The Agent

by Brock E. Deskins

  The Urquan agents, the mounted ones who had used the lower passes, had pursued him halfway across Anatolia, and it appeared as though they meant to chase him right through Leva’s gates, assuming he could stay seated in the saddle long enough to reach the city.

  It had been an intense week of cat and mouse. Several times, Garran thought he had finally lost the Urquan riders only to find them hot on his heels the next day. Leva’s high walls and towers hove into view, bobbing and wavering in his sight. For a brief, nearly cognizant instant, Garran thought he might make it. His vision blurred around the edges and spread inward, darkening from red until it all went black. Garran fell against the horse’s strong neck. He became a passenger, no more in control than a pair of saddlebags.

  ***

  “What do you make of this fellow?” a gate sentry remarked when he spotted the horse trotting toward them with its rider draped across its neck.

  “Likely a drunkard,” another answered.

  “Bit early for that, don’t ya think?”

  “Not for some. At least the horse seems to know where it’s going. See if you can’t grab the reins when it comes through.”

  Four soldiers standing guard at one of the primary city gates raised their arms over their heads and tried to coax the animal to a stop. The horse slowed enough when it drew near for a pair of them to grab hold of the reins and calm it down. The other two grabbed the rider, slid him off the saddle, and laid him onto the ground.

  “I think that’s Agent Holt.”

  “What’s that stench?”

  “Yep, that’s Garran all right.”

  “No something’s gone foul. There, his leg. Cut away the trouser leg.”

  One of the soldiers drew a dagger and ran it up the seam of Garran’s pant leg, revealing the gangrenous wound. “That’s bad; we need to get him to a physic.”

  “Wait one second.” The soldier began patting Garran down from head to feet.

  “You find any other injuries?”

  “Injuries? No, the shifty bastard owes me fifty dinarins.” He stood up in disgust. “Bah, broke as usual. All right, toss him in a wagon and haul him to the physic’s. Maybe Gregor will kick in a few bits for us saving him.”

  “We haven’t saved him yet. From the looks of him, he’s got one foot in hell already. Even if he makes it, that leg will likely not come back with him.”

  “You don’t know Garran Holt. He won’t die. Neither death nor the devil wants to deal with the likes of him.”

  ***

  The carriage creaked to a halt, and Captain Owens opened the door.

  “Why are we stopping?” Damodara asked.

  “It’s a few more hours to Highrest, Your Grace, and I thought you all might like to take a minute to stretch and walk about before the last leg of our jaunt.”

  “Thank you, Captain, that is very considerate of you.”

  The carriage passengers got out and stretched while the soldiers dismounted and took up positions around the area. Marcus immediately took to exploring the limits of the perimeter.

  After a brief respite, Captain Owens ordered his men to mount back up and requested the royal party to return to the coach. Dragoslav held the door open until Damodara and Marcus entered but slammed it shut before Evelyn could join them.

  “Mr. Zeegers, what is the meaning of this?” the Queen demanded.

  Dragoslav slipped a pin in the door to secure it shut. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you and young Marcus will be making this last journey on you own.”

  “Guards, detain this man and let us out of here immediately!”

  The soldiers ignored her command, several of them even looking away to hide their shame. Captain Owens took ahold of Evelyn’s arm and pulled her away from the coach. Dragoslav climbed onto the driver’s bench and cracked the buggy whip until the horses were galloping at a dangerous pace.

  The carriage careened down the road, heedless of the passengers’ safety. A sharp bend rapidly drew near, but Dragoslav only urged the animals to greater speed with his whip. He leapt from the bench at the last second, rolling off the road and into the ditch. Damodara held Marcus tightly as the feeling of weightlessness came over them, refusing to let loose the scream desperately trying to escape her throat until horses, coach, and passengers crashed onto the rocks eighty feet below.

  Evelyn gave voice to the scream her mother restrained as she watched the horror unfold before her eyes. Captain Owens loosened his hold and let her crumple to ground, sobbing. Dragoslav limped back holding his ribs.

  “Bloody hell, I was too old for a stunt like that ten years ago.”

  Evelyn looked up, wiped the tears from her face, and glared at him with hate-filled eyes. “Why have you done such a thing?”

  “For the same reason men do anything, sweetheart. Money.”

  “I will see the skin flayed from your body and made into my saddle, Dragoslav Zeegers. This I swear!”

  Dragoslav gave her a lecherous grin. “Yeah? Make sure you get my face centered on the seat. Load her up. Truss her if you have to.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Home. We don’t want you to be late for your own wedding.”

  ***

  Remiel mingled with his scores of guests as they celebrated the completion of his free trade road. An orchestra played while guests listened, dined, drank, and spoke of the latest gossip and happenings in the kingdom. Dignitaries from neighboring states mixed with those from Anatolia, many using the opportunity to forge new trade alliances and dealings now that they could sidestep The Guild.

  Remiel smiled and nodded at the Artemisian ambassador as she departed his company. “How many Guildsmen have you spotted, Gregor?”

  “Three ranking members and five private agents so far.”

  “Are they doing anything suspicious?”

  Gregor shook his head. “Not from what I or my people have seen. They seem content to listen to the gossip and perhaps take note of those seeking new business deals that do not include them.”

  “They had best get used to that. There is money to make even for them if they are willing to evolve. If not, then I will not mourn their extinction.”

  Remiel held his empty glass up to beckon his personal wine steward. The young man had been in his service since he was a boy and hastened to fill his glass. Gregor had insisted than he not drink anything except what Jeffery carried on his person for the night’s revelry.

  He spotted Gordon Mandel, the son of a second cousin, and made his way to his side. “Gordon, my boy, I am so glad you took the time to travel all the way to the capital for my event.”

  Gordon gave his monarch a stiff bow. “I would not dream of missing it, Your Majesty.”

  “Please, call me Remiel. We are family after all. I am very sorry to have heard about your family’s tragedies. I am glad you were able to overcome your grief for your father and brother enough to create a thriving business for yourself.”

  “Thank you, Your—Remiel. I think that dealing with their deaths played a large part in my success. If I am honest with myself, I was a bit of a dandy and layabout when I had them to support me. When I lost father on that fateful hunting trip and later my dear brother to those bastard brigands, I realized I had to make my own way in the world. Death has a way of making you grow up when he brushes past your shoulder and takes those close to you.”

  “Indeed it does. I have not been wanting for my own spate of misfortunes these last several years. I suppose one of the many signs of getting old is when you see those around you expire. It certainly makes one consider their mortality.”

  “It certainly does, but let us hope yours is a long way off. Thanks to your new highway, I now have options other than what The Guild tosses down to me.”

  Remiel smiled and took a sip of wine. “I imagine they have been courting you given what I have heard of your success.”

  Gordon’s lips quirked and he tried to hide his bashfulness behind his glass. “This past year, they have made
me several offers. Of course, their terms are ludicrous, but if one wishes to expand beyond the rudimentary, they have little room to bargain…until now.”

  Remiel gripped Gordon’s shoulder. “This is precisely why I worked so hard and beggared myself to build this road. Young men like you deserve more, and now it is yours for the taking.”

  Gordon smiled brightly. “It certainly is, Remiel.”

  “I think it is about time for your address, Majesty,” Gregor reminded his liege.

  “So it is.”

  The conductor bowed and moved away when Remiel stood upon the orchestra’s stage. He took a deep breath, which caused him to cough several times before he began speaking.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, ambassadors and guests, thank you all for coming tonight. It is with great pleasure that I announce the completion of the Free Trader’s Highway. With it, Anatolia is the hub for free travel and trade between her and our closest neighbors. No longer will the baker decide who gets a slice of the pie and how big a one they may have. Now, every man has an opportunity to get a taste. Let this road be a symbol as we travel into a new age of prosperity for all.”

  Remiel lifted his glass and drank to the resounding cheers. He coughed once more and sputtered half of it back into his cup. Gregor materialized by his side and took his king by the arm.

  “Are you all right?”

  Remiel tried to brush him off, but another bout of racking coughs stole away his complaints. “I seem to have winded myself again. Damn these lungs of mine.”

  “Let me take you to your rooms for some air that hasn’t passed through a hundred pairs of lungs first.”

  “I cannot abandon my own party, Gregor. What will people say?”

  “To hell with what they say. You have been fighting this respiratory illness for months and need to catch your breath. I will bring you back later when you are well enough to attend once more. This will likely go on for hours yet.”

  The King nodded. “I suppose you are right. You usually are.”

  Gregor guided Remiel out of the banquet hall and to his study. Remiel reclined in a plush chair while Gregor poured him a glass of whiskey to chase off his cough.

  “How is our friend, Garran, faring?”

  Gregor handed the King his liquor and sat in the chair next to him. “He is mending. The physic says he is a man of two miracles. The first being that he survived, and the second for keeping his leg.”

  “It can be a gruesome business. Has he recalled anything about what was on the documents he recovered?”

  Gregor shook his head. “He never got a chance to do more than glimpse them.”

  “It is a shame they were destroyed. I would have liked to know what those damned Urquans had uncovered. Still, it is good to know The Guild will not get their greasy fingers on them. I do not know what kind of damage they could do with the information now, but I would rather not find out. To another successful mission.”

  Remiel clinked glasses with Gregor and downed the strong shot. The potent liquor traced a line of fire down his throat and into his gullet, sending heat radiating out to the distant tips of his extremities. He fought to keep it down when another round of coughing shook him to his core.

  “Damn blasted croup or pneumonia or whatever the hell has settled into me. You would think the physics would have figured out what had ahold of me and cured it by now. Likely all the tobacco smoke floating in the air that so many find fashionable these days.”

  Gregor swirled the contents of his glass and stared at the spinning liquid. “Possibly, or more likely it is the increased dosing of poison I have been giving you these last few weeks.”

  Remiel sat dumfounded as he tried to make sense of what his closest friend had just said. It made about as much sense if he had just told him it was raining on the sun.

  “What are you saying, Gregor?”

  “I have been poisoning you in small doses for years. The toxin has been slowly eating away at your heart for nearly a decade. Now that the road is finished and everything is in place, it is time for you to expire.”

  “Why, to what end? Marcus will succeed me, and he will—”

  Gregor shook his head. “I am afraid not, Remiel.”

  Remiel’s mouth dropped open and his eyes betrayed his sorrow. “Oh, Gregor, what have you done?”

  “I did what I must.”

  “You murdered them!”

  “An agent of The Guild murdered them, although I suppose it is all academic.”

  “I thought we were friends, Gregor.”

  “I like to think we still are, at least I still consider you mine. I certainly understand if you do not hold me in the same regard. It was not personal. It was purely business.”

  “You murdered my family! It does not get more personable than that!”

  Gregor nodded to the swords hanging on the wall. “Would you like me to fetch you a sword so you may defend your family’s honor while you still have the strength to move?”

  Remiel made to sit up but leaned back again. “It would do me no good, and I will not give you the satisfaction of killing me in any way that might make it feel honorable to you. You are a traitor, and I curse you with every dying breath.”

  “If it makes you feel better, we spared Evelyn.”

  A touch of brightness reached Remiel’s face. “My daughter lives?”

  “We thought it would ease the succession if he had your daughter’s full support.”

  “She will never marry my murderer. She will make a plea to the people to renounce your puppet, and they will see him and you swinging from the palace walls.”

  “We will convince her it is in everyone’s best interest not to do so. Even if she proves to be more intractable than we anticipate, you assume far too much of your popularity. You made many people unhappy with your road. How many died? How many sons and daughters did you enslave to build it?”

  “They will forgive me when it lifts them out of the muck and they can live like human beings!”

  “They will never see that day. Already, The Guild’s men are streaming into the city, taking over the constabulary and the palace guard. The soldiers will follow the commands of their new king just as they have been trained to do and will then be garrisoned along the road enforcing The Guild’s tariffs and tolls. Thanks to you, your highway even absorbed many of the black market routes, and now The Guild is more in control than ever. There is talk of hanging your portrait in The Guildhall next to the original founders. You paid for the sword they used to take your head, and now they hold it to everyone’s throat. You truly did create a new future. It’s just not the one you envisioned.”

  Sweat poured from Remiel’s brow, and he grabbed at words as if they were made of smoke. “You…bastard. I pray…that my…spirt…returns…to haunt you…to your…grave.”

  Coughing racked his body until it began convulsing. Gregor stood and went to the door. Upon opening it, he leaned out and waved to a page.

  “Go fetch the King’s physic. His Majesty is having a fit. Quick now.”

  The page raced down the hall and vanished. Gregor busied himself by pouring another drink and toasting Remiel’s corpse. He regretted the lengths to which The Guild went taking over the throne and the highway, but he was nearing retirement, and they had offered him a vastly better pension.

  The physic arrived and examined Remiel in a state of obvious agitation. “I am sorry to say that the King is dead. Long live the King.”

  “Do you have any idea what caused it?”

  The physic examined the King’s fingertips, flushed face and neck, and palpated the arteries in his neck. “Given his recent health issues, my first guess is an acute heart attack due to chronic degeneration.”

  Gregor sighed and nodded. “I feared as much given what I saw before he went into a fit. I leave him to you while I go make a declaration. Most of parliament and many notable citizens are here, so this is as good a time as any to make the announcement.”

  Gregor left the King with
the physic, but he did not go straight to the banquet hall. Instead, he chose to make his way to Remiel’s personal infirmary to check on Garran. He found his young protégé in bed, looking bored and ready to jump out of the window.

  “Garran, how are you feeling?”

  “Like hell, but it’s nothing a little opium and half an hour with a prostitute won’t cure.”

  “I’m sure you’ll feel fine soon enough.”

  “I feel fine now, at least well enough to get out of here.”

  Gregor laid a hand on Garran’s uninjured leg. “I need you to stay put for a couple of more days.”

  “Why, the infection is gone, and my leg doesn’t have an anus anymore.”

  Gregor laughed but quickly grew serious again. “There are some shifting political climates happening now, and I would rather you stayed out of the way until things get settled. It won’t take long.”

  Garran looked annoyed. “When have I ever caused a problem?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I could be if I tried.”

  “Just stay here a little while longer.” Gregor took out a small vial of liquid and set it on the table next to Garran. “I got you this. I think it will help you feel better. I think you are in a lot more pain than you let on.”

  Garran picked up the glass tube and looked at it. “What is it?”

  “It’s a new extract they found in one of the jungles in the southern ocean. It’s called cocaine, and I hear it is excellent at relieving pain. I thought maybe you would make a good test subject.”

  Garran pulled the cork and took a sip. “You thought right. Whoa boy! Yeah, you go play politics. I’ll be right here with my new friend if you need me.”

  The senior agent patted his leg. “Good man. I’ll see you out in a few days.” He paused at the door. “You’re going to stay put, right?”

  Garran tipped the vial in salute and settled in for the remainder of his convalescence.

  Gregor hastened for the banquet hall where the notables were still ignorantly cavorting, unaware that the King was dead and his entire lineage removed from succession in series of surgical excisions performed over the last decade. As a master agent, he could not help but appreciate an excellently played long game.