The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  Garran scowled. He wasn’t above drinking the foulest of swill beer or wine, but he did not get nearly the mileage from the weak alcohol that he did from properly distilled spirits. Besides, he could not afford to spend half the day running to the privy between classes. Garran fondled the few coins still in his pocket. His fingers brushed something other than a coin. He pulled out the pin he had stolen from the dean and stared, his shrewd mind running a gamut of options, each one more nefarious than the other.

  “I suddenly remember somewhere else I need to be.”

  Garran jogged down the street and, after covering more than a mile and making several inquiries, found what he was looking for. A street troupe was just packing away their costumes, disassembling the few shabby backdrops, and loading them into a wagon. He approached the woman who was giving directions and appeared to be in charge.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Garran said as he jogged up.

  The woman turned toward him. “What is it, sweetie?”

  She was tall and thin, and the only feature more prominent than her high cheekbones was her Adam’s apple.

  Garran stared, mesmerized as it bobbed up and down like a hypnotist’s swinging pendulum. He had heard of benders, he suspected he even saw one or two at the brothel, but he had never been this close or talked to one before.

  She snapped her fingers in front of Garran’s face. “Hello, I’m a little busy here.”

  Garran shook his head and forced his eyes to meet hers—his—whatever. “Uh, yes, I need your help with something.”

  “If it’s girl troubles, you’ve come to the wrong place, sweetie.”

  “No, I need some makeup help.”

  “Then you have come to the right place.” She pursed her lips. “How much can you pay?”

  “I’ve got six dinarins.”

  The thespian sighed. “Well, it’s damn near what we made all day, so I can’t hardly refuse. Damn armpit of a district.”

  “Why don’t you set up in a better spot?”

  “We’re not Guild affiliated. Only those with a Guild charter get to work the nicer neighborhoods.”

  “Can’t you get a charter?”

  “Look at us, honey, we don’t meet their standards. Damn shame really. Some of my people are the best actors you’ll see, but none of us has the connections or coin to get a charter. Goddam crooked elitist bastards. Pardon my Opatian. My name is Barbara, by the way.”

  “It is?”

  “It is now.”

  “I’m Garran.”

  “Aw, you poor thing.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s spelled different.”

  “I’m sure it is, sweetie.” She led Garran into an enclosed wagon favored by performers and circuses. “So, what am I doing with you?”

  “I need something so people with a passing familiarity with my face won’t recognize me. I was thinking maybe a hair dye and mustache.”

  “I can do that and maybe one better. Sit still while I work my magic.”

  Barbara started on his hair, brushing it into some semblance of respectability. Garran winced often when the brush hung up in the numerous tangles. Once tamed and orderly, she wetted the brush, rubbed it into a tin of black soot, and tinted his hair. She then pulled out a box and flipped open the lid. Inside were strips of leather of varying shapes and sizes and a host of makeup supplies.

  “What are those?” Garran asked when Barbara selected a few of the leather pieces.

  “I’m going to change the shape of your face. You don’t want anyone to recognize you, right?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Then open your mouth.”

  Garran opened his mouth, and Barbara placed the leather strips between his cheeks, lips, and gums. It was a strange feeling, and the leather left a salty taste in his mouth. She then chose a fake mustache, applied some gum to Garran’s upper lip, and pressed it into place. Barbara leaned back to admire her handiwork before going to work with the makeup brushes. She grabbed a hand mirror and held it up for Garran to see.

  “Wow, I look like a completely different person,” Garran said as he turned his face from side to side in the mirror.

  “You look a good five years older and almost handsome.”

  “Almost handsome…thanks.”

  “Well, when you give a painter a burlap sack instead of a canvas, don’t blame the artist for a terrible portrait.”

  “Again, thanks.”

  “So who are you pretending to be to pull off your little scheme?”

  Garran grinned and rolled his eyes. “An agent.”

  He did not register the slap until the sound of flesh slapping flesh reached his ears and his cheek started burning. “Wrong!”

  Garran’s hand flew to his wounded face. “What the hell?”

  “A true actor never pretends to be anyone. He becomes that person until he even convinces himself that’s who he is. I’m guessing this is going to be dangerous?”

  “Yeah, it could be.”

  “Then you cannot pretend to be an agent, you must be an agent. I bet the people you are trying to fool would know the difference between an agent and a pretend agent. Am I right?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then you need to become that person. Pretending won’t cut it, and I don’t want you to get hurt. You have character and, when you’re surrounded by actors all day, that’s a rare thing. If you ever want to stop by for something other than makeup lessons let me know.”

  “Yeah…I talk a good game, but I’m pretty set on the ladies.”

  Barbara shrugged. “Suit yourself, but if you decide to get off the bench and play ball, you know where to find me.”

  “Pun intended?”

  “Always.”

  ***

  Garran had a good idea where to go thanks to his wild foray the night before Cyril dumped him in Agent Ward’s office. All he needed to do was find a less than scrupulous alcohol purveyor. Given the general lawlessness of the district, he doubted it would take long. He chose a tavern whose building looked to be three-quarters storage area. Not many bars needed to keep this much product on hand unless they were distributing it in far greater quantities than by the glass.

  Two men stood guard outside the storeroom’s alley entrance, so Garran decided on a frontal assault. A wave of noise greeted his arrival when he stepped into the enormous bar. Despite serving well over a hundred patrons, the stockroom was large enough to supply a dozen establishments this size if it was filled anywhere near to capacity.

  Garran looked to the raised stage where a full band was playing and a woman in a dress suited for a formal ball was singing, her strong voice barely audible over the general din near the doorway. He strode up to the expansive bar near one corner but did not attempt to flag down any of the four bartenders on duty. Garran stood just behind the patrons lining the bar and watched, choosing his moment to act.

  When a nearby customer ordered a drink Garran recognized as being particularly potent, he leaned in with a tobacco twist in his fingers, pushed between a pair of men, and reached for the candle sitting lit in a glass on the bar. Garran touched a tinder stick to the flame and bumped the powerful drink with his elbow, sloshing its contents onto the counter.

  “Watch what you’re doing, you damn fool!” the man barked. “You owe me another drink!”

  “I am so sorry,” Garran said.

  The irate man wadded up Garran’s lapels and pushed him away from the bar. Garran dropped his burning tinder stick into the flammable spill as he stumbled back. The small flame ignited the whiskey with an audible whoosh and set the bar on fire. Several patrons jumped away as the bartenders grabbed water and towels to smother the flames.

  Garran melted away into the crowd, many of whom were cheering the spectacle, and threaded his way to the door leading into the storeroom next to the bar. He pushed through the door and quickly closed it behind him. The storeroom was dim and only partially lit by a few oil lanterns.

  Taking a lantern off a peg, h
e browsed amongst the wooden crates, wine racks, and kegs. He skipped over the bulk of the inventory and made his way deeper into the cavernous warehouse. He selected crates bearing the mark of the more expensive and prestigious brewers. As he gazed at the small casks of aged whiskey, he wished he had a wagon. With a sigh of regret, Garran found a burlap sack, pried the lid off of a crate of twenty-year-old Opatian amber malt, and stuffed them into the sack along with some straw padding.

  “Friend, you picked one of the more painful methods of suicide available.”

  Garran nearly dropped his bag and spun around. Four men wielding clubs and knives stood just a few paces away. The speaker turned up the wick on his lantern, illuminating a large patch of the warehouse’s dank interior. Garran’s ability not to balk in the face of danger and maintain his stony façade might have impressed even Barbara’s high standards. Garran recognized the speaker of the group as one of the men who chased him after his bad bout of gambling. He just prayed the man did not recognize him as well.

  “Gentlemen, you have a very nice selection of fine alcohol here. The only problem is that I don’t see a customs stamp on most of it. The king doesn’t like it when people don’t cut him his due, especially since he needs the coin to finance his new trade road. Smuggling alcohol is not only illegal, it’s downright unpatriotic.”

  The man squinted, raised his lantern, and took a step forward. “Who the hell are you?”

  Garran turned the lapel of his coat out and displayed the silver pin. “Agent Rupert Ellery. You boys are in a lot of trouble.”

  Several sets of eyes shifted nervously between faces. “It looks to me that you’re the one in trouble.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Garran warned. “Do you think I’m here by myself? There are three other agents watching the entrances from across the street.”

  “They ain’t here now, and they ain’t gonna be able to arrive fast enough to save you.”

  “What do you think would happen if you killed an agent? You would bring down the full might of the diplomatic corps right on top of your heads. We’ve toppled entire governments. What do you think we could do to a bunch of bootlegging tax evaders? But I don’t think we need to go that far.” Garran looked around the room. “You’ve got tens of thousands of dinarins worth of tax-free booze. How about we work out a deal where you let me get a taste of your inventory, and my friends and I consider you paid up?”

  The thug and his cohorts relaxed. It was a simple shakedown, and those were cheaper and easier to handle than dealing with the serious attention killing an agent would bring. Their organization already had numerous members of the constabulary on payroll. Enlisting an agent to their ranks would be worth a great deal.

  “What about your friends?”

  Garran hefted his sack. “Why do you think I brought a bag?”

  “All right. We can work with that, but you keep us informed if the corps thinks about cracking down on us.”

  Garran smiled and turned back to the shelves. “Trust me; I want you to stay in business every bit as much as you do.” He opened another crate and was momentarily dumbstruck at what it held. Garran lifted the paper-wrapped bar of opium. “Oh, baby, come to papa. I’ll save you from these bad men,” he crooned and added it reverently to the bag.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder and tried to slap the hand away. “Back up, I know what I’m after.” Someone poked him again, and Garran spun around.

  “Hello, Cyril.”

  Garran swallowed as he stared into Edmund Coulain’s dark, unforgiving eyes. “I’m sorry; I think you are mistaking me for someone else. I am Agent Rupert Ellery with the diplomatic corps.” Garran looked at the men boxing him in and hefted his sack. “I think our business is concluded. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  Edmund stopped Garran’s retreat with a stiff finger to his chest. “Our business is just beginning. Let’s start off with your real name.”

  “I told you, I’m Agent Ellery.”

  Edmund shook his head. “Lies are only going to bring you pain.” He reached up and tore Garran’s mustache off. “Last time your name was Cyril, but we both know that’s not it. Tell me who you really are.”

  “I told you. Rupert Ellery.”

  Edmund clamped a hand over Garran’s genitals and squeezed. “Try again.”

  “Ow! Okay, okay, my name is Lanny Ward! I’m Agent Ward’s nephew. I go under the name of Rupert Ellery because Gregor doesn’t want anyone knowing we are related. That’s why he was willing to do a favor to keep you from hurting me even though I’m a bit of an embarrassment.”

  “Well, at least you are honest about one thing.” Edmund squeezed harder. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t about your name.”

  “Gah! Holt, Garran Holt! Shit, are you a criminal or goddam juice press?”

  Edmund released his grip. “That I believe. What are you doing here stealing from me? Do you have a death wish?”

  Garran bent over and held his abused privates. “My poor lemons! I was broke, sober, and desperate to correct the situation.”

  “I need to know your real connection with Agent Ward before I toss your body into the sewers.”

  “I’m his protégé or something. He got me into the university to become an agent so, you see, I really am valuable. Not just to him but to you also. Everything I told your man is true, sort of, just not right now. Let me live. Call it an investment in both our futures.”

  “You’re a student at the university?”

  “I am, and I’m about to become a prefect.”

  “Really, already?”

  Garran shrugged. “I’ve got skills.”

  He flinched when Edmund stepped close, but the mafia man draped an arm over his shoulder. “I think we can come to terms, you and me. You see, I have been trying to open a corridor onto the school grounds for quite some time, but I have met with a great deal of resistance.” He turned to the shelf and stuffed several more bricks of rendered opium into Garran’s bag. “Establish a market for me on campus, and I will make sure you are never sober or desperate again. Deal?”

  “Hell yes!”

  Edmund stuck his finger in Garran’s face. “You are to sell this, not smoke the entire damn inventory yourself.”

  Garran looked at the bag and the several pounds of drugs it contained. “You might want to toss in a couple more then…”

  Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. “One of my people will contact you. Remember, I have eyes everywhere. Do not even think about double-crossing me. This is the second time I have spared your foolish life. I will not do so a third time.”

  “Hey, I’m all in. You have nothing to worry about.” Garran hefted the sack onto his shoulder and staggered beneath the weight. “Hey, do you think someone could give me a ride?”

  ***

  Edmund’s coach dropped him off as near the university grounds as he could get. This left Garran to walk more than a mile with a seventy-pound sack of booze and drugs draped over his shoulder. It was getting late, and Garran did not see any light streaming through Toby’s window, so he assumed the groundskeeper was already asleep.

  Garran entered the large storage barn and found a good spot behind the irrigation pipes in which to store his loot. He selected a bottle of whiskey, filled his opium pipe, and sat down to obliterate all the stress he had accumulated over the past few days.

  CHAPTER 5

  Garran awoke to the sound of clanging metal and off-key singing. He forced his eyes open and peered into the gray gloom. Light from the open barn door allowed him some measure of visibility. The severely hungover teen crawled to his feet and staggered toward the door, bouncing painfully off the pipe racks and shelves.

  Toby spotted him as he lurched into the light and grinned. “You’re alive!”

  Garran shielded his eyes from the searing daylight. “Unfortunately. What time is it?”

  “It’s around the tenth hour.”

  “Crap, I’m late for class.”

  Toby laughed. “Yeah, you are!”


  Garran sighed and looked out toward the classrooms. “Thanks for letting me sleep it off and not making a thing out of it.”

  “Hey, I’ve lost three out of five fights with a bird. It’s not my place to judge. Besides, I think a man has the right to set his own path, even it leads him off a cliff.”

  Garran flashed Toby a thumbs up and shuffled toward the dorms. He forced aside the pounding pain in his head and the queasiness in his stomach. He had only a few more days to enact his plan to get Martin kicked out and take his place.

  “Holt!” someone shouted.

  Garran turned and saw Aniston jogging toward him, apparently spotting him as he walked to his next class. Aniston grabbed him by the elbow.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I was out. I know I’m late for class.”

  “Late? No one has seen you for two days!”

  Garran blinked stupidly. “Two days? Aw hell. Sorry, I guess I went on a bit of a bender.”

  “Get your shit together, Holt,” Aniston snapped. “If you’re right, Professor Lyndon is springing his test on us after the weekend.”

  “Don’t worry, I got it handled.” Garran fished a glass vial out of his pocket and gave it to Aniston. “Pour that into Martin’s glass at dinner tonight.”

  “You can’t kill Martin! That’s not part of the deal.”

  “I’m not going to kill him. That’s just moon milk to help him sleep through the night.”

  Aniston looked at the cloudy liquid in the vial. “This is opium? Garran, this will get you expelled!”

  “I’m not going to get expelled. How are the votes looking?”

  “I’m pretty sure I had enough before you pulled this disappearing act…if you get rid of Martin and can prove you are able to lead us through our practical exams.”

  “Don’t worry about me; you just make sure your part is done.”

  “How can I not worry about you when you smell like a privy? What happened?”

  Garran glanced down. “Yeah, I think I may have pissed myself once or twice.”

  Aniston leaned away and took a step back. “Gods, you are disgusting.”