by Will Molinar
Cubbins would make the most of it. He would do his job to the best of his considerable ability, but death would come. In some alleyway, perhaps at home, perhaps in some watery grave where his killers would dump his body, it would come.
Cubbins had learned long ago to stay clear of the cells, as far in the middle as possible. The walkway was narrow enough for a large man to stretch their arms and touch a bar on each side. That would be a mistake of course. The more dangerous inmates were chained to the far walls, but even the more relaxed ones were apt to grab a jailor.
Most of the occupants in the cells ignored him while others jeered and sneered. It was the only hobby they had. Cubbins kept his muscles tense and his mind wary for anything. One officer had gotten his head split open from an errant dinner plate that one prisoner tossed across the hallway.
They needed new cells.
When Cubbins reached the front room to the jail, there was the man sought after: Lieutenant Dillon. Cubbins’ direct subordinate was a tow-headed youth, tall and gangly but stronger than appearances would reckon. He stood by the front desk with sergeants Bigus and Jenkins. The latter was promoted after the riots had left them short a few slots in their ranks.
Dillon looked over at him, his boyish face grim. Cubbins felt a trill of trepidation.
“Captain Cubbins,” Dillon said. “Good morning. We have something for you.”
Dillon stepped back from the front desk and rubbed his considerable beard. He was proud of the facial hair, but Cubbins knew he only grew it because people made fun of how young he looked. It hadn’t help make him look much older.
“Be more specific,” Cubbins said as he came to the front of the desk. They stared at him.
Dillon nodded but turned to Bigus. The older man twitched and frowned. He had a bushy mustache and big ears. Cubbins always thought he looked like a bulldog.
“Some gents caught sight of someone,” Bigus said. “Some shifty looking fella digging around where he shouldn’t be at one of the cemeteries in town.”
Cubbins thought for a moment. “And the city watch hasn’t reported this.”
“Nah,” said Bigus. “Shoulda been, yeah, I s’pose, but it weren’t. There were some sailors, boys that got back into town the other night fresh off the Melborne schooner. Came to us this morning.”
“Yes, I know them. And you took the report, Sergeant Bigus.”
“Yes, sir. They’re upright fellas them sailors. They thought it looked strange, what they saw.”
‘And they are part of your group of informants,’ Cubbins thought. ‘They’ll get a nice kick back if the case is solved and Bigus makes an arrest.’
Years ago, Cubbins had made a deal with the city treasurer to give his officers a bonus when they went above and beyond their duty. It helped morale and made his job easier.
“Tell me about the alleged culprits,” Cubbins said.
Bigus looked at Jenkins and smoothed his busy mustache. The ends straightened and then snapped back into place. “Well, sir, it’s like this. They didn’t get much of a look, but they said there were two fellas, shirtless, ‘praps ‘round twenty to thirty years of age, dark hair, looked alike, coulda been brothers. They were digging up a grave. And one of the sailors thought they saw another man, wearing dark clothes, cape, and large hat, but he didn’t get a good look at him either.”
“You’ve spoken to the cemetery attendants,” Cubbins said. “These men were not with them.”
“That’s right. Man named Henry Forks runs the Oakwood Cemetery. Spoke to him this morning. None of his men were scheduled for any digging at that hour. There is no accounting for it, none that we can see.”
Cubbins heaved a mental sigh and frowned. “Grave robbers.”
“Seems to be the extent of it, Captain. Been a while since we had any of them.” Bigus shook his head, a look of disgust on his features.
“Tell me what else,” Cubbins said.
Bigus shrugged, but Jenkins spoke. “There isn’t much else, Captain Cubbins. See, they didn’t stick around much longer. Uh, they had some drinking to get to. So they didn’t think much of it. They just thought to say something when old Robert ran into Sergeant Bigus here at the Drunken Sailor. Something about it felt strange.”
Cubbins considered. “Okay. I want a meeting with Parkins. I want city watch placed on alert. We’ll have them watch the cemeteries in town, maybe catch them in the act.”
“There are only three cemeteries, sir,” Bigus said, sounding confident. He stroked his mustache and looked pleased with himself. “Shouldn’t be too hard to keep track of.”
“No, there’s four,” said Dillon. “Counting that smaller one. Uh, on Brior Lane, that smaller one.”
Cubbins regarded him. “There’s five, in fact. You’re both forgetting the old abandoned one on Cutter Avenue, northeast corner of town.”
Dillon frowned, and Bigus shifted his feet, looking perplexed.
“But no one uses that one,” Dillon said. “It’s decrepit, with rusted gates, overgrown bushes….”
“Doesn’t matter. I want them all covered. We’ll use rotating shifts coordinated with the city watch. I want maps as well, for every location. Low view, four block grid. See what we have in our archives. Go to it.”
The three of them nodded, and they went off to relay the orders. Cubbins left them.
As the police captain went to his office, his mind went blank, having no idea how he got back, being there in an instant. He remembered shouting, perhaps from the cell corridor, men pawing at him, hungry for his blood, his flesh, but couldn’t place the exact instant.
The image of the severed arm found under his bed flashed through his mind. For the first time since it happened, he felt afraid.
* * * * *
“Sixes! Calling sixes! Give them up.”
They’d reopened the gaming tents only last week, and Jerrod was determined to take advantage as much as possible. Money from other areas was hard to come by since Castellan du Sol, former Guild Master, his under the table boss, was hauled to prison in Janisberg.
Shouts from the lucky and unlucky annoyed him. They should keep their shame to themselves and shut the hell up. He couldn’t stand other people’s bullshit. There were enough problems as it was.
Jerrod was down twenty gold pieces for the night. Unfathomable. His string of recent poor luck was spiraling into disastrous levels. This never happened to him. Men like Jerrod made their own luck. They carved pathways through life, smashing any and all opposition into the dirt where most men belonged. But the fact was, Castellan had made things happen around Sea Haven, with Jerrod as his main enforcer. Now that the former Guild Master was imprisoned, Jerrod was left with the shambles and hassle of rebuilding his reputation.
His street cred had taken a severe blow. There was a trickle of mistrust and apprehension with his regular contacts. He relied on these men to hurt people, intimidate them, to rob, and to kill. It was all part of what Jerrod did. But if people didn’t fear him, that was a serious problem.
He stared down one of the serving wenches for a few moments, but the young girl refused to look his way. She walked by him, and Jerrod grabbed her arm. “Get me some more whiskey, lady.”
She winced at his rough handling, but the dirty slut would do as told. Already drunk, Jerrod planned to get drunker. He burped and took another swallow. It burned deep, and the backwash blew out his nostrils. Thank the heavens for alcohol. This hell of a life would be far worse without it.
Someone to his right side nudged him with a wooden stick. “Your turn, mister.” The brutal man didn’t hear it well enough to understand. “Hey! Your go.”
Jerrod didn’t acknowledge it, and the poke came again. This time he grabbed the stick and yanked it towards him. The man yelped and hung on, but Jerrod had him by the throat in an instant. The man squirmed. Jerrod was angry and strong. He pulled him close, his hot, rancid breath in his face, his grip suffocating and unrelenting.
The man’s eye bulged, and Jerrod
snapped the stick in half with his other hand, planting it in the man’s gut and heaving.
“I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready, bub. Shut your damn face.” Jerrod shoved him back, and the man tumbled into the crowd. A tense moment of silence later, and the activities went back to normal. Jerrod turned to the dealer. “Gimme the damn dice.”
The game went on. He won a bit, carving into his winnings by a decent percentage, but he still wound up in a losing slump. He took a break and leaned by the bar, sipping more whiskey. Several of the serving girls, game hawkers, pit bosses, and other workers glared at him.
A group of security men, armed with cudgels, eyed him from across the room. His drunkenness grew deeper as the night wore on, but he managed to scowl back at the men. Let them come on then. Jerrod would show them what being mean was all about.
“I’ll gut every single one of them,” he said into his glass. “Two or three go down, and the rest of them will run off. Fucking cowards. Fucking pigs. Slugs… like all these bastards here.”
His skull buzzed with seething anger and alcohol. He dipped his head back and propped his elbows against the bar. The ambient noise from the room, even the shouting from the curtained sections of the gaming tents where the wealthier clientele played for big money, faded from his thoughts.
Let them come get me, bastards.
Thunk!
Someone plopped a heavy tankard on the countertop next to his head, and Jerrod started awake.
“Ya know, seems a shame a fella like you is down on his luck.”
Jerrod blinked at the man who had spoken. He leaned with a casual air against the bar, wiping his mouth with an amused smile on his lips. Recognition warred with disbelief in Jerrod’s mind, clutching his gut.
“You….”
“Yeah, me,” Zandor said, and his smiled faded. He looked Jerrod up and down. “You’ve been better, friend o’ mine.”
Jerrod felt disarmed, drunk and disorientated. He sputtered and tried to think. “You… son of a… we were never friends, you little shit!”
Zandor smirked. “Ha! Well, nice to see you again, pal. We were comrades at least, compatriots, trained together, whatever you wanna call it is fine with me. It wasn’t all bad.”
Jerrod settled himself after the initial shock, but the shot of adrenaline coursing through his gut made him nauseous. He turned back to the bar and faced forward, next to Zandor, who continued drinking.
“Heard you were dead,” Jerrod said. “Best day of my life, that.”
Zandor laughed. “They’re always telling stories about me. Well, the legend returns. I got a little juice left in my guts, going strong in fact. You’ve seen better days though, Jerry. Not liking much of what I’m seeing.”
Jerrod glared. He wanted to punch the smug look off his face, but he knew the little prick was fast. Plus, Jerrod was in no position to fight a hardened, trained professional killer like Zandor. The bastard looked fit, as always; older of course, they both were, and though he acted casual, Jerrod knew better.
Zandor, lean and hawkish, stood with one hip shifted to the outside of his body. His knees tensed, one hand against the bar so as to push off and away in a split second if need be. A slight smile tugged the corners of his cock sucking mouth. It had a sobering effect on Jerrod. The little shit had a multitude of weapons stashed inside his cloak. Zandor had trained Jerrod to do the same thing.
Jerrod relaxed, knowing Zandor wanted to talk and only that. He should have gotten Marko and his boys to come with him. Next time he wouldn’t be caught off guard. Kudos to Zandor for being smart enough to come to him when Jerrod was off-balance.
“Been rough around here of late,” Jerrod said and put his glass to the side. “Case you hadn’t noticed.”
Zandor nodded and tapped the counter for another round for both of them. The crowd was thinning at this late hour, but several people hung in pockets.
“I did notice, yes. Looks like your boss spread himself a little too thin. Shame really. All that embezzlement, extortion, usurpation, bribery, robbery, murder, assault… did I miss anything? Not good for business, all that wickedness.”
Jerrod managed to bark out a laugh. “You’re one to talk. What do you care anyway? I thought you were busy fucking old ladies for their money or jerking off priests for their spiritual favors.”
The hope had been that last remark might’ve tempted Zandor into a spiteful response, but the man didn’t take to the bait, choosing sarcasm instead.
“Stopped doing all that seven years ago. Not worth the trouble anymore. Sin carries a heavy price, my friend.” Zandor got both their drinks, tipped the bartender well, and gave Jerrod a steely gaze. “I ain’t here to trade barbs with you, Jerry.” He shifted his stance to one of total relaxation that told Jerrod the seriousness of what was said. “I know what you do here. I know your network, recognize some of the boys in fact, recognize the work… not a bad set up here. But it could be better. You know that.”
Jerrod never let his gaze linger from Zandor’s eyes. He held it for a few moments, wishing he were in a position to ram his fist down the man’s throat. He took a hard swig of his drink. “Go back to your shanty town and get stuffed.”
Silence reigned.
Jerrod faced away from the shifty little man and listened to Zandor breathing slow and steady, calm as could be. “You’re smarter than this, Jerry. So I’ll give you some time to think it over. You know how to find me. I’ll be nearby… watching things.”
Jerrod didn’t bother to watch him leave. There was drinking to do.
* * * * *
The dull smack of wood striking wood reached all corners of the Western Docks. It permeated from the sharp ping of hammers striking nails, and the consistent crunch of saws chewing into the boards. The mixture of oil, saw dust, salt water, and all the sweat and grime of dozens of unwashed bodies mixed together and made the whole area smell like piss and mildew.
To Muldor it didn’t smell like home anymore. It was too cluttered with people that didn’t belong. There was business to do at Samuel Becket’s office. Becket was Dock Master of Piers Four through Six. Muldor felt a modicum of normalcy return.
“Ah, Master Muldor,” Becket said and rose from behind his desk, “the very man I wished to see. Have you heard? A new garrison has arrived from Janisberg. A round of soldiers here at the docks. It is very troubling.”
Muldor frowned. “How many, and where are they?”
“This way, sir.”
Muldor followed the young, handsome Becket outside, amidst the hubbub of pier activity. Trade had resumed, and the long line of back orders chocked the docks. The air of martial law hung oppressive. Muldor could see it in the eyes of the workers. They were afraid, frustrated, and on edge. So were the dock security men. They held their cudgels nervous, standing at attention, and ready for anything. It hadn’t been long enough since the naval bombardment for them to relax.
But Muldor was encouraged that they all went about their business in spite of the looming threat. They seemed glad to see him. A few of the security men and workers smiled and waved to him.
“They’ve taken residence in this building here, sir,” Becket said and indicated a large warehouse they used for storage. It was a behemoth saved from most of the bombing.
“How many reside there?”
Becket shrugged. “I counted two schooners worth, perhaps eighty men. Couldn’t be many more than that. Unless, of course….”
“I understand. That’s enough. Thank you for your strict observance.”
Becket had a tendency to ramble on when nervous, and Muldor had learned long ago to cut him off when needed. But he couldn’t blame the man. He was starting to feel the same, but he needed to control his own fear, or the men wouldn’t follow. It was his first lesson as a leader.
“We must face this head-on, Dock Master Becket. Right now.”
Becket hesitated but nodded anyway. “Yes, Master Muldor. I’ll call some of the guards over. It will look more official
. We’ll have better protection if we have an armed escort.”
“Call them.”
They got their men and went towards the building. Several armed men, foreigners with sky blue uniforms and halberds, milled about the wide double door entrance. They chatted and laughed with one another. A few played dice on the side, and that struck Muldor as odd. They were too casual.
It chaffed him more than their presence. They had no right to come to his home and disrupt The Guild’s business. The image of the Arc Lector sprang to his mind, the sight of him at the end of the fateful day, the people following behind, his flowing robes lit by the glowing street lamps, and the celestial presence behind him….
He and Becket spoke with the first soldier they came to, a tall man standing by the wall smoking. The soldier glanced at the two of them and their cadre of security with such a nonchalant unconcerned air that Muldor had to hold back the urge to strike him.
“I need to see your supervisor, young man,” Muldor said.
The man had a lazy look about him. He slumped his shoulders. His tired face had a glimmer in his eyes. It told Muldor that he was wary. The Guild man expected a confrontation, but the man pointed towards the inside of the warehouse. “Over there.”
Muldor left him, his entourage in tow. The cavernous room was set up like a barracks. Small cots stacked together and lined down either side of the walls. Most of the storage goods Muldor knew by sight. They were pushed off to the side like clutter. A pulse of anger struck both at the effrontery of the invaders and that Becket and his peers allowed this to happen without telling him. Goods might’ve been stolen already. Several men lounged around without a care in the world, some sleeping, some smoking, others talking together and laughing or playing dice games on the floor. Muldor had to steady his breathing.
One of the men looked like someone in charge. He had a more elaborate plume on his helmet, and he glanced up as their group stomped up to them. The man didn’t seem all that concerned. “You want something?”