by Will Molinar
“But your home. You live three blocks away from me, for pity’s sake!”
Haller boomed a laugh that made the older man’s eyes sparkle. “How right you are. The house is beautiful and the reason I took the position. But the position pays very little, as the salary is in part paid to the loan of the house. It is enough to pay for food and basic necessities but little else. I am required to maintain upkeep, and as you know, it is quite substantial on a compound of that size.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Becket said and did not ask who the secret someone was that had placed him in the position. It would have shocked him if it wasn’t Cassius, whom he assumed was responsible for placing all members on the city council. Haller had no power, and he was City Treasurer. A Dock Master couldn’t have much hope in the situation. It was becoming more and more dangerous to be in his position, and soon it might not have been worth the risk.
Muldor was lucky to lead a simpler life. From what Becket had heard the stolid man still slept in his office or on a couch at city hall most of the time. Gods! What dedication the man had, or lack of style; either way, it was looking to be a much safer way of living than what Becket and the others had chosen. Muldor had nothing to steal, so he would never be a target for thievery. It wasn’t to say the Guild Master did not have enemies, but Muldor had stripped down his life to what was really important to him.
‘Muldor is too smart for everyone anyway,’ Becket thought and drained the rest of his coffee. Muldor, Muldor… always so stalwart and clever. Of course, Muldor was responsible for their current situation with the police in part because of his over-riding obsession with the sanctity of the Guild. It was ironic because now so many of the city’s wealthy merchants were affected. Most of Becket’s neighbors were not from the city. They were foreign born, low level nobles, and hence why the neighborhood was free from the city’s control. It was to protect those not born in Murder Haven, to protect them from normal rules, thugs, and murderers most of the common slugs had to deal with.
Becket drained the rest of his coffee. Haller was sitting still, his eyes half closed. Whatever jolt the beverage was capable of was wearing off. But Zandor’s return reinvigorated him. The slim, shifty looking man plopped a heavy bag on the table.
“What’s this?” Becket said and sat back, as if the bag were filled with vipers.
“Open it,” Zandor said with a grin. “They won’t bite. I promise.”
Becket felt a bit childish for his hesitation and grabbed the bag. Inside were Guild badges, smaller versions of the larger Guild seals carried by all Dock Masters or higher ranking members. The badges were similar to large coins, with the embossed symbol of The Merchants Guild, a ship sailing on water, on one side.
He glanced at Zandor as he would the devil himself, a sinking feeling of dread striking him. “Where’d you get these?”
“From their owners, of course,” Zandor said, and his voice had changed; it was deeper and more serious. “My people, see, they rounded up those folks we just freed and put ‘em in a safe house.”
“A safe house? What do you mean?”
“Well, so they’ll be safe! This here is a dangerous town. Ain’t smart to be somewhere out in the open where anyone can get at ya, right.”
“I don’t… what is this? I don’t understand.”
“It’s real simple. We need to get the rest of your people out of harm’s way, all them that’s tied up and whatnot in your neighborhood. See, they ain’t gonna trust a guy like me. They’re too smart for that; so I hafta have something to make it seem legit.
“Since the police aren’t up to the task at the moment, I figure someone else has to do it, and if me and mine haven’t proven ourselves by now… well, tell me what else we need to do to earn your trust.’
Haller looked convinced, looking at Zandor with respect. “You have earned mine, good sir. These Guild badges are proof of your affiliation. Without your assistance I would have perished.”
Becket fingered his coffee cup, feeling Zandor’s eyes upon him, not in a threatening or judgmental way but expectant; the curiosity on how the man got so many Guild members to hand over their badges overrode his better judgment. Becket sat back. “There’s a security issue in the wealthy quarter. There is no doubt about that. And perhaps at some point we will hire you to help reclaim our homes, but I don’t have the authority to invoke some sort of mass attack on a section of the city. I’m sorry.”
Haller nodded, changing his mind in a flash. “I suppose that is correct. There are foreign interests at work you do not understand, Zandor. We must have permission.”
“Oh really? Since when do big shots like you need permission to kick out some assholes that have taken control of your neighborhood?”
“Taken control? Young man, we lack information that must be apparent to you. I apologize. I was unaware of the full extent of their occupation. I believed the motivation was robbery, outright robbery, and what you propose, a full on militaristic campaign designed to barge in, swords flashing, may not be the best course of action at this time. More information is needed.”
Becket felt buoyed that Haller agreed and was on his side.
Zandor eyed them with a flash of annoyance, but it was gone in an instant. He smiled. “Sure, I respect that. You fellas gotta make certain what’s what. But how do you know what this is about? Maybe it’s some kidnapping plot, huh? Maybe it isn’t safe for you on the streets. It’s dangerous out there, you know.”
Becket and Haller shared a look while Zandor snatched up the bag of badges and stood. “Listen here. I’ll let you boys get some rest while I do some further investigation. Then let’s say we meet at your office, yeah Master Becket? Round this evening before dusk. Keep in mind your people are safe with me. For now.”
Becket licked his lips. His brain was so tired it was difficult to focus. “Yes, that will be fine. I appreciate your assistance.”
Zandor smiled and looked like a viper. “My pleasure.”
Chapter Five
The room was dark and cold. It was easy to sleep in for some people, but the environment was not well suited for productivity. The slumbering forms of men, weary from fighting and drinking, filled most of the space between the walls. The toughs in disguise slept on whatever spot they could find after the last day and a half of furious activity.
The snoring did not bother Jerrod so much as the smell. It was a combination of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and piss, the latter of which added weight to his belief that all men were pigs. Fucking slobs all of them.
The job was good, and it was easier for him to be an underling and not have to worry over making decisions. When it came down to getting paid, Jerrod had little pride, and for what Zandor proposed, stealing from the wealthiest the city had to offer, promised to get them paid and paid well.
Some rules were in effect as well, such as the betting tents and arena were off limits to the toughs, but because what Jerrod had done, Zandor was not much liked in those locations either. That might have been a mistake, now that they were working together again. Oh well.
It was better for the toughs as well. They were doing something now that was more suited to their specific skill set. With the arena and tents there were certain allowances that had to be made for customer service, and to hell with abiding by that nonsense. The pay was shit there, anyway. Robbing three taverns in one night had been more than a month of full time work before.
Jerrod shifted on his side, attempting to get more comfortable in the cramped room, but the pallet he was on was shit, little more than a flea riddled towel. There were dozens of mansions available to them now, but the little shit head Zandor said not to. Fuck’s sake.
Marko, the damn stupid fool should have left him to die. Jerrod would have been better off.
But then attacking the wealthy quarter and taking the rich fools for all they had was worth the effort. They had limited resources with which to fight off a full scale assault, and there was nothing better to do at the moment.
The door opened and a flood of light pelted the slumbering toughs, who shifted and groaned. Most of them were ready for action, jumpy, and slept light. They sat up, grabbing for weapons and stirred, blinking. Jerrod stretched and scoffed. It was only Zandor.
Two men were with him. One was tall and blonde, and Jerrod narrowed his eyes on the other. He never forgot a face. He was a tall, well-built thief, filled with arrogance.
Zandor looked around. “Get up. We ain’t done yet, folks. You wanna take ‘em for all they got? Move your asses!”
The small man did not often raise his voice, but when he did, men listened. The toughs scrambled to their feet and strapped on their black clothes and dull metal. Zandor found Jerrod’s eyes and flicked his head to the door. Jerrod wore his gear already, always slept in it on a job, and followed the little man outside. Jerrod did not say a word, keeping his face neutral.
Something had riled up Zandor.
Jerrod sized up the two men with him. “Looks like you been spending time in the gutter, Zee, by the looks of these fellas.”
They glared at him, and Zandor frowned. “Marston, Felix, don’t mind him. He’s always cranky this time of the month. Woman cycle and all that.”
Jerrod smirked. “Fuck off.”
“Listen, Jerry, we got problems. This damn Becket guy, he’s too suspicious and won’t hire us out as is. So now we switch to an alternate plan, roust these fuckers out.”
Jerrod looked at Marston and glared. “Thieves?”
“Yeah, remember them? Marston here has people in the right places. We got some more numbers, can run a good end around on these rich folks. I’ll send him to you boys when we have it figured out. He’s good, Jerry, real good.”
Jerrod grunted. “Thought they were all disbanded.”
Marston bristled but said nothing, not looking so cocky in front of Jerrod.
“Were disbanded,” Zandor said. “Listen, don’t you worry about the details, bub. You just do what you’re told, and everything will go nice and smooth.”
Jerrod took the command in stride. His brain twisted, and Marston smirked. Jerrod glared at them all but nodded and went back inside to get his boys ready.
* * * * *
The limp was not getting any better. The scar on the young man’s side, from the top of his hip to right under his bottom rib, interfered with his gait. It was bothersome and troubling to the young thief, and Anders gritted his teeth, knowing there was work to do. Giorgio had always told him to roll with the hits life gave and to improvise whenever the opportunity present itself.
Think on your feet or die on them. Good advice in Sea Haven.
Every other step was more of a hop for Anders as he headed back to the headquarters section in town for the disbanded thieves. After their last debacle, they had laid low for a time. But they still had Cutter’s place, the back of the Old Mill Inn, where the collective stash of the Thieves Guild lay hidden in plain sight.
Cutter’s desk was without its usually occupant. Something Anders had never seen before, and a trill of trepidation ran through him. The young thief pulled a dagger from his belt.
A noise, somewhere deeper in the maze of crates caught his attention, and he followed it to its source, wary. It was Cutter, and the Anders breathed a sigh of relief. The old man stood by a stack of wooden crates, hanging his head.
“Cutter? What are you doing here?”
The wizened man sniffed and turned, his dusty robes swirling about his thin shoulders. “Yes? Oh, young Anders. One of our best. Yes, our good thieves, all scattered. It’s nice to see you up and about, though.”
Anders bristled. “I’ve been on my feet for months now. What are you doing?”
Cutter smiled and looked wistful. “Oh, just… Anders, do you know what this is?”
He held out an object, the bust of some man Anders did not recognize. “What is it?
“Ah, you mean who. Yes, who should have been your question.”
Anders looked it over. It was half the size of his head, made of purple marble, and was heavy and dense. The man’s head was bald on top, with a thick trim of beard and tuffs of hair on the sides.
Cutter chortled. “A king! Meliphor IV. Ruled over a century ago in the Klangor province. This bust was the first thing I ever stole. It’s worth a fortune if I ever fenced it.”
“Then do it,” Anders said and handed it back.
Cutter narrowed his eyes. “That’s not how it works, young man. We do what we need in order to survive.”
“We’re surviving.”
Cutter got serious for a moment. “Why are you here? That fool’s enterprise in the wealthy quarter? Come with me.”
Anders followed. “We need you behind us, Cutter. A lot of thieves won’t join if you aren’t involved. This will put us back into it. We can seize control of the mansions there, plenty of good loot for us all.”
“Yes, yes, I’m all for it. You young fools go in and make us proud. You have my blessing.”
“You’ll sign off on it?”
Cutter waved a palsied hand. “I will sign off on the job, like I have a thousand times before. Do not worry, young Anders. The rest of the thieves will listen to me. You shall have your war, young man.”
Anders limped behind him, huffing a little to keep up even with an old man. He gritted his teeth and stepped faster. They went back to the center of the maze and his desk. It was stacked and cluttered with papers and knickknacks and other paraphernalia like the rest of the cavernous room.
When Cutter sat, Anders swore he heard the man’s bones creak. Cutter picked up a quill and scrawled something on a piece of paper and handed it over. Anders took it, and though he couldn’t read, he knew something was missing.
“You didn’t put your seal on it, Cutter. It needs to be official.”
“I didn’t? Give it back, then.”
Anders watched as Cutter fumbled with a candle, poured wax on the edge of the rolled paper and pulled out a seal from his robe. After stamping it on the hardening wax, Anders grabbed it and left. “Thanks, Cutter.”
The secret thief shack was ten minutes away. His leg ached from the exertion. He gave the expected series of knocks. The door opened and a group of thieves greeted him, five men and two women, all of them with hands on their daggers.
Anders held up the rolled paper, his mouth a tight line in his tanned face.
“Oberon Cutter has given his permission to go ahead with the operation. Some have joined this Zandor, but now the rest of can in good conscious and loyalty to the Thieves Guild.”
“What about the scabs?” one of them said, a small, wiry woman that reminded him of Delora. “When do we get them off the streets, so we can go about our business?”
The rest started muttering.
“Once we reestablish the Guild, Mary.”
“Settle down, both of you. Anders is doing well.”
“Yeah, what’s next?”
“I’ll let you know,” Anders said. “Be ready.”
The next shack was near the southern docks, and he did the same thing with them as well as another dozen places they had set up around the city. The last stop was with Delora, still so strong and fit despite her turning towards forty, and Marston, the former Elite who acted as their liaison with Zandor.
Delora, with her dark hair tied in a tight knot on top of her head, fingering a dagger at her belt, looked annoyed. “Been waitin’, Anders. That leg is slowin’ you down.”
“Shush, Delora,” Marston said. “Anders is fine. Bit slower than he was, but he gets the job done.”
Anders glared at her but held up the paper. “Cutter signed off. This is Thieves Guild business now.”
“Let’s see it,” Marston said, and the tall, muscular thief snatched up the paper. “It’s his seal. Well done. Now we can move, prove to the council our Guild is necessary.”
“Essential. The city can’t survive without the Thieves Guild. When do you meet with Zandor again?”
“Soon,” M
arston said, and Anders caught a noncommittal glimmer in his eye. “You coordinate with the other groups. Soon as I meet with him, we’ll go from there. Nice work.”
“I’ll meet you two back here in three hours. I have another stop to make.”
“Not enough time. Don’t do anything until I speak with him.”
Anders moved to the door, feeling like he was missing something, some silent communication between the two. He had forgotten Marston’s order by the time he reached the street.
* * * * *
Journal 1498
People will come to me. I can feel their nervous energy; their anxiety is palpable. In light of the harrowing experience of meeting face to face with Arc Lector Morlin, I welcome the idea of dealing with someone else’s problem for the moment. Even though I have no solution to the current situation in the wealthy quarter, I feel as though I should tackle the problem, at least in part. These are the rich merchants I so desire to keep happy after all.
But it smacks of something different than the superficial cover it has been assigned. I attempted to alleviate the problem of the new jail by suggesting they use prisoners to help in its construction, and thus destroying two problems in one, but this has backfired upon us all, freeing the thieves yet again and upsetting the proud men of the police. Now they are in full strike, setting up in their fortress-like precinct like besieged royals in a castle. I can only imagine the wrath of Captain Cubbins upon his return, though I would welcome his sharp mind these days.
The situation will resolve itself without my intervention, and since there is little I can do about it anyway, I will not involve myself. It is none of The Guild’s concern, as that section of Sea Haven is owned by foreign powers, and while again I realize there are many wealthy merchants and high ranking Guild members who call that part of town home, including all of the Dock Masters and Carl Tomlinson, the Guild liaison to the market, I will not overstep my authority. They can save themselves. I remember when I first entered office as Guild Master and was given the keys to Castellan’s mansion, but I discovered it was not for me. I spend too much time away, not worth the effort, and thus decided to remain in more common furnishings.