Rogues Gallery (5 page)

Fallows licked the inside of his upper lip. “Interest, is it? Penalties and all that.”

“Yes, indeed. That will provide an incentive for them to complete payment as soon as possible and should be a sufficient bonus for you and your men. Does this sound appealing?”

Fallows shrugged. “Sure does. Long as I have the city’s approval. The Guild can be a bull to deal with, my lord.”

Cassius nodded. “Do it.”

The entourage rode east. The workers were to begin construction on a paved road that would increase trade speed for the little merchants to sell their wares to the outlying communities. Once past the mountainous region that surrounded Sea Haven’s three sides away from the sea, a prosperous section of the kingdom laid ready to snatch up needed commodities.

“Who was that man?” Damour said as they left. “I thought I was in charge of City Affairs. Should not I be telling them what to do?”

Cassius sighed. He turned in the saddle and swept his hand backwards. “By all means, Lord Damour! Instruct them. I’m sure they would benefit from your expertise. Please, feel free to take command.”

Damour looked uncomfortable and annoyed, but he said nothing.

Cassius rode deeper onto the dirt road, where shovels, mortar mixing troughs, hammers, chisels, long boards to keep the bricks in place, laid ready for use. This was Guild business. It would benefit them the most, and if Cassius and the city tried to increase tax on the goods sold at market, they would have a riot on their hands.

There was little point to argue back and forth with the dullard Muldor and his cronies the dock masters. Better to let them waste their time not knowing what he approved or didn’t. More fun to play the game. Cassius had approved the consignment to build a new naval force. That was enough. They needed a new jail more than a brick road, regardless of how much it
might’ve
increased trade.

His entourage reached the edge of the forest, a spot that swept around and connected with the outer edge of the wealthy quarter of town, where his governor’s mansion was located. It was almost possible to see the two guard towers in front of the lawn.

Cassius looked at Damor. The royal fop looked frustrated, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t summon the courage.

“Feeling puckish, Lord Damour?”

Damour brightened. “I am. Are we going back?”

“Indeed. You’ll dine with me this evening. You’ve worked hard these past weeks.”

Damour smiled, and Cassius almost felt sorry for the royal family. On the way back to town, they ran into another group of mounted men. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating. It looked like Castellan and his retinue, mounted men in shining armor and glittering lances and swords.

But no, it was his replacement, Muldor. Cassius did his best to plant a sincere looking smile on his face, but he felt his ire rise as the two groups neared each other. Muldor had his dead fish persona on and pulled up short to speak with them.

“Lord Cassius. I trust all is proceeding well.”

The Lord Governor glanced back to where Fallows was and wondered if the man could keep his mouth shut about the arrangement. Muldor was too smart, he would figure it out, he would know!

“Um, yes, Guild Master,” he said and turned back, doing his best to smile. “Of course, because we have good men working. Very skilled. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the progress thus far. Good day to you.”

He didn’t wait for a response but knew Muldor’s eyes were on his back as they trotted away. It didn’t matter. Let him figure it out. The fool wouldn’t get the city’s money, no matter what.

* * * * *

Journal 1213

I feel a growing sense of unease amongst the personnel within my purview. Amongst the dock workers. Amongst the people of this city. Amongst my staff. They seem afraid, tense, nervous about the future. What is the source of this unease? It is difficult to know. It could be a myriad of the issues plaguing us at the moment.

Dock Master Becket has been contacting me, asking, nay, pleading for a private meeting. I can only assume it is urgent due to the frequency his missives are coming. It could be his problem stems from the placement of new personnel at the docks. We must place capable men at these positions in order to ensure business operates at the same level as before. But that is not my responsibility. The individual Dock Masters must be self-sufficient in their duties. I will not coddle them.

Or perhaps he has concerns with the cost of the budding fleet? I admit, calling our small collection of vessels a fleet is stretching the truth. But that is a matter of opinion. There are those that would be impressed with what we’ve accomplished, and while this venture is taking a great deal of my time and energy, I know it will be worth the effort. The blow from Janisberg and subsequent loss of naval strength was devastating to many.

Who but The Guild should oversee the rebuild? It is our responsibility to stop these raiders from destroying our organization. It is our responsibility to protect the men and women on board the merchant’s vessels who find themselves under attack by the pirate Lurenz. His attacks have gone on long enough. This criminal must be dealt with.

Of my spy planted within his crew, there has been no word. I feel a tinge of guilt at the possibility of his demise. But what could have been done instead? When word came to us Lurenz was out for our blood, there was no choice but to see what he really wanted. Was it, is it pure revenge for losing his easy stipend from The Guild? Or perhaps Lurenz is going about business as usual. We must know, and I had hoped a spy within his organization would be the fastest, easiest way to achieve this knowledge. I may have cost a man his life.

We must have the full backing of the city with this enterprise. The Guild can ill afford the full bill. We have lost some contracts, and with the additional burden of loss due to the raids, more than goods but lives as well is at risk. I console my guilt with the idea I make choices for the greater good. If we do not stop the pirate now, how many more merchants will be killed or captured? How many men will be forced to work as slaves for Lurenz? I’ve heard stories of men choosing this life over a quick death, and I cannot say I blame them.

Some have suggested we hire mercenary vessels to guard each merchant ship as they travel, since each individual craft security is not sufficient to protect them, but the sheer number needed for this is staggering. I cannot fathom this line of reasoning; it will not work. No, I have plans in place to shift the focus of the city’s navy to include ships that will be a part of The Guild. I only need convince the city’s council this is the right course of action.

But they are tight-fisted men with agendas of their own. They lack the foresight to see what is in everyone’s best interests. Protecting each individual ship will not work, though it seems the most cost effective route to take. I will not in good mind order this. Going after the head of the snake, taking the battle to Lurenz himself is the only thing to do.

We must be aggressive and proactive. But then, how many more lives to a put at risk? My dilemma threatens to overwhelm.

* * * * *

The energy at the gaming tents raised a significant notch when the toughs began their game. It made Marko more excited. Jerrod’s orders included both the arena and betting tents. The arena had been a colossal failure and an embarrassment to Marko.

They didn’t know the first thing about sabotage. It had been a mistake to go there in the first place and try to set fire to a structure so big when they knew little of arson. But the tents were less massive, simpler for them to disrupt.

Renner and Tuy were close to him, one of many triads of toughs. They were set up in a fashion that Jerrod had taught him about assassination maneuvers. He was under no delusions as to the hierarchy of the city’s clandestine operations, but he knew they played a part in Jerrod’s overall scheme, whatever that was.

Marko was excited to play his role and would do so to the best of his ability because Jerrod was involved with some next level forces. He was also the toughest son of a bitch Marko had ever met. Jerrod was a man to be with, a man to attach onto and ride the wave on to bigger things. Marko’s group of local thugs could only increase their reputation and street cred.

The dice tables were their first target. The minimum bet was low, and the pressure went from player to player but always on the one giving the toss.

The current player was doing well. The stooped over old man had already thrown a total of twenty one on two six-sided dice, far above the average of fourteen. One more throw would add to the final tally. On two more dice, he threw a four and a two for a total of six. That was below the average of seven, but the grand total of twenty seven was very good.

The man was seventh out of twelve players in the current round, and he led them all in points. The previous leader in the count, a middle-aged woman with short hair, fourth in line on the table, had rolled a twenty-four. She stared with hatred at the man who had beaten her. Another woman, younger and prettier, whispered in her ear, but the woman shook her head and shushed her.

Jerrod was right. Most people were gutless cowards afraid to take a chance in life. They got what they deserved. They could still lay bets on the current leader, however. It wouldn’t be a bad idea. And on any other night he might do so.

The round continued. It took until the twelfth and final participant, but the previous leader was beaten by a twenty nine, a very good roll. Marko watched as the man’s face went from disbelief to anger to deflation in a matter of seconds.

Such was life. At least he tried.

Marko cracked a grin and lamented not being able to play the game, but it was time to get going. The lead tough turned to his men and flicked his head to the table.

“There. Two more. Got ‘em?”

“Right here.”

Renner handed a package over. Marko took it. It smelled horrible, not dissimilar to what they’d tossed at the arena but of a different nature.

Marko and the others stepped back from the table.

“Be quick,” he said.

They were exposed and had to move fast. A wave of nervousness struck Marko. Jerrod should have been here. But, there was a standing order to eject him from the premises and at the arena. He man was too recognizable to even wear a disguise. He was too big, too distinctive.

But such was life. And that’s what made the job fun and exciting.

Marko did his best to hide what he was doing and dumped the package of refuse under the table to the side of the players. It was a bit chaotic as it was, with the previous players leaving and new ones coming up. That helped cover his movements. A man close to him gave him a strange look when the smell hit those nearest, but Marko didn’t care.

He moved on while Renner rushed off towards the bar with a carton of rotten eggs. He threw it at the bar’s back wall. The tender was fast enough to duck out of the way and when he stood to stare, Renner was already gone. That was the signal for all of them to move, and Marko knew his men were watching and waiting.

Then, many things happened at once.

Marko moved towards one of the side “pocket” tents, a section of the main room where people could have some privacy if needed. Dreary’s whores could use it for customers, and others could use it for private card games. The space was empty save two chairs and a small table. Under the table was another package.

Marko ripped it open. Inside was a set of clothes similar to the style worn by the betting tent personnel. He replaced his normal v-necked black shirt with a drab brown chemise with an open front and simple rope for a belt. Then he put on loose fitting pants over his leather ones. Marko chuckled. These people dressed like slaves. His life was dangerous, but it had its perks.

Seconds later on the main floor, the general hubbub of the area was higher. The regular security men, all of them wearing the same type of shirt Marko was, talked with workers behind the bar. A couple of cleaning ladies tried to scrub off the rotten eggs, but of course it was difficult. Eggs stuck well.

A couple of toughs, still dressed as they always were, stood face to face in the center of the room. They shoved and pushed each other in a mock fight. There wasn’t much room, and three others were pulling a table out of the way to clear space. The betters yelled, and the table manager tried to stop them, but there wasn’t much he could’ve done.

Patrons craned their heads away from games they were probably losing, trying to see what the commotion was.

Marko elbowed a man next to him. “I got ten coppers on the tall one.”

The man looked at him askance. Then the reality of the situation dawned on him, and since they were in a betting tent, he got the idea.

“Make it fifteen.”

Marko smiled. “Deal.”

His two plants, Donald and Greaves, went into one of their wrestling routines. Donald was the tall one, Greaves was short and darker. Marko could tell the crowd liked what was happening. Going to the arena could be stressful, and only certain types of gamblers risked harm to themselves by going there.