The Miscreant (22 page)

CHAPTER 3

Despite his successful inspection, today brought with it a sense of foreboding. It was the first day of class, and Garran was unsure what to expect. Other than his reading and very basic arithmetic lessons he had received as punishment and recompense back in Wooder’s Bend, he had no experience with any kind of formal education. It obviously required numerous books, which were currently testing the quality of his satchel’s seams.

Those desiring positions in the Ministry of Diplomacy committed themselves to four years of intense study. Garran could not fathom what could possibly require such a length of time to learn. By the end of the day, which consisted primarily of orientation, he was certain that it was not nearly enough.

There were five major languages spoken throughout the land and seven minor tongues and dialects. Those who moved on to become field agents after their second year were required to speak, read, and write three of the primary languages fluently and have a mastery of their history and culture. Agents also had to have a passing spoken familiarity with at least three of the minor languages. That alone would take a lifetime in Garran’s estimation. On top of that, there was mathematics, chemistry, combatives, and intelligence gathering. Garran started to have doubts about his success. It was a unique feeling and very unsettling. Becoming an agent required uncompromising academic achievement, and none of his shenanigans could solve that problem. For the first time in his life, Garran realized that he might actually have to apply himself. Such a prospect did not fill him with confidence.

Classes began in full force the second day. The amount of information thrown at the students was staggering. Garran now understood why his classmates fought their extra duty with such vehemence. Losing two hours of study time in the evening was a slow academic death, and he did not have a fraction of their educational experience.

Today also marked their first combatives class. The second-year students were filing out as the first years took their place in the covered arena. They all took a seat on the bleachers set above and just outside the sand-covered floor. Moments after everyone took their places, a man crossed the arena floor and stood before the seated crowd.

“My name is Commander Fitzgerald or Commander Fitz if it pleases you. It is my job to teach you two very basic things: how to kill and how to keep others from killing you. It sounds simple enough, right? Let me assure you, it is one of the more mentally and physically demanding classes in this school. If you think mathematics and learning Urqan is tough, think of trying to learn that stuff while someone is doing their best to bash your brains in.”

Commander Fitz looked like most retired soldiers and agents: fit and tough as rawhide. He wore soft leathers, and the sword at his hip looked as natural as any of his other four appendages did. Several other men entered the arena and stood behind him.

“The first thing we are going to do is judge your initial fighting skills so I know how hard you’re going to make me work. Pick a partner, come onto the arena, and grab a blade and a vest.”

Garran and the other students looked to the side near the arena wall, spotted a rack filled with swords and a bin full of padded vests, and began shuffling into the fighting pit. Garran looked over the blades and chose a blunted, light broadsword. He turned when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“How about it, Holt, want to show me how you killed all those bandits?” Aniston asked, a heavy rapier resting atop his shoulder.

“All right, but promise me you won’t cry when I knock your dick in the dirt again.”

Aniston grinned, found an open spot, and took up a fighting stance. “I am really going to enjoy this.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Garran retorted and squared off.

Garran tried to mimic Aniston’s stance and immediately knew it was a poor imitation that made him look as out of place as he felt. As Aniston swept his rapier through a few slash and thrust routines, Garran’s confidence fled faster than a fox chased by hounds.

Everything Garran did not know about real fighting became apparent in the next few seconds. He felt the blunted tip of Aniston’s rapier punch him in the chest before he fully registered the move. Aniston stepped back and grinned as he swept his blade through the air in front of him.

“I’m thinking maybe you caught those raiders asleep in their bunks.”

Garran ignored the barb and lunged forward, slashing wildly with his sword. Aniston took a few steps back, avoiding and parrying the swings with ease. He ducked beneath the next swing, stabbed Garran in the stomach, darted behind him when he doubled over, and slapped him smartly with the flat of his blade on the back of the neck.

“No head shots!” Commander Fitz barked.

“Sorry, sir!” Aniston replied. He waited for Garran to recover and face him once more. “I’m thinking maybe they weren’t raiders but a home for the blind. The poor blokes were probably sweeping the walks and you mistook it for an attack.”

Garran snarled and charged, figuring his best defense was an overwhelming offense. He was wrong. Aniston practically danced away, darted aside, and spun out of Garran’s path only to deliver one stinging blow after another until Garran was on his hands and knees trying to catch his breath while blocking out the pain from the stinging welts and bruises Aniston inflicted upon him.

“Stop!” Fitz called out and approached Garran and Aniston. “What’s your name?”

“Aniston, sir.”

“Nice work, Aniston. I’ll have to put you with the other advanced students.” He turned to Garran who struggled to his feet. “Who are you?”

“Garran Holt, sir.”

“Garran, I have never seen such a display in my life.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Garran dropped his eyes. “I didn’t think so.”

“Have you ever even held a sword?”

“Um…no, sir.”

Fitz ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair and scratched his scalp. “I hope you have a tutor.”

“I do. I’m going to start training with him next week.”

“I hope he’s damn good, because you are going to need all the help you can get. All right, everyone, put away your gear. That’s all for today. Enjoy your early dismissal. The next time you come, be prepared for a full workout.”

Aniston caught up to Garran as he stormed out of the arena. “That was quite the display you put on.”

“Go to hell, Aniston.”

“For a moment, I actually believed your bullshit and thought I might have a real fight. It kind of makes me wonder if everything you have said isn’t all bullshit as well.”

“It’s not,” Garran snapped. “I’m a quick study, especially when I’m pissed.”

“I guess we’ll find out in a few days when Professor Lyndon springs his surprise exam, assuming of course that isn’t bullshit as well.”

“I’ll do my part. If you don’t mind, I have to get to my extra duty.”

“Yeah, how brilliant are you feeling about that part of your plan now? I can’t imagine it’s looking so hot now that you know how much material you have to memorize every night.”

“I’ll manage.”

“How about you manage to take a bath tonight? We’ll make your bunk and press your clothes, for now, but I draw the line at washing your balls.”

Garran walked faster and flipped Aniston a rude gesture over his shoulder. He retrieved his bottle of booze from inside his coat pocket but found only a few paltry drops remaining. He hurled the flask into the bushes with a curse. Garran stormed into Toby’s small cabin without knocking and found him sitting in his chair reading a book. Toby practically jumped high enough to hit his head on the ceiling and hurled the book into the corner beneath his bunk.

“Garran, whatcha doing here? I thought you had to eat dinner before starting.”

Garran looked askance at Toby and directed his eyes to the corner where he tossed the book. “I lost my appetite, so I came straight here. What were you doing? Were you reading?”

Toby’s eyes darted nervously to the corner. “That’s just some drawings of naked women. I was about to masturbate is all.”

“Really…”

Garran crossed the room, got on his hands and knees, and fished the book out from under Toby’s bunk.

“You don’t want to look at that! Half the pages are stuck together.”

“
The Philosophy of the Enlightened Man
,” Garran read. “You know, I always consider myself to be a top-notch bullshit slinger, but you are a true artist, aren’t you?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“You’re not simple at all.”

“I…dammit all to hell, don’t tell anyone.”

“Why would you pretend to be an imbecile all these years?”

Toby dropped back down into his chair and sighed. “I always thought I wanted to be a professor, but after a few years I learned that it is more politics than education, and I became more than just a little disillusioned.”

“So you weren’t hurt that bad by the roof tile, it was just an act?”

“Oh no, it did a real number on me, but I got better. While I was in the infirmary recovering, they had me doing little things like arts and crafts to keep me busy and work on my motor skills and cognitive thinking. Later on, they let me go outside and work in the gardens, and I found it very relaxing and even more rewarding than being a teacher. After my accident, I found that people’s expectations of me dropped significantly, and it was quite a relief. Did you know that I once worked the entire day right in front of the main campus building without any trousers on? Not one person said a word to me, just wrote it off as crazy, simple Toby.”

Garran grinned at the image. “Why did you do that?”

Toby shrugged. “Social experiment. People are very good at pretending I’m not around. You wouldn’t believe some of the conversations I’ve heard while I’m working, things people would never say in front of anyone else.”

“Really, now that is interesting.”

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? I like my job here, and I want to keep it.”

“I think we can work something out.”

Toby narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I’ll keep your secret and you cover for me. I’m working my own social experiment, and I need to use some of this time to set things up.”

“What kind of experiment?” Toby laughed and shook his head when Garran laid out his plan. “You have a devious mind, kid. You’ll make a fine agent.”

“That’s what I keep telling everyone.” Garran turned to leave then stopped. “So that thing with Bruno was just part of your farce?”

Toby glared. “Oh no, that goose has had it in for me since I started. He’s out to get me, no question about it.”

CHAPTER 4

Just getting off the university grounds took half an hour of swift walking. Garran had considered flagging down one of the many hirable coaches to take him across the city, but he only possessed the few coins he had stolen from Gregor’s safe, and he did not know how much he would have to spend to facilitate his schemes. Prostitutes could be hard negotiators when they had something you wanted. Cyril was supposed to release his earnings to him after he discharged him from service, but apparently the bill he ran up during his day-long partying justified withholding it. Garran thought it a rather flimsy excuse.

There were some brothels closer to the university, but those were in the wealthier district and of a higher class than Garran required for his purposes. What he needed was located in the worst dredges of the city. Once his feet started to ache and the day began sliding into evening, Garran once again reconsidered his options. The university’s strict rules must have been rubbing off on him. He waited for the next carriage to pass by, ran alongside it, and perched on the running board or simply clung to the back until the driver or occupant took notice and ordered him off, some going so far as to prod him with buggy whip, cane, or parasol. The urban stowaway had to make several transfers to reach the seedier part of town, but it cut his time and effort by a considerable amount.

Garran entered one of the brothels he had become acquainted with during his mad dash to fulfill as many deviant desires as he could in the short time he had. The parlor was awash in red velvet-upholstered furniture and carpets. Lewd paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. An overweight, aging woman wearing far too much makeup and perfume waddled across the floor, bearing an enormous smile.

“Cyril, how wonderful to see you again!”

“Huh, oh…right,” Garran said, remembering his previous alias. “Hello, Berta.”

“Come to try out more of my girls?”

“Something like that, but not quite.”

“Oh, one of my boys then,” Berta replied with a knowing wink.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I need to speak with one of your girls.”

“Oh, who’s that?”

“No one in particular, just whoever is the most infectious, disease-ridden harlot in your employ.”

Berta dropped her smile and scowled. “I run a decent business with clean girls and fancy boys. I assure you, none of them are diseased.”

“Come on, Berta, you and I both know this isn’t a top-quality establishment. I’m not here to cause you any trouble or hurt your business. I just need the help of someone fitting that description. Surely someone contracts something from time to time.”

“Well, I have one girl, Debbie, who serviced some Sornese sailors and caught a case of root rotter, but she’s taking medicine and is offline until it clears up.”

“May I speak with her?”

“I suppose,” Berta relented. “She’s upstairs, third door on the right.”

“Thank you, Berta.”

Garran bounded up the stairs, knocked on the door as he pushed it open, and walked inside.

“Sorry, honey, I’m not working right now.”

“I know,” Garran replied and closed the door behind him. “Berta sent me up. I want to buy something of yours.”

The woman cocked her head and cocked an eyebrow. “What do I own that you could possibly want to buy?”

“Your knickers.”

“My what?”

“Your underwear, preferably the ones you are wearing or another pair you have not yet laundered.”

“Look, I understand people have some odd kinks, but you don’t want my underwear.”

“I know about your condition, which is precisely why I want them. Trust me, it’s not a kink. I have a practical use for them and…what they contain.”

“What use could you have for…what they contain?”

“Is it important for you to know? I’m willing to pay you more than the cost for a pair of bloomers.”

Debbie sat down on the edge of her bed and gave Garran a crooked smile. “I can’t be certain of their real value unless I know what you plan to do with them.”

Garran gritted his teeth and muttered, “Goddam greedy whores.”

“That disparaging remark just cost you a few more dinarins.”

“Shit, fine,” he relented. “Have you heard of biological warfare?” The prostitute gave him a blank stare. “Of course you haven’t. During the Hillman War, the hillfolk retreated into the rocky base of the highlands, taking refuge behind nearly impenetrable natural fortifications. Someone got the idea of launching dead, diseased farm animals from catapults to sicken and drive them out.”

“How do you know that?”

“I read it in my stupid history book. It turns out there’s some interesting things in there, but it doesn’t matter. That is why I want your underwear.”

“You want to fling my knickers from a catapult to make people sick?”

“Sort of. My actual method of delivery will be much more subtle.”

She considered Garran’s offer for a moment before answering. “Okay, I’ll sell them to you.”

Garran smiled. “Wonderful, how much?”

“Twenty dinarins.”

Garran took a step back as if she had slapped him. “Twenty dinarins? They cost one at most!”

Debbie shrugged and smiled. “Consider the rest a greedy whore tax.”

“You’re not the only diseased whore in town, you know!”

“No, but I’m the only one in this room, and I assure you, none of the others got it as bad as I do.”

Garran jammed his hand into his pocket and fingered the coins within. It was going to cost him almost everything he had, but it was that or go look elsewhere, and he had other things to do tonight.

“Fine.”

Garran pulled out a fistful of coins and counted them out onto her nightstand. Debbie slipped off the underwear from beneath her robe and held them out. Garran took an involuntary step away and searched the room for something to put them in. He spotted a small sack on the dresser, dumped the contents, and held it open at arm’s length.

“Just drop them in here.”

Debbie curled her lip and shoved them inside. Garran looked at the bag dubiously, found another small sack, and stuffed the bag containing the underwear inside it.

“Hey, stop dumping out all my stuff and stealing my sacks!” Debbie protested.

“I gave you plenty to replace them.”

“You only paid for my bloomers. The bags cost extra.”

Garran’s face darkened and he stormed across the room toward the nightstand. Thinking he was going to take back his money, Debbie lurched after him in an attempt to block him. Garran pushed her aside and swept the coins off the nightstand. They struck the floor, rolled, and clattered every which way.

“You’re good on your knees. Have fun picking those up,” he snarled.

“You prick!” Debbie screeched, shoved her hand beneath her robe, and lunged at Garran with her fingers outstretched. “I’ll show you biological warfare!”

Garran reeled away and grabbed her arm just below the elbow, desperately trying to keep the tainted digits away from his face. “Get off me, you dirty slut!”

Debbie clawed at him with her free hand then tried to kick him in the groin. Garran slapped at her raking claws with the hand clutching the bag and twisted away from the maiming kick. He lashed out and kicked her in the crotch. Debbie cried out and stumbled back. Garran took advantage of her distraction and raced for the door. The whore screeched again and lunged after him. Garran ripped the door open, darted through, and tried to slam it shut. Debbie howled in pain when the door closed on her outstretched arm.

“Get back here, you sonofabitch!” she shouted at Garran as he fled down the stairs.

Garran paused halfway down the steps and shouted back, “Go wash your hands, you skank!”

He resumed his flight as Debbie sprinted after him.

“Cyril, Debbie, what’s going on?” Berta asked as the pair ran through the parlor.

Garran shouted over his shoulder, “That bitch is crazy! You better check her for syphilis too!”

A vase shattered against the doorframe just as he leapt through, peppering his neck and the back of his head with shards of pottery. Once safely out on the street, Garran wiped the back of his head with his hand and felt blood. He walked over to a watering trough and cleaned his hands and face just in case the harlot had managed to touch him. He then swished his shoe in the water just to be safe.

“Goddam crazy, greedy whores!” Garran muttered as he stormed down the street.

The stress of dealing with the psychotic prostitute spiked his desire for a drink to a level impossible to ignore. Garran searched amongst the signs painted in windows and hanging on walls until he found the one he sought. A bell hanging over the doorway chimed when he entered the liquor store. Bottles of every conceivable type of booze lined the shelves behind the store’s long counter. Garran thought this must be what heaven looked like.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked.

The storeowner was rail thin and haggard, as if he enjoyed far too much of his inventory. His eyes were jaundiced, and tiny veins spiderwebbed across his face like red and purple marbling.

“I’m looking for some inexpensive liquor.”

The man grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him and plunked it down onto the counter. “Eight dinarins.”

“Eight? That’s twice what I’d pay in Wooder’s Bend!”

“I don’t know where that is, but I’m guessing it’s a tiny turd of a town too far out to be bothered with paying the tax. I got beer, ale, and some really shitty wine for less.”

Garran scowled. He wasn’t above drinking the foulest of swill beer or wine, but he did not get nearly the mileage from the weak alcohol that he did from properly distilled spirits. Besides, he could not afford to spend half the day running to the privy between classes. Garran fondled the few coins still in his pocket. His fingers brushed something other than a coin. He pulled out the pin he had stolen from the dean and stared, his shrewd mind running a gamut of options, each one more nefarious than the other.

“I suddenly remember somewhere else I need to be.”

Garran jogged down the street and, after covering more than a mile and making several inquiries, found what he was looking for. A street troupe was just packing away their costumes, disassembling the few shabby backdrops, and loading them into a wagon. He approached the woman who was giving directions and appeared to be in charge.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Garran said as he jogged up.

The woman turned toward him. “What is it, sweetie?”

She was tall and thin, and the only feature more prominent than her high cheekbones was her Adam’s apple.

Garran stared, mesmerized as it bobbed up and down like a hypnotist’s swinging pendulum. He had heard of benders, he suspected he even saw one or two at the brothel, but he had never been this close or talked to one before.     

She snapped her fingers in front of Garran’s face. “Hello, I’m a little busy here.”

Garran shook his head and forced his eyes to meet hers—his—whatever. “Uh, yes, I need your help with something.”

“If it’s girl troubles, you’ve come to the wrong place, sweetie.”

“No, I need some makeup help.”

“Then you have come to the right place.” She pursed her lips. “How much can you pay?”

“I’ve got six dinarins.”

The thespian sighed. “Well, it’s damn near what we made all day, so I can’t hardly refuse. Damn armpit of a district.”

“Why don’t you set up in a better spot?”

“We’re not Guild affiliated. Only those with a Guild charter get to work the nicer neighborhoods.”

“Can’t you get a charter?”

“Look at us, honey, we don’t meet their standards. Damn shame really. Some of my people are the best actors you’ll see, but none of us has the connections or coin to get a charter. Goddam crooked elitist bastards. Pardon my Opatian. My name is Barbara, by the way.”

“It is?”

“It is now.”

“I’m Garran.”

“Aw, you poor thing.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s spelled different.”

“I’m sure it is, sweetie.” She led Garran into an enclosed wagon favored by performers and circuses. “So, what am I doing with you?”

“I need something so people with a passing familiarity with my face won’t recognize me. I was thinking maybe a hair dye and mustache.”

“I can do that and maybe one better. Sit still while I work my magic.”

Barbara started on his hair, brushing it into some semblance of respectability. Garran winced often when the brush hung up in the numerous tangles. Once tamed and orderly, she wetted the brush, rubbed it into a tin of black soot, and tinted his hair. She then pulled out a box and flipped open the lid. Inside were strips of leather of varying shapes and sizes and a host of makeup supplies.

“What are those?” Garran asked when Barbara selected a few of the leather pieces.

“I’m going to change the shape of your face. You don’t want anyone to recognize you, right?”

“No, definitely not.”