The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  It was not long before a man about his age and size entered the room. He cast a glance at Dragoslav but did not speak and busied himself with loading a small cart with candles and a keg of lamp oil.

  “What’s your name, friend?” Dragoslav asked.

  “Keagan. Who are you? I don’t recollect seeing you about before.”

  Dragoslav ignored the man’s question and glanced at the candles the man set on the cart. “Are you the chandler then?”

  “Aye, that’s right.”

  “Have you been doing it long?”

  “A little less than a year. The old chandler died of pneumonia this past winter, and I got moved up from the stables. Who was it you said you were again?”

  “I’m the man who is going to give you the night off.” Dragoslav edged close to the man. “This is what you are going to do.” He pulled out a pouch of coins containing at least a month’s wages for the man and the Guild contract. “You are going to put on my shirt and hat, go to the address written on this contract, and return in the morning wearing this same shirt and hat.”

  Keagan swallowed nervously. “What if I don’t want the night off?”

  “Then I’m going to give your life the night off.”

  The chandler looked at the piece of paper in Dragoslav’s calloused hand. “I…I can’t read.”

  The agent gave him directions and Ernest’s name. “You just stay there for the night and return here in the morning. Make sure you wear this shirt and hat and avoid talking to anyone, especially the fat one in the kitchen.”

  “W-which fat one is that?”

  “The ugly fat one.”

  Keagan blinked stupidly.

  “The ugly fat one with the mole next to her left nostril.”

  “Oh right, that one. What if someone stops me?”

  “Don’t let that happen. Just leave and return through the workers’ gate.”

  Keagan took the contract and reached for the money, but Dragoslav pulled it away. “You get this when you come back tomorrow.”

  “Um, all right. Should I go now?”

  “Yes.” Dragoslav traded shirts with the man and gave him his hat. “Wait until the gate gets crowded and blend in.”

  “Blend in wearing this?”

  “Trust me; as long as you wear this, no one is looking at your face. It’s an old agent trick.”

  Keagan gasped. “You’re an agent?”

  Dragoslav put his finger to his lips. Keagan left wearing his disguise, and Dragoslav took up his duties lighting, extinguishing, and replacing candles and refilling lamps throughout the palace. The closer he got to the earl’s living area, the more guards patrolled the halls.

  “You there,” one of the soldiers said as Dragoslav replaced a candle nub. “Who are you?”

  “The name’s Frank, sir. Keagan got terrible sick, so they called me in from the stable to replace him.”

  “I hope he doesn’t die like the last one. I hate learning new faces. Makes my job harder.”

  “Everything should be better tomorrow.”

  “All right then.”

  The day reminded Dragoslav of why he never became a laborer. How these people could endure such drudgery without killing themselves or someone else was beyond him. He liked to be able to solve most of his problems with a well-placed thrust of a dagger.

  Dragoslav meandered the halls for hours before spotting the earl shuffling down the hall in his night-robe. He kept a discreet distance from the regional ruler and watched him disappear behind the privy door. The agent paused to identify any guards within earshot before barging into the privy.

  “Here now!” Earl Maier exclaimed at the unexpected intrusion.

  Dragoslav ignored his protest and wedged himself between the seated earl and the privy wall. “Keep quiet. I have two plans of action. Plan ‘B’ is the one where I kill you and your family, so let’s see if maybe we can make plan ‘A’ work first. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m liking the sound of plan ‘A’ already. What’s this about?”

  “It is about the succession to the throne.”

  “Succession? I’m rather far removed in that line.”

  “I work for some people who want to remove you from it altogether. The easiest way is to simply eliminate you, but if the royal line starts dropping like flies then the wrong people start to get suspicious.”

  “How can I assure your people that I have no interest in becoming king? I am quite content with what I have and have no desire to inherit Remiel’s headaches.”

  “That is good to hear. Should anything unfortunate happen to our friend Remiel, you will renounce any claim to the throne and fully support our claimant.”

  “How will I know who that is?”

  “You’ll know, trust me.”

  Earl Maier looked crestfallen. “So The Guild is finally going to kill Remiel? That’s a damn shame. He’s a decent man.”

  “I don’t know what any plans are beyond the scope of my orders. I do know Remiel has made some powerful enemies. Don’t make them yours as well.”

  Elliot let out the breath he had been holding and nodded. “I won’t make waves.”

  “Good, now what about your brother?”

  “Lyle? He’s politically less inclined than I am, but that shrew wife of his is a conniving, power-hungry bitch. She’s always pushing him to raise his position and her status.”

  “That’s good to know. I hope he is not too upset should he suddenly become a widower.”

  The earl scoffed. “He’d likely want to pay you and name his next bastard after you.”

  “I am glad we were able to make plan ‘A’ work, Lord Maier.”

  “As am I. I just hope I can get my bowels to work right after this night.”

  Dragoslav left the earl to finish his business as best he could. All he had to do now was to wait for Keagan to return and slip back out of the palace in his disguise. He was glad this mission did not require him to slaughter another family, but such would not be the case in the months to come.

  CHAPTER 9

  (Two years later)

  Garran blocked Victor’s low slash with his left reaping blade, spun around, and sliced at the agent’s midriff. Victor leapt away to avoid Garran’s attempt at disemboweling him and squared off in a defensive posture once more.

  “Two years of training and you almost don’t suck, but you still fight like a farmer,” Victor taunted. “Man up, learn to use a sword, and maybe I can teach you to be a real fighter before you graduate.”

  Garran twirled the twin blades in his hands. “You can’t blame the horse for plowing a crooked row.”

  “When the horse spends most of its time drinking and smoking opium, you damn well can.”

  “It barely accounts for half. I still have to go to class.”

  “Your mid-course finals are coming up. Have you been studying?” Victor asked.

  “I wouldn’t say studying so much as preparing.”

  Victor shook his head and grinned. “You know, you can’t cheat your way through school and expect to know what the hell you’re doing in the field. There’s no cheating your way out of an Urqan governmental complex with a stack of stolen documents stuffed down your skivvies.”

  “I respectfully disagree. Besides, I’m not cheating. Well, some of it is, but not when it comes to practical espionage. The mark of a good agent is gathering as much intelligence about a mission as possible before committing to the operation. I just go to greater lengths to gather a little more information than the counterintelligence operatives, meaning the dean and his cadre, want us to have.”

  “So…cheating.”

  “Loopholing.”

  Victor wagged his head in disbelief. “Get ready. Time for your real test.”

  The agent transcended and attacked Garran full force. Garran slipped into the same time current and parried the vicious assault while tactically retreating. After being on the defensive for a solid minute, Garran disrupted Victor’s patterned atta
ck and went on the offensive.

  His reaping blades had a disadvantage in length and were limited to slashing attacks, but once he was able to get inside a swordsman’s guard, the shorter reach became an advantage. Victor had to bring his arms in close to his sides to shorten his reach in order to parry, but this greatly decreased the power of his swings. Garran thought he might put Victor on the ground for the first time in the two years that had passed since they started sparring, but the agent surprised him by stepping in even closer and catching Garran between the eyes with his sword’s pommel.

  Garran’s eyes crossed and he took two steps back. Victor spun around and landed a back kick to his chest, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Garran rolled and leapt back to his feet expecting Victor to continue the assault.

  “Now slip out of your transcended state and stay focused.”

  Garran bent his concentration to the swirling, chaotic riptides in time and tried to reach the “shore.” He stumbled but maintained his feet when he broke free of his transcendence.

  Garran grinned. “Look at that, I didn’t pass out, puke, or nothing. I’m getting good! Maybe you aren’t such a terrible teacher after all.”

  “I could teach a monkey faster than you have learned. You should be able to slip in and out of a transcended state at will by now.”

  Garran gyrated his pelvis. “Yeah, but I have other equally impressive and far more valuable skills.”

  “If they are on par with everything else I’ve seen you do, I doubt the ladies are as impressed as you are.”

  “I get mine, and that’s what matters.”

  “What you need to get is an exemplary score on your mid-course final. This is where they separate those who have the skills to continue training as a field agent from the analysts. Unless you want to spend the rest of your career sitting in a room studying maps and reports, you best be at the top.”

  “I’m always a top man. Have you seen the size of some of those women?”

  “Pay for a higher class of prostitute then.”

  “It’s cheaper just to get drunk first.”

  “Just make sure you’re ready. Not even Gregor can protect you from your own failure.”

  Garran dismissed his concerns with a wave as he walked away. “Don’t worry, I have this all figured out.”

  “Said every man killed by his own blunder.”

  Garran waved over his shoulder again. He was not concerned. He knew the exam’s parameters, and he, Toby, and Aniston had everything prepared. It was a simple infiltration and assassination. The school put on a series of formal events over the course of two weeks. The students worked together in pairs to “assassinate” the target assigned to them without being discovered.

  Those who passed continued the program to become a field agent. Those who failed either dropped out or changed their studies to political analytics. Coupled with the challenging written exam, the washout rate for mid-terms was about sixty percent. It was a stressful time for those who were set on becoming a field agent. For the faculty and guests invited to participate in the trials, it was two weeks of whodunit murder mystery parties.

  ***

  A nervous and excited murmuring filled the air when Dean Kelsey walked into their espionage class. Everyone had been expecting his arrival, but their foreknowledge only heightened the anxiety and anticipation.

  “Good afternoon,” the dean greeted the class. “I want to pass on my personal congratulations to those of you who passed last week’s written exams.” Eyes darted to the numerous vacant seats. “Now comes your true test. In a moment, Professor Lyndon will hand out your targets. You have the remainder of the week to formulate your plan before. As I am sure has already been explained, you must carry out your execution within the defined area and time frame without being caught. It sounds simple enough, but let me assure you, it is much harder than it seems.”

  With a nod from the dean, Professor Lyndon ordered the team leaders to come to the front of the classroom and take a folder from the stack on his desk. When Garran stepped up and reached for one, Dean Kelsey grabbed his wrist and placed a folder in his hand. Garran looked from the folder to the dean questioningly and only received a grim smile for an answer. He returned to the table he shared with Aniston and answered his partner’s questioning look with a shrug as he opened the folder and read the contents.

  “I wish you all the best of luck,” Dean Kelsey said.

  Garran jumped to his feet with the dossier clutched in his grip. “Sir, you assigned yourself as my target!”

  The dean smiled. “Yes, I did.”

  “Isn’t that unfair considering that our targets are supposed to have only minimal forewarning? You are an experienced agent and know everything regarding not just the exam but who your killers are, when, and where they are required to perform the execution.”

  Dean Kelsey spoke over the class’ anxious murmuring. “If you feel that your exam is unfair or biased then you may file a grievance with my office. Oh, wait, I suppose you just did. Allow me to save you the time and effort best spent on passing your exam. Grievance denied.”

  Garran stopped him as he made for the door. “Dean Kelsey, please give us a fair and proper target for our test.”

  The dean paused and turned. “I have heard you say that you are going to be the best agent this school ever produced. Let us see if you can back up your grandiose claims. Again, request denied.”

  “Then it is I who wish you luck, Dean Kelsey, because I am the best agent this school has ever seen, and your downfall is not only assured, it will be beyond humiliating.”

  “Do your worst, Mr. Holt.”

  Dean Kelsey left and Garran sat down and stared at his assignment with mounting rage.

  Aniston asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to stick to our plan. It was sound when I devised it and it still is. We’ll just need to make a few adjustments so it hurts more.”

  “Garran, we need to be careful. This is the dean we’re talking about.”

  “He told me to do my worst. It was practically an order, so my worst I shall do.”

  Aniston gazed at the ceiling and shook his head. “Shit, we’re going to prison.”

  ***

  “Where are we going?” Aniston asked, struggling to maintain Garran’s pace through the crowded streets.

  “In light of our exam’s new challenges, we will need to enlist outside talent.”

  “It’s not allowed. We can only work in a team of two.”

  “Wrong. The rules state that only two students are allowed to work together. The people we are going to see are not students.”

  “Others are implied.”

  “Implications and suppositions are the things of insecurity. We are men of certainty and decisive action.”

  “I’m certain I’m too pretty to go to prison.”

  “Yeah you are. Think of it as an incentive not to screw this up.”

  Garran and Aniston pushed through a knot of people, ignoring their agitated stares and occasional complaints and watched the play being put on in the public square. An enormous swatch of canvas with a desert backdrop painted on it hung from the side of a building. The actors were putting on a popular play about a Sornese caliph going to war with his brother for the hand of the country’s most beautiful woman.

  As Garran watched the final scene end, he saw that Barbara was right. Her people really were very good actors. He was glad to see it, because he needed them to put on one hell of a show. Aniston chased after Garran as he worked around the dispersing crowd and made his way to the garishly painted wagons just off set.

  “Garran, sweetie!” Barbara gushed when she spotted him approaching.

  “Hi, Barbara. How’s the acting business?”

  “A cruel bitch as usual, but we’re sticking to it. Sometimes, I think we’re just too stupid to do the smart thing and quit.”

  “I know exactly how you feel,” Aniston quipped and gave Garran a pointed glance.
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br />   “Look at you, a grown man now, and you brought a friend this time. Since you never come for a purely social visit, I’m guessing you want something from me again.”

  “I’m very sorry, and I do.”

  “That’s all right; I know you are busy with your school and everything. What do you need?”

  “I need you to make Aniston into a woman.”

  “What?” Aniston exclaimed.

  Barbara gave the young man an appraising look. “With those cheekbones and full lips it’s too easy. Give me a challenge.”

  “I need you to make your entire crew look like me wearing a good disguise.”

  “Oh, a disguise within a disguise. Very intriguing.”

  “I also need them to cater an event at the university.”

  The actor curled her lip. “My people are actors, not servants.”

  “Trust me; they’ll be putting on a show.”

  “This sounds fun. What’s my part? Call me a diva, but I can’t stand not being the star.”

  “I need you to come as a guest and run interference on the dean. I believe you know Professor Kliment quite well. Your…friendship with him has already gotten me a passing grade in his mathematics class. An invitation should be simple enough for him to procure.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me going as the wife of a Sornese caliph.” Barbara extended her deeply bronzed arm. “This stuff doesn’t wash out for at least a week.”

  Garran looked at her skin and smiled. “Does that come in any other color?”

  She narrowed her eyes and smirked. “Should I ask why?”

  “It would ruin the surprise if I told you.”

  “All right, I think we can do this. When do you need us on stage?”

  “I’ll have a full script for you tomorrow.”

  “One last question, how much does it pay?”

  Garran grinned. “How much can you carry?”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Keep on your toes,” Dean Kelsey told Martin. “Garran could be any one of these people. Most spies will infiltrate an event as one of the staff since no one of importance looks twice at a servant.”