A Gathering of Fools (Vensille Saga Book 1)

by James Evans

  “Hines, Chickie. You need to keep on top of our people, make sure they’re doing their jobs. If they’re not bringing in enough coin, get them fixed or replace them. Squeeze them, make sure we’re not missing opportunities. And get Old Ned and the other enforcers in here so I can speak to them.”

  He looked around.

  “And then we have to work out what to do about the Flank Siders,” he said, slipping it into a pause in the conversation like it was something easy, something he’d almost forgotten to mention, something nobody would really care about. There was silence, just for a moment.

  “What about the Flank Siders?” asked Trike, his brow furrowed like he was working at a bit of stubborn meat between his teeth.

  Fangfoss looked away, embarrassed, and sighed. There was no avoiding it.

  “Bay wants them gone.”

  “Gone?” said Hines sharply, “You mean dead?” He looked distinctly unexcited by the prospect.

  “I mean gone, ended, absorbed, no longer active, consigned to history, unable further to trouble us,” said Fangfoss, testily, his patience exhausted, “Bay wants us to take over their activities, all of them, put them out of business and run their rackets ourselves.”

  More silence, then Trike shrugged.

  “Overdue, in my mind,” he said lightly, “they’re arrogant fuckers, up there in that gaming palace, lording it over everyone else like they was noble or something. Got them shitty little gigs on the west side, small-time protection and crap. Needs sorting, putting on the level.”

  Fangfoss stared at him for a moment.

  “Apart from the gaming palace, how is their operation any different to ours, eh? What is it that makes us so great?”

  Trike screwed up his face as if this was obvious.

  “They’re idiots,” he said, you’ve ‘eard the stories about ‘ow they run their people, ‘ow they keep things going. Not a patch on our lads, that’s for damned sure,” he finished proudly, as if pride was the most important thing in the world. Fangfoss raised an eyebrow but Trike just nodded and took a mouthful of beer.

  “Right. Well, Bay can’t take them out on his own,” said Fangfoss, not believing it for a moment, “so we’re going to help out. They work of out two bases, the Lighthouse and that crappy inn over on the west side, the Groaning Platter.”

  Trike snorted.

  “’Orrible place, food’s disgusting and you don’t wanna know what they do to the beer.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Fangfoss sharply, “so shut the fuck up and let me outline the plan before we all die of old age.” He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The others, long familiar with Fangfoss’s temper and aware that he was close to the edge, stayed quiet.

  “Right. Trike, get yourself over to the Flank Siders’ palace tomorrow evening. Watch, don’t enter, and make sure you’ve got a few bodies in case there’re problems. Bay’ll enter as a punter and start making threats. If it goes well, he’ll just take over, no fuss, no blood, no problem. If not, well, we’ll want to know that it’s all gone wrong, right”

  Trike nodded, already thinking it through, but Hines grimaced, not impressed.

  “Can’t we just leave him to it, boss? Maybe the Flanks’ll do us a favour and kill the fucker.”

  “No,” said Fangfoss, banging his hand on the table, “can you not think further than the end of the fucking day? Bay won’t be here for ever. If he closes down the Flanks we’ll pull double the cash or more and we’ll all be better off. When he leaves, we’ll be well set.”

  “How do you know he’ll leave, though?” asked Hines, “What if he stays, leaching us dry forever?”

  “Have you any idea what the Flanks pull in through that gaming hall? Even if Bay takes half, we’ll still make at least twice as much,” said Fangfoss, exasperated, “which means we’re better off and we don’t have to compete with those fuckers from the other side of the river.” He looked around the table, daring anyone to object. “As soon as Bay enters the Lighthouse, we make our move at the Groaning Platter. That’s up to you two,” he said, looking at Chickie and Hines, “so take a few of the boys and squash the Flank Siders. Break down their people, beat them, kill a few if you have to, but take control, yes? Run down their enforcers, make them offers and make sure they don’t refuse.”

  “Got it, boss,” said Chickie, nodding and smiling behind his moustaches, “consider it done.”

  “Right,” said Fangfoss, somewhat relieved that at least one of his people was happy just to take orders, “well, that’s it.”

  “Risky,” said Hines, shaking his head doubtfully, “what if Bay fucks up while Chickie and Trike are breaking heads at the Platter?”

  “Fuck risk,” said Fangfoss, “we take risks every day. Get out there and get it done.” He stopped and stared at Hines until the man nodded. Chair legs scraped across the floor as the four men stood up.

  “And don’t fuck it up,” warned Fangfoss, wagging a finger at his lieutenants, “the stakes are high enough already and we’ve already lost Hitton.”

  Grim nods. They were a practical crew with long experience of the business but nobody liked to be reminded that Hitton had died at the hands of the new boss.

  “Questions?” Nobody said anything.

  “Right. Get going. And remember to get rid of the bloody corpses properly.”

  Fangfoss had been right. The Lighthouse was an impressive building, calling to mind in splendour, if not sheer scale, the pleasure palaces of Khemucasterill or the legendary love temples of Garrash Dar. It rose up from the streets, a building of dark stone chased with white marble and roofed in a mishmash of tile and slate. The doors and windows were decorated with intricately wrought iron from which hung lamps that burned in a dozen different colours. During the day it was a dull lump of a building but at night it came alive, lit from within and without by both everyday oil lamps and less common Powered lamps.

  Marrinek stood for some time in the shadows of the buildings opposite, watching people enter the Lighthouse. A stream of well-dressed citizens made their way slowly past the door wardens, laughing and joking as they went. Some were followed by servants or bodyguards; none were alone, none carried weapons.

  Eventually he nodded to himself and turned to Madame Duval, who waited patiently at his side, dressed in a fine, low-cut dress and wearing a net of pearls in her hair. She looked every bit a high-class escort, an obvious paid companion, dressed to impress and display. She looked at him and grinned, nervous and excited.

  “Stick to the plan,” said Marrinek quietly, “and don’t worry about me if things get bloody.”

  She tittered, deep into her character.

  “That’s the thing about staking your life,” she said quietly but in her normal voice, “there’s really no need to worry about escape.” She looked around then made a tiny adjustment to her dress, pushing her breasts up so that they were barely contained, then blew out a long breath. “I’m ready.”

  Marrinek nodded and held out his arm. Then he led them across the street, past the wardens and into the hallway.

  They had only a moment to look around the dimly lit room before a hostess appeared in front of them. Dressed in an outfit that revealed far more than it hid, the woman ignored Madame Duval entirely and focussed on Marrinek.

  “My lord,” she said with a little bow, “is this your first visit to the Palace of Providence?”

  Marrinek looked at her haughtily then let his gaze play across her body. He smiled.

  “It is, my dear. I am newly arrived in town and seek entertainment.”

  The hostess smiled.

  “We offer gambling of all sorts on the upper floor, fine food and wine on this floor and, downstairs, all the pleasures that might be brought from the flesh. I’m sure we have everything you need, Lord…?”

  “Bay. Call me Bay. Gambling first, I think, then maybe the lower level, if you’re going to be there?” He leered at her and winked.

  “Whatever my lord desires,” the hostess s
aid with a friendly smile, obviously well-used to this sort of behaviour. For a moment, Marrinek thought he had made a winning impression. He almost smiled back, then he remembered where he was. He leered again instead and offered a lascivious grin.

  “If you would step this way, my lord, we can setup your line of credit,” said the hostess, leading Marrinek and Duval into a side room and closing the door behind them. The room was small with a single table against the far wall. On the table sat a large iron box with a fist-sized hole in the front face.

  Marrinek peered at it suspiciously, suddenly worried that he knew what was coming.

  The hostess stood beside the box and gestured toward the hole.

  “The House of Providence values strength, my lord, and so we test every new visitor when they first arrive,” she paused to glance at Duval, “every new visitor with talent, at least. The machine reads your strength, my lord, and we advance credit based on that strength. Please.”

  Marrinek eyed the machine suspiciously, his smile gone, his demeanour suddenly serious. Then he sighed and said, in heavily accented Gheel, “Well, if I must. How does it work?”

  “Put your hand in here, my lord, and grasp the bar within. Then focus as much power as you safely can into the bar. The machine will do the rest.”

  Marrinek hesitated. This hadn’t been part of his plan. Then he coughed, took a sudden step forward and thrust his hand into the box, grabbing the bar tightly. He screwed his face into an expression of extreme concentration and dribbled power into the bar, enough to light a fire charm. He held it for a few seconds then released as a wave of nausea washed over him. He staggered backward, not having to fake his sudden illness.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said the hostess with a slight smile, “if you just wait a moment while my colleague…” She paused, although Marrinek couldn’t see why or which colleague they were waiting for. Then a hatch opened and a tray slid though into the room. The hostess plucked a slim card from the tray and held it out to Marrinek.

  “There you go, my lord. This charm is keyed to you and will grant you access to your account at the Palace of Providence. You will be able to draw credit or access your funds at any time by focussing power into the charm to prove your identity.” She smiled and gestured toward the hallway as the door silently opened.

  “And now you are ready for the Palace, my lord. I trust that you will enjoy yourself.”

  “Are you alright?” hissed Duval as she and Marrinek sauntered casually down the hallway and into the hall beyond. Then she forgot all about her question as she looked around and took in the sights.

  The room was part restaurant, part entertainment, part awe-inspiring backdrop to the rest of the activities. The ceiling was high, the floor low, and from the viewpoint at the top of the stairs that swept down to the main floor, Marrinek and Duval had a clear view across huge space.

  Near the walls, diners sat at tables small and large. Waitresses threaded their way between the tables delivering food and drink. Musicians played on a little plinth at the edge of the stage that dominated the centre of the room, set even lower than the main floor. On the stage, tumblers bounced and leapt as above them artistes on trapezes swung and flew.

  Around the room, galleried landings clung to the walls, filling the space and overhanging towards the stage so that even at the highest level, patrons could hear the music and watch the acts on the stage. Marrinek was impressed, despite his cynicism and his fear that Vensille might have little to offer by way of entertainment.

  “Maybe Fangfoss was right,” he muttered, “maybe this really isn’t possible.” There was a sharp pain in his ankle as Madame Duval kicked him vigorously.

  “There’s no backing out now,” she hissed, “so let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

  Marrinek was still for a moment then he nodded. He took Duval’s arm again and set his shoulders, tilting his head a little so that he looked down on everyone they passed.

  “Come, my dear,” he said in nasally accented Gheel, “let us gamble and gambol.” Then he led Madame Duval to the gaming floor.

  Their first stop was the credit booth where Marrinek was required to produce his charmed account card. The cashier took his name and passed across a small pile of low-value chips.

  “Compliments of the house, my lord.”

  Marrinek looked at the pile and sniffed.

  “It would seem that my strength is poorly rated,” he said, glancing disdainfully at the meagre value of his gaming chips, “but I trust I can buy more?”

  “Of course, my lord,” said the cashier nodding, “we can accept any readily exchanged medium.”

  “Silver,” said Marrinek, pulling three tightly wrapped rolls of coins from a pouch at his belt.

  The cashier unwrapped the coins, checked them quickly, then nodded and pushed across a rather larger stack of chips in a neat container of bamboo.

  “And there’s a small bonus in there, my lord, in appreciation of your first deposit with us. Good luck at the tables.” He smiled as Marrinek scooped up his chips and weighed the bamboo box in his hand.

  “Where first, my lord?” asked Madam Duval in a sultry voice, leaning her head in against Marrinek’s shoulder as they turned back toward the gaming tables. They wandered for a few minutes amongst the other players, taking note of the games and watching how they were played.

  Eventually Marrinek stopped at the edge of the gaming area and pulled Madame Duval close so that he could talk quietly to her.

  “That one,” he said, nodding at a table where players were watching a ball falling through a grid of pins and betting on which number it would land on, “put about a tenth of the chips on a number, any number, and increase the stakes if you win.”

  She nodded and took the chips from him. They strolled over to the table and she sat down in a vacant chair, Marrinek standing behind. She smiled at the croupier then spent a few moments arranging her chips before her on the table before placing her first bet.

  “Green,” she said, pushing a dozen chips into a coloured square. The croupier nodded as other players placed their bets then he flicked a lever to shoot a small steel ball into the top of the board. The players watched as it pinged across the board, falling steadily toward the numbered and coloured slots at the bottom. Madame Duval squealed in delight as the ball dropped neatly into a green number.

  “Green and six,” announced the croupier, scraping losing bets from the table and pushing small piles of winnings towards the lucky players. Madame Duval blinked as her stake was returned fourfold.

  “Four colours, one hundred and four numbers, twenty-five of each colour and four numbers coloured black that can’t be bet on,” she muttered, looking again at the slots, “and so let’s try green again.”

  She doubled her stake and stared at the board. Again the croupier flicked his lever and again the ball rolled and pinged and bounced across the board, falling steadily downwards until it landed, again, on green.

  “Green and twenty-four,” said the croupier, doling out more winnings. Madame Duval pulled in her chips and waggled her fingers with the sheer excitement of winning.

  “Red this time,” she said, pushing two dozen chips onto the red panel.

  “And I think I’ll join you,” said the tall man seated to her left, “since with two wins in a row you’re clearly onto something.” He leant forward and pushed a rather larger pile of high value chips onto the red square, then he sat back and grinned. “Let’s hope your luck holds, yes?”

  The croupier stood before them, stony faced, as the other players laced their bets. Madame Duval was practically bouncing in her seat with the excitement, even though she knew that Bay was doing something to make the balls drop in their required places.

  “No more bets,” said the croupier, flicking the lever to begin the game. The ball curved around the board and fell toward the pegs, jumping and leaping and falling.

  “Come on, come on,” urged the tall man, his fists clenched as he willed the ball to lan
d in a red number.

  Madame Duval held her breath, almost too sacred to watch, until the ball fell, as predicted, onto red.

  “Red and twenty-six,” announced the croupier. The tall man grinned broadly and nodded as the croupier pushed his winnings forward.

  “A tidy sum,” said Marrinek, forcing the accent and smiling happily as Madame Duval chose her next bet. The tall man nodded, stacking his chips and preparing his next stake.

  “Where next, my lovely?” he asked, glancing at Madame Duval as she prepared her own stake.

  “Back to green, I think,” she said, smiling as she pushed across three dozen chips. The tall man nodded along and added his stake. Again they watched the ball, again the croupier paid out heavy winnings to Madame Duval and the tall man.

  Marrinek, standing behind, released the tiny portion of power he had focussed and looked around, wondering if anyone had yet noticed his cheating. There were no obvious signs but then he didn’t really expect to see them, not yet, anyway. He watched Madame Duval place another bet and this time he kept his power to himself, letting the ball fall without diversion.

  “I win again!” said Madame Duval, clapping her hands and dragging her winnings toward her rapidly growing stack of chips.

  Marrinek looked away, grinning. Maybe this was going to be a lucky evening. He stayed out of the next round as well and Madame Duval lost, along with the tall man who was now mirroring her every bet. When he turned back, he saw the stakes had doubled again and the ball was already falling. He pulled a tiny portion of power, so small as to be undetectable to anyone standing even very close, and placed the merest slither of Flow onto the board so that the ball bounced at last onto a red number. Madame Duval again pulled her winnings into her growing stack.

  The croupier swapped out her chips for a smaller number of higher value tokens and Madame Duval kept going, placing bets randomly on the four colours. Marrinek clapped along with the delighted crowd every time she won and commiserated when she lost but, as the evening wore on, the pile of chips grew steadily until she had before her a small fortune.