Rogues Gallery (7 page)

But he was also predictable. That’s why he needed someone like Zandor to guide him, to aim his power in the right direction where it would do the most damage. They had built something very lucrative here in this den of criminals. They had risen to the top of the pile, making money at the tents and arena like nothing Zandor had seen before. Now all that was in danger of collapsing because of Jerrod’s misguided desire for vengeance.

“Damn bastard,” he said and took a drink of wine. It was one of the best vintages that ever passed his lips. It wasn’t that he cared all that much for fineries. It was the challenge of making it happen that thrilled him. Using his skills to create whatever reality he wished was the best thing in life. Now here was another problem to solve, and he would make it happen.

“Zandor, what is it?”

“How ‘bout you hang here a while, huh?” He stood up. “This ain’t such a bad place to be, is it? I’ll check in with you later. Relax and drink some more.”

Zandor left him there, looking annoyed but content enough. The kid needed to learn some patience. Outside, the air was cooler as autumn pushed deeper into winter. He breathed in a crisp, cold breath, and it felt invigorating. He started walking and kept thinking.

Going to the police wasn’t possible, of course. They had their hands full dealing with the rise in theft around the city. Word was, the jail overfilled with men and women, former members of the thieves guild or normal citizens that were hungry or poor. The latter’s crimes were exploding due to the former’s lack of an organization. They had one before, Zandor had seen the last vestiges of it before Castellan shut them down.

He had never heard anything like it; for a city to allow thieves to steal without punishment, which was something interesting. Of course, the majority of this city’s officials were corrupt anyway, garnering kickbacks and bribes from various local agencies whenever they could. But outright thievery on the level where it had been was impressive.

But it had worked. It kept the normal populace checked. If you weren’t a member of the guild and stole, you were hanged. So most people didn’t steal unless they had to. The professional thieves stole enough to survive and even thrive if they were considered “elite.” And speaking of which… there was an idea.

He went to another tavern called The Silver Charger, a known place where thieves congregated. Zandor had been there once or twice during the time when he worked with Jon Baumgardener and the thieves trying to take down Castellan. Giorgio had been their de facto leader, and while they won in that situation and Castellan was taken away in disgrace, the thieves’ guild was finished.

The merchants, however, flourished. He wondered if any of the thieves realized this truth. In trying to win their freedom from control, they destroyed themselves. The city council didn’t see the increased rate of thievery on the streets, or how it might’ve affected them.

The thieves had slunk away to this tavern, drinking away their sorrows. Thus entered Zandor and his needs. Men like that could be used.

A tall handsome man with a solid build and an arrogant smirk on his face looked him over.

“Marston’s the name, right?” Zandor said with a smile.

The man regarded him for a moment, then recognition dawned. “Hey there, Zandor. I thought you might work your way out of the trash at some point. It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” Zandor said, and they shook hands. Zandor offered to buy him a drink, but Marston refused.

“Nah, this is our bar. I’ll buy you one.”

“Thought the thieves were hard up these days.”

Marston laughed, half amusement, half grim. “Well, you bet. But some are worse off than others. You get my meaning.”

“I do.”

They drank. The mood was casual and somber in the bar. A lot of thieves sat around and spoke to themselves. They acted paranoid as a rule. Zandor saw a lot of furtive looks his way. Some of them might’ve recognized him since he had had little contact with many of them. Giorgio was nowhere to be seen.

“You fellas wanna make a little extra coin?”

Marston smiled again and laughed. “Heh. Now that’s a question, huh.” He stared at Zandor, amusement mingling with caution. “Long as it doesn’t have anything to do with merchants or the city officials, I’m all for it.”

“It doesn’t. I learned my lesson.”

Marston laughed and slapped the table with an open hand. “What do you need?”

Zandor leaned forward and put his mug down. “I’m expanding my payroll. I need men that know this town well, men on call for work. You interested?”

Marston took that in, and then his amusement faded. Zandor saw his mind working.

“What about our work? We still have things going on, some of us anyway.”

Zandor knew what he meant. A lot of the braver ones, those still free anyway, were stealing as much as they could. Zandor put up his hands. “Hey, nothing to me. You boys do whatever you want. As long as you work for me when I call, you can have whatever you want on the side.”

Marston smiled again and whistled loud enough for thieves near him to hear. A few glanced over. “Get over here, worms. We got some work to do.”

They responded and Zandor had what he needed. If the toughs wanted to fight, he could arrange that for them.

He left the tavern minutes later, having recruited another grip of willing participants to his scheme, and set out for his next stop, the arena. Perhaps it would’ve been easier to have them all killed. They were simple, obvious folk who always flaunted their location.

Everyone knew where they were, and it made them easy targets for assassination. But Zandor was no butcher. There was no need for war. Plus, Jerrod would be dead soon anyway. There was a hit from another thieves’ guild on the poor sod. They knew he killed Goodwin Turner, the former leader of Sea Haven’s thieves’ guild.

It was too bad. Jerrod was the best at what he did. He wasn’t true assassin material because he lacked the subtlety involved in the highest levels, but he was one hell of an enforcer. The best Zandor had ever seen. Part of him, a paternal instinct due to the fact he helped train the man as a youngster, held on the idea he still had his uses, but if the hit was paid, it would happen. Jerrod was different, too wild, too thick headed, too hard to control anymore, so if he died, so be it.

Zandor had his own issues. He met Derek and Desmond at the arena. The two owners and operators were always in their office, high above the fighting floor, with a dominating view of the fights. It was late, most of the matches had concluded, and the floor was slick with blood. The climax of the night, the battle to the death, would take place soon.

Zandor had to climb a back staircase that tracked back and forth like a mountainous switchback to reach their rectangular box, a death trap if he ever saw one. The rickety construction would have scared even the bravest of men. Zandor marveled at the logistics involved. There had to have been magic involved in this place.

A guard stood at the door, looking at Zandor. “Yes?”

Zandor nodded to the door. “I need to see them.”

The man looked bored and annoyed at missing the fights, but he nodded and let him in. The noise from the arena floor already faded behind him as he climbed, but something else surrounded him as he entered. It was an odd feeling, like being submerged into water.

Derek cheered at something down below on the floor Zandor could not see. The guard went over to him and spoke in his ear. Zandor waited and glanced around. The room was functional but built for comfort. There were couches everywhere, seven either against the wall or near the edge of the open windowsill where the two men sat. The walls were strange, though, and didn’t match the soft rugs and chairs and couches. The walls were the same scratchy, wood boards populating the rest of the structure.

Desmond, the shorter and squatter of the two, already had eyes on Zandor, and that piqued his curiosity. It seemed the man knew he was coming. Both men were overweight and swarthy with dark hair. They looked like brothers or close cousins.

“Oh, Zandor! What a pleasant surprise, my dear man. Come in, come in. Over here please.”

Derek smiled, and Zandor went to stand behind their couch. He stared over them and looked at the arena floor where another match began. It was interesting to be so high up. The entire arena floor, and most of the bleachers were visible from his viewpoint. The floor was rectangular, perhaps fifty paces across and seventy the long way. Two ramps led from opposite corners from Zandor’s position and onto the arena floor.

The competitors would run or walk down each ramp, screaming and throwing their arms out to get the crowd riled. The crowd never failed to respond. The noise was shocking, even that high. It felt like every man and woman in the city was there.

“We have a wonderful line-up for tonight,” Derek said. “Did you come to watch? How lovely. You’re always welcome to our suite, you know. You should come by more often, Zandor.”

Zandor cracked a smile. “Yeah, well thanks. But there’s something else. I have an idea about a new addition to the fights. An exhibition.”

“Oh really?” Derek looked at Desmond with expectation.

Desmond eyed Zandor and a slight frown played about his heavy lips. “What do mean? An exhibition? To what end? We are doing well as is, as you can see.”

Derek sighed when he looked at his partner. “Come now. We have dear Zandor here to thank for Thruck’s return, remember.” He looked at Zandor with affection. “I’m sure whatever he proposes will be spectacular.”

Zandor outlined his plan, which including getting the toughs together to fight a round at the arena against the regular fighters. Both men sat back and looked at each other. Derek looked curious and amused, but Desmond was suspicious. They shared a look. There was some unspoken communication between them.

Desmond eyed Zandor again. “I’ve heard of them. Local toughmen that wrestle at dive bars.”

“Oh, behave, Desmond. It sounds rather wonderful. I suppose my only question is, will they agree to it.”

“Yes. Why should they pit themselves against our fighters? It’s very dangerous. It’s not their type of fighting.”

Desmond sat back, and Zandor heard Jerrod’s response in his mind. ‘What’s your problem, bub?’ Zandor couldn’t resist a smile.

“Is there something funny?” Desmond said.

“Nah. Look fellas, these boys have what you call pride, see? They think they are the toughest men in this town, and I wager they are willing to prove it. They also have a reputation to uphold, and the possibility of losing respect on the street should convince them to do it.”

Derek looked thoughtful and glanced at his partner. Desmond reminded Zandor of Muldor, with his stillness and thick headed, emotionless stare.

Derek smiled. “Well, good luck, Zandor. A small demonstration, perhaps in a couple of days would be splendid. I’m sure you can set that up. Speak with the match coordinator Salazar when you get a chance.”

Done and done.

* * * * *

Marko was certain his nose was broken. It hurt like hell, a sharp, stabbing pain that settled into a dull ache. Blood flowed down his face and chest. The injury began to affect his breathing. It would’ve slowed him down the longer the match continued. If he couldn’t get enough air, his muscles would tire faster.

His opponent, Donald, was known as one of the better toughs. He had elbowed Marko hard in the face on their last grapple, an acceptable maneuver, even though they were wrestling and not boxing. It happened. The man was taller, older, and outweighed Marko by a good thirty or forty pounds. But he wasn’t the type of man to make excuses even though the weight disadvantage was ponderous. Donald smiled and came on again, relentless as ever.

He reached high, looking to grapple with Marko’s arms and lock in with each other’s shoulders. They had done that before, and the crowd at Stern’s Place cheered for more. But, Marko stepped to the side to use his shorter stature as an advantage and ducked under Donald’s armpit.

He dove for Donald’s left leg, very low on his ankles, swinging around to the side, but the big man was ready for it. He put his weight forward and down on Marko’s back. Donald reached around Marko’s torso from above and clamped down, but Marko countered by hooking his elbow on Donald’s arm.

Keeping it locked tight to his side, Marko rolled to his right and shifted his hips hard to increase his power and momentum. It worked for a second, but Donald planted his feet and stood taller, stopping Marko’s move before it had a chance to turn him over.

Marko switched tactics, sweeping out under Donald’s armpit and reversing direction. He came out from under his opponent’s body. Donald tried to square up in front of Marko and deny him the angle. But for all his size, Marko was the stronger man, and he used his left arm to grab Donald’s wrist and twist it behind his body.

Donald grunted and the crowd, “Ohhh’d.”

He tried to turn and twist his body out of the hold, but this put him off balance. Seeing his opening, Marko pulled Donald’s body closer to him and let go of his arm. He threw his arms around Donald’s waist and set his feet and bent his knees.

Up they went.

The crowd at Stern’s Place held their collective breath for a moment while Donald’s lost his feet and went airborne. They roared as they came crashing down to the wooden floor of the main taproom. Marko felt the breath blast from his opponent’s body as he landed on top of him, both face down.