The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  He crossed the room, looked out into the foyer, and beckoned for Martin to come inside. Martin stood at rigid attention while Dean Kelsey sat at his desk and strummed his fingers.

  “Have you discovered how Garran or his people managed to poison me?”

  “I believe so, sir,” Martin answered. “I found the gloves Aniston was wearing, discarded just outside the exam hall. I detected the odor of what I think was tangren’s extract distilled to a purity that allowed it to be absorbed through the skin.”

  “A contact poison. I should have suspected. What about the bathroom?”

  “There was some recent plasterwork done in the room located behind the washroom. Garran apparently used the construction as an opportunity to create a secret door. How he managed to do so without the maintenance staff discovering it I do not know.”

  “I suspect Mr. Holt made some friends amongst the groundskeepers during his months of punishment detail.”

  “Would you like me to bring Toby in, sir?” Martin asked.

  The dean thought but shook his head. “No, Toby is a simpleton. Even if he knew Garran was using him to bend the rules until the ends touched, I could hardly hold him responsible.”

  “What are we going to do now?”

  “Gregor is right about Holt having exceptional skills for an agent, but no one is that clever no matter how naturally adept they might be toward this sort of work. He simply did not have enough time to put so many different plans of action together without significant foreknowledge of his exam.”

  Martin smiled. “He’s cheating!”

  “Yes, but he has done a good job of concealing it. If I can prove he cheated his way through the program, not even Gregor can convince Remiel to swear him in as an agent after I expose him as a fraud.”

  “Do you want me to watch him and find out how he is getting the test information?”

  Dean Kelsey’s eyes flicked to his bookcase. “I think I know where he got them.”

  “Excellent, sir, we can have him bounced out of here by the end of the next semester.”

  “No, not yet. I want him to think he made it before I crush him. The fall is much more painful when you push them off the top.”

  ***

  Three rabbits and a pair of grouse roasted over the campfire, the dripping fat hissing and creating tiny flare-ups. Baron Rastus Mandel, his two sons Gordon and Pierce, and four servants had been enjoying their hunting outing these past three days but had thus far failed to kill their prize.

  The stag they had been chasing was a crafty fellow with antlers that spread out like the limbs of an old oak tree. Rastus wanted his magnificent head stuffed and mounted over his fireplace, and this year he was determined to get it. There was much laughter and cajoling, most of it directed at Gordon.

  “Bah, the damn wind shifted again!” Pierce declared and sidled to the far side of the fire, laughing.

  His father and their servants renewed their mirth and left Gordon sitting apart, glaring into the flames that burned as hot as the anger on his cheeks.

  “Maybe we should dunk him in the creek again!” Rastus suggested boisterously.

  “It’s not funny anymore!” Gordon snapped. “It wasn’t funny when I got sprayed, and it isn’t funny now.”

  “When you shoot a skunk and get sprayed, it’s pretty damn funny,” Pierce argued.

  “I thought it was a rabbit!”

  “I understand. I hear this forest is thick with those fat, black and white rabbits with tails as big as their bodies.”

  “To hell with all of you.” Gordon jumped to his feet and stormed off.

  “Careful not to piss on a skunk,” Rastus called out. “You know they take offense mighty easily.”

  Gordon tried to block the gales of laughter echoing through the trees. It had been like this all his life. Pierce was the favorite son: tall, handsome, a good hunter, and natural leader. Everyone thought Gordon was just the foolish little brother eclipsed by his older sibling’s shadow. One day, he would show them. He had big plans for the future. Perhaps not plans, but certainly grand ideas. He just needed to figure out a way to make them happen. Unfortunately, strategy, planning, and intelligent ideas were not amongst his limited talents.

  A strong hand clasped his shoulder and made him jump. He tried to turn, but the unbreakable grip pinned him in place.

  “Relax, Gordon. I’m a friend.”

  “Dammit, you made me piss on my boot. Who are you?” Gordon asked as he tried to get his racing heartbeat under control.

  “My name is Dragoslav.”

  “If you came here to laugh at me too, you should go join everyone else around the fire.”

  “I’m not here to laugh at you. In fact, if you do what I say, no one will ever laugh at you again.”

  Gordon buttoned himself up and turned when the man relaxed his hold. “What are you talking about?”

  “How would you like to be king?”

  “What?”

  “It is a simple question that requires very little thought for any ambitious man. I thought you were such a man. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe I should ask your brother. It would be easier to put him on the throne anyway.”

  “No, wait! Of course I want to be king, but I’m far removed from succession.”

  “Not so far anymore. Haven’t you heard about the unfortunate events that have befallen some of your relatives these last couple of years?”

  Gordon had heard of course but, like most things that did not interest him, he had paid little attention. Was it possible this man was responsible for their deaths? Was he going to kill him now? No, he had said something about wanting him to become king.

  “Even so, my father and brother are both ahead of me. Besides, no one respects me. How can anyone be a king without the people’s respect?”

  “That is why I am here. First, we get you closer to the throne.”

  Gordon blinked rapidly as his brain tried to understand what the man was saying. “How do we do that? My father is still very healthy, and my brother hasn’t been sick a day in his life. I suppose he could fall off his horse, but he is an excellent rider, like everything else he does. Waiting around for something like that to happen does not seem like a good plan.”

  Dragoslav sighed. He had been told that the boy was not very bright, but he had not expected him to be a borderline simpleton. “We do not wait for an accident. Real men take action and make things happen.”

  “Oh…oh!” Gordon’s eyes went wide as he understood what Dragoslav was saying. “There are still others with equal claim and are liked more than I am.”

  “My friends can fix that.”

  “How?”

  “Once you show true commitment to our cause, they will make you a full member of The Guild. Your business will boom, and you will become wealthy, influential, and earn the respect of your peers. All you have to do is commit to our plan, and you will become the next king.”

  Gordon nodded his head. “What do I have to do?”

  “You have to kill your father.”

  “I thought you would do the killing!”

  “No, it has to be you. My associates need to be confident that you are committed and cannot back out. The only way to do this is to get blood on your hands.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because my associates see something in you. They see ambition and someone who knows what they want in life. They know all you need is an opportunity to achieve the greatness you deserve.”

  What The Guild saw was a young man whose ambition vastly exceeded his capabilities and whose lack of intelligence made him easy to manipulate. Gordon thought he was entitled to the best things in life without having to do anything to deserve them, and this was precisely what they were promising him.

  “I…I wouldn’t even know how.”

  Dragoslav whistled over his shoulder. Gordon tried to pierce the darkness to see who made the approaching footsteps but did not recognize the man until he was within arm’s reach.

  “
Dolph, you’re in on this?”

  The servant ducked his head. “I am now.”

  “You have been with my father for almost your entire life.”

  “Aye, and it’s about time I raised my family’s station. I get a good heap of gold, and The Guild accepts my brother as a member. A servant to any man, even one as decent as your father, is still a servant, and I want better for my sons and nephews.”

  Gordon swallowed. Until now, it all seemed like conjecture and talk, but with the addition of Dolph, he was now part of a full-on conspiracy to commit murder. It all suddenly seemed very real.

  “Do I have to kill my brother too?”

  Dragoslav shook his head. “I will take care of that when the time comes. You will be far away when it happens so there will not be a shred of suspicion cast your way.”

  “How do I do it? My father, I mean.”

  Dolph handed Gordon a crossbow bolt fletched with his father’s favorite attendant’s colors.

  “This is Frazier’s.”

  “That’s right. No one would ever think old Frazier would intentionally hurt your father. This has to look like an accident,” Dolph explained. “When we track down the buck, I’m going to suggest that me, Rastus, and Jed circle around ahead of him. You, Frazier, and Pierce will drive him to us. You get Frazier to take the shot. When he does, you switch your bolt with this one and kill your father. Folks will think Frazier missed and hit Rastus. It will be a tragic accident.”

  “But how—”

  Dragoslav laid a thick hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “Trust me; I’m good at this sort of thing. It will happen…Your Majesty.”

  Gordon smiled. He liked the sound of that. He liked it a lot.

  CHAPTER 11

  (Two years later)

  “My God, Garran, what the hell have you been doing?” Aniston asked as he loomed over Garran who was sprawled out on a mound of pillows on the floor.

  “That, my friend, is called a weekend bender of booze, opium, and some rather cheap but eager prostitutes.”

  “You are going to ruin yourself.”

  “Then my work here will be done.”

  Aniston struggled to pull Garran upright. “No, I’m serious. We need to study for our finals, otherwise the pounding in your head will be our coffins being nailed shut.”

  Garran rolled off the pillows and sat on the edge of his bed. “Study is a four-letter word.”

  “It’s five…”

  “It’s offensive. Bookworm academics study. We are men of action, and men of action prepare.”

  “We have a week before our written final and ten days for the practical. If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll go study—”

  “Ah!”

  “—prepare for the written. I’m not as clever at hiding cheat sheets as you are.”

  “Fine, go stick your nose in your books. I’ll have what I need in a couple of days.”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to actually learn some of this stuff,” Aniston said.

  “It might,” Garran countered. “I feel myself dying just a little bit inside every time I conform to Dean Kelsey’s ideas of rules and order.”

  “That’s not conformity, that’s your liver crying out from constant abuse.”

  “Livers are a bunch of babies. Toughen up or get out, that’s my motto. My kidneys can take over anytime it wants to quit.”

  “I don’t think that’s how they work.”

  “No one knows how they work, and that makes my theory every bit as sound as some physic’s.”

  “Except that physics have devoted years and decades to studying how the body works,” Aniston argued.

  “Now you see why studying is such a waste of time. They have spent half their lives with their noses stuck in books and guts, but their knowledge is no better than mine is.”

  “I think one of us is missing some valid point here…”

  Garran stood and laid a hand on Aniston’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, that’s why you have me to help you work through these tough intellectual conundrums.”

  “Right…”

  Aniston left to study, and Garran limped across the grounds toward the gates, his body protesting the numerous injuries Victor had inflicted on him once a week for the past four years. Every bruise seemed to cry out for revenge, but few ever got satisfaction. While their sparring battles ceased being completely one-sided long ago, they all eventually ended with Garran on the ground nursing new injuries. It almost made him consider fighting Victor sober for a change…almost.

  ***

  Martin watched Garran leave the dorm and head across campus. He stayed well behind and out of sight, but never let him slip from view for more than a few seconds. The former diplomacy student had created quite a report on Garran’s activities over the past two years, more than enough to expel any other student from the university, but not enough for Gregor’s wonder boy.

  He stuck to the trees and shadows using everything he had learned before Garran nearly ruined his future as an agent. While he would never attain a standing within the king’s court, The Guild had been happy to complete his education and enlist him as a spy within their vast organization. He lost the prestige being a true agent brought, but The Guild job made up for it by paying much more for his services.

  Garran looked around before darting into one of the maintenance sheds. Martin had long assumed this was where he hid the laudanum and opium he dealt all over campus, but his failure to find the stash was every bit as great as his inability to prove Garran was the one supplying it.

  Garran emerged a minute later and tucked a small, paper-wrapped bundle into his pocket before walking purposefully back toward the main campus. He paused just outside of Ellington House dormitory and cast furtive glances all around. Garran knelt next to the bushes near the wall, shifted a fist-sized stone out of the way, and secreted the small parcel beneath it. He searched the area again with his eyes before striding briskly away.

  Martin surmised that this must be a drop. Finally, after all this time, he might be able to get the evidence he needed to expel Garran from school and maybe even get him put in prison. He waited until Garran was out of sight before moving to the bushes and retrieving the package from beneath the rock. He carefully pulled open the paper and stared dumbfounded at the ordinary kerchief in his hand. Martin thought Garran had duped him until he saw something printed on the inside of the paper.

  You’re going to need this.

  “What…?”

  Martin turned around and caught a brief glimpse of Garran’s scowling face before his fist obscured it from view. Martin fell back and slumped to the ground. He felt blood pouring from his rapidly swelling nose and pressed the kerchief to it to stem the flow.

  “Goddam it, Holt, you broke my damn nose!”

  “What are doing here, Martin? Are you still spying for Dean Kelsey? I thought you both had learned better than that.”

  “I was walking and saw you put something under the rock. I was just curious.”

  “Just curious…So it was all a coincidence?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess coincidences do happen, like when my fingers coincidentally twisted some idiot’s broken nose.”

  Garran’s hand flashed forward and clamped Martin’s nose between his index and middle finger.

  “Ow, crap, okay stop!” Garran released his grip, and Martin wiped away the tears running down his cheeks with the hand not pressing the kerchief back to his nose. “Dean Kelsey knew you would be trying to pull something for finals and asked me to watch you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Garran stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. “Tell the dean I don’t need to cheat to pass his little tests. Feel free to waste your time spying on me if you want to. I’ll be the best damn diplomat this school will ever graduate, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “Whatever, I don’t even care anymore. As far as I’m concerned, you did me a favor getting me expelled. I ha
ve moved on to better things than risking my life for Remiel for nothing but a pittance and a few tin medals.”

  “Good for you, just stay out of my way, Martin.”

  Garran left Martin squatting in the bushes tending to his nose and flagged down a public coach to take him into the city. He had told Martin that he was not concerned, but it was a lie. If Dean Kelsey was indeed stepping up his surveillance, Garran’s plans to pass the final were in serious jeopardy. Two feet could only stomp out one fire at a time. He would need to enlist Aniston’s help, but for now, he had other things to attend to, namely refilling his supply of tobacco twists. He was almost out, and it took several days of curing the laudanum and the rapture root concoction with which he preferred to lace them.

  He entered the tobacco shop and breathed in the aromas. Normally, he preferred to buy them on the black market to avoid the outrageous markup, but that was Edmund Coulain’s territory and, seeing as how he owed the crime boss a rather large sum of opium profits, Garran preferred to avoid him. This was becoming an expensive habit.

  “Mr. Ellery, nice to see you again. Are you looking for another box of Artemisian red?”

  It took Garran a moment to realize that the proprietor was talking to him. Garran used aliases more often than his real name, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep them straight.

  “You know me too well, Wilfred. That means I’m coming here too much.”

  “It means I love my best customers.”

  “It means you love their money.”

  Wilfred bent his arms, palms up. “One isn’t much good without the other.”

  Garran paid for the box of twists and left. He had barely cleared the door when a pair of hands grabbed his lapels and shoved him hard against the side of the building. Half a dozen men pressed in around him, barring any chance of escape. People strolling down the walk found urgent business on the other side of the street.

  “Garran Holt, or is it Lanny or Cyril today?” Edmund asked. “I never know who I’m talking to with you.”