by Will Molinar
When the wealthy got robbed, a lot of times they kept quiet about it out of embarrassment. So in effect, each individual household was on its own. Jerrod never considered things like that. The thickheaded jerk was too shortsighted to think about anything other than what was in front of him. He was a blunt instrument, the best one Zandor had ever seen, but only good for bashing things in their way. Zandor would use him and the toughs to smash things open.
His plant within the police department told them they were frustrated but not ready for a full strike. They were not arresting people with much regularity, but it wasn’t the same thing. Zandor figured they needed some kind of event to happen to push them over the edge.
With Jerrod and his boys, Zandor would provide that push. There were also some thieves on the line as well, some of the former so-called “Elite” that could assist them in case the unforeseen occurred. That always happened. The best laid plans of men seldom came to pass.
One of Zandor’s facilitators, a tiny man named Jand, met him outside The Prancing Pony. He was shorter even than Zandor but possessed of a wiry, preternatural strength, with stubby arms and a bull neck. His oversized head craned to the side as he regarded people that passed by on the street of the wealthy quarter.
Jand flicked his head at him. “Zandor.” They shook hands.
“Hey there,” Zandor said and could not help wincing as the grip was uncanny. “How many?”
“Seventeen watched. Soon, more.”
“Good. That’s real good. I want the uniform information as soon as you can get it. Understood?”
He nodded.
Zandor motioned him on. “Don’t let me keep you.”
The blocky little man stepped away. He never could have been an assassin. He was too straightforward and walked like an anvil. Zandor smirked as he went inside the tavern as himself for the first time.
The cozy atmosphere, the warm, roaring fire, the tinkling music, the pretty bar maids handing out strong drinks, it all struck him as he entered. He wore finer clothes than normal that was his only disguise. His silk shirt under red velvet vest and brown leather pants kept his undercarriage festooned with knives and other items. That part of him would never change.
Zandor leaned against the bar, elbows up and smiled at the fun to be had. It was the busiest night of the week and the highest number of the city’s wealthy were present. There were over two dozen wealthy patrons, with double that number in hangers-on and personal assistants. Most of the bodyguards had been left outside in the cold, so fuck them for being snobs.
They thought they were safe inside, and even though The Prancing Pony had its own in house security, six men that reminded Zandor of the now defunct royal guard because of their red tabards and gold trim, it wasn’t much.
Their sergeant might’ve been an issue. He was a tough looking man with a salt and pepper beard and sharp eyes. He didn’t speak much. Once in a while he only leaned over to listen to something his men said. He swept his eyes around the crowd and met Zandor’s gaze once or twice.
Zandor gave him a slight nod or a brief smile, but the man never responded, his face stayed blank. Good on him. Wait until they busted in and punched you in the mouth. Maybe that would have woken him up. A few minutes later, a tall, lanky blond man with a beard approached Zandor, a sword at his belt.
“Shit, man,” he said. “You couldn’t pick a better place than this? Kinda skuzzy, ain’t it?”
Zandor frowned. “Felix, I told you help ain’t allowed inside this place. Why aren’t you outside with the other pigs?”
Felix cracked a smile and glanced around the room as he leaned next to Zandor. “Got bored. Plenty o’ pigs round here need sticking.”
Zandor grunted. “Got that right. Damn snobs, every one of them.”
“Snobs and slugs, that’s Murder Haven.”
“Yep.”
They sat back and waited. Zandor ordered them a very nice red wine from a temperate region on the other side of the continent, a nation called Margosh. Felix grinned ear to ear and slapped Zandor on the back when he took a swig.
“Damn sight, Zee! Margoshian wine. You know how to treat your people.”
“Watch it, will ya? These folks here aren’t used to seeing servants being so well treated by their betters.”
“’Betters?’I can’t argue too much with that, now. Don’t know many men superior to you, Zee.”
“Stop it. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Time passed. They watched the entertainment. A very accomplished bard strummed a lute and sang. A minute into his next song, Zandor heard the beginnings of some kind of commotion outside. The front door was to his left, and though there were two other exits, they were only used by employees.
Some of these employees became concerned at the noise outside, and Zandor had to suppress a smile. Jerrod had arrived and was making contact with the guards lollygagging outside. The employees looked at one another and then yelled for a manager.
Felix tensed, but Zandor held up a hand. “Easy, fella. Wait a tick.”
The man settled, and Zandor watched Mr. Fancy Pants Sergeant and his cronies for a reaction. The grey bearded superior flicked his head towards the door and two of his men rushed over, swords in hand. Not very disciplined, Zandor thought. Testy fellas. Good, they were ready.
The door burst open and three guards from outside came in with knives held to their throats by black garbed, hooded men. They pushed them forward into the tavern while the security men in house pointed and shouted. Someone screamed. The tension in the room shot upwards as everyone realized something was happening. The music stopped.
Zandor played the part of a well off merchant who was frightened. Felix drew his sword and stood in front of him as a bodyguard. Then the hooded figures shoved their captives to the ground. They had their hands tied behind them, so they struck face first as the hoods grabbed the nearest patrons and held blades to their throats.
A huge figure strode into the room, and Zandor recognized the athletic, confident stride of the most miserable son of a bitch that ever lived. He owned the room the second he entered.
The sergeant stepped forward and spoke for the first time as the crowd continued to mutter.
“What’s this? Stand down!”
The huge figure regarded him. “Shut yer stinkin’ pie hole, or everyone dies.”
The figure strode deeper inside and more hooded figures filed in behind him. Soon the poor guards were outnumbered and frozen solid. But then everyone started shouting at one another, and Zandor had to look on with amusement.
“Hey! What’s going on here?”
“You men! Put those weapons down this instant!”
“I’ll cut her! I swear to shit I will.”
“Put down the knife you knave!”
“Wait!”
“Stop this or someone will get hurt. Come now! Let’s—”
“Back away or I gut him….”
The large hooded man, like some executioner out of a nightmare, turned a table over with a flick of his wrists. The resulting crash was deafening.
“Everyone! SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
His voice was so powerful everyone had no choice but to stop and listen. All eyes went to him. By the gods the man was fierce. Jerrod had a venomous, frightening presence, even at the best of times. When he got upset, it was terrifying to behold.
“You,” Jerrod said and pointed to the closest guard. “You put your weapon on the floor, real slow like, or we butcher everyone in here.”
The man flicked his eyes to the sergeant, but the hooded nightmare stormed towards him, arm raised, brass knuckles flashing in the torchlight.
“I’m talking to you, bub. Not that shit heel. Put your weapon down or you got a fight you ain’t gonna win.”
The guard hesitated, glancing back and forth between hood and sergeant, but the reality of the situation began to dawn on him and the others. The guard put his sword on the ground, and the sergeant stepped forward.
&n
bsp; “Promise not to hurt these people. Take what you want and go. We will cooperate.”
“Put down your weapons, all of you, or we kill everyone. No promises. No deals.”
The sergeant ordered his men to comply, and the sound of metal striking stone echoed throughout the room. Zandor tapped Felix on the shoulder, and the man played it up by starting to argue but then put his sword down with the others.
The hoods moved. One group consisting of four men, grabbed some employees while a dozen more picked up the swords of the in house security and private guardsmen. They rounded up all the soldiers and tied their arms behind their backs with the others.
More hoods entered the room and began separating patron from security. They tied them up too. Zandor let himself be taken, tied and then they stuffed gags in everyone’s mouths. The toughs were rough and efficient. Zandor gave them credit; they didn’t waste time. Then they put dark bags over their eyes, and the sight Zandor had enjoyed his whole life went out.
* * * * *
Anders wasn’t sure what to think. Marston assured him this man Zandor was a legitimate purveyor of all things criminal. He would get them up and running in no time, just like they had been going before. But the young thief had yet to see any concrete proof, only talk.
“He’s got people,” Marston said, and the tall thief folded his arms across his muscular chest and leaned back. “Everywhere, man. I’m tellin’ ya.”
They and a few other thieves were at the Silver Charger, a place where the former Thieves Guild members were still welcome.
Anders milked his stale ale and considered his former brother in arms. Marston wore finer clothes than most of the others of his social class, with rich fabric that was both expensive and clean, an affectation of the Elite thieves.
Anders shook his head and turned away.
Marston scoffed. “You’ll be back. And maybe then we don’t take you, see how that feels. Heh.”
Anders kept drinking his ale, hoping it was not watered down too much but knowing it was. After another sip he pushed it away, feeling Marston’s eyes on his back. Anders fingered his dagger and wondered if he could find a way to slip it into Marston’s neck and sever the vein there, that big pulsing one.
It was doubtful he could’ve won, but he could hurt him bad. Maybe enough to get him to leave him alone.
Marston left.
* * * * *
The knocking came fast and furious. The door shook on its frame. Then, shouting from the other side.
“Lord Governor! You must come at once!”
Cassius sighed and turned away from the window. He had been enjoying a splendid view of the Western Docks where the ocean stretched out in a beautiful splendor. The waves rippled to and fro. His office allowed him a nice view of most of the city. During the renovations after Janisberg’s naval attack, Cassius had insisted on a taller building, and the six story structure was now the tallest building within hundreds of miles. His office had the best position.
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
The door opened and in came one of his aides. Cassius forgot his name, but the man was huffing and puffing and out of breath.
“M-my lord, there’s a situation… taking place in the wealthy quarter. You must come at once!”
Cassius eyed him and stood up straight. “Pardon me? I must do nothing of the sort. Who are you to bark orders at me, foolish boy? I shall not be ordered about like some common servant. Mind your tongue.”
The young man blanched and nodded. “P-pardon me, my lord. Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt.”
“What is the matter?”
“It’s very serious.”
Cassius frowned. “I’m sure it is. Now, be a professional, get a hold of yourself and act like a rational being. Explain it to me without the hyperbole.”
In halting, fear riddled speech, the youth explained there was a major hostage situation developing in the wealthy quarter. Cassius listened with growing perplexity. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot. When the aide finished, he leaned forward, expecting more.
“Yes? And?”
The aide looked confused. “My lord, I-I’m sorry.”
“You should be. I’m wondering why this situation is being brought to my attention.” He glanced around the office. “Is this a police station? Am I the captain of some private security force I was not aware? Tell me what you expect me to do about this.”
“My lord, I thought you would… do something.”
“You thought what? You thought I would ride off on a horse like a valiant knight and save these people. Of course you did because you are stupid. This is a matter for the police or City Watch. Go bother them.” The man was about to speak again, but Cassius shooed him away. “Get! Off with you!”
It was so very difficult to find good help these days. Perhaps he should replace his entire staff, in every department. What a bother.
The rest of the day was spent doing much of the same, tossing off annoying summons from various persons coming and going to his office. He was forced to have a word with his top aide. Cassius called him inside and the man popped his head over the door.
“Yes, my lord?”
“If one more person interrupts my work with business outside the scope of this office, I shall have your neck strung up on the gallows. Is that understood?”
“Um, yes my lord. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. Now get out.”
The man ducked away as if demons chased him.
Cassius left late at night, tired and irritable, with a dozen guards riding towards his palatial mansion under a full moon and cool air. Several minutes later, a large group of torches came into their vision as they approached the gates to the wealthy quarter. Cassius’ lethargic mind was on pace with his tired body, and he didn’t quite understand what was happening. His guardsmen slowed and surrounded him, but this did nothing but obscure his view of the torches and men who held them.
“Move, you men, move!” he said and swatted them aside. He couldn’t remember the captain’s name. “Captain, uh, Dower, what is going on? I am tired and wish to go home.”
The barrel-chested man turned in the saddle. “It’s Gower, my lord. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Then why don’t you go and find out, Captain Gower? So I can perhaps go to bed sometime this week.”
Gower nodded and scampered off, taking two men with him. Cassius crossed his arms over his saddle’s pommel and tried not to fall asleep. A few minutes later the captain returned, looking afraid.
“My lord, troubling news.”
Cassius rubbed his face. “By the gods, what is it now? Are people conspiring to keep me from my bed?”
“The security men here,” the captain said and indicated the men with the torches. “They said some men have hostages. They’ve taken the quarter.”
Cassius snapped further awake. “What? Where are the police? You there!” he said and pointed at the closest security man by the gate.
The man trotted over. “Lord Cassius, the situation is being handled. And the police are—”
“The police should be here. This is ridiculous. Captain, send men to the precinct! And take one of these security men with you. Go now.”
The captain ordered two of his men to move, and the security man hopped up on one of the horses and off they went. While they waited, Cassius trotted over to the gate, his men following, and the lord governor waited in agitated solitude. After a few minutes of frustrated silence, he interviewed the men who knew what was happening, and bit by bit he got more of the story.
Several hours ago, The Prancing Pony was taken over by armed, hooded men. Everyone present at the tavern, most of whom were wealthy merchants, was taken hostage. Then something very strange happened, and the details of which became murky and vague.
“Tell me what you know, for pity’s sake!” Cassius said. “No more of this nonsense. I demand to know why I am forced to stand by and why I am refused access to m
y home.”
“My lord, we don’t yet know everything. Some of our security forces have been compromised.”
“How?”
“They were dressed like us,” another man said, sounding embarrassed. “I have no idea how they got our uniforms. They are unique. But they attacked us and took control of our routes, bit by bit and took over the homes.”
“What do you mean?”
The first man answered. “There are many of them, my lord, some dozens. They stormed in, men with hoods and overwhelmed us. You are looking at the survivors.”
Cassius frowned and did a quick head count. There were less than a dozen men, out of fifty or more. The result was unacceptable.
“They have barricaded themselves in tight, my lord. The two narrow sections of road that lead to the back of the quarter, where the larger compounds are, they have those sections blocked.”
Cassius sucked his breath through his teeth and attempted to calm his nerves. “Are you telling me I am unable to reach my home at this time? How did this happen? This is unacceptable, gentlemen! You will lose your jobs over this fiasco, every single one of you!”
The Lord Governor fumed, and they fidgeted. Blasted incompetents! Some looked nervous and scared, perhaps wondering how they would now feed their families, but others looked at him with anger and defiance in their eyes. Well, let them stew. There was nothing they could have done about it but whine.
Half an hour later the captain and the others returned. With them were a few police officers. Lord Cassius eyed them with disdain. Lieutenant Dillon was with them, and Cassius began his tirade before he was within ten paces.
“Lieutenant, what do you have to say for yourself? Why are members of your department not making arrests at this very moment? Where is the City Watch? Give me some answers, or I will have your job as well.”
Dillon looked straight into his eyes, a slight smirk tugging the corners of his mouth.
“Something Captain Cubbins told me, right before he left is that city council authority does not oversee the police department. Our charter is royal by nature, see. As far as the Watch goes, that’s Hark Williamson’s department. Maybe you should speak with him about it. Thing is though, this here neighborhood is not owned by the city, it’s all private contracts, so the city’s jurisdiction isn’t at play here”