Rogues Gallery (8 page)

But Donald was not finished. He kicked his legs and scrambled on the ground, trying to dislodge Marko from his back. Marko’s breath came out in huge huffs, and the proximity to Donald’s thick back pressed his nose against his skull in outright agony. He spun on Donald’s back as the bigger man got to his hands and knees.

Marko wouldn’t let him get planted, knocking out one arm and slamming his hips down hard on Donald’s lower back. He grunted in pain. Marko reached and yanked hard on Donald’s ankle, flattening the man back on his face. He held the limb and twisted hard. Donald cried out in pain and submitted. It was over.

The crowd cheered again, and money changed hands as bets were won or lost. Another tough, Renner, picked Marko up off Donald’s back while two others helped the losing man to his feet. Marko smacked Donald’s hand with his, and he was surprised by how light headed he felt. The blood loss and shock of physical trauma had caught up to him now that the fight was finished.

People slapped him on the back, and he had to catch himself to stop from falling.

“Great job, Marko!”

“Your winning streak continues! That’s seventeen wins in row.”

“Go again, Marko. I won ten silver on you!”

Marko shook his head at the last request. He was too tired. He stepped away from them and wiped the blood from his face with a shaking hand. He blew his nose one nostril at a time. Viscera spewed. People backed away, some laughing, some cursing. The victorious tough smiled and felt dizzy as he plopped down on a chair to watch the next match, and someone handed him a beer.

“Thanks.”

Later, after a few more matches, someone from the crowd stood out. Marko had seen him before at the arena, one of Zandor’s men. He stared at Marko as if they were old friends.

A twisting fear gripped his gut. This was Zandor’s revenge. The man was average height, average weight, and wouldn’t stand out from a crowd, but Marko had a memory for faces even as so non-descript at this man’s.

They knew who had trashed the betting tents and attempted, as pitiful as it was, to set fire to the arena. Part of him felt trepidation and fear that they had done too much while another part felt shame that their efforts had been so weak. They should have done more, fuck it. Jerrod would not approve and call them gutless.

Marko stomped over to the man, feeling dull in his head but sobering with every step. The man continued to stare at him, a neutral look on his face, and his eyes followed him all the way in.

Marko stood in front of him, waiting. When the man said nothing, Marko shrugged. “How can I help you, sir?” No reason not to be polite.

The man nodded and reached into his cloak. Marko tensed; this was Murder Haven after all, and people were rash and vicious. But it wasn’t a dagger the man brought forth. Rather, it was a sheet of papers he handed over to Marko. Marko stared and looked it over. Since he couldn’t read, it might as well been a rock or a broom handle.

“What is this?” he said, acting as if he could read it but wanted clarification on details.

The man didn’t argue, and for that the lead tough was thankful.

“It’s a challenge from the arena. This is an official invitation for your gang, the so called ‘toughs’ to come and fight in a special exhibition. An immediate answer is required.”

The man said nothing further while Marko’s head spun, not sure what was meant. He looked again at the sheet as if trying to understand it better, but he was in fact stalling. Jerrod would know what to do.

He would tell the man off or accept the challenge or… what would he do?

“Hey, Marko! What’s going on here?” Renner stood behind him along with several others, all gawking at the unknown newcomer. Patrons, toughs, a barmaid, and some security men gathered around and asked questions.

“Yeah, what this fella want?”

“What’s happening?”

The man wasn’t intimidated. “It’s a challenge to your gang. The arena fighters are throwing down the gauntlet. The men there want to know if reality matches your reputation. Come and fight, or prove yourselves cowards and unworthy of the title.”

This last received a round of grumbling and shoving. Marko stared at the man with newfound respect. He was clever to make this challenge in public where people, their fans and supporters in particular, would know about it. Several of them began to talk at once and came forward.

“Hey!”

“Challenge, is it?”

“They ain’t afraid of the arena! They’ll take ‘em on easy!”

“Yeah, take the challenge, Marko. Give it to ‘em!”

A chorus of agreement followed while the man smiled at Marko. A self-satisfied countenance settled over him.

“If you are in fact so tough, take this challenge and prove for a bigger audience. Are you up to it?”

People shouted. Someone patted him on the back and shoved him forward. Marko tipped forward on his feet and tried to center his mind amidst the chaos, tried to think what the best thing to do was. The patrons wanted to see them fight at the arena and would accept nothing less.

More people gathered close behind, and he looked at some of the other toughs. They were pumped up as well, though their voices were not as loud. They looked to him for guidance, but he knew which way they leaned. They wanted to fight, to uphold their reputation as the toughest, most skilled gang in the city.

He had always thought they were, but he had seen the arena fighters deal death every night when they worked security there. They were trained, professional killers. The toughs were performers, nothing more. That’s what people would call them; trained monkeys dancing for drunken tavern dwellers who didn’t know any better.

They would call them cowards. And Marko couldn’t have that. Jerrod would not approve and no doubt bash this man in the face before accepting the proposal.

“Where do I sign?”

The man handed over a quill, and Marko scribbled an acceptable scrawl. The crowd cheered, and Marko felt his anger and annoyance flare.

“Yeah!”

“You go get ‘em, Marko!”

“Bust them up good boys!”

The man looked around. A glimmer of apprehension trickled into his eyes for the first time. The crowd was getting rowdy and loud. He had to speak up in order for Marko to understand him.

“Come tomorrow night to the arena to the third level. They’ll be expecting you. Bring five other men and yourself. Don’t be late.”

“Tell your boss we’ll be there,” Marko said, and then the man was gone, swallowed up by a cheering, boisterous crowd. He should have checked in with Jerrod at his cabin, but was reluctant to. His reception last time was less than savory, so he decided not to risk further aggravating the dangerous man. If he wanted Marko to take charge of things, fine. Marko and his boys would be fine.

* * * * *

Journal 1257

Incessant flies pester me without relief. I am pulled in so many disparate directions, there is fear I may suffer physical harm. The Sea Haven navy and its rapid construction remain the primary focus of my limited energy. I feel it is the most important expansion of our current realm of immediate need. I say immediate, for so many aspects of our organization rely on the quelling of seaward attacks that I cannot think of a more pressing concern.

The contracts have been argued over and handed out to the highest bidders. The scrap metal and wood dealers are thrilled at the money coming their way, and the builders at the shipping yards are ready to up the initial quota to encompass The Guild and my desire to see not only a stay at home navy for Sea Haven but another additional force (or will we include them in our armada?) to do battle on the high seas.

Will the city fight me? They might. I could expend energy attempting to convince them. It is in their best interests to support this endeavor ,but I have more pressing concerns to deal with. The members of our Guild are unhappy, and I must do something to keep the merchants content, or at least make them understand I will do what it takes to protect them from harm, within the city and at sea.

I must ensure the avenues of their business are clear from molestation, and I have failed in that duty. Can I be faulted for doing whatever it takes to reverse this? The merchants face increased theft within the city. They had to hire more guardsmen, out of their own pocket, to better protect themselves and their wares. The Thieves Guild was not a perfect system, I admit, but it worked to keep things at a manageable level. Men and women stole what they needed, and with the special arrangement with Oberon Cutter, the merchants were mollified.

Two deals are no longer in place; the one we had with the thieves and the one bartered by my predecessor to keep travel along the coast free from attack by buccaneers, outlaws and other miscreants. The city is to blame more than I. Can the council not see the bubbling cauldron of unrest in this city? Are they so blind and cut off from the day to day misery that is the lot of the average person in “Murder” Haven, holed up in their palatial homes in the wealthy quarter that they no longer see reality for what it is?

I believe this is the case. But we shall have our navy. And perhaps I can convince the rest of the council we should use it to blast Lurenz and his fleet of criminals into bits of driftwood. I can only do as much as could be expected as any man.

There is unease within the cadre of Dock Masters. Joseph Miller seems an odd man, with his unusual mannerisms, but Lawson assures me he is talented in areas of math and accounting. Bolvin is learning his trade at the Western Docks where business is busier, but by all accounts he is doing fine. Becket continues to ask for an audience with me, but there is no time if it is not Guild related, and he is coy in his responses. He is senior member now and must work some things out on his own.

Melvin Crocker does not approve of many of my decisions, and I know he believes me to be walking down the same path as the former Guild Master when I decided to sacrifice the others to the gallows pole, but what choice did I have? It was either them or The Guild. I chose the greater good, for us and for the city entire. We have survived to pick up the pieces and begin anew, stronger and wiser.

Construction on the Eastern Road seems to have stalled, despite my best efforts. The council is toying with us again. They promised to help with the cost of the engineering enterprise but so far have refused payment. I spoke with the foremen, a shifty man named Fallows, and he says The Guild is responsible for the financing alone, but I know this to be untrue. Requests to Lord Cassius’ office for the money remain futile.

Will the paving of our main thoroughfare to the east bring increased prosperity to The Guild and thus every man and woman associated with it? Of course. Speed of delivery is always a major concern for merchants. This is why Sea Haven enjoys such a monumental trade, as our geographical location is centered with the kingdom and makes trading with neighboring nations easier.

We have lost business because of Lurenz and the thieves. Merchants are tearing up their contracts with us and finding alternatives. By building a paved road, we increase our ability to do more business. The council is under the impression it is not a priority. They do not wish to spend money in order to make money. They are fools.

I know there are some that are hell bent on cleaning up this city, but they fail to understand a fundamental reality to this place. Crime will never be abolished by rules and laws. This is not a normal city. Corruption is as much a part of daily life as eating or breathing. We cannot control it. We can only contain it, so the common man can survive. I provide jobs and enough coin for men to buy food for their families. This is what The Guild does. Yes, we make merchants wealthy, but such is life.

On my desk is another request from Lieutenant Dillon asking, nay, demanding funds for a new jail to be built. I did in fact promise this, or at least support for the idea within the council, but I may have overstepped my bounds. I did what I had to at the time. I knew he would come knocking someday demanding support, and in truth the police deserve it. A new jail should be built to accommodate the influx of the poor thieves, professional or otherwise, that are being pulled from the streets every day.

Ah, my aching head, there is too much. I am overwhelmed!

* * * * *

The air was humid, and the sun bright and omnipresent at the docks. Despite the cool air buffeting wind from the sea, it grew hot standing in the sun for long. The constant yelling of labor filtered around in a stream of noise that mixed in with laughing, intermittent conversation, and the sound of the gulls overhead.

Dock Master Becket stood by Pier One where a scrap metal merchant argued over his shipping order with one of Becket’s Pier Supervisors, a rather large man named Pierre Johnson.

“I have it right here, sir!” the merchant said and shoved his sheet of papers in Johnson’s face. ‘Not a good idea,’ Becket thought. The man was bearded, massive, and known to have a short temper. But the merchant didn’t stop. “I was granted First Pier status on this order, and for some god forsaken reason, I was pushed back to Pier Two. Unacceptable!” He shook the papers in Johnson’s face. “In fact, most of my shipment is meant for the shipping yards. I should have special privilege to forego normal procedure and have direct access to that inlet. That’s what needs to happen, sir.”