The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  “You have my word on it.”

  Edmund turned to Garran and said in a raised voice, “You are a very lucky boy. Edmund Coulain rarely shows mercy.” With a jerk of his head, the men surrounding Garran and the soldiers followed Edmund and disappeared.

  Cyril silently glared at Garran for a moment before speaking. “You are unbelievable.”

  Garran smiled. “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Cyril fought to restrain the impulse to strangle him to death in the middle of the street. “I made one simple request and you couldn’t abide by it.”

  “It was more a command than a request,” Garran countered. “You practically made me a prisoner. Besides, I’m a small-town boy in the big city, what was I supposed to do?”

  “Almost anything other than what you did! You could have done practically anything else and not screwed up as bad as you did.”

  “Yeah, those guys were serious. I’m sure glad my name’s not Cyril Godfrey.” Garran watched Cyril’s face twist into a rictus of restrained fury and held up the dignitary’s gate chit. “You want this back?”

  Cyril grabbed the token with his left hand and punched the young man in the face with a right cross. Stars exploded across Garran’s vision before all went black. The commander motioned for his soldiers to pick him up and stormed back to the inn.

  CHAPTER 16

  Garran awoke back at the inn. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared at the ceiling for a full minute to get his bearings. He heard the sound of clinking metal when he sat up in the bed and noted the shackles securing his wrists. He followed the chain attached to them with his eyes and found the end padlocked to an iron ring screwed into the wooden floor.

  He tugged twice at the chain connecting the manacles and found Cyril sitting at the table with two of his soldiers. “I really don’t think this is necessary.”

  “I do,” Cyril replied. “I’d break your ankles if I didn’t think the man I’m taking you to would object.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t frown on brain damage.” Garran rubbed the swollen bruise puffing up his left eye. “I really need to stop getting hit in the head so much.”

  “Then stop being such a pain in the ass.”

  “Maybe I’ll just start wearing a helmet.”

  Cyril picked up his chair, set it next to Garran, and sat down. “I thought you and I had a bit of an understanding, that maybe we were even friends just a bit?”

  “Of course we are. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Because you…” Cyril raised his hand over his head and waved it in a circular motion. “You run off, steal my money, forge the bill of exchange issued to me by the king, and then use my name to get a line of credit and become indebted to the largest, most dangerous organized crime syndicate in all of Anatolia!”

  “Is that why you’re mad, you think I did those things because I don’t like you?”

  “Who would do things like that to someone they liked or had even a shred of respect for?”

  Garran paused and thought. “You mean other than me?” Cyril jumped up and kicked his chair across the room. “I’m sorry; I just don’t know that many people. I don’t have a large pool of experience to draw from!”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment!”

  “Are you sure?” Garran dropped back on the bed and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. “I’m as bad at this as I am at gambling.”

  ***

  Cyril’s mood did not appear to have improved overnight. He rode in silence next to Garran as the contingent navigated the early morning streets on their way to wherever it was they were going. The soldiers kept him boxed in and carried a cudgel gripped in one hand to strike him down if he tried to run.

  “Who are you taking me to?”

  Cyril kept his eyes pointed at the road ahead. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You know, this is one of the reasons I ran last night.”

  Cyril sighed and slumped his shoulders. “Look, kid, I’m not trying to keep anything a secret from you. I’m not taking you to some place horrible. The person who wants to meet you wants to see you without either of you having any kind of preconceived notions that might affect how you present yourself or what you might expect of him.”

  Garran nodded. “I think I get it. He wants to see me in all my natural splendor.” He leaned forward in his saddle and noisily broke wind. “I can do that.”

  The commander shook his head and chuckled. “Unbelievable.”

  “Thank you. Seriously though, my mother sold me into slavery, and now you’re taking me somewhere to someone I don’t know to do God knows what. For all I know, I’m getting stuck in another kind of prison gilded with a different fancy name to give it the illusion of respectability. If you’re handing over my life yet again to someone else to control, I was going to get in a little fun before they do. It wasn’t a slight against you. You’ve been more decent to me than most people have, and that list includes my own mother.”

  “Just trust me. If this works out like I hope, you are going to be very pleased and quite successful.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Just be yourself and you’ll be fine…just not too much.”

  Garran smiled and admired his surroundings. He spotted The Guild’s tower soaring over the city and marveled at its modern concrete surface. They passed by the towering obelisk several blocks away and entered the governmental district. The buildings became larger and more fanciful. Most sported elaborate corbels, moldings, and arcades, and were at least two stories tall with many rising five floors above the spotless streets.

  Cyril ordered his entourage to wait at the steps leading up to a four-story government building and guided Garran inside. The foyer was a spacious affair of marble, paintings, and statues. Despite the comings and goings of numerous people, it was oddly quiet with only the pattering of footsteps or barely audible whispers to break the silence.

  Garran had been counting each landing as they ascended the flights of stairs and knew they had reached the top floor. Stout doors, often separated by paintings, busts, or a potted plant, lined the marble hall. Cyril led him to a waiting room at the end of the hall where an older woman sat behind a desk bearing numerous stacks of paper and scrolls. She stopped writing on the sheet beneath her hatchet face and looked up at their approach.

  “Commander Godfrey, right on time. This must be Mr. Holt.”

  “It is.”

  The stern woman looked him up and down as if he were a horse she was considering purchasing. “He is certainly not much to look at, is he?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Um, standing right here,” Garran said.

  The woman ignored him. “You know there is a bathhouse not two blocks from where you are staying. Was he not able to clear time in his busy schedule to make use of it?”

  “Still right here,” Garran repeated.

  “He found other activities to occupy his time,” Cyril answered.

  “Yes, I can tell. He reeks of fornication and self-abuse.”

  “Apparently we are pretending I am also stone deaf,” Garran complained. “You do understand I speak Anatolian?”

  The secretary curled her lip. “You do understand I could care less?”

  “Oh good, I was worried for a moment there. I was beginning to question the state of my existence, and I am far too hungover for such internal philosophical debate.”

  “No one will question your existence even after you’ve left until I can open a window and air out the room.”

  Garran narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips in a thin line. “I don’t think I’m going to like you very much.”

  “Oh dear, you have no idea how devastating that is for me.” The secretary looked at Cyril. “Have a seat in his office.”

  Cyril guided Garran into the spacious office. Several bookcases lined one wall while pa
intings and a few decorative armaments hung on another. An enormous and elaborate map depicting the twelve kingdoms almost covered another, but it was the stocked liquor cabinet to the right of the enormous desk that captured Garran’s attention.

  “Sit here and don’t move,” Cyril ordered Garran.

  Garran took a seat in a chair facing the desk, and Cyril sat in the one next to him. Cyril did not say a word as they waited, and Garran began to fidget in his chair. Several minutes ticked by until he heard the door open behind him. He turned his head but was disappointed to see that it was only the stern secretary probably returning to insult him some more.

  “Commander Godfrey, could I speak with you a moment, please?”

  “Why do you get a please and I get disparaging remarks about my hygiene?” Garran asked as Cyril stood.

  “Because I’m not a disgusting turd.”

  “Me and my bruised feelings are sitting right here.”

  Cyril ignored him as he and the secretary exchanged words near the door. “Garran, I need to see to some business. Wait here until I get back. Please, do not leave the room.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll sit so still it’ll be like I’m not even here, which shouldn’t be too hard to pull off since everyone seems intent on ignoring me.”

  Cyril left and the secretary crossed the room and opened the window behind the big desk. She turned as if she was about to leave. “It is likely going to be a little while. Is there anything I can get you, some tea or perhaps a scented washcloth to remove the stink of what I assume were some low-class prostitutes?”

  “I thought they were rather middle-class myself, but I’m a small-town boy, so I’m not much of a judge.”

  “Whatever. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

  Garran waved his hands and gesticulated that he would stay in his chair. The secretary closed the door behind her. Garran immediately stood, turned, and made several animated rude gestures at the woman on the other side.

  ***

  Cyril entered the room next to Gregor Ward’s office and found the agent sitting at a desk much smaller than the one in his office.

  “How is our young friend doing?” Gregor asked.

  “He should be sufficiently agitated to put on a good display.”

  “That didn’t take long.”

  “I told you it wouldn’t.”

  “Let us go watch the show.”

  Gregor pushed against a wall panel, which swung open with a click. The two men stepped into a narrow passage between the rooms and pressed an eye to cleverly concealed peepholes. His secretary, Eunice, had just left the room, and Garran was pantomiming what they assumed was bending her over his chair and furiously mounting her from behind.

  Garran crossed the room and studied the magnificent map for a minute before browsing the titles stamped into the spines of the books packed into the bookcases. He then went to the liquor cabinet but found the doors locked. Garran bent at the waist and studied the lock intently.

  He crossed the room and drew one of the decorative short swords from behind a shield mounted on a polished wood backer and returned to the liquor cabinet. Gripping the extended edge of the cupboard, Garran gently slid the corner away from the wall until he had access to the back. He then used the tip of the sword to pry away the thin backing and gained access to its precious contents.

  Garran selected a bottle of Urqan red and filled a tumbler. He unhitched his trousers, topped off the bottle, and put it back before tapping the cabinet’s backing into place and sliding it against the wall.

  “Clever,” Gregor whispered. “He noted the level in the bottle before pouring and refilled it to prevent anyone from knowing he had gained access.”

  “I doubt he really cares if anyone knows that he filched their liquor. I think he does it just because it’s a thing with him, and it lets him exercise his general contempt for authority.”

  Garran strode over to a bowl of fresh fruit and dropped several apples and a pear down the front of his pants. He then sat in the big chair behind the desk, took a long pull from his glass, and tugged at the drawers. Finding them all locked, he unwound a length of wire from the sword’s hilt, wriggled it back and forth until it broke, and began prodding around inside the locks.

  Garran was far from being a master lock picker, but it was not a sophisticated device, and he managed to pop it open with just a minute or two of teasing. He opened the wide, short center drawer and rummaged through its contents. He pulled out a few papers, glanced over their contents, but discovered little of consequence.

  Two keys hidden beneath the loose pages and scattered office supplies did peak his interest. He closed the drawer and locked it with the smaller of the two keys. Garran was pleased to find it unlocked the other desk drawers, and he began perusing their contents as well. Inside the deeper side drawers, he found a wealth of information. He made a mental note of names, titles, and anything else his eyes picked out in the few seconds he scanned them.

  Losing interest in the documents, Garran went to one side of the room and studied the decorations hanging on the wall. He was particularly interested in a decorative shield emblazoned with a coat of arms. He swiped a finger through the dust lightly coating the piece, slipped his fingers behind it, and found the release on the back.

  Garran pressed down on the latch, and the shield swung outward on hinges. “Ah-ha, what kind of goodies do we have in here?”

  Behind the heraldic shield was a small iron door with a keyhole set in the left of center. Garran inserted the larger key he found in the desk and opened the safe. He pocketed a small pouch of money and examined the documents he found inside a leather satchel. His pulse spiked as he read numerous, obviously highly classified letters and reports on foreign and local political figures. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind as he considered the damage and profit he could make with this information. Garran continued reading but with haste, his mouth curling into an ever-deepening frown until he decided he had seen enough. He slid the papers back into the satchel, returned the bundle to its resting place, and closed the safe.

  Garran fished the fruit out of his pants and placed them back in the bowl before returning to the desk. He pulled out one of the bottom drawers, dropped his trousers, and squatted over it.

  “I think I’ve seen enough,” Gregor said and hastened from the secret passage.

  “Welcome back, sir,” Garran heard Eunice announce through the closed doors. “Mr. Holt is waiting in your office.”

  Garran quickly hitched up his pants, closed and locked the drawer, and returned to his chair. His backside had barely touched the velvet cushion when the door opened and a man strode in. He was tall and had a soldier’s build. His dark blond hair and groomed beard outlined a friendly smile and piercing blue eyes.

  “Mr. Holt, I apologize for making you wait. I had some business that required my personal attention.” He walked directly to the liquor cabinet, opened it with a key he retrieved from his pocket, and took out the bottle of Urqan red. “Would you care for a drink?”

  Garran twitched his head. “No thanks.”

  “So, tell me about…myself.”

  “Well, I…what?” Garran asked when his brain caught up with the simple but abstract question.

  Gregor walked to the open window and poured out the very expensive bottle of liquor. “I’ve been observing you for the past twenty minutes or so. I want to know what you have learned.”

  Garran got up from his chair, crossed to the wall on his left, and began searching for the spyhole. It took him a full minute to locate the first one as well as three more a minute after that.

  “Very good,” Gregor said. “How did you know to look on that wall?”

  “Basic deduction by eliminating the improbable. The wall behind your desk is mostly window, and while I suppose you could have watched me from the building across the plaza, it was unlikely. Your secretary’s office and waiting area cover the entire area on that wall, and I doubt you would want every visitor seeing
you with your face pressed against it. This is a corner office, so beyond that wall is the outside, and I don’t think there is enough space for a hidden corridor. There are also several bookcases against it that would obstruct the view.”

  Gregor smiled and nodded. “Very good. Now, tell me what you have learned by riffling through my belongings.”

  “Your name is Gregor Ward. You are highly-placed within the government and very close to King Remiel both personally and professionally.”

  “Explain.”

  “I found numerous documents bearing the king’s signature. Most were of an official capacity with instructions and orders to carry out certain actions. They appeared to come directly from Remiel to you; therefore they did not follow a chain of command, indicating that there was no one higher than you except the king. I also found an invitation to attend Princess Evelyn’s private birthday celebration after the more public ceremony. He named you Gregor in the invitation instead of Agent Ward.”

  “You think I am an agent?” Gregor asked.

  “I am almost certain of it. In fact, I bet you are the highest-ranking agent in the kingdom, given the level of communications documents I found and personal correspondence with the king.”

  “Excellent, go on.”

  “I know you have recently traveled to Urqua, almost certainly on official business.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because nobody goes to Urqua on vacation, and since Urqan red is on the trade embargo list, you had to have picked it up while you were there.”

  “I could have purchased it on the black market. There’s no need to travel all the way to Urqua to get it, and how do you know it is illegal? I doubt many, if any, are aware of the embargo way out in Wooder’s Bend.”

  “I once stole a bottle from Mayor Alessi. I don’t know where he got it, probably from the black market during his annual trip to the capital. He practically tore the town apart looking for it. I know you went to Urqua recently because I found an Urqan language text that had been dog-eared in several places. I assume you wanted to brush up on your vocabulary before you left. I also found several documents inside the safe that came from Urqua, which were the reason for your trip.”