The Miscreant (12 page)

Clyve’s mouth silently worked up and down a few times before he could force the words out. “I…I must have hidden it there and forgot.” He picked up the pouch and peered inside. “Half of it’s gone! He took half and put it back to make me look like a fool!”

“I don’t think so, Clyve,” Garran said. “You and Dominic both swore that you saw me come out of your tent, insistent that I had stolen it. That level of certainty is only established if the accuser knows without a doubt what happened. You knew what happened because you and Dominic are the ones who did it. The only problem is that you were too stupid or greedy to risk losing all of your gold by actually planting it on me and thought the accusation would be enough to convict me as long as no one ever found it. After all, who would steal their own gold?”

“He’s twisting it all around!” Clyve complained. “If I never lost it, where’s the rest of it!”

“Obviously, you paid Dominic to corroborate your accusation. The only thing twisted is your petty, failed attempt at revenge.”

Cyril turned to the soldiers. “Take them to the lockup. I’ll need to ask some questions before I pass judgment.”

Dominic and Clyve complained loudly as the soldiers led them away. Garran stood looking pleased while Cyril looked as if someone had just killed his dog.

“After I retired, I bought a big piece of property a few miles outside of Merrow. It was quiet, the soil was rich, and I had my own pond and creek where I could sit and fish all day long. It cost me almost every dinarin I owned, but I still considered it a steal. I bought the property in the summer during one of the longer dry spells the area had seen in a generation. When the rains came early that fall, it and every inch of land for miles around turned into a swamp that was uninhabitable to anything but bullfrogs and mosquitoes. I’m starting to feel as though I didn’t get half as screwed on that deal as the one I made buying your services from your mother.”

***

Sometimes Commander Godfrey held trials and sometimes he did not. It all depended upon the crime and the evidence at hand. This was a time where he had enough evidence to forgo a public spectacle and make a judgment. Exactly when that judgment came depended on what kind of answers he got. While Cyril was out asking his questions, Garran sneaked out to meet Rose once again after they completed the evening meal cleanup.

“I heard what happened today,” Rose said. “It all sounds so frighteningly dramatic.”

“It was, but it was also profitable.” Garran pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, untied the corners, and displayed a small heap of gold nuggets and flakes.

“Where did you get this? I heard that those two men tried to frame you.”

“They did try to frame me by planting Clyve’s gold in my cot.”

“But the commander found it in Clyve’s bunk, didn’t he?”

Garran allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. “It was one of my better performances. I knew Clyve and Dominic were trying to set me up. When we didn’t find the gold in my footlocker, I suspected they put it in my bunk. I noticed a small lump under the middle of my blanket, so when I picked it up, I grabbed the pouch hidden beneath and palmed it. As we walked toward Clyve’s camp, I dumped half the pouch’s contents in my pocket. At first, I was going to slip it into Dominic’s bunk, but then I thought of a way to get them both. When I tricked Dominic into shoving me, I fell against Clyve’s cot and slipped the pouch of gold under his mattress. And now it’s yours.”

Rose’s hand flew to her mouth to cover her gaping astonishment. She then took the parcel of gold from Garran’s hand and held it beneath her chin, her eyes wide and shining.

“I can’t believe you did all that for me. No one has ever done anything for me like this.”

“Well, I love you, Rose, and when we get out of here, I’ll take you away and we’ll live in the city. You will never have to worry about people mistreating you, and you won’t have to worry about your future anymore. I am your future, and I won’t let anything bad happen to you again.”

“Oh, Garran,” Rose gushed and threw herself into his arms.

***

“Holt, the commander wants a word with you.”

Garran lifted his head from his pillow made from a flour sack stuffed with young pine needles and saw a soldier’s head poking through the tent’s entryway. It had been two days since Clyve and Dominic’s failed conspiracy, and he assumed Cyril had completed his investigation.

He slipped on his boots and followed the soldier through the camp. Cyril’s tent was the same one he had used during their trip here, but now it was attached to a larger tent Garran assumed was for meetings with his soldiers and team leaders. The soldier pointed toward the vestibule at the back. Garran passed through and stepped into Cyril’s tent to find the commander sipping a cup of port.

“Take a seat.” Cyril stared at Garran for a full minute before continuing. “I have a problem, Mr. Holt.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I think I spotted some rapture root out near my work site. I can bring you some if you like.”

“It’s not that kind of problem.”

“Oh, good. Given the amount of attention you’ve shown me, it would have made me a bit uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but I’ve found another outlet for such things.”

“You’re a clever young man, Mr. Holt. That cleverness is likely to see you hung one day.”

“A fellow can surely hope.”

“I mean hanged.”

“Damn, that’s not nearly as good. Well, we’ve established what my problem is, so what is yours?”

Cyril took another drink and tapped his finger against the rim of his cup while he chose his words. “As commander of this operation, my intent is to run an orderly and efficient camp. I think the best way to accomplish this is by enforcing the rules fairly, equally, but also wisely.”

“I think you’re doing a bang-up job, Commander.”

“Truly, your validation should be sufficient, but I suppose I'm a selfish man and require a bit more. In order to prevent any assumptions of showing favoritism, I must act in accordance with the evidence at hand regardless of my feelings or intuition. For example, my intuition tells me that Mr. Blagun and Mr. Mercier did indeed set out to implicate you in a crime you did not commit, but neither man would be stupid enough to maintain possession of the property in question. I have no choice but to punish them in accordance with the preponderance of the evidence just as I would have punished you had I found Mr. Blagun’s property in your possession, despite what my instinct might tell me as to your guilt.”

Garran nodded. “It sounds like a fair policy to me.”

“I like to think so, but fairness does not always yield the best results. It’s obvious you have garnered both men’s enmity, though for the life of me I can’t imagine how you earned it.”

“It’s a mystery,” Garran agreed, pretending to miss Cyril’s obvious sarcasm.

“They certainly deserve their punishment for committing a serious crime, but I must concern myself with the long-term order and discipline of the camp as well as your continued well-being. If I simply punish them as the evidence and our rules dictate, I fear I will play a part in the continued cycle of tit for tat until one party crosses the line and kills the other.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m rooting for team Garran, although a smart man might place his wager on the better odds.”

“Whichever side ‘wins,’ I come out the loser as I have lost not just capable workers, but the good order and discipline I strive for.”

“Something tells me you have a third option.”

“There is almost always a third option.”

“Something tells me the third option sucks.”

“It always does, otherwise it would be the first option.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Then let me lay it out before you decide to bicker with me anyway. Sit down with Clyve and Dominic and create some sort of peace treaty. Agree that an unknown third party set up all three of you in exchange for an end to all hostilities. The two sides will avoid all contact with each other, and any incidental slights or offenses will be brought to me for immediate resolution.”

“You’re right, the third option sucks.”

“Of course it does.”

“I am surprised such a lie comes so easily to you. I misjudged you again.”

“Lies have their place in this world, otherwise they would not exist.”

Garran sighed and nodded. “This reminds me of a similar situation I put my mother in when I was a kid. She had the choice of settling my misdeed quietly, or she could toss me to the wolves and get bit as well. I’ll never forget what she said.”

“What did she say?”

Garran stabbed at the tent’s roof with his middle finger. “Screw him!”

Cyril massaged the throbbing headache building behind his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He pointed to the “door” with his drink, inviting Garran to leave. The dam restraining their conflict was near to breaking, and this boy was pissing in the reservoir. 

***

Evert looked over at Garran who was digging a hole next to his cot. “Boy, what are you doing? You best not be thinking of putting a latrine next to your bunk.”

“Even better. I’m making a fermenting hole.”

“What the hell is a fermenting hole?”

Garran pointed to a large metal bucket of water sitting atop their tent stove. “When that comes to a boil, I’m going to use it to create a mash. Once the mash is done cooking, I have to bury it in this hole to ferment.”

Evert and several other men’s eyes grew wide. “You’re making hooch?”

“I hope so.”

“You’ve never done it?”

“No, but I’m almost as familiar with the process as I am with the product.”

“I don’t know what sad sort of life you had, to make a boy so acquainted with the drink, but I’m glad for it if it gets me drunk. I don’t care if it does make me a selfish sonofabitch.”

“We’re all selfish, Evert, but not everyone has the courage to admit it.”

Garran had an enraptured audience as he cooked the mash, let it cool, covered the top with cheesecloth, and set the tub into the hole he dug. With Clyve and Dominic in the infirmary recovering from the beating Cyril had issued them, he was free to watch over his creation like a mother bird tending her precious eggs.

All the brewing had to be done at night to reduce the chances of the soldiers seeing the still. Alcohol was forbidden within the camp due to the accidents and violence that often accompanied its consumption. When the sour mash reached its full fermentation over the next few days, Garran separated the liquid by straining it through the cheesecloth into another bucket. The next and final step was the trickiest. He had to boil the liquid at a very specific temperature and run it through a copper tube to extract the alcohol.

The tent’s occupants sat around the still and watched the liquid drip out of the copper condensing tube into the clay jug as if it were a magician performing an amazing feat of magic. Several men nearly jumped Garran with the intent of beating him to death when he grabbed the jug and poured out the first several ounces of precious booze.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?” Evert cried as he watched the alcohol seep into the dirt floor.

“The first bit is dangerously toxic. It’s the stuff that will make you go blind if you drink it. That’s why the temperature has to be perfect. If it’s not hot enough, the entire batch is good only for cleaning wounds and poisoning someone.”

“Oh, so how’s our fire looking?”

Garran held his hand precisely three inches from the hot metal surface and counted the seconds until the heat forced him to pull it away. “It’s good.”

Drop by drop, the jug filled until Garran pulled it away and replaced it with another. The men leaned forward as he touched the bottle to his lips. Garran’s eyes flicked between the eager spectators, and he drank it down. He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered as the moonshine traced a fiery track down his throat and into his stomach. He opened his eyes and smiled

“Well, I’m not blind.”

A resounding cheer filled the tent, and Garran passed the bottle around until the cheer was overflowing. Twice that night, a soldier stuck his head through the doorway to see what the commotion was. The workers blocked the still from view and merely laughed and waved. Seeing that no one was fighting or causing trouble, the soldiers had little interest in the source of their jubilation.

CHAPTER 10

The air inside the inn was hazy with the cloying smoke of smoldering cigars and the more acrid scent of tobacco twists. It was a decent establishment frequented mostly by Valbush’s middle and upper-middle class. The droning of voices competed with the tobacco smoke for attention, but it was not the raucous cacophony of the lower-class taverns. It was a place where people could enjoy a drink and talk without having to shout to be heard.

Dragoslav sipped his beer a little slower than he had the previous three as he waited for the man the mercenary captain told him to meet. He had been party to one of the band’s raids against a road crew, but Zoran thought he might be more useful to his employers by using his skills as a former agent. Apparently, they did too, and so he waited.

Although it was past the appointed time for their meeting, Dragoslav was patient. He was, after all, an agent, or at least he once was. He knew it was likely that his contact or his cohorts had been covertly observing him since he arrived. Probably longer than that even. While looking disinterested, Dragoslav picked out three likely watchers, any of whom could be his contact. He was only moderately more impressed with these people’s organization when a woman sat at his table who was not one of the three he suspected.

“Dragoslav Zeegers?”

Dragoslav smiled as he appraised the woman. She was tall with perfect skin and black hair that shimmered like a raven’s feathers. Although she dressed conservatively, her posture and manner of speech marked her as a woman of class and intelligence.

“Call me Drago.”

The woman smiled coyly. “Drago, such a masculine name. Is it Urqan?”

“Aye, named after my mother’s father.”

“My name is Aemilia. Zoran tells me you were an agent once.”

“Yeah, I got in on the wrong end of a bad deal.”

“How did a man smart and skilled enough to become an agent manage to do that?”

Dragoslav shrugged. “Money, sex, boredom. None of them discriminate.”

“You were a field agent, yes? Not some clerk filing papers in a consular office?”

“No, I was a spy.”

“Spies aren’t supposed to tell people they are spies.”

“I’m not one anymore, so I don’t see that it matters.”

“What was your specialty?”

“I mainly did wetwork.”

Aemilia lifted her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “Wetwork?”

“Assassination.”

“Any intelligence gathering?”

“I was called in for intelligence extraction more than gathering.”

“Were you usually successful?”

Dragoslav leaned forward with a baleful gaze. “Always.”

Aemilia slid a folded piece of paper across the table. “My employers need you to extract information from a man named Steffen Wallace. We believe he is acting as a collection point for the underground Free Traders’ movement to finance the king’s highway. Find out who some of his key backers are and eliminate them. The cost of this road is hurting Remiel. We need it to cripple him.”

“By ‘we’ do you mean The Guild?”

“Whoever is paying me has never revealed their identity, and the weight of my purse is sufficient to keep me from asking or even caring.”

“But you suspect.”

“People like you and me always suspect. It’s how we survive games such as this.”

“Steffen won’t like this game nearly as much as you.”

“The losers never do. Your instructions include directions to your payment as well as your cover identity. Mr. Wallace has been hosting some extravagant parties of late, which is what tipped my employers off to his likely involvement in backing Remiel’s trade road. No one who is not a member of The Guild or born within the aristocracy can afford such lavish galas without considerable pooling of resources.”

Dragoslav broke the unadorned wax seal on the paper and skimmed its contents. It outlined his cover story as well as the money and resources at his disposal. It was considerable.

“It seems your employers are committed to making my role a convincing one.”

“The amount is to cover all of your expenses for the extent of the contract. How much you spend or keep is entirely up to you as long as you get the job done. I assume the terms are acceptable?”

Dragoslav smiled, folded the paper, and secured it in his vest pocket. “Quite acceptable. It seems I have a little time before I need to arrange passage to Faircoast. Would you care to pass it with me?”

Aemilia narrowed her eyes seductively and smiled into her glass as she drank.

***

The stove in Garran’s tent served a secondary purpose of providing heat, its primary now the brewing of moonshine. Someone was always “sick” or “injured” and put on bed rest for a day or more so they could monitor the brew.

Garran soon found that his still was vastly more profitable than panning for gold and required far less work. His greatest efforts came from acquiring the necessary ingredients and keeping it hidden from the soldiers. Fortunately, neither was too much of a challenge.

“Stand for inspection!” one of a pair of soldiers shouted as they pushed into the tent.

Every man stood rigid at the foot of his bunk while the soldiers made a show of inspecting their living area. The two men stopped next to the stove.

“What is this?”

Garran stepped toward the soldiers and his still. “It brews tea, sir.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, sir. Try some.”

Garran turned a spigot on the still and half-filled a tin cup. The sergeant took a swig, stifled a shudder, and passed the remaining contents to his partner.

“I hear tea like that can make a man blind.”

Garran gave the soldier a knowing smile. “Only temporarily.”

“I’m not sure it’s working. I can still see fine.”

“Let me fix that.” Garran slid his footlocker away from the end of his bunk, lifted the board beneath, and pulled out two bottles of spirits from the hole beneath. “I hope this helps with your vision problems.”

The sergeant held the two bottles in his hands. “Yeah, that’ll keep us from seeing straight for a week or so.”

“Just be careful. Too much can cause some unwanted side effects.”

“We’re professional soldiers, boy. We know how to drink on duty.”

He was certain Cyril knew someone was producing the strong brew, but as long as the men worked hard and did not cause trouble, he did not put much effort into finding it and shutting down his operation. The commander even woke up now and again to find a bottle in his tent, and he never bothered to ask where it came from. It was like politics. What you did did not matter nearly as much as who saw you do it.

***

Garran looked up from the tree he was “skinning” to the setting sun to check the time. At almost the same moment, a bell clanged and soldiers began shouting for everyone to turn in their tools for the day. Garran joined the line with Colin and the other workers as they each filed along toward the tool wagon and deposited their equipment. A soldier matched the tools turned in against the check-out sheet. Once he accounted for the tools, he released the workers to dinner. This meant standing in another line and waiting. The entire operation seemed to be little more than work broken up by periods of standing in one line or another.

Once Garran received his supper and shared a smile with Rose, he and Colin found a seat near Trent and the rest of their team. The chow tent was unusually somber. Men leaned over their plates and spoke in hushed, anxious tones as if plotting an escape. Garran knew that was not the case as most people agreed that life in the work camp was better than living as a fugitive. A few shots of Garran’s moonshine soothed whatever resentment or angst one felt for being indentured, which was likely another reason Cyril chose not to enforce the no alcohol policy.

“What’s got everyone bothered?” Garran asked.

“A bridge crew outside of Merrow got hit. Killed everyone to a man,” Trent answered.

“Merrow? That’s less than a hundred miles from here, isn’t it?”

Trent nodded. “The bastards caught them against the river. They didn’t have nowhere to run. Maybe a few lived who jumped in, but I doubt it. That’s a nasty stretch of water.”

“Do you think they will find us?”

“Hard to say. We’re a big crew, and we’re in a remote part of the pass. They might not know we’re here. No one knows how big the raider party was, so they might not want to tangle with us even if they figure it out.”

“Could they find us if they wanted to?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be hard if they had a mind to. If they suspect there’s a crew working in a region, it’s an easy matter to stake out nearby towns and look for the supply wagons. Then they just have to follow them.”

Colin looked down at his plate. “I’m suddenly not very hungry.”

Garran looked at his friend. “Best eat up. You might need your strength to fight off bandits, and I don’t just mean in battle. There’s only a few women in camp, and some of them might not want to wait in line.”

“Even with the specter of death hanging over us, you still manage to be a prick.”

Garran grinned and nudged Colin with his elbow. “What? It was a compliment. I’m just saying that out of all of us, they’ll find you the prettiest.”

“I seem to recall you being the pick of the litter when we got here.”

“That’s only because of Dominic. These guys don’t know me, so I’m probably only third on the list of last resorts.”

Trent and the others shared a chuckle, but it was a forced laugh, and they quickly grew somber.

“Cyril seems to be taking it seriously enough,” Trent said, looking around the tent. “Not many soldiers in here. I bet they’re all in a meeting and talking about defenses.”

“Cyril’s no fool,” Garran said. “If he’s concerned about this, I bet we’ll see some changes soon.”

The men nodded and ate their supper, but they lacked the enthusiasm with which they usually consumed their meals. Even their evening drinks lacked the festiveness of the previous nights. Come morning, the air felt just a bit colder and drearier.

Trent was already gone when Garran and the others awoke, and he noticed neither he nor the other team leaders were at breakfast. As men finished their meals and made to leave the chow tent, soldiers at the entrances directed them back to their seats. This set off a new round of mutterings and exchanging of conspiracy theories until the team leaders filed into the tents, followed by Cyril.

The commander stood atop an overturned bucket and addressed his crew. “Gentlemen, I know you have all heard about the dire news that came in with last night’s supply wagon. Several days ago, bandits killed thirty-four men on a bridge crew near Merrow. Seven men are unaccounted for. A few of you know full well the horror of such an attack, having survived something similar some months back. I am commanded by my superiors to follow certain orders and guidelines, but I believe some of those regulations have resulted in needless deaths. I have chosen to break some of those rules and am going to break some more.

“I know about your hooch brewing, but I decided to look away. I thought you lot were responsible enough to handle it, and I was right. I think I have treated you all fairly and with the respect due any man who shows he’s earned it, and now I am calling in these favors. After speaking with your team leaders, I have decided that everyone will maintain their tools on their person so they can defend themselves should this camp fall under attack. I am entrusting my soldiers’ and my life to the mutual respect I think we share. Whatever quarrels any of us may have, it is time to bury them. There will be zero tolerance for anyone raising a weapon against anyone in this camp. I have decided it is time to move our camp several miles higher into the pass and resume operations there. Once I release you, you will pack up your tents and belongings and prepare to move. Dismissed.”

Teardown was a laborious task, particularly the rigid log buildings, but it was easier to dismantle and move them by wagon than chopping and shaping new timbers. The chow hall was too big to move so would require new construction at the next site. They tore down the current camp completely, but it was too late in the day to move. The workers paired up and slept in their small shelter tents that night before heading out at first light.

***

It was a large caravan with a dozen wagons used to transport tools and materials, and everyone was armed with something. The woodcutters mostly carried axes. Garran and his team wielded hatchets and reaping blades while the rock quarriers toted picks, mauls, and huge spikes and chisels. It made the soldiers noticeably uneasy being outnumbered by the workers, many of whom had violent criminal histories.

With the wagons full of supplies, it forced almost everyone to walk. It was exhausting, but the decent weather and slow pace made it bearable. This was the sixth time Garran and the rest of the crew had had to pack up and move, but repetition did nothing to make it less arduous.

Colin shifted the hatchet riding in a loop on his belt. “Cyril is really taking this threat of raiders to heart.”

“I don’t blame him,” Garran replied. “He and the other old-timers barely escaped an attack once already.”