Fenn thought on it. “No promises,” he said finally. “But I’ll do what I can.”
“You have guts of iron, to come before me with this request.”
“I have many faults, but a lack of guts - iron and otherwise, isn’t one of them. So, as a sign of respect for my steel innards...could you ask your boys to lower their blades?”
Ogeron the Brick glared at Fenn. H was somewhere on the far side of fifty, though Fenn had no sense of a more specific number. A big man in very sense of the words, near seven feet in height, barrel-chested, with fists the size of plates. In the days when he was the terror of the Gardelaar back alleys, those fists were the only weapon he ever needed, a blow from one enough to crack a man’s skull, break his neck and drop him dead in the street. Back then, he went about his business wearing a leather vest on which hung the shattered teeth and severed ears of his enemies. The mere cry ‘the Brick is coming!’ was enough to clear entire blocks.
No sign of the vest this day, the leader of the Crescent Lords wearing instead a respectable linen shirt and a dark blue jacket of fine weave. They were in his house in the Campesal, a three-story structure that formerly belonged to a minor nobleman. No sign of his family - the Brick had wed the daughter of a prominent merchant as part of his bid to gain respectability in the eyes of the great and good. No longer a gang leader of brutal reputation (though his power over the Crescent crews remained unchallenged...at least for now) but a man of affairs, welcome in the houses of the wealthy and well-bred alike.
Small wonder many in the street thought the man had gone soft. He certainly looked more careworn than before, more lines of his face, a slight stoop in his posture now. The big hands remained the same, the right one festooned with rings, while the left was wrapped in a bandage that smelled strongtly of liniment. Fenn heard a rumor that Ogeron met with two of his lieutenants who’d expressed concerns about his decisions, with their bodies found in the gutters of the Gardelaar a day later. No a good sign...in the old days the mere threat of a beating from the Brick would have made them recant their words long before the first punch was thrown…
Ogeron glared at him. “Sun shall rise,” he said.
Fenn’s eyebrows raised. The Old Oath...a tradition of thieves across this continent of Tyberia, even in far Ruaad, or he heard. Say the words, give the countersign, and a truce sacred and inviolable was in effect. Any violence inflicted after the oath was in effect was a mark of great dishonor, a sign that the violator’s word was worthless. (Which didn't stop skags from trying it...particularly if there were no other witnesses present…)
For those who walked the shady side, there was no greater stigma than to be labeled an oathbreaker (even spies weren’t as despised.) To break the Old Oath was to bring a death mark on ones head.
“Until the final day,” Fenn said, completing the oath.
Ogeron glanced at his men and nodded. The pair of knives pressed in the small of Fenn’s back and the blade pressed against his throat fell away, their owners stepped back and sheathing their weapons.
“Isn’t this a bit excessive?” Fenn asked, glancing at the men.
“Strange times, Fenn Aquila. At least this day you came in the front door instead of trying to stab me in my bath.”
“If I wanted to kill you I would have,” Fenn shot back. “That whole bit of nonsense was just to get your attention.”
“Well, you have it then,” the Brick sht back. “And you have it now. What do you want?”
“I'm here as a go-between, on behalf of Crekus Brin…”
“You know Crekus Brin?” Ogeron scoffed.
Fenn ignored the interruption “He wants a meeting with you.”
“He kills one of my men, stakes him out like a highwayman at the city gate, and now he wants to talk?”
“Brin swears he had nothing to do with it,” Fenn said. “And I believe him.”
“Of course! He’s a liar and you’re an idiot!”
“Putting the insults aside, it would be in everyone’s interest for you to meet and sort this out before you get pitched into another war.” Fenn crossed his arms, meeting the Bricks’s angry eyes. “How is your hand, bye the bye? Strange to see it all banged up.”
“Just a sprained finger,” Ogeron growled back. “I like to get my hands dirty. Just because I live in a fine house and dress like a man doesn’t mean I forgot where I come from! Any man who says otherwise best remember, I got two hands! And my right has the killer punch in it!” The last was aimed at the guards by the door as much as it was at Fenn.
“Still, you can’t go toe to toe with Brin’s Boy’s right now, not after you just settled things with the Docksiders. And Brin’s coffers are full and his people ready to die for him. The Crescent’s are still catching their breath…”
“The Crescents can take any son of a bitch that thinks to stand against us!” Ogeron roared. “You saw all the Docksiders we left bleeding in the streets!”
“They left plenty of yours bleeding as well.” Fenn refused to be rattled. “Right now, they are just as banged up as you are. They are using the peace to rebuild their strength, just as you are. But if you throw yourself into a fight with Crekus Brin, you’ll bleed out whatever strength you have left, and the Docksiders come afterwards and take you down.”
“And you think I should let Brin kill my men without punishment?”
“Brin has no interest in the Gardelaar,” Fenn said. “His concerns begin and end with Saint Barelin. Hear him out, that’s all I’m saying. He doesn’t want a war and right now you can’t afford one. Otherwise, the only one who wins are your real enemies.”
Ogeron’s face twisted into a sour grimace. His good right hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed “Fight,” he said. “We’ll meet. Where and when?”
“Tomorrow night, an hour after sunset, Hog Lane, by the Fishmark. Bring five of your men for protection, he’ll do the same. And we settle this without anymore killing.”
Ogeron nodded. “Very well. Terms are fair. For a lowborn gutter skag, you are full of surprises, Fenn Aquila!”
“I aim to please,” Fenn shot back, feeling pleased with himself
Hog Lane was marked at its easternmost terminus by an ancient bronze statue of a warrior with a tall crested helm, brandishing a spear on one hand, and in the other a trio of fish on hooks. An inscription on the plinth declared that the status was discovered some two hundred years previously by men in the employ of a Lord Fastaarfa (who would otherwise not be remembered at all today save by a few antiquarian historians) in the western hills of Adelaan, and subsequently taken as spoils in some forgotten war. Years of wind, rain and bird droppings turned the once brilliant bronze into a tarnished, pitted green.
The locals called it the Fishmark, and used it as a convenient landmark. During the day it was a gathering point for vendors and peddlers of every stripe. At night the area was deserted save for those willing to brave the streets along the Gardelaar after dark, and those who preyed on them. But on this night word had gone out, and any bellringers or headbreakers out for an easy lay gave the place a wide berth.
By previous arrangement, both parties arrived at the same time. The Brick emerged from the Campesal flanked by two guards and three of his lieutenants. Crekus Brin came out from Saint Barelin on a litter carried by a pair of sweating bearers, three of his boys marching along side, keeping a sharp eye on the neighborhood to the south.
Feen stood by the statue. His looked south, sensing if not exactly seeing the many faces watching this from the shadows. A public meeting like this would not go unnoticed, nor was it meant to. Rumor would do its work once a decision was made.
“Right,” Fenn said, as both parties sized each other up. “You’re here. So talk.”
Crekus coughed, and with a grimace dismounted from the litter, one of the guards offering him a shoulder to lean on. “Ogeron the Brick,” he said in a wheezy voice. “You’re bigger than I expected.”
“Crekus Brin,” the Brick replied.”You look
half-dead.”
“Not just yet,” Brn replied. “Hear me now. I don’t have much time, as you can see, so I’ll get to the point. We had nothing to do with your man being killed.”
“I hear otherwise. Your name was painted in his blood before the Red Cat.”
“Think on it. You know my reputation. Something like that is asking for a war with you, and why would I want that? The Gardelaar is yours, and you are welcome to it!”
Ogeron glanced at his underlings, who looked unconvinced. “So if it wasn’t you,” he said, “than who gutted Lukas the Lucky?”
“I reckon the same fellows who attacked the Docksider’s holeup on Scotta’s Way,” Brin said. “They painted the Crescent mark in blood on the wall after. Someone who wants all of us at each other’s throats. Ask yourself, who might stand to gain if the truce is broken and my people are dragged into the fight as well?”
Ogeron rubbing his chin. “The Stone Rats?” he suggested. “Maybe Sarn’s belly is too big for his shirt.”
“Or many it's someone else” Brin responded. “A new group in the city, staying in the shadows, waiting for all of us to be bled white before stepping out.”
“You have a name for this new batch of players?”
“If I did I’d tell you. I can only point to all the violence, and ask who benefits? It isn't me and it isn't you or the Docksiders. So it must be someone else…”
They heard it first, a hissing, squealing sound. A smoking bundle dropped down in the street, flug from the rooftops above. Fenn looked up, reaching for a pistol, ad saw a head drop down out of sight. A moment later he was shielding his eyes as the bundle burst with a loud pop, filling the street with a cloud of smoke.
Fenn coughed as he pulled his gun. Shouts sounded behind and to the front, and through the haze he saw men running towards them. Shots rang out, and he ducked down as pistol balls whicked past.
“Ambush! We are betrayed!” Ogeron’s voice rang out. Fenn raised up his pistol and fired at the men charging at them. He heard a cry of pain, but whether or not it was from his shot he could not tell. He turned around, opening his mouth to call out a warning, to tell the others to run while they could, it was a set up…
Another shot rang out. Ogeron staggered towards him, clutching a bleeding wound in his belly. After a moment he fell to the ground. Behind him stood one of his lieutenants, holding a smoking shooting iron. He tossed it aside, smirking as he caught Fenn’s eyes. Then he pointed a finger.
“He did it!” the man bellowed. “Fenn Aquila shot the Brick! Betrayal, he set this up!”
“No!” Fenn shouted back. “It’s a lie! Brin, tell then…” He looked over and saw Brin and his boys headed back into Saint Barelin, leaving the litter behind, Brin leaning on the shoulders of one while the others covered their rear. One of them pointed at Fenn, then with a scowl drew his finger across his throat.
Bugger all… Fell looked back down the street, and saw the attackers running away. They weren’t going to wait...why stay, when the work was already done?
“Get that backstabbing son of a bitch!” The man who shot Ogeron knelt at his side, cradling his head in one arm while pointing at Fenn. The other Crescent had their weapons out. One took aim with a pistol, tears streaming down his face and fired. Fenn ducked, the shot barely missing him, shouting that he was innocent, he didn't do it, but the Crescents were in no mood to listen. One raised up a blunderbuss and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped forward, the flint sparked against the steel, but the primer did not flash. With a curse he flung the gun aside and drew a heavy curved blade.
The Crescents advanced on Fenn, swords drawn and ready to kill. Fenn raised his hand, the pistol dangling from his finger. There was only one thing that could be done.
He turned and ran into the Gardelaar.
Chapter Six
“Fifty aurins! That’s right, you heard me! Fifty gold aurins to whoever brings the head of Fenn Aquila to the Crescent Lords. And a hundred gold aurins if he is brought in alive!”
The cry went out across the Gardelaar and beyond, borne on the wind and the bellowed voices of the criers standing on every street corner. Sitting in the cellar of the abandoned building, Fenn heard the words drift down from the streets above. Every sentence, every syllable stabbing into him like a knife.
“Fifty aurins for the head of Fenn Aquila! Hear these words! Fenn Aquila has the death mark on him by order of Ogeron the Brick! The friendship of the Crescent Lords to the one who brings him to face our wrath! Eternal hatred to the one that offers him shelter…”
So the Brick was alive. Or at least the powers that be among the Crescents wanted the world to think he was, while they sorted out the succession. Either way it was bad for him.
He’d escaped the Crescents easily enough, and found a place to hide until dawn. But by the time the sun had crept above the horizon the word was already out. Fenn Aquila had tried to assassinate Ogeron the Brick and Crekus Brin. No word on how Brin’s Boys were reacting, but it was a safe bet he was a dead man the moment he crossed over Hog Lane.
He’d moved on, pilfering a cloak from a washline and hobbling through the street coughing like a beggar, smearing grime on his face to aid in the disguise. It was good enough to fool one of the urchins that swarmed the Gardelaar like fleas on a dog - the boy did not recognize him. He arranged for a message to be sent to Red Eye. Just one word...waterwell. A private code between them, only to be used in a moment of great need. No reply came back, and Fenn could only assume, and hope, it went through.
Which is why he found himself in this cellar, only minutes before sunset. At one point it was a warehouse, until the rot in the roofbeams reach the point that they couldn't support the structure above and it collapsed. No attempt was made to repair it, the owner apparently different to the state of his property. The owner was Red Eye, and while the walls and roof were a ruin, the cellar was still intact, and served as a bolt hole in times of trouble, known only to his closest friends and associates.
Crates filled with emergency supplies were stacked in one corner. Fenn held a piece of hardtack on one hand, gnawing on it and watching down the crumbs with swings of water from a canteen.
“Fifty gold aurins...the head of Fenn…”
The cries voice drifted away. Fenn leaned against the wall of the cellar and closed his eyes for a moment. “How did it come to this?” he muttered. How quickly a man’s fortunes could change in this uncaring world...
Footsteps creaked upstairs. He opened his eyes and drew the long knife. He went to the door and pressed back against the wall, qut as a mouse.
The door opened, and Red Eye entered. “Fenn?” he called out. “You here?”
Then he turned around and saw Fenn, knife in hand. “If that’s how you greet your friends…”
“Had to tell who is a friend, these days.” Fenn put the knife away and close the door. “You got the message?”
“Aye.” Red Eye crossed his arms. “Took a while to find me.”
Fenn nodded and slumped down onto the floor. He hadn’t slept more than an hour in the past two days. “I didn’t do it, Red. It was a setup...the Brick was shot by one of his own men. Black Farlann, I think, but I didn't get a good look at his face in that smoke…”
“Black Farlann’s dead,” Red Eye said. “So’s Handsome Harri and Jenk the Dancer. And that just this afternoon. The Crescents are having a blood dance right now. All kinds of rumors are flying.”
Fenn winced. Those names were known far and wide, the most powerful captains among the Crescents. Any one would expect to take the Brick’s place if he fell. “So, Ogeron is dead?”
“I don’t know. The line coming down is that he’s alive, but badly hurt. Giving the fare-thee-well happening among his people right now, he may as well be dead. The Crescents are tearing themselves apart. Well done, Fenn.”
“Suns and Spirits, I had nothing to do with it!” Fenn shook his head. “You don't believe me.”
“Makes no difference either w
ay. I don’t weep at the passing of Ogeron the Brick. But I have a lot of eyes on me now. People know we are friends, and they’re asking me where you are. Fifty aurins is a lot of money Fenn.”
A prickle of fear gathered in the back of his mind. “For some people. Not for you...”
“Have no fear, Aquila, if I was going to sell you to the Crescents, Harald would be here instead of me, with a mob of bully boys. But if you’re looking to me to settle this, you’re wasting your words. This goes beyond my power on the shady side, my lad.” Red Eye shook his head. “You have to leave Galadorn.”
Fenn groaned, burying his face in his hands. “There is no other way?” he asked, knowing the answer all too well.
“You can go out in the street and die the moment someone sees your face.”
“How do I get out of the city? Can you help…”
But Red Eye shook his head. “I’m being watched Fenn. It was hard enough to get here without being tailed. The people I’d speak to for a job like that, they’d also turn you in for the bounty. You’ll have to find your own exit, Fenn.” He paused a moment, and then there was an edge in his voice. “Maybe you should ask your new friends in the Palace. It’s the least they can do.”
Fenn stood up. “How long have you known?” he asked.
“That you were a spy? Since that business with the girl and the Red Shadows. You’ve been acting odd since then, disappearing for days at a time, and no one I spoke with could put you on a lay that a rightful skag would be a part of. I have contacts in places beyond the shady side of things, and one of them confirmed it.”
“And you said nothing.”
Red Eye shrugged. “I don't have many friends, Fenn, and I value them greatly. Besides, you’re a clever lad, I figured you’d find a way out of it. No one from our side of things bends the knee to the Prince’s spymaster willingly.”
He turned away, and after a moment went to a corner of the cellar where several crates were stacked. He pushed them away, revealing a trapdoor in the floor. “There’s a tunnel under the floor,” Red Eye said. “It will take you into the sewers, just follow the smell. Follow it to the end, then take a right, then follow that to another junction. You’ll see a set of stairs taking you up to a maintenance shed in Setorin. My last favor to you, Fenn.”
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