The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  Cyril spurred his mount ahead, shoving through the mass of pedestrians to reach the soldiers controlling the gates. Garran could see him exchanging some words with one of the guards who then waved him and his retinue forward. Cyril motioned his group to follow and led them along the outside wall.

  “Where are we going?” Garran asked as they skirted the wall. “I thought we were going inside?”

  “We are, but the main gate is a fiasco.” He nodded toward a smaller postern gate a hundred yards to the right of the main gate and held up a glossy, white chit. “This allows dignitaries to bypass that goat rope.”

  “Wow, I’ve been called a lot of things before, but never a dignitary.”

  “Play your cards right and stop acting like an ass all the time and you might get used to it. Do you get my drift?”

  Garran nodded. “Yeah, savor this fleeting moment.”

  Cyril wagged his head and chuckled. They reached the postern gate, and Cyril displayed the chit. The door, just wide enough for two riders to pass through side by side, opened and allowed them entrance. The street ran through a much less congested area of the city away from the heart of the bustling vendors.

  Garran and his entourage navigated the labyrinth of homes and businesses until they stopped at an inn. Cyril paid to have their horses stabled and rented a pair of rooms. They made their way upstairs where Cyril and two of his soldiers tossed their belongings in one room with Garran, and the others set up in an adjacent chamber.

  “I need to contact someone in the city,” Cyril said once he dropped his gear in the corner of the room. “It could take a while, so you just sit tight until I return. Feel free to order anything from the kitchen. My men will bring it to you. Do not leave this room. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Cyril crossed the chamber, examined the window, and secured the shutters with a lock from his bag.

  “Your lack of trust wounds me deeply.”

  Cyril pointed his finger at Garran. “Stay put.” He turned to his soldiers. “He does not leave this room unless it is on fire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cyril made to leave but turned, crossed the room, and snatched the oil lamp and sulfur sticks off the table. He shoved both items into the guard’s hands and left Garran in the care of his handlers.

  Garran walked slowly around the chamber, riffled through the dresser and nightstand drawers, and finally sat on his bed. “I’m hungry.”

  “It’s not suppertime yet,” his guard informed him.

  “Cyril said I could have whatever I wanted from the kitchens. He didn’t say I had to wait until supper, so hop to and get me something to eat. Don’t forget, I’m a dignitary now.”

  The soldier glared but relented. “What do you want?”

  “Fish, curds, and milk.”

  “Fine.” The man opened the door and spoke to one of the soldiers outside. “The little prick wants some fish, curds, and milk.”

  “Dignitary!” Garran corrected.

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re very rude. I don’t appreciate your hostility.”

  “And you’re a pain in the ass,” his guard countered. “I don’t appreciate being lectured by my commander because you decide to go gallivanting with whores.”

  “It was one time!”

  “And it’s the last time on my watch, so just sit there and be quiet until Commander Godfrey gets back.”

  Garran flopped back onto his bed and crossed his arms. “Damn fine way to treat a transcended. See if I ever save your life again.”

  A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Garran’s order. The door guard passed the tray laden with his meal to his hostile room guard who set it on the table with a loud clatter. Garran pulled up a chair and smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else Your Lordship demands?”

  “No, I think this will do for now, unless you think the kitchen has whores.”

  “I’ll check, but I doubt it.”

  “I have noted your sarcasm.”

  “Note this too.” The soldier turned his fist toward Garran and raised his middle finger.

  Garran dug into his meal despite finding curds disgusting and knowing that most things dairy reacted rather violently with his system. He finished his food in short order and waited. It took only minutes for his stomach to begin churning.

  “Oh, I think that fish might have been bad.”

  His guard looked over, sniffed, and grimaced. “Seriously?”

  “You may want to open the window.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The window stays locked.”

  “Fine, I just hope you have a strong stomach.” Garran leaned to the side and released a rasping fart. “I think this is the beginning of something horrifically spectacular. I need to use the privy.”

  “You’re not leaving this room. Use the chamber pot.”

  Garran glanced at the enameled iron pot. “I have like four days of trail rations backed up in my system, and it’s about to break loose. There is no way that thing is going to contain this mudslide.” Garran let loose another blast.

  “Good God, man!” the guard exclaimed and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve as he raced for the door. “Fine, you can use the privy!”

  “Hold on, I think I need a fresh pair of underclothes. That last one had some weight behind it.” Garran riffled through the bags stacked in the corner and came up with a pair of fresh undergarments. “Here we go.”

  “You are so disgusting.”

  The man pointed to the privy after ensuring that the window was too small for Garran to fit through should this be a ruse to facilitate an escape. Garran darted into the small chamber, slammed, and locked the door.

  It was a modern privy made of a bench built over a hole that likely ran to a sewer tunnel beneath the building. A bucket of water sat nearby to flush down the rancid waste. As he had hoped, the privy was a recent renovation and, to save money, was built by sectioning off one of the rooms with a single layer of boards and adding a door.

  Garran pressed his forearm against his mouth and blew a loud and long raspberry as he examined the newer wall. “You guys may want to get comfortable. This could take some time.”

  He found a loose board and used his belt buckle to pry out the nails. “Oh my God,” Garran cried out after creating another violent episode of flatulence on his arm and splashing some of the water down the privy hole. “I think I’ll have to walk to wherever we’re going next. There’s no way I can sit in a saddle after this kind of abuse.”

  Garran flipped off the soldiers on the other side of the door before squeezing through the breach he made in the wall. It was good luck that the room was unoccupied. He imagined that most people preferred a room away from the privy and the noises and smells that accompanied its use. He slipped out of the window, shinnied down some latticework, and darted down the street.

  He was a poor country boy loose in the big city, and he was going to ensure he got to enjoy it. First, he needed to not look like a poor country boy. After making a few inquiries, it did not take long to find a clothier.

  The proprietor looked him up and down with obvious disdain when he strode into the establishment. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Garran adopted what he thought to be a wealthy and pretentious tone. “I certainly hope so. As you can see, I am in desperate need of proper attire. Given the frightful state of the roads these days, my family thought it prudent to dress as a commoner whilst traveling from our chateau in High Lake to the capital. While it turned out to be a wise decision, it was largely fruitless as my retinue and I were waylaid by bandits.”

  “Oh dear, that sounds dreadful!”

  “Indeed. While several of my servants forfeited their lives to aid in my escape, I lost all of my baggage.”

  “Well, I can certainly get you properly dressed once again, My Lord.”

  Garran glanced around the room and sniffed. “Are you sure? These all look so quain
t. I hoped to put my frightening episode behind me by indulging in some drinking, debauchery, and gambling.”

  The proprietor crossed the room. “I have my best and most modern fashions over here. I’m sure we can find you something suitable for tonight and get your measurements for more formal attire. You did not lose your coin, I pray.”

  Garran patted his pocket and held up a piece of paper. “Of course not. You will accept a bill of exchange won’t you?”

  The tailor took the writ signed by King Remiel that allowed Cyril to purchase supplies for the work camp. “Oh, of course! Are you close to the king?”

  “My family has ties, but I doubt he even knows I’m alive. The aristocracy can be so tedious. The common folk just do not appreciate how tiresome it can all be.”

  “I can certainly understand that.”

  “Can you? I don’t see how, but your sympathy is appreciated.”

  The proprietor took out a measuring tape and measured Garran to create an entire ensemble for him to pick up later. In the meanwhile, Garran chose several garments off the rack with the tailor’s advice.

  Garran raised his arms to display his new clothes. “How do I look?”

  “Dashing, My Lord, like a true man of the gentry.”

  “Wonderful. I will return in a week for the rest of my clothing.”

  “Are you sure you would not like me to have it delivered? There is no need to inconvenience yourself.”

  “I have yet to decide where I will stay. I will retain a servant while I am in the city and have him fetch them for me.”

  “Very good, sir. If you will just sign your bill of exchange, I will get to work immediately.”

  “Of course.” Garran took the proffered quill and spoke as he signed the paper. “Lord Cyril Godfrey, Esquire.” He dropped the quill back into the inkpot. “Now, if you would be so kind as to point me toward the nearest den of iniquity, I shall be on my way.”

  ***

  Cyril guided his mount through the diminishing foot traffic. He was in a state of agitation due to the bureaucratic hoops he had spent half the day jumping through like a circus dog. He had in his possession one of the very few transcended in the kingdom, and possibly the known world. One would think that would cut through almost any red tape and allow him to see the man he needed to inform, with a certain amount of expediency. One would be a damn fool for thinking so.

  The day was shot to hell, and God only knew what kind of trouble that kid had caused while he was gone. He dismounted and tossed the reins to the stablehand. Cyril took a deep breath to calm his frayed nerves. He had half a dozen trained soldiers to guard a single boy in an enclosed room. How much trouble could he get himself into?

  Cyril climbed the stairs and stopped when he reached the top. The sergeant he had put in charge and another trooper stood before the room’s open door and shifted uneasily at his arrival. The sergeant opened his mouth but snapped it shut when the words failed to issue forth.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Sir…I…,” the sergeant stammered.

  “How do six men lose a single boy in a locked room?”

  The sergeant forced himself to stand at rigid attention and locked his eyes on the wall just above Cyril’s head. “Sir, I let him out to use the privy.”

  “One,” Cyril growled. “I gave you one simple order, and that was to keep him in that room unless there was a fire. Was there a fire?”

  “No sir. Mr. Holt complained of severe stomach distress and requested to use the privy. He insisted that the chamber pot would be insufficient to meet his needs.”

  “We think it was a ruse,” the other soldier chimed in.

  The sergeant turned his head to face his subordinate. “You weren’t in there. It was no ruse!”

  “So you let him use the privy. Did he somehow manage to climb down the shitter hole?” their commander asked.

  “No sir, he pried loose a pair of wall boards and escaped through the adjoining room’s window. We began searching all of the taverns and brothels immediately upon realizing he had absconded.”

  “And?”

  “Our initial search did not turn up any clues, but when we returned to them later we did learn that he had indeed frequented them.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Most of them, sir. He seems to rotate through them fairly quickly. With only four men out searching, it would be only by sheer luck that one of us would be in the right place at the same time.”

  Cyril sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. “What could he possibly be doing? He hasn’t got a pinched dinarin to his name.”

  “Actually, sir, he…ah…took our traveling funds.”

  Cyril fought back his rising anger and his violent desires. “Is that all?”

  “He…uh…also took the bill of exchange.”

  The commander’s fist connected with the sergeant’s jaw before any of them realized it was in motion. “Follow me! There’s no use standing around here. Garran won’t be back until he’s bankrupted us and the king.”

  Cyril stormed down the stairs and out of the inn with his two subordinates in tow. Despite the waning hours, people still thronged the streets. The soldiers kept a tight grip on their sword hilts and used their body language to intimidate anyone who impeded their passage.

  “This is maddening!” Cyril railed. “There are a quarter million people in this damn city, and we have to find one prick of a boy.”

  Someone barreled into Cyril’s chest and knocked him back a step. The commander grabbed the individual by the shoulders and was ready to cast him into the street. His eyes widened then narrowed as he glared into Garran’s surprised face.

  “You rancid little shit!”

  “Yes, that and a lot of other unkind things we can discuss at length later, but right now, we need to go.”

  “The only thing going anywhere is my boot in your ass!”

  “Whatever you say. You can use my ass for a shoe closet if you like, but let’s go do that somewhere, anywhere, else than here in the street.”

  Cyril’s voice was low and threatening. “What have you done?”

  “I tried a little gambling.”

  “And?”

  “And I discovered I am not very good at it.”

  Cyril opened his mouth to unleash his tirade when a voice called through the crowd. “Thank you for stopping him, gentlemen.” Cyril looked up as the crowd migrated away and saw several men surrounding them. “Kindly hand over the boy and we will be on our way.”

  Cyril did not recognize any of the men, but he had a good idea of the criminal organization they represented. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m charged with this idiot’s protection.”

  “Then we have a small problem. Your little friend owes us a great deal of money.”

  The commander breathed a sigh of relief. If Garran only owed them money, then he should be able to resolve this easily enough. He stepped up to the man and extended his hand.

  “I’m Cyril Godfrey.”

  The man flicked his eyes to Garran and grinned before grasping Cyril’s hand. “Edmund Coulain.”

  “How much does he owe? I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

  Edmund grimaced and scratched at the back of his neck. “Forty-two thousand dinarins.”

  “Forty-two thousand…” Cyril spun around on Garran. “How the hell did you get in debt for forty-two thousand dinarins?”

  Garran cast his eyes at his feet. “They thought I was you and issued me a line of credit.”

  “Why would they give me a line of credit?”

  Garran held up the white chit. “I had this. They figured I was an important and wealthy dignitary. It’s amazing what some nice clothes and the most meager symbol of importance can get you.”

  Cyril raised his index finger and waved it in front of Garran’s face before clenching it into a fist and dropping it to his side. “If he moves, stab him in the leg,” he ordered the sergeant.

  Cyril stepped
up to the apparent leader of the group and pulled him aside. “I understand you are a businessman, and the people you represent are always interested in deals that can be of greater benefit than mere coin.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “That boy is an indentured worker and doesn’t have a pot to piss in. However, there are those who have a keen interest in his well-being, people highly placed and in a position to grant favors of significant value.”

  Edmund scratched at his chin. “I don’t know. He owes us a lot of money.”

  “Look, it’s just a gambling debt, right? Therefore, you really aren’t out anything. You can’t get blood from turnip, or so the saying goes.”

  “Yeah, but we can get a lot of blood out of him.”

  “What does that get you? People are already too terrified to cross you, so making an example of him doesn’t get you anything. Let me take him to who wants him and you get a favor of your choosing.”

  “How do I know this favor has any value or that you are in a position to ensure I get it?”

  Cyril shrugged. “You don’t, and I can’t guarantee what they will give you. You’ll have to take it on faith. You are obviously a gambling man, so gamble. If you lose, you aren’t out anything other than another killing, but if you win, it could pay off in ways you can’t imagine.”

  The syndicate strongman pursed his lips and tried to look at his own eyebrows. “It is intriguing, but I need a little more than your vague promises. Your friend has annoyed me, and killing him would be very satisfying.”

  “I imagine it would be. I imagine it very well. I really don’t want to throw around the man’s name.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  Cyril sighed and nodded. “I assume you know who Gregor Ward is?”

  “You talking about the Gregor Ward who is the king’s eyes, ears, and sword?”

  “The very one.”

  “Why would a man like Gregor Ward care about a little shit like him?”

  “I really cannot divulge that information, but I just spoke with him today, and he is very interested in meeting that boy. I would not want to be the man who denied him the…privilege.”

  “You will inform Agent Ward of the boy’s debt when you take him to see him?”