by Will Molinar
Muldor grabbed the glass of brandy and sipped at it, trying hard to maintain his outward calm and stillness. It was difficult. Something about the situation unnerved him. Castellan was not himself but rather a grander version of himself, propped up by another power as if he stood on the shoulders of a giant.
“So, Master Muldor, Lord Peterson,” Castellan said and nodded to each of them in turn, “how may I be of assistance to you this morning?”
Muldor could feel the hackles rise on Peterson’s neck as the man sat in controlled fury. This was the game Castellan played with many.
“Well,” Peterson said, “you may start with wiping that smug look off your face and—”
Muldor held up a hand. Peterson quieted. Muldor decided to try another tact.
“Castellan, I wish you to know every action I have taken has been in the best interest of The Guild. You do believe this.”
Castellan sniffed, and some of the air of arrogance filtered away. “Yes, I do. And the same will be known for my actions. They have been in the best interest of not only our august organization but also for the continued sanctity of the city entire. The machinations of a higher power are at my disposal and must be used here at the moment of our greatest need.”
Peterson scoffed. “Your only motivation is your own agenda and greed. I’ve seen you act, and you can’t fool anyone any longer.”
Castellan sat forward, and Muldor saw Jerrod come into view over his shoulder. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.
“What of it?” Castellan said. “What is my agenda that includes the governing of this city? Is it not only right that if I possess the means of protecting its people that I use it? Is it not my responsibility to do so if I have the strength? Look on yourself, Lord Peterson, and your particular skills and seat of vocation. You became what you are because you were more gifted, stronger, better than men around you. You rose, you conquered, you protected, and you’re better off. This is how men are ruled. It is the way of things.”
The scary thing was, Muldor couldn’t argue with his reasoning. Even the Royal Guard Commander seemed taken aback. But Peterson recovered fast and leveled his voice at Castellan, aiming it like a weapon:
“Here you assume too much, Guild Master. You assume first off, that your vision, if you are sincere in your claim to want the best for the city which I doubt, is the proper one. Second, you assume you are the best person for implementing these plans. You are a merchant, the leader of what I will admit is a very successful guild, but what in this set of skills gives you the ability to run a city of this size? Nothing. Nothing whatsoever in your background or ability means you can rule. You are no noble, and you have no experience in such matters.”
Castellan took it in stride. “You know nothing of my abilities. You assume because you, or Lord Falston, or Lord Cassius are able because you are of noble birth, is that correct? Please. The blood in your bones matters little. What matters is the will to do, to create.
“This city cannot function without the Guild. We control everything you nobles consider important. Your personal, day-to-day items you cannot live without. How pathetic it is your need for them. Oh, how you moaned when I took them from you. These little things you don’t even consider until they are gone. How you cried like children! Our reach extends to every nook and cranny of the city, from the lowest beggar to the highest lord.
“Our food, our necessities, our comforts, our luxuries, all provided by the Guild to one and all. Our organization does more for Sea Haven than every noble combined. We provide jobs, a flowing income that keeps your men working for you. You think they work out of loyalty or out of a sense of duty? Try paying them nothing and see how long they remain at their posts. Money makes our world work.
“You, Lord Peterson, you owe your livelihood and that of your men to the regent, whomever he may be. Do you really think the king would assign you and your men to some insignificant outpost, furnish you with your salary, your high end equipment unless the situation called for it? It would not.
“You owe your life and your station to your birth. And it can be taken away from you. It is being taken away, and you sit and pout like an insolent child. Unbecoming for a noble don’t you agree? Much more akin to the so called ‘lowlifes’ here in Sea Haven.” Castellan leaned forward and tapped the desk with his finger. “You owe your life to what the Guild provides, and you know it.”
Peterson fumed. Perhaps some of Castellan’s rant struck home. “My duty is to my charge, and you had him murdered. My duty does not lay with you, a common usurper with his own agenda. I do not adhere to your set of rules of standard of society. Your time has ended. I will not rest until I see it so. You have no right to sit in this place as regent to the king.”
“He’s right, Castellan,” Muldor said. “You’ve gone too far. I believe in The Guild, more than anyone, but we have overstepped our bounds. It is not our place to dabble in politics.”
Castellan’s demeanor changed and grew dark. “Who better than we? Hmmm? Who better than men who are willing to sacrifice for the greater good of the people?”
“You weren’t born here, Castellan. You think you know what is best for the people, but you don’t know them as well as you believe.”
“It makes no difference. My sacrifice is no less than a true resident’s. You and I have slaved away for the past decade together. We built the merchant class into one of respectability.”
“And now you threaten to push them down into the gutter with the common thieves and murderers this city is so infamous for.”
“You threaten war with your actions,” Peterson said.
Castellan raised a brow. “A war? Is that what you think I am doing?” He looked at Muldor with disappointment in his eyes. “I assumed you and I shared the same sense of purpose. It is a shame you do not share my vision. Such a pity you will not be a part of it.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Peterson said. “If you wish to end this nonsense and prevent any bloodshed, abdicate your position at once.”
Castellan turned his gaze upon the man. A mild look of annoyance blanketed his handsome face. Muldor saw something else there as well, some sinister gleam in his eyes; it was good to beware.
“My position is one of necessity and one you yourself must uphold, on condition of your life. Your job is to uphold this office and see to the safeguarding of its holder.” Castellan smiled, and Muldor felt his skin crawl. “As the duly appointed representative of this city’s ruling council and thus its governing body, I shall utilize the power vested in me to pronounce you deviant in your duty and will carry out your sentence.”
Muldor tightened his stomach while Peterson frowned. “Sentence? Are you daft? What are you talking about, man?”
Castellan sat back, and his smile faded. “And the sentence is death.”
Muldor reacted first, already primed and ready to move. He stood and shoved his chair back with one solid kick and heard a satisfying grunt as it struck one of Jerrod’s approaching thugs. He turned in the same motion and slugged another straight in the jaw with a thick forearm that struck out from under his sleeve. It hit like a cannon shot. The man dropped, and the fight was on.
Peterson wasn’t so fast or lucky. The lord grappled with two men while his guardsmen fought with several more coming in from the hallway. Muldor cursed himself a fool for getting into Castellan’s trap. He couldn’t remember what the plan was. It wasn’t a good one after all.
They had to get out of the room. If not, death was a certainty.
* * * * *
“We goin’ in?” said Kurgi.
Zandor nodded and felt thrilled. “All the way, fella.”
The air remained warm even as they traveled north up the coast through the late hours of the night. An energy filled the air, an energy born of a dozen galleons and seven other support vessels in tow. They were only hours away from Murder Haven, and no doubt the city’s inhabitants had forewarning of their arrival.
&nbs
p; They had gotten word there were some scouting ships in the water near Sea Haven, and that made Zandor smile. He wanted them to know Janisberg’s fleet was coming. The provocateur wondered what Jon and Muldor would think of it. He figured they would be pleased.
Up on deck a light spray struck his face and drenched his feet as it lapped over the side. Men scurried about at their duties. They had their ship outfitted and paid for by the city. Zandor was the hero of the day. It was he, after all, that discovered the magistrate’s body strung up at Janisberg’s docks and provided evidence of Sea Haven’s responsibility.
“We following them in?”
“Since we’re part of the convoy, yeah, I’d say we’re doing that.”
Kurgi spit over the side and peered through the gloom. “Taken’ all damn night it is.”
Zandor felt his annoyance flare from perhaps a bit of guilt about the magistrate. They had been friends for a long time. “You got a problem with that, pal?”
Kurgi frowned and shuffled his feet. “Guess not, boss. I’ll go check the rigging on the starboard.”
“Yeah, you go and do that, Kurgi.”
The night wore on, and the armada grew closer to their neighbor in an unprecedented show of force. The water grew choppier, perhaps in anticipation of the coming strife. Light dawned to the right. Wind filled the sails, puffing them out with smooth contours, and they raced forward.
Zandor could see the seven mighty galleons when he climbed to the top of the crow’s nest. The sun became obscured by overcast clouds, but he could still make out the shape of the ships all around them. Tiny patches of light strode through in single beams, illuminating the scene. The view was gorgeous, haunting, and so marvelous Zandor was struck with the beauty of it all.
The mighty war ships held dozens of guns along their length, and dozens of armored men above decks, with many more hundreds below. It was a full army more or less, with glistening shield and swords that glinted in the patches of sunlight. Zandor had strange affection for men willing to put their lives on the line for a pittance, or some misguided sense of loyalty. More power to them. They had to die somehow.
Other ships held politicians, one in particular Grayme Lautner, the ambassador to all cities along the coast, one of the most powerful men in Janisberg. As far as Zandor knew, Sea Haven had no equivalent rank.
He had met Lautner once or twice before. He didn’t like him much. The man was arrogant and ambitious, but then again, that ambition made him act fast to rally an armored force. It was no secret Lautner despised Sea Haven and its unlawful way of life. There were many around the coast that were jealous of the city’s position and their despicable ways.
For Zandor it was a boon. The ambassador wanted an excuse to put them in line, to round up the trouble makers and expand his influence and power. Lautner was probably going crazy in the flagship, rubbing his hands together in glee. Missing goods, stolen property, a potential coup pulled off by the upstart guild, a madman in power, a murdered Janisberg magistrate found hung up like a common thief. There were plenty of reasons to send this armada, and Lautner was the man to lead them.
They were almost there.
* * * * *
The Western Docks seemed much different than they should have. Everyone went about their business as if it were any other day. There was a few dock security with him, including a sergeant and even a few police. They headed straight for the office of Mal Dollenger.
Dollenger was a middle man, thin with a slimy complexion. He listened to Giorgio’s words with an air of detachment. He looked at the security man, who corroborated the story, and rubbed his face. “And Maggur and Lawson are doing this?”
Giorgio nodded. “Yes. Guild orders, straight from the top.” He had already flashed the emblem but felt the need to do so again, for there was a great deal of hesitation in the man.
Dollenger mulled it over. “I suppose so. I’m sorry, but I am rather busy here as you see. Speak with my colleagues, I’m sure you know them, being Guild ordered as you are.”
Giorgio stared for a moment. “Excuse me? You’re busy? There’s an armada coming this way! You should listen.”
But the sergeant tapped his shoulder when Dollenger had stopped looking at him. He was back to his work as if he had never been interrupted.
Giorgio stood and went out with the security man.
“Forget him,” the man said. “These dock masters, sometimes they work kinda independent of each other, ya know? We don’t need ‘im anyway. Let’s move on.”
The veteran thief nodded, not one for such intricacies but knowing that they needed to take action. He sent the man off to confer with some of the security and police. The police were spread thin that day, still anxious about anther riot roiling around, but there were enough to help at the docks.
Giorgio was about to set off when he saw Anders and another thief, Delora trotting along the boardwalk. The young Anders looked sheepish while the female Delora smiled.
“What-what are you two doing here?”
Anders shrugged. “We got word.”
“Cutter sent us,” Delora said. “Said you might need some help down here, said all hell was gonna break loose.”
Giorgio’s mind spun. There was too much being thrown at him. His earlier freak out in Cutter’s room, the confrontation with the dock masters, coordinating the security that had only begun, now seeing these two here, it was a lot for him to take in. All his dreams of confronting the Guild and beating them. The thief stammered and struggled to find something to say.
“I, well, look, we need to do something.” He sighed and shook his head. “C’mon.”
They met with Samuel Beckett, a middle-aged but youthful looking Dock Master, by the center warehouse. The man spoke with a few merchants near the outer door. Giorgio approached them and held the guild emblem aloft while the other two thieves hung back.
“We have orders from the top,” Giorgio said. “You and the other dock masters are to take control of the docks. No one in, no goods leave. We want it shut down.”
Beckett squinted. “An embargo, is it?”
Giorgio nodded, not sure what an embargo was. Beckett nodded as if it all made perfect sense and waved them over and into the warehouse. They went to his desk.
“We’re coordinating with the Southern Dock, yes?”
Giorgio nodded. “We need everyone to work together on this.”
“Sure, sure. We’ll have to see to the individual market houses. You,” he said to one of the security. “Get the rest of your people and block down the streets. Can you see to that?”
They said they could and ran off.
Giorgio turned to Beckett. “We have police working on that as well.”
“Well done. We’ll get to it; then when the people from Janisberg get here, we’ll be ready.”
Beckett stood there and an awkward moment passed between. With nothing else to say, Giorgio and his thieves went outside and met with the security sergeant from the Southern Docks, along with several other men, dock workers among them.
The area around the piers was busier with police and security. They were similar looking men though the police were better armed with clubs and short swords, and padded leather armor with the occasional helmet. The dock security all had the same simple shirts with a red sash to denote their status. Giorgio made a note to keep track of names and position for them all.
They ordered several dock workers to wheel out large wooden bulwarks from the back end of the warehouses to block egress to the street. Their timing was perfect. Giorgio and the others stared as the streets beyond held a host of people shouting and fighting.
The city was rioting again.
* * * * *
One guardsman was dead. Muldor heard his cry of pain and subsequent death rattle issue forth. But he had taken out two of Jerrod’s thugs before he went. A fair trade but not enough.
Muldor encouraged their exodus. “We must leave! This room is our death, Lord Peterson!”
Peterson was too busy to agree or argue. Two of the three remaining guardsmen protected him, but he seemed to be fighting well enough on his own, while a lone royal guard fought with two of Jerrod’s goons. All of them were outnumbered, and the room was getting crowded.
It happened so fast Muldor couldn’t remember the exact sequence of events. One second they were at the desk, peaceful yet tense, then the next they fought for their lives. Muldor’s eyes flashed towards Castellan as he faced off against a lanky tough with dirty hands and a short sword.
The Master of The Merchants Guild, Castellan du Sol, looked amused at the whole affair. He sat as calm as could be behind his desk. Muldor was glad for it. Castellan was a dangerous opponent and as skilled with a blade as any man he knew. With him part of the melee, they would have no chance.
Jerrod, on the other hand, was all business. He stalked over to Muldor through the fighting.
By the doorway, more of Castellan’s elite poured in like metal death, and once they reached the fighting it was over. They were doomed.
Muldor spared himself the usual self-pity that accompanied such thoughts and glanced around for any escape no matter how outlandish, and found one.
The window. He feinted with his heavy mace and his opponent jumped out of range, giving him breathing room.
“Lord Peterson, follow me! At once!”
Muldor ran and sprang for the wooden framed glass. He steeled himself for the impact by throwing his arms up in front of his face, somehow keeping a hold of his weapon. He struck the window in full force. He managed to twist his body enough to land and hit the third floor eave. He latched on tight to arrest his fall.
He hung on for second, long enough to swing his feet under him and aim for the second floor balcony. He let go and dropped to the spot with a thud. Looking up he saw nothing. He heard only the continued battle, the clank of metal on metal, the harsh yells of men killing each other.
There was noise in front of him too. No doubt Castellan’s men were coming for him on the second floor. Muldor decided in that second there was no need to worry for Nicoli Peterson. There was nothing to be done to save them. He hopped over the side of the balcony and hung there long enough to set his hands and judge the distance to the ground. It was perhaps seven feet below the tips of his toes.