal everything. It’s all over… even if Muldor doesn’t have us killed, these thieves will take over the wealthy quarter and we won’t have anywhere—’

“Hey, man, you okay?” Lawson stared at him, confusion and even the tiny spark of concern in his eyes.

Becket shook his head. “I’m fine. The two of us need to get some guardsmen. We’ll hire at least three. I know some people.”

“Yeah? Okay, I’m fine with that. But I’m not going on this damn sea voyage or whatever. It’s too damn dangerous. They’ll kill me and toss my body overboard.”

“No, not if you are well protected. You might be safer on the ship than here in the city. Look, they can try to get us anywhere, but we don’t know for sure if Muldor wants you dead or not. You should go. If you don’t, it might raise suspicion.

“You’ve been so excited the last few days; they will think something is going on if you all of a sudden change your mind about joining the fleet. You have to go. Only be prepared.”

Lawson didn’t belabor the point. “I guess you’re right. I know some former brute squad people. I can hire at least one to be the sergeant. He can get a couple more beefy fellows. I’ll go with three on board with me at all times.”

“Vet them well. Go on board and forget about Muldor. Keep the Guild’s interests protected and watch your back.”

The conversation turned to simpler things as the drink exerted its influence on their bodies and minds. Becket felt himself loosening up. Since the attack on his home, he hadn’t slept much. Every sound outside was a murderer coming to kill him and raid his house. Every bump in the night was a predator out for his blood.

He shook his head and watched Lawson. The man could be a charmer. He had some natural charisma, and with his youthful good looks and light brown hair, he was somewhat attractive. Becket had to pull back where his mind was headed and remind himself that Lawson liked women. A lot. His journeys to Madam Dreary’s whorehouse were frequent.

No, trying to woo his colleague would be a bad idea for many reasons. He should get a hold of Jerome again and drown his sorrows in his arms not in drink. It made his mind cloudy. But since he and Lawson might’ve been dead by morning, Becket felt it appropriate to drink as much as possible.

* * * * *

They would come soon.

Jerrod had prepared the best he could, including using Marko’s corpse as a distraction, setting it up on a chair on his small porch, attaching a line of twine to the back of the chair, so he could tug on it while inside. The coming assassins might’ve thought Marko was alive and ready to lend a hand to the fight.

Any tiny bit of distraction, any second he could gain would help his chances at survival. And for the first time in a while, there was a reason to care about living. He took another chair and plopped down besides Marko’s corpse on the porch. He wrapped a blanket around the still form and an old hat to cover his eyes.

“Nice night, eh? I would say so, yeah. Pretty damn good. Ha!”

Jerrod chuckled and leaned over to Marko, acting as if the man responded, then used his foot to move the corpse’s chair. It creaked as it nudged forward and back. Jerrod sat back and laughed.

“You said it, pal! Ha, ha.”

He took a deep pull on his cigarette and leaned back, stretching his legs. It felt good. His body was much refreshed and had more energy since he had eaten well in the last couple of days.

The sounds of the forest sprang up around him. Crickets chirped, bugs buzzed and rustled in the undergrowth as night settled in and came to life. He opened his senses to it, getting his mind ready to do battle. He found it easy to judge the sounds well after so many years, decades even, of practice.

“You really were a dumb bastard,” he said to Marko’s corpse. It did not answer. His decomposing body was beginning to stink bad, so he had dropped some blackened stubs of wood chips in the blanket to mask it.

Jerrod could see his future there in that lifeless form. All men would face the reaper. It was inevitable.

“But not today,” he said and took another drag. It tasted great. “You never shoulda come here, you dumb shit. You shoulda let me die alone. I woulda preferred that. All this mess, all this hassle. Just ain’t worth it sometimes. Now I gotta deal with this shit.”

He held a worn wooden cup filled with water and took a swig, wishing it were whiskey.

“See all this bullshit you caused? What a pain in my ass. I’d rather be you right now. Your worries are over. Stupid bastard. I woulda let them take me. Yeah, I bet I would have. If you think I’m gonna thank you for this, yer a damn sight dumber than I thought.”

Jerrod tugged on the twine. The chair tilted back and then shot forward when he released the tension, threatening to tip over and spill the corpse onto the ground.

The early autumn night settled in deeper, and Jerrod struggled with keeping his mind alert and his body ready. Fireflies burned and brightened in front of his eyes, floating amongst the simmering air. It was eerie but a sight he had seen many times. He closed his eyes and listened well for any errant sound.

Any approaching men, no matter how silent they thought they were, no matter how careful, no matter how practiced, they would upset the natural balance of the forest realm. He was a woodsman before anything else, in true form and practice. Zandor was a hell of a tracker himself, but Jerrod knew his little patch of woods better than any man alive.

Relaxing his body, letting his body and mind get accustomed to the rhythm of the wilderness, allowed him to hear the flow and listen for a slight tremor in the wakening night, some break to the natural harmony of nature. His blood quickened and his heart pounded, but he forced down the feeling of quelling of panic and cleared his thoughts.

Fear could be useful in battle but not now. It would interfere with his focus. Fear could heighten your reflexes and make you react faster, but few men could control it to use it well. It took practice. And Jerrod had plenty of practice with controlling fear.

Time passed. Then a slight tremor in the air, an undeniable disturbance in the environment, trickled through. A section of the woods to the right, perhaps thirty paces out, went quieter than usual.

He took a deep breath and ignored it for the time being, though he kept his right leg ready to kick out to turn his body if need be. Another tremor to his left came. That’s two of them. The third was yet accounted for. They always come in threes. That was the minimum the assassins would use for a contract hire, except under special circumstances. Jerrod would not be surprised if Delios put a double trio on him, or even come himself. If not, Jerrod thought it fun to give Delios a visit.

No doubt the third player was coming up behind the cabin, a simple maneuver to cut off any possible retreat. Traitorous swine. It was sick what men would do for coin or reputation. Jerrod could not suppress a smile because he would do the same in their shoes. Money was money. Honor can be saved for the foolish thieves or whoever else claimed to live that way.

Everything went silent and still, for the space of three full heart beats. Jerrod held his breath and tensed his legs, gripping the edge of his chair.

Twang!

Jerrod sprang away, and a crossbow bolt split the top of his chair a second after he rolled off. Another bolt smacked into Marko’s chest as Jerrod jumped away from the porch and scrambled to his feet, ready to fight. Two more twangs sounded and bolts flew out of the forest. They struck the dirt near him as he ducked and dove away. They were good. And fast.

‘Damn pussies,’ he thought. Using projectiles as weapons was for men afraid to get their hands dirty.

Instead of heading for the front door, as would be expected, he took two quick steps up the front of the porch and dove over the chairs and into the glass window above them. He crashed through, slicing into his shirt sleeve as he threw his arms over his face to protect it the best he could. There was enough momentum to clear his torso over the lip, and he landed on the front of his hips.

It hurt like hell, but he grunted and kept turning forward to flip over the edge of the windowsill. He cursed himself for being so out of shape but was able to spring to his feet inside his cabin. An assassin was already waiting for him. A flurry of thrown daggers came his way, and there was no way to dodge them all so he didn’t bother trying more than a simple roll down and forward. Jerrod took a cut across his back but no more.

His opponent dressed all in black, and even the man’s skin was covered in some kind of soot. Jerrod saw the glimmering thrown steel in the flash of a moment as he rolled towards a chair near the door. He grabbed it up and held it in front of his body. A knife struck and went through the wood, sticking out an inch. He caught another solid and deflected one more as he stepped towards his foe.

Edging towards the fireplace, the man moved to cut him off, pulling out a short sword and holding tight to what looked like his last dagger. Jerrod chucked the stool at him, but the man dodged it well. His movements were fluid and smooth like the little puissant Zandor.

“Dodge this, fucker!” he said and stomped on a loosened board. The other end was connected to underneath the burning wood in the pit, and it shot flaming debris into the man’s upper torso and face. To the man’s credit, he reacted fast enough to shield his eyes and most of his face, but it left him blinking and in pain.

Jerrod wouldn’t leave him alone long enough to recover. He launched himself forward and grabbed the man’s sword arm at the wrist with his left hand and his neck with his right hand, blocking the dagger with his elbow, so he could not bring it to bear.