by Will Molinar
Jerrod eyed him. “You boys sure ask a lot of questions. Seems to me only nosy punks ask a lot of questions. Yeah, askin’ so many questions is bad for your health if you ask me.”
The brawny tough swallowed and closed his mouth. Jerrod scoffed and stood. “All you fucks need to know is what I tell you. Got it?” They nodded assent. “What was that?”
“Yes, sir!”
“You got it, boss.”
“No problem here.”
Jerrod nodded. “Good. I want a tally of all that swap. If I catch anyone skimming me, and I kill the fuck in the worst way, right in front of everyone else.”
Donald looked hurt. “No one here is like that, boss. We work for you.”
Jerrod sniffed. “After you’re finished with that, go about your normal routines. Don’t muck about. I want the reserves rotating back in when I call you boys out in a few days. Get goin’.”
They started counting in earnest.
Marko should have been here. That weak bastard should’ve dealt with these stupid questions. Jerrod was accustomed to giving him orders and then letting him relay back down to the others. Maybe Donald was up for a promotion, or that Renner guy the others talked about. It was implied he was the toughest one among them, now that Marko was gone. Jerrod hadn’t meant to kill him. The stupid bastard. Damn him straight to hell, anyway.
The early morning sun was weak, and whatever heat it provided washed away by the punishing cold wind sweeping over the southern docks. The southern docks were only a couple blocks away.
They were bustling with activity. The tall masts of several ships waiting to be unloaded poked over two massive warehouses behind him as he trotted north. Several workers walked in the opposite direction, dull with lack of sleep and heavy toil. They were apathetic zombies, weak-willed sheep living their miserable lives like slugs, doe eyed fools marching in step with each other towards their graves.
These people are dead already. Too weak to go out and take what they needed, so they worked themselves to death, into lumbering stupor, begging for work.
A worker bumped into him, a skinny little slip of a man with gaunt cheeks and thin dark hair. He locked eyes with Jerrod for a moment. The exhaustion from his work was evident, but there also a hint of annoyance. When he saw the look in Jerrod’s eyes, it turned to dismay and fear. A feral shiver struck him, and he blanched, turning away, raising a shaking hand, thinking Jerrod was about to strike him.
“Oh, sir, s-s-sorry.”
Jerrod glared and waved him off, not realizing his arm was reared back and his hand clenched in a fist. “Keep movin’, bub.”
Watching the pathetic man’s eyes and the complete and utter terror there had made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time, perhaps decades; pity. These damn people weren’t strong. But there was a time when he was like them when he begged in the street as a starving child. But you know what? Fuck them. He had bettered himself. They had no excuse not to.
Because of his reputation, there were few inns he could have stayed in around town. The southern docks were different. They would take his money like anyone else, and he wanted to keep things nice and quiet for a while. He planned to rob and smash every tavern and place of business in town, but it was not the most secure one yet. The police were no longer a factor, but there could have been reprisals from the individual taverns they had already hit.
If they could get enough funds, they might even have been able to get a brute squad together, the best force money could buy. Members were former war campaigners that had fought for the king. They were real soldiers, better equipped than the mercenaries Castellan had hired before. They were fewer in number but worth five men each. Some were knights and had the best weapons and armor possible.
Jerrod had run into a few over the years, and they were men that knew how to fight. Worthy opponents, not like the scabs the police would have thrown at him. They were hired by the aristocracy to act as bodyguards. Lord Cassius had a few he used from time to time, but considering how expensive they were, he did not keep many on staff for long.
A dirty hole in the wall, boarding house off of Cowl Street was called Shattered Winds, so named because of the punishing wind that came off the most eastern section of the southern docks where the water met the beginnings of the mountain range. The wind whipped down from the vaulted heights of the mountains and tore into anyone unlucky enough to be caught there. The building was ramshackle, and most people joked it would someday be torn off its moorings and dumped into the water.
Paying an extra copper for a larger bed, Jerrod laid down to stretch his long legs and take some much needed time to heal. His side hurt like hell, and his leg ached. He pulled another healing draught from his belt satchel and downed it.
It seemed he had only put his head down on the crappy straw pillow when he heard someone, a soon to be dead man, knocking on the door.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Jerrod sighed and opened his eyes. The knock came again, lighter this time, and he thought maybe the fool would have left him alone if he didn’t answer, but they knocked once more. He swung his legs over the bed and went to the door but not before grabbing his long sword. It slid out of the leather scabbard with a soft hiss. This was trouble. No one knew his location.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
A bolt of adrenaline surged through him, his lethargy gone in an instant as he stalked towards the door ready for anything. Enemies didn’t knock. No window. No way out except the lone door. The room was the only one with a bed big enough for him to stretch out, and his insistence on being comfortable might have spelled his end.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Jerrod yanked the door open. “Who the fu—”
It was Zandor. With a crossbow. The weapon was armed and pointed at Jerrod’s chest. Jerrod was about to move, but froze because he recognized the look in his former ally’s eyes that brokered no compromised.
“Go ahead and move on back now, Jerry,” Zandor said and took a step forward. “Move!”
Zandor did not raise his voice often, but when he did, it made an impact. For as small as the little shit was, there was a level of command in his voice that men twice his size would envy. Jerrod backed away, lowering his sword arm. Zandor flicked his eyes at the sword, and Jerrod let it slip to the ground. It clattered to the floor as he backed into the room.
Zandor followed, his eyes never leaving him, his body never flinching. The smallish man was decked out for battle, with a multitude of knives pinioned into his maroon shirt and soft leather belt. The weapons never made a sound on his body, though, and Jerrod had never questioned before how that was possible until that moment. Zandor wasn’t what he seemed.
“Have a seat,” Zandor said and kicked the door closed with a single flick of his leg. “And put your hands under your thighs.”
Jerrod did it, taking a long, deep breath and studying the man across from him. Zandor was too good and in too good a position to overcome.
This could’ve been Jerrod’s end, even after everything at the cabin. All for nothing.
Zandor did not lower the crossbow when he sighed. “I never wanted this, son. I wanted us to be partners, friends even. I think we were once, at least for my part, and that’s me telling you the truth.”
Jerrod scoffed. “You gonna use that pussy weapon or not? Get it over with so I can rest.”
Zandor’s nostrils flared. “That’s your problem, Jerry, you don’t give a damn about anything, even your own worthless hide. A man who has nothing to lose ain’t much use to anyone.”
Jerrod flushed with anger. “Then fucking kill me! Do it!”
Zandor flinched and almost pulled the trigger. “I should, you know. I really should, you miserable son of bitch. But I don’t think you want to die today. If you did, you woulda jumped up right now, and I woulda fired.”
“One bolt ain’t enough to take me out.”
Zandor managed a smile. “That’s what I like about you, Jerrod. Tough as nails. But dumb as one too. Ge
t that nonsense straightened out. Or maybe you are finished.” He glanced around the room real fast then shook his head. “Pretty shitty place. Even for you. Course, your cabin ain’t an option anymore, is it?”
Jerrod stewed. Zandor was just fucking with him.
“You know about that, huh? Put three of them in their graves. I blame their training. Pretty shitty and all that. Worse than you used to put out, I tell ya that.”
Zandor rested the crossbow on the ground and nodded. “I know what you’re thinking right now. How did it ever come to this. That thought, that curiosity might be the only thing you wanna live for to find out, but that might be enough. It’s spinning around in that brain of yours.
“I might put you down like a dog, but you want to live to know how I found you. To know why I called off the other assassin teams. That’s right, son. That’s finished. You survived the first salvo, and now you got a chance to work for me again. I haven’t made up my mind if I let you live much longer. Depends on what you say now.”
He hefted the crossbow again. “But I know this. You ever cross me again, I won’t hesitate in ending your ass, faster than you can blink. I’ll never give you another chance like this again. You and me go way back, there’s a bond we share. Call me old-fashioned, but that means something to me.”
Jerrod smirked. “Papa Zandor, huh? Always lookin’ out for the little kiddies.”
“Yeah, that’s right, you little shit. Jerry, I can still use you. You and your boys are the best at what you do. We can take this town, man! I need you and your toughs. Sure, I played around with them a bit, that’s life, but now we gotta move forward, Jerrod. You in?”
Jerrod answered him.
* * * * *
Spending time in Melvin Crocker’s office was not one of Becket’s favorite things to do. At the moment it was necessary. His direct subordinate was hard at work writing at his desk. His gray hair, still with bits of its former black, was frizzled and stuck out at odd angles as if he had been struck by lightning.
It looked like the old man slept here, like Muldor did in his office. The old guard, like that one that worked for the thieves. They survived on when younger men faded away. It was uncanny. They holed away in the wealthy quarter like fire drakes, piling away their gold. Becket cleared his throat. “Master Crocker. I need your signature.”
“Eh? What’s this now?”
“Here.” Becket plopped a clipboard with a stack of papers attached on top of Crocker’s cluttered desk. “This is a work order increasing the number of hired security here at the Western Docks. I need you to sign off on it.”
“Hmmm? What’s this?” He glanced over it. “Why do we need extra security, Master Becket?”
Becket heaved a mental sigh. Stubborn old bastard. “Come off it. You know why. The thieves are going wild everywhere, not just at the marketplace. The merchants have demanded we step up our security measures, and they have every reason to do so. We have pulled a lot of men off the docks here to cover the market, and now we need replacements here. Should I draw you a picture so you understand better?”
Crocker cracked a sly smiled on his wrinkled face. “Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Master Becket. Explain to me, in simple terms, who will pay for these replacements? Hmm? Are you pulling out your money bag and footing the bill?”
“Fine, Crocker. I’ll sign it for you and get Guild approval anyway.”
As he walked out of the man’s office, the old codger shifted at his desk. “Excuse me? No, you will not, sir! I will issue a counter order to stop you if you sign off without my permission!”
Becket rolled his eyes. There wasn’t anyone to complain to. The Guild Master wouldn’t even take the time to read it, and if by some chance he did, he would have crumbled it up and tossed it away.
Outside, dozens of workers and security men celebrated on the boardwalk, a remnant of them watching the fleet sail out earlier from the shipping yards to the north. The seven ships must have been quite a sight for the men, with the tall masts poking above the long, wooden docks, rows of canon bristling from the side, proud and ready for the upcoming battle.
Becket had missed it. There was too much work to do.
He weeded through the throng of people. They were all talking, some were drinking. Others smoked, and he felt like pulling rank and ordering them out of his way.
“Master Becket!”
Becket stopped and saw Pierre Johnson striding his way, the burly pier supervisor holding a mug.
“Hello,” Becket said. “How can I help you?”
“Oh, nothing sir. Only saying hello. How about you join us?”
“Some other time, perhaps. Have one or two for me, will you?”
Johnson shrugged. “Okay. Have a good day, sir.”
“And you as well. Thank you.”
Back in his office, the noise of the celebration faded to a dull roar, and Becket almost regretted not taking Johnson’s offer. There was too much for him to do, though. It wasn’t his place. Becket couldn’t help but think Muldor would have stayed and spent time with the men.
Some paperwork at his desk stood out, simple stuff like regular shipping orders, and he noticed the pile had grown smaller. Not good. Separate from normal Guild business, the everyday payroll of his dock and in particular his three piers, was a heap of unpaid invoices to take care.
Like the other Dock Masters, he received a percentage of the total business that went through the piers, but he had to also pay his men. The Guild got another chunk of the percentage from the total. At the end of the day, Becket did well but with the amount of merchants that had abandoned them in recent months, his pay was getting smaller and smaller.
The unpaid invoices were from the security men. They had accountants that they paid to send these pieces of paper to Becket’s office, and these men got a fee for this only because they knew how to read. Most of the time being able to bash someone’s skull in got you paid.
Becket finished writing out checks and felt depressed how little was left over for himself. He was forced to funnel a lot of the extra petty cash into the extra security, but in the long run it would’ve been worth it. Maybe there was time to go back outside and have a drink or two.
By the time he went out, most people had left for the day, and the boardwalk was cleared of most of the revelers. Becket said goodnight and hello to many of the security personnel before locking up his office and preparing to leave for the evening. Most of them looked bored and tired, perhaps a little drunk.
The walk home brought him close to Madam Dreary’s, the lone house of ill repute in a city known for debauchery. Becket had never been. There were some rumors floating around to why he never went, and it bothered him sometimes, but what nothing could have been done.
People of Sea Haven populated the streets almost every night. It was part of the reason he never had personal security with him. There were plenty of people about watching, and no one would have dared assault a Dock Master. People respected his rank and position. Plus, it was very expensive to pay for private security at all hours of the day.
They had security at the docks, security at the wealthy quarter, and there were plenty of men on watch everywhere. Because of the lease terms with the foreign investors that own their homes, each person that lived in the wealthy quarter was required to pay for the security force protecting their homes and property.
A lot of good it did. Their homes had been robbed, ransacked, and harassed for months. They should have hired a different security force, but nobody would have paid for it. The tenants there paid for the homes, for the security, the repairs, the upkeep, and the leasers paid for nothing.
But the king, or someone associated with his royal highness, owned the land, a singularity within the city. The Guild owned the docks and the surrounding warehouses. Castellan had made sure of that some time ago by snatching up the deeds for each property. Of course, back then, well over a decade ago, the property had not been worth as much as it was today and nor was the Guild
as profitable.
But they had fallen far since then. Castellan was gone less than two years, and the Guild now was on the brink of collapse. Muldor had grand plans, but it would sooner bankrupt them.
The gated wall leading to the wealthy quarter was manned every second of everyday and, the men by looked alert when Becket strolled by, so that was something. There were two stone towers, around twenty feet high each, to either side of the metal gate. Guard shacks stood at the bottom of each tower, like the front of a castle.
Becket flashed his Guild symbol to them, an affectation on his part because they already knew who he was, but he liked that they stood straighter when he did it. Anyone that lived there was required to show proof of identification, but there were few the men didn’t know.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening to you,” Becket said and walked by.
His abode was far down towards the northeast, tucked away in the corner of an expensive cul-de-sac. Unlike every other residential section in Sea Haven, the wealthy quarter was the only part of the city with stone buildings. Sure, the jail and most of the city’s municipal building were made of stone, but no one lived in them; at least by choice. Each home in the wealthy quarter was unique, unlike the shacks they called home everywhere else.
The thought of living anywhere else, holed up in some dirty rat hole, exposed to the noise, pollution, and dangers of the city was abhorrent to him. Becket’s home was in the middle of a group of three. The second story balcony blazed in the moonlight, and he smiled as he went near a small plaza, complete with a tinkling fountain made of marble. There were some more items that needed to be moved from one end to the other in his house, and… he sighed. He had no energy for renovation. All he wanted was a warm bath and a soft bed.
Becket approached his home, stepping on the marbled steps one at a time and felt even more tired. His legs ached with the soreness of standing for so long. A figure came out from the side area near the divide between his property and the next. The Dock Master stopped cold, peering.