The Miscreant (23 page)

“Then open your mouth.”

Garran opened his mouth, and Barbara placed the leather strips between his cheeks, lips, and gums. It was a strange feeling, and the leather left a salty taste in his mouth. She then chose a fake mustache, applied some gum to Garran’s upper lip, and pressed it into place. Barbara leaned back to admire her handiwork before going to work with the makeup brushes. She grabbed a hand mirror and held it up for Garran to see.

“Wow, I look like a completely different person,” Garran said as he turned his face from side to side in the mirror.

“You look a good five years older and almost handsome.”

“Almost handsome…thanks.”

“Well, when you give a painter a burlap sack instead of a canvas, don’t blame the artist for a terrible portrait.”

“Again, thanks.”

“So who are you pretending to be to pull off your little scheme?”

Garran grinned and rolled his eyes. “An agent.”

He did not register the slap until the sound of flesh slapping flesh reached his ears and his cheek started burning. “Wrong!”                

Garran’s hand flew to his wounded face. “What the hell?”

“A true actor never pretends to be anyone. He becomes that person until he even convinces himself that’s who he is. I’m guessing this is going to be dangerous?”

“Yeah, it could be.”

“Then you cannot pretend to be an agent, you must be an agent. I bet the people you are trying to fool would know the difference between an agent and a pretend agent. Am I right?”

“Probably.”

“Then you need to become that person. Pretending won’t cut it, and I don’t want you to get hurt. You have character and, when you’re surrounded by actors all day, that’s a rare thing. If you ever want to stop by for something other than makeup lessons let me know.”

“Yeah…I talk a good game, but I’m pretty set on the ladies.”

Barbara shrugged. “Suit yourself, but if you decide to get off the bench and play ball, you know where to find me.”

“Pun intended?”

“Always.”

***

Garran had a good idea where to go thanks to his wild foray the night before Cyril dumped him in Agent Ward’s office. All he needed to do was find a less than scrupulous alcohol purveyor. Given the general lawlessness of the district, he doubted it would take long. He chose a tavern whose building looked to be three-quarters storage area. Not many bars needed to keep this much product on hand unless they were distributing it in far greater quantities than by the glass.

Two men stood guard outside the storeroom’s alley entrance, so Garran decided on a frontal assault. A wave of noise greeted his arrival when he stepped into the enormous bar. Despite serving well over a hundred patrons, the stockroom was large enough to supply a dozen establishments this size if it was filled anywhere near to capacity.

Garran looked to the raised stage where a full band was playing and a woman in a dress suited for a formal ball was singing, her strong voice barely audible over the general din near the doorway. He strode up to the expansive bar near one corner but did not attempt to flag down any of the four bartenders on duty. Garran stood just behind the patrons lining the bar and watched, choosing his moment to act.

When a nearby customer ordered a drink Garran recognized as being particularly potent, he leaned in with a tobacco twist in his fingers, pushed between a pair of men, and reached for the candle sitting lit in a glass on the bar. Garran touched a tinder stick to the flame and bumped the powerful drink with his elbow, sloshing its contents onto the counter.

“Watch what you’re doing, you damn fool!” the man barked. “You owe me another drink!”

“I am so sorry,” Garran said.

The irate man wadded up Garran’s lapels and pushed him away from the bar. Garran dropped his burning tinder stick into the flammable spill as he stumbled back. The small flame ignited the whiskey with an audible whoosh and set the bar on fire. Several patrons jumped away as the bartenders grabbed water and towels to smother the flames.

Garran melted away into the crowd, many of whom were cheering the spectacle, and threaded his way to the door leading into the storeroom next to the bar. He pushed through the door and quickly closed it behind him. The storeroom was dim and only partially lit by a few oil lanterns.

Taking a lantern off a peg, he browsed amongst the wooden crates, wine racks, and kegs. He skipped over the bulk of the inventory and made his way deeper into the cavernous warehouse. He selected crates bearing the mark of the more expensive and prestigious brewers. As he gazed at the small casks of aged whiskey, he wished he had a wagon. With a sigh of regret, Garran found a burlap sack, pried the lid off of a crate of twenty-year-old Opatian amber malt, and stuffed them into the sack along with some straw padding.

“Friend, you picked one of the more painful methods of suicide available.”

Garran nearly dropped his bag and spun around. Four men wielding clubs and knives stood just a few paces away. The speaker turned up the wick on his lantern, illuminating a large patch of the warehouse’s dank interior. Garran’s ability not to balk in the face of danger and maintain his stony façade might have impressed even Barbara’s high standards. Garran recognized the speaker of the group as one of the men who chased him after his bad bout of gambling. He just prayed the man did not recognize him as well.

“Gentlemen, you have a very nice selection of fine alcohol here. The only problem is that I don’t see a customs stamp on most of it. The king doesn’t like it when people don’t cut him his due, especially since he needs the coin to finance his new trade road. Smuggling alcohol is not only illegal, it’s downright unpatriotic.”

The man squinted, raised his lantern, and took a step forward. “Who the hell are you?”

Garran turned the lapel of his coat out and displayed the silver pin. “Agent Rupert Ellery. You boys are in a lot of trouble.”

Several sets of eyes shifted nervously between faces. “It looks to me that you’re the one in trouble.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Garran warned. “Do you think I’m here by myself? There are three other agents watching the entrances from across the street.”

“They ain’t here now, and they ain’t gonna be able to arrive fast enough to save you.”

“What do you think would happen if you killed an agent? You would bring down the full might of the diplomatic corps right on top of your heads. We’ve toppled entire governments. What do you think we could do to a bunch of bootlegging tax evaders? But I don’t think we need to go that far.” Garran looked around the room. “You’ve got tens of thousands of dinarins worth of tax-free booze. How about we work out a deal where you let me get a taste of your inventory, and my friends and I consider you paid up?”

The thug and his cohorts relaxed. It was a simple shakedown, and those were cheaper and easier to handle than dealing with the serious attention killing an agent would bring. Their organization already had numerous members of the constabulary on payroll. Enlisting an agent to their ranks would be worth a great deal.

“What about your friends?”

Garran hefted his sack. “Why do you think I brought a bag?”

“All right. We can work with that, but you keep us informed if the corps thinks about cracking down on us.”

Garran smiled and turned back to the shelves. “Trust me; I want you to stay in business every bit as much as you do.” He opened another crate and was momentarily dumbstruck at what it held. Garran lifted the paper-wrapped bar of opium. “Oh, baby, come to papa. I’ll save you from these bad men,” he crooned and added it reverently to the bag.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and tried to slap the hand away. “Back up, I know what I’m after.” Someone poked him again, and Garran spun around.

“Hello,
Cyril
.”

Garran swallowed as he stared into Edmund Coulain’s dark, unforgiving eyes. “I’m sorry; I think you are mistaking me for someone else. I am Agent Rupert Ellery with the diplomatic corps.” Garran looked at the men boxing him in and hefted his sack. “I think our business is concluded. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

Edmund stopped Garran’s retreat with a stiff finger to his chest. “Our business is just beginning. Let’s start off with your real name.”

“I told you, I’m Agent Ellery.”

Edmund shook his head. “Lies are only going to bring you pain.” He reached up and tore Garran’s mustache off. “Last time your name was Cyril, but we both know that’s not it. Tell me who you really are.”

“I told you. Rupert Ellery.”

Edmund clamped a hand over Garran’s genitals and squeezed. “Try again.”

“Ow! Okay, okay, my name is Lanny Ward! I’m Agent Ward’s nephew. I go under the name of Rupert Ellery because Gregor doesn’t want anyone knowing we are related. That’s why he was willing to do a favor to keep you from hurting me even though I’m a bit of an embarrassment.”

“Well, at least you are honest about one thing.” Edmund squeezed harder. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t about your name.”

“Gah! Holt, Garran Holt! Shit, are you a criminal or goddam juice press?”

Edmund released his grip. “That I believe. What are you doing here stealing from me? Do you have a death wish?”

Garran bent over and held his abused privates. “My poor lemons! I was broke, sober, and desperate to correct the situation.”

“I need to know your real connection with Agent Ward before I toss your body into the sewers.”

“I’m his protégé or something. He got me into the university to become an agent so, you see, I really am valuable. Not just to him but to you also. Everything I told your man is true, sort of, just not right now. Let me live. Call it an investment in both our futures.”

“You’re a student at the university?”

“I am, and I’m about to become a prefect.”

“Really, already?”

Garran shrugged. “I’ve got skills.”

He flinched when Edmund stepped close, but the mafia man draped an arm over his shoulder. “I think we can come to terms, you and me. You see, I have been trying to open a corridor onto the school grounds for quite some time, but I have met with a great deal of resistance.” He turned to the shelf and stuffed several more bricks of rendered opium into Garran’s bag. “Establish a market for me on campus, and I will make sure you are never sober or desperate again. Deal?”

“Hell yes!”

Edmund stuck his finger in Garran’s face. “You are to sell this, not smoke the entire damn inventory yourself.”

Garran looked at the bag and the several pounds of drugs it contained. “You might want to toss in a couple more then…”

Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. “One of my people will contact you. Remember, I have eyes everywhere. Do not even think about double-crossing me. This is the second time I have spared your foolish life. I will not do so a third time.”

“Hey, I’m all in. You have nothing to worry about.” Garran hefted the sack onto his shoulder and staggered beneath the weight. “Hey, do you think someone could give me a ride?”

***

Edmund’s coach dropped him off as near the university grounds as he could get. This left Garran to walk more than a mile with a seventy-pound sack of booze and drugs draped over his shoulder. It was getting late, and Garran did not see any light streaming through Toby’s window, so he assumed the groundskeeper was already asleep.

Garran entered the large storage barn and found a good spot behind the irrigation pipes in which to store his loot. He selected a bottle of whiskey, filled his opium pipe, and sat down to obliterate all the stress he had accumulated over the past few days.

CHAPTER 5

Garran awoke to the sound of clanging metal and off-key singing. He forced his eyes open and peered into the gray gloom. Light from the open barn door allowed him some measure of visibility. The severely hungover teen crawled to his feet and staggered toward the door, bouncing painfully off the pipe racks and shelves.

Toby spotted him as he lurched into the light and grinned. “You’re alive!”

Garran shielded his eyes from the searing daylight. “Unfortunately. What time is it?”

“It’s around the tenth hour.”

“Crap, I’m late for class.”

Toby laughed. “Yeah, you are!”

Garran sighed and looked out toward the classrooms. “Thanks for letting me sleep it off and not making a thing out of it.”

“Hey, I’ve lost three out of five fights with a bird. It’s not my place to judge. Besides, I think a man has the right to set his own path, even it leads him off a cliff.”

Garran flashed Toby a thumbs up and shuffled toward the dorms. He forced aside the pounding pain in his head and the queasiness in his stomach. He had only a few more days to enact his plan to get Martin kicked out and take his place.

“Holt!” someone shouted.

Garran turned and saw Aniston jogging toward him, apparently spotting him as he walked to his next class. Aniston grabbed him by the elbow.

“Where have you been?”

“I was out. I know I’m late for class.”

“Late? No one has seen you for two days!” 

Garran blinked stupidly. “Two days? Aw hell. Sorry, I guess I went on a bit of a bender.”

“Get your shit together, Holt,” Aniston snapped. “If you’re right, Professor Lyndon is springing his test on us after the weekend.”

“Don’t worry, I got it handled.” Garran fished a glass vial out of his pocket and gave it to Aniston. “Pour that into Martin’s glass at dinner tonight.”

“You can’t kill Martin! That’s not part of the deal.”

“I’m not going to kill him. That’s just moon milk to help him sleep through the night.”

Aniston looked at the cloudy liquid in the vial. “This is opium? Garran, this will get you expelled!”

“I’m not going to get expelled. How are the votes looking?”

“I’m pretty sure I had enough before you pulled this disappearing act…if you get rid of Martin and can prove you are able to lead us through our practical exams.”

“Don’t worry about me; you just make sure your part is done.”

“How can I not worry about you when you smell like a privy? What happened?”

Garran glanced down. “Yeah, I think I may have pissed myself once or twice.”

Aniston leaned away and took a step back. “Gods, you are disgusting.”

“Hey, it could be worse.”

“You’ve missed two days of school and soiled yourself like a child. How could you do any worse?”

“You ever hear the expression ‘mudbutt’?”

“No, and I’m sure I never want to.”

“You certainly do not, trust me. Since this day is pretty well shot to hell already, I’m going to go hit the baths and change clothes. Cover for me for the rest of my classes, will you?”

“Cover for you how?”

“When they call roll, just say ‘here.’”

“That is never going to work,” Aniston argued.

“Sure it will. Trust me; most of these professors don’t give a damn if we are there or not. Roll is just a bureaucratic box they have to check. They call out a name, hear a ‘here,’ check it, and move on. The tests are the only things that matter.”

“It’s the tests we’re worried about, and we are relying on a man who is currently soaked in his own urine.”

Garran patted the front of his trousers. “It’s dry…”

Aniston shook his head in disgust and walked away. “Get it together, Holt!”

“You seem stressed, Aniston,” Garran called out. “I have something to help you relax. Great, now I’m stressed.” He looked back in the direction of his stash, bent and sniffed at his own stink, sighed, and stalked off to his dorm for a change of clothes.

***

“Wake up, Holt.”

Something heavy dropped onto Garran’s stomach. He opened his eyes, bent his head up from where it rested on his pillow, and saw a plate of food resting on his belly. He sat up carefully and breathed in the aroma.

“Well, it’s not flowers, but thank you for thinking of me. Does this mean you want to go steady?”

Aniston flipped him off. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days, and I don’t want you passing out when you do whatever it is you are going to do.”

“You’ve got the weekend to get it done, Garran,” another of his dormmates said.

“You guys worry too much.”

“You do not inspire confidence,” Aniston countered.

“I’m on it. Look, I’m not even covered in my own piss anymore.”

“Your mother would be so proud.”

“You know, I think she might be.”

Garran did not realize how hungry he was until he started eating. He devoured the laden plate and wished he could go for seconds. Maybe he could find something else to eat during his evening foray. Garran skimmed over one of his textbooks while watching the increasing darkness through the dorm window.

Whenever he peered over the top of his book, he found Aniston and several of the other students watching him expectantly as if he were about to perform a magic trick. Garran ignored their demanding eyes and kept reading. Several times, Aniston started to speak, but Garran raised a finger and cut off whatever protest he was going to make.

A bell tolled a single, deep tocsin to signal lights out across the campus. Garran closed his book, set it on the nightstand next to his bed, and stood.

“Let the witching hour begin,” he declared with a smile.

Garran threw open the window, stepped onto the ledge, and slid down the drainpipe to avoid those tasked with hall monitor duty. He loped across the manicured lawns until his body issued a stern protest and forced him to walk. His burning lungs insisted that he work on getting into better shape and stop smoking opium, to which Garran’s brain issued a vicious reprimand condemning their treasonous complaints.

He was just glad that Vivian had an apartment on campus, a luxury usually afforded only to the instructors and key faculty members but, apparently, Dean Kelsey was able to bend the rules to better facilitate bending his secretary. Garran slipped the simple catch securing the shutters and slid open the window to Vivian’s home.

Careful not to kick over the vase sitting on the small table beneath the window, Garran slithered through the portal and stood inside the dark living room. He found the striker next to a lamp and lit it, turning the wick down so it only cast light a few feet.

Garran skulked around the room, searching through drawers and cabinets. He took several food items from the pantry, unhitched his trousers, and defiled them before putting them back. His spitefulness satiated, the intruder decided it was best to get down to the real business of his being there. He crept into Vivian’s bedroom and was just able to make out her sleeping form in the bed.

Paying careful attention to the sound of her breathing, Garran went to the dresser and gently opened the drawers until he found what he was looking for. Slipping a knapsack off his back, he removed all of Vivian’s underwear and stuffed them into the rucksack. He then pulled out the sack containing the crazy prostitute’s knickers and dumped the contents into the drawer. Ensuring that Vivian had no other underwear in a laundry bin or tossed onto the floor, Garran escaped through the door and disappeared into the darkness.

The faculty apartments were quite far away from the student dorms, so Garran had to endure another jog before taking a position in the bushes ringing the women’s housing. Girls only made up about ten percent of the student population and were all housed in a single unit.

Unlike the faculty apartments, the women’s dorm had roving patrols keeping a wary eye out on people like Garran. Hunkering down in the bushes planted alongside the building, he lightly shouted for help in as high a voice as he could muster. A young woman opened the door and poked her head out.

“Hello?” she called into the darkness.

Garran flung a stone down the side of the building and called out again. The girl gripped a truncheon in her hand and stepped out onto the walk.

“Hello?” she called out again and took several steps in the direction from which the sound emanated.

Garran scurried hunched over through the narrow space between the hedge and the side of the building and darted through the door. He immediately had to duck into an alcove when another hall monitor stepped into the corridor and started walking briskly toward the door.

“Gertrude, is everything okay?”

The girl Garran had lured outside stepped back through the door and closed it behind her. “Yeah, I just thought I heard something.” 

Garran dashed out of the nook and vanished around a corner as the two girls began talking. He opened the door to one of the dorm rooms and watched for a full minute to ensure everyone was asleep before stepping in. Once inside, Garran went from bunk to bunk, stealing several pairs of underwear from each of the trunks until his rucksack was stuffed full of women’s dainties.

Deciding that the window would make for an easier escape, Garran opened the latch and slid down the drain just as he had at his own dorm. He glanced up and gave the window a satisfied smile the moment his feet touched the ground. 

“What are you doing?”

Garran backpedaled and likely would have fallen had the wall not arrested his startled retreat. His eyes wide, he stared dumbfounded at the girl he thought he had tricked near the door.

“Who are you and what are you doing?”

“I’m…um…my name’s Martin. I’m a prefect over at Hayworth House.”

“Tell me what you are doing before I scream for help.”

Garran glanced over his shoulder and sighed. “I was stealing underwear. How did you catch me?”

“You aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.”

“Apparently. Why didn’t you tell on me when you saw me?”

Gertrude shrugged. “I was bored and thought you might be interesting. Why would you risk getting thrown out of school just to steal our panties?”

“I’m a hopeless deviant. I have these urges, and stealing underwear is the only way I’ve found to satisfy them.”

Gertrude stepped a little closer and traced a line down Garran’s chest with her finger. Garran could just make out her smile through the darkness. “Maybe I can help you find a better way to banish your demons.”

“Oh…uh, sorry, I’m also a hopeless fancy boy, but my friend Garran would love to do some demon taming with you. He won’t even care that you’re a little chunky and plain.”

Gertrude stepped back and scowled. “Chunky and plain?”

“I’m sorry, see, I’m terrible with women, but Garran now, he’s a master with them. He knows how to do things you wouldn’t even think of.”

“Really? Isn’t a garen some kind of fish?”

“Maybe, but I’m sure it’s spelled different. The point is, he’d love to meet you, but I can’t introduce you two if I get caught out here.”

“What will I tell the girls when they find all their knickers gone in the morning? I’m going to look like a total screw-up and get in trouble.”

“You aren’t the only one I slipped past tonight. Give me a few minutes’ head start then go up to your dorm room, discover the missing articles, and get the campus constabulary to come after me. Tell them you saw me outside but didn’t know I had been inside until you found the missing underwear.”

“You want me to turn you in?”

“Definitely.”

“Why? They will expel you.”

“I can’t control this urge, and I’m a coward as well as a deviant. It’s the only way to stop me and get the help I desperately need.”

“Why do I need to wait? I could turn you in now. It would be much more convincing.”

Garran shook his head. “No, that won’t work. I need to get off before they take me away.”

“You really are sick.”

“I am, but will you help me?”

“You’ll tell your friend about me before you get caught?”

“Definitely,” Garran promised. “I’ll leave a trail for the constables to find.”

“Okay.”

Garran smiled, leaned down, and kissed her quickly on the lips before sprinting off into the night. He pulled up in front of his house and made sure the coast was clear before darting inside and heading straight for Martin’s room. His house also had hall monitors, but they were not nearly as vigilant as the girls were, and it was easy for him to slip past them.

He opened Martin’s door and pried out the wadded paper he had used to keep it from locking properly, before entering and closing it behind him. Martin lay unconscious on his bed gripping his manhood due to the strong dose of rapture root extract mixed with opium Garran had Aniston slip him at dinner.

Using rapture root was a risky scheme. Not enough and Martin would simply have been euphoric and unusually amorous. Too much and it would have constricted his veins and arteries so much it killed him.