by James Evans
He walked toward the double doors and gave them a shove so that they swung silently open. Then they strode from the pit, the crowd’s applause following them into the corridor.
“That’s far enough,” said the thug who had escorted them from the booth. He was standing in the corridor, a long blade clenched in his fist, colleagues behind him.
“The boss wants to see you,” he said, before adding when Marrinek remained still, “I mean he really does want to see you.” He waggled the blade. “It’s that way. We’ll follow.”
Marrinek relaxed a little as they climbed up from the lower levels back into the main part of the Lighthouse. He’d come prepared for a scuffle but full-on fight-to-the-death in a gladiatorial combat ring was not something he had expected. Up here, where the bulk of the guests were, things were bound to be more civilised.
Eventually they came to a private hallway on the top floor where the music of the evening’s entertainment could be dimly heard from below. Marrinek reckoned they were somewhere above the central stage, up beyond the crawl spaces and the finely decorated ceilings.
After a brief pause, the heavy doors opened and they were shown into the private study of Lorn Artas, leader of the Flank Side gang.
He sat behind a desk in the plushly decorated room, the very picture of a successful merchant, basking in great wealth and long-familiar power.
Artas leant back in his leather-bound chair as Marrinek and Madame Duval walked into the room. There were no chairs for guests so Marrinek guided Madame Duval to a long sofa set against a wall and laid her, still shaking, on its cushions.
“Lord Bay,” said Artas, “what made you think you could steal from me?” His tone was casual, almost friendly, but there was steel concealed within. Marrinek had wondered, on the walk from the pit, how they had spotted his cheating but it didn’t really matter.
“Let me tell you a story,” said Marrinek in his affected ‘noble’ accent as he cast around for somewhere to sit. He settled on a heavy armchair, spinning it around to face Artas then draping himself across it, looking for all the world as if her were taking his leisure in a private club. The thugs shifted uneasily and one pushed himself off the wall where he stood, a long club dangling from his fist.
“Our hero, let’s call him Edwin,” said Marrinek, ignoring the thugs to focus on Artas, “comes to the city in search of wealth and happiness. He works hard and, from a low beginning, he prospers at his craft because demand is high and people find Edwin pleasant to work with. Soon, he has a house of his own and a growing business and his mind turns to the courting of the shopkeeper’s daughter, who would, in Edwin’s mind, make a fine wife.”
Madame Duval lay on the sofa listening to Marrinek’s tale, unable to see where he was going with it and too scared to interrupt.
“Well, Edwin’s luck in love is as solid as his skill at business and within a few months the pair are wed. Their firstborn arrives a year later, a strong boy they name Loft, after his maternal grandfather. Brothers and sisters follow and before Edwin knows it, he is the patriarch of a huge, sprawling family whose business interests span the city and spread their tentacles across the country.
“As the decades roll on, Edwin becomes Mayor and proved a capable, much-loved politician, equally adept in the council chamber as the counting house. He lives to see his city grow beyond all expectations as his benevolent rule and carefully husbanded wealth transform the lives of the people he knows and loves. When he dies, the city holds a great funeral for their beloved leader and the streets are thronged with mourners and well-wishers from across the country, all gathered to pay their respects to the great man and his still-beautiful widow.”
Marrinek sat back, smiling, as his tale came to an end. He looked around at the blank faces of his audience and frowned.
“Do you not see?” he asked Artas, “Do you not understand the point I am trying to make?”
He looked around at the blank faces of the thugs then shook his head.
“Are you saying that you’re this ‘Edwin’ character?” asked Artas softly, a frown on his face and menace in his voice.
“What? No, of course not. Do I look like a benevolent ruler?”
“Then who, me?” said Artas.
Marrinek snapped his fingers and grinned, a strangely worrying expression amongst the serious threats of Artas’s thugs.
“Now he’s getting there,” said Marrinek happily, as if he were a teacher pleased at the progress of a troublesome pupil, “but no, you’re not Edwin either,” he said, now sad, as if his favoured pupil had suffered some tragic accident, “the point of the story is that you might have been Edwin, had your decisions not brought you here, to this point, instead. Now, though,” Marrinek paused and raised his arms, shaking his head in sorrow as he contemplated the future.
“Your time runs short,” rumbled Artas, scowling at Marrinek as he leant back in his chair. The wood creaked under his bulk as the ganglord stared at Marrinek, who lounged in his chair as if they were discussing a pleasant evening’s gambling.
Marrinek stood up, wincing slightly from the pain in his battered ribs. Artas stood as well, moving lightly for someone so large. The thugs also came alert and the tension ratcheted upwards as hands crawling toward weapons that had never been far from reach.
“I’m going to make you an offer,” said Marrinek, “it’s a good offer, but I’ll make it only once. Let’s see where a little reasoned discussion might take us.”
Long Carp was running for his life through the alleys of the west side of Vensille. He had absolutely no fucking clue why the North Enders were chasing him, or even what they were doing this side of the river, but chasing they most definitely were and he had no intention of hanging around to find out what they wanted. He barged past a vendor of colourful fruit - he didn’t stop to check what sort as the man yelled abuse at his back - then lost his footing in the mud and crashed head first into a pile of assorted manure.
He heaved himself out of the mess and wiped some of it from his face before shouts from back down the alley spurred him on. The fruit vendor was laughing hard as Long Carp turned a corner and hared off, heading for the sleazy pub that was the base of the Flank Side Gang.
His pursuers seemed to be having no problems staying upright and as he dodged along the alley he threw glances over his shoulder. He was younger and faster but in the tight twisted spaces between the houses he couldn’t get clear. Head down, he charged along the alley, jumping from one side to the other in search of firm footing and splashing through the muck when he had to. He checked his lead as he reached the corner - better, but not good enough - then ran straight into a large man wearing a butcher’s apron coming around the corner from the other direction.
Long Carp bounced off the butcher, who staggered back against a wall, and fell onto his backside in the dirt and slime of the alley. He looked back down the alley as the butcher loomed over him, then scrabbled desperately to get his feet under him as two men yelled and charged at him. Barely standing, he pushed past the surprised butcher, fingers of one hand grabbing at the wall as he tried to drag himself forward and into a full run. He slipped again in the muck of the open sewer that ran down the middle of the alley and fell flat on his face. Spitting muck, he pushed himself up and scrambled onto a low wooden bridge laid across the alley then stood up and looked back.
The butcher was still standing at the corner of the alley, just fifteen feet away, watching him and shaking his head when the first of Long Carp’s pursuers came around the corner and collided with him, knocking him to the ground. The second came more slowly and managed to jump the two men sprawled on the ground, sliding to a stop at the edge of the sewer, halfway between the corner and the bridge. He saw Long Carp and held up his hand, palm forward.
“Just want to talk, friend, that’s all. No need to go runnin’ around all over the place.”
The second man had disentangled himself from the butcher and was moving up the alley to stand beside his friend. The butc
her, having picked himself up, looked around unhappily before deciding he wanted no part of whatever violence was about to strike; he disappeared around into one of the houses and slammed the door behind him. Long Carp watched him go, wondering if his last chance of help had also just disappeared as well.
Long Carp edged backwards as the two men edged forward. He stopped when his heel reached the edge of the narrow bridge.
“Go on then, talk,” said Long Carp, eyes darting from side to side as he tried to watch both of the men in front of him and look for a way out of the alley, “What’ve you got to say?”
Pursuer One smiled, displayed two rows of rotten brown teeth.
“Not here, lad, somewhere more private. Why don’t you come to the Snarling Goat and we’ll have a nice chat over a mug of beer.”
Long Carp goggled at the man. Cross the river to drink in the Snarling Goat? The man must be mad if he thought he’d get Long Carp over the river and into the stronghold of a rival gang for a ‘chat’.
“Yeah, right, just give me a moment,” said Long Carp, then he turned and jumped off the bridge, landing in a rare dry patch. He sprinted down the rest of the alley for all he was worth, the sounds of swearing and continued pursuit coming from behind.
At the next corner, he grabbed at the edge of a house and swung around into an even narrower alley, maybe three feet across and dark from overhanging buildings, then he bounced off the walls and took the next left to burst into the small square outside the Flank Siders’ main watering hole, the Groaning Platter. He would find friends here and show these two North Enders what a mistake they’d made by chasing him so far into his own territory.
But the man sitting outside the pub on a chair, looking very much at ease with a mug of ale in one hand and a cold meat pie in the other, wasn’t one of usual toughs who worked the door. And the dozen other men drinking with him also weren’t Flank Siders. Long Carp skidded to a halt in front of them, stopping just a few feet from the bench they were using as a table. He could see that the man with the pie was tall, even though he was sitting down. He had a long moustache, oiled and twirled to fine points, and he was dressed in clean trousers and shirt; this wasn’t a man who had been chasing people through the mud and dirt of the west side of the city.
Long Carp turned as his two pursuers came around the corner and stopped just behind him. They were too close, now; no escape that way. He sighed.
“Fuck.”
“Gave you a good run, did he?” said Moustache to the men now standing behind Long Carp. One of them, bent almost double and leaning on his knees with his head down, just waved a hand and focussed on his breathing. The other, younger and in better shape but still spattered in filth from the alley, nodded.
“He’s quick. Maybe you’d like to run after him for a bit, Chickie, see how much fun it is.”
“No no,” said Chickie, raising his mug in mock salute, “I’ll leave that to you chaps and just concentrate on my pie and beer, thanks all the same.” He turned back to Long Carp, looking him up and down. What he saw was a man in his early twenties, tall, medium build, long dark hair, poorly dressed and covered head to toe in shit and mud and muck from the alley.
“And what a sight you are,” said Chickie to Long Carp, chuckling, “looks like you’ve led my friends on a right old chase. Is there any shit left in those alleys or did you use your shirt to clean them out?”
Long Carp swallowed and straightened up. He looked around but there was nowhere to run and there were no friends in sight.
“I’m Chickie. I’d shake your hand but, well, maybe I’ll wait till you’ve had a bath. What’s your name, son?”
Long Carp looked around again. He knew Chickie by reputation, had even seen him from afar a few times, but to say he was surprised to find him here was an understatement. However it had happened, it was bound to be bad news for the Flank Siders.
“Name’s Long Carp,” he said, flicking indescribable muck from his fingers and running them through his hair.
“Long Carp?” said Chickie, incredulously, “Dressed like that you look more like Long Crap,” he said, and the North Enders laughed heartily. Long Carp grimaced weakly.
“Ha bloody ha. What do you want?”
Chickie took a long pull on his beer then put the mug down on the floor next to his chair. He took a bite of his pie and chewed while he stared.
“Well, it’s like this,” he said finally around a mouthful of food, “life is full of choices, mostly shit ones. And opportunities, although mostly they’re shit as well. I’m here to make you a one-time-only offer to join the North Enders. Throw your lot in with us, as it were. What do you say?”
Long Carp looked around, unsure.
“Can I think about it? Sleep on it, maybe? Chat it over with friends?”
Chickie sucked in air through his teeth and shook his head sadly.
“No, ‘fraid not, need an answer now, so no sleeping on it. And can’t think you’ve got many friends left, if I’m honest. Most of your gang have opted to join us already, those that we’ve found. You might ask the ones who declined but you’d have to find ‘em first and, to be honest, they ain’t likely to do much answering.”
And that clinched it for Long Carp. Better alive amongst a bunch of unfriendly cut-throats than dead and fed to the pigs, or whatever it was that the North Enders did with corpses.
“Well, since you’ve asked so nicely, I accept,” said Long Carp weakly, wiping his hand on his filthy trousers before sticking it out. Chickie stood up from his chair and stepped forward as if to shake it.
“On second thoughts, no, I’m still not shaking your hand. Welcome aboard. Dear god but you stink. Is your stuff inside?” Long Carp nodded. All that he owned, apart from the remnants of the clothes he stood in, was in a small cupboard in the first-floor dormitory of the pub.
“Right. Get yourself cleaned up,” said Chickie, looking at Long Carp’s filthy clothes and hair, “we do have standards, you know? Then we’ll have a proper chat.”
Later that evening, Marrinek sat in the Snarling Goat with Fangfoss, nursing his ribs and pot of beer.
“Artas proved immune to your charms?” asked Fangfoss, barely concealing his disappointment that Marrinek was still amongst the living, “can’t say I’m surprised.”
Marrinek shrugged and grimaced slightly at a twinge of pain from his back.
“Doesn’t matter now. His second, Martha Gauward, was more amenable, although that might have been because we discussed her opportunities in a room full of corpses.” Marrinek sighed. It had been a bloody day’s work, by the end.
“I know Gauward. She’s a complete bitch, especially if she catches you staring at her tits, but she practically runs the Lighthouse for Artas. Or ran it for him. If she’s on-board, we’re home and dry.”
“Good. I want you over there first thing tomorrow,” said Marrinek, tossing back his beer as Fangfoss looked on in alarm, “take Chickie and make sure the place is secure. Gauward gave me a tour and it’s an impressive operation but I don’t trust her, not yet.” Marrinek didn’t trust Fangfoss either but at least his motivator was clear. Gauward wasn’t anywhere near as transparent. “She’ll need a bit of slack to run the Lighthouse effectively but if she slips the leash we’ll be back to square one. I want to know that Gauward is doing what she’s supposed to be doing.” He stood up, stretching a little to try to pull some of the pain from his ribs.
“I don’t really go out, as a rule,” growled Fangfoss, his displeasure evident.
“Tomorrow you go out. Can’t trust anyone else with this, it has to be you. If we don’t put our stamp on the Lighthouse quickly it’ll drift away from us and I’ll have to slap them down again. Take control, Fangfoss, and do it tomorrow. I’ll drop in as well, make sure nobody needs kicking.”
He tossed a velvet bag onto the table.
“First payment from Artas, courtesy of his vault. More to follow once we’ve got everything under control.”
And then he was gone,
leaving Fangfoss to grind his teeth and complain into his beer.
A little while later Long Carp emerged from the inn a new man. He’d scrubbed himself clean in the inn’s tiny bathhouse, changed into fresh clothes and washed most of the muck from his boots. He was almost presentable. He carried a stool out of the inn’s common room and sat down at the bench opposite Chickie. A couple more Flank Siders had turned up and were also seated in the small courtyard, eating pieces of pie that they cut from the plate set on the bench. Long Carp joined them, cutting himself a large slice - he felt he was owed it after the events of the morning - and pouring himself a large mug of beer.
“What do you do for a living, son?” said Chickie when Long Carp had settled down.
“I’m a Collector. Debts, rent, fees, favours, that sort of thing.”
“Good, good,” said Chickie, nodding, “and you bring it all back here, the stuff you ‘collect’, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“So here’s what we want. You keep doing what you do but instead of handing over to, who was it, Lorn Artas?”
Long Carp nodded.
“Instead of handing it to him you pass everything to Hines, here, who’ll be taking over. Understood?”
Long Carp nodded again. That didn’t sound too onerous; business as usual but with a new boss. The Flank Siders were used to those sorts of changes.
“And you’re gonna have to work a bit harder as well,” continued Chickie, “on account of there being fewer people on your crew, now, and higher expectations of profit.”
Long Carp frowned. That didn’t sound so good.
“How much higher?” he asked, although he had a feeling he didn’t really want to know.
“Ah, that’s what I like; a man who focusses on the important things. Basically double, and as you’ve lost about a third of your crew I reckon you three will have your work cut out. In fact, I really don’t understand why you’re sitting here in the sun drinking my beer and eating my pie when you’ve earned me no coin.”