by Will Molinar
There was no reason to waste any further time on it. It wasn’t his fight anymore. Aides from the city council had requested his presence at the meetings, but the new Guild Master hadn’t gone to any of them in over two weeks. Perhaps he would elect a Guild member to go in his place, one of the Dock Masters. Or send the new market liaison Tomlinson to go in his stead. That would work fine.
Maggur would also be sufficient. The ambitious man was always demanding more responsibility, so Muldor wrote out a contract, stipulating the man’s new responsibilities, along with proper compensation for his time. He called in a dock worker by the name of Styles. The young man stood at the doorway, looking with expectant eyes for his next assignment.
“Give this to Dock Master Maggur,” Muldor said and handed him the rolled up sheet stamped with his seal, the Guild Master’s seal still didn’t feel as if it were his to use.
“Yes, sir,” Styles said and turned away, but Muldor called him back.
“And tell your supervisor I have approved your request for a lighter assignment. I am in need of an additional runner. You’ll have full use of furloughs as well.”
Styles brightened. His rather goofy smile split his sharp features, and glowed. “Yes, sir! Right away, Guild Master Muldor!”
He ran off.
Muldor allowed himself a smile. Things were getting better by the day. A couple hours later, the paperwork was done. It was rare to finish early enough to see the sun set, but there it was, dipping behind the raised sails of the numerous ships anchored at port. It was breathtaking, though Muldor seldom stopped to appreciate it.
Some extra workers, not part of the regular hiring by The Guild, spoiled his mood for a moment. He watched them work near Pier Three. They off-loaded the largest shipment of the week, a consignment of exotic goods. Most dock workers didn’t like these men because they were foreigners, hired by the selling merchants.
Besides jars of expensive perfume and boxes of jewelry, men brought out spools of silk by the dozen and huge trolleys. The extra security comprised of brawny men with poleaxes and plate armor, even more impressive than the fellows from Janisberg. They continued to occupy the Western and Southern Docks. Muldor counted a score, and eight foreign merchants watched as their precious wares were taken off ship.
Muldor recognized each seller; very rich men who held special membership within The Guild. It allowed them to sell their goods and set up special events to sell at a higher rate for unique clients. A large portion of the marketplace was being prepared for the bazaar. They did it once every couple of months to make it more prestigious, and it always left the city much richer.
The fading sunlight waned, and soon the men finished and walked off for their favorite tavern. If he wanted, Muldor could make a list of where each man went, where the rich merchants stayed, where they put their guards, and even which whore they preferred at Madam Dreary’s.
Maybe that should happen someday. It could give him leverage. But that was what Castellan would think, and that was why he was in prison. If it wasn’t Guild business, it was no business of his. Muldor sighed and watched some of the regular dock workers take a short break.
His heart clutched with thoughts of his cousin Carver. The man had done the same things countless times. He liked to smoke a specific type of cigarette made with mint. It was a nice flavor that Muldor enjoyed on occasion as well. He could see him standing there now, smoking, his hand rising and falling as he smiled and puffed. The hanged man would never do so again.
Muldor should check in on the three children, Gertrude, Willard, and little Robert. All three were housed as inmates at the city orphanage. Inmates was an appropriate word. Many people used it, since the orphanage had that reputation. Muldor knew from experience it was an apt term.
The eldest child Marissa was still missing. Her siblings, too young to understand, knew nothing of her whereabouts and could not remember the last time they had seen her. Muldor had asked around in some of the seedier parts of town. Men kidnapped children from time to time, but only wealthy people could pay ransoms, not poor lost children with no homes. There were hundreds of those cases in the city of Sea Haven. No one knew anything.
Muldor figured she was a runaway or had been consumed on the street. Or she was used in one of the illegal prostitution rings men ran in the southern section of the city. Cubbins had worked hard to root it out, but it was impossible for the police to finish with their staffing issues. The Guild hadn’t had time to dwell on it much to the dismay of Muldor’s sense of family loyalty and human compassion.
Their mother was locked away in the city’s insane asylum, the most horrifying place in the entire city, and that said something. There was nothing Muldor could do to change that, for the building operated outside the normal policing of the city.
Only the Arc Lector had any say on its policing. For some reason years ago, the venerable man had absconded his attempts to curtail the harsh conditions there. Some said it was his greater failure in life and his greatest shame.
The Arc Lector Morlin. Muldor hadn’t thought of the man for a moment since the day the city surrendered itself to the Janisberg fleet. Something happened that night, something Muldor couldn’t understand. The power of the Arc Lector, his influence, had been complete, total, and all encompassing.
With a mouth full of bile and a heavy heart, Muldor wasted no more thought on it. It was a cold night; always so surprising how fast the temperature dropped during the nighttime hours. The wind was powerful, even as he walked away from the water. The sea air so invigorating to him, so natural and comforting.
A few beggars congregated outside The Tattered Sail. Men who occupied an even lower social stratum than the poor dock workers frequented there. Most nights he wouldn’t give the homeless a second glance, but perhaps because he had been reminded of the remnants of his family, he felt generous towards the destitute.
He fisted out a few coppers from under his cloak and tossed them to a crooked old man sitting by a wall. The man sat up fast and snatched them out of the dirt, looking at Muldor with suspicion. Then he closed his eyes and sat back, not saying a word.
Muldor shook his head. “May the gods bless you too.”
He turned away, and someone struck him from behind. A hard, sudden blow landed square in the middle of the rear of his skull. Blackness filled his vision, and the next second he was down on his knees in the street. People were screaming.
Two sets of boots kicked him. He raised his hands to protect his head and face and felt sticky blood on the back of his skull. It matted his hair. Another kick sent him sprawling on his hand, and then a foot dislodged his palm from the ground, and he landed hard on his other elbow.
They kept at it while someone else yelled for help. In this part of town, police and dock security should have been close by already. But Muldor was oblivious to the other people, alternating between trying to protect his head and ribs with his elbows, but with two people kicking him, it was difficult to block at all.
All he saw were boots, leering faces, and dirt. Blood mixed in with the dust of the road, and his arms and face were covered with it. Some of it got in his right eye, but he had no time or ability to wipe it out. Everything happened so fast. There was no time to reaction, only pain and confusion. Chaos reigned.
More people had gathered. Some shouted encouragement to his attackers, others in dismay. Cries for police, security, anyone to come and help rang out while others laughed and even placed bets as to whether they would kill him before they finished. It felt to Muldor that wager was lost.
He tried to plant his feet, but his strength was flagging, and the sheer pain made him weaker. The kicking stopped for half a breath, and maybe the beaten man might’ve been able to roll away, but then someone kicked him hard in the face, and he collapsed hard.
A man leaned in close to his ear and whispered, his voice harsh and unrecognizable. His breath was rancid. “You listen to me, mister guild master. You got one week to come up with the money y
ou owe, or this is just the beginning. The whole city will burn after you die. You got it?”
The man kicked him again, harder than before. Muldor grunted in pain and sprawled. He gasped in agony and held his cracked ribs. His ears rang. People yammered about something. Someone tugged at his elbow to help him to his feet, but it was a struggle. It was too painful. Blood dribbled down his head.
Standing on shaky legs, two bystanders helped. His left arm was numb. Muldor looked around but couldn’t see well. He wiped some blood out of his eyes. A tooth was loose. Another had busted through his mouth and cut into his check.
“You okay, Master Muldor?” someone said to him, peering into his eyes.
This couldn’t happen here, not to him.
* * * * *
Jerrod had his boys together, and they were ready to move. The time was right for a little thump, thump, bone and crunch. It was time to get their knuckles bloody. He might have lousy street cred in the betting tents, but the toughs were his to push and shove into whomever he needed smashed to a pulp. The former enforcer also had a nice stash of gold left over from Castellan’s nonsense and could use it well against these bastards. It would go a long way to re-establishing his reputation as a ruthless killer. That was the way it had to be.
Marko, the lead tough, was his contact within their organization. A stocky, thick-headed man half a head shorter than Jerrod but almost as wide. His black leather vest, cut below the ball of his shoulders, and his arm muscles burst. He rubbed the back of his bull neck while Jerrod outlined his plan.
“Ya got it?”
Marko’s nod was vigorous. “Yes, sir! I have the uniforms right here. Eight of them.”
Jerrod grunted. “That’s all you could get, huh? Fuck it, should be enough. Hand them over. Wear one yourself and lead the first wave. We’ll hit them shits like they never been hit before.”
“Yes, sir!”
Jerrod sent him away. Marko’s enthusiasm was irritating at times but useful. He met with Delios at another location. Another member of his assassin cadre slinked up to him in the darkened alley. He gave a hand signal known only to certain members of their credo.
“How many we got?” Jerrod said.
Delios looked uncomfortable for a moment. The shifty man wore all black, his face hidden by his hood. He was rail thin but possessed of an inky smoothness in his movements. He licked his lips. “Two others.”
Jerrod frowned. Four assassins total including himself and Delios. With Marko and his men, it might work, but it would be a tight thing.
Wearing the disguise Marko procured allowed him entry to the betting tents. It pumped with sound, bodies, and hot air blasted out from the inside. Torches billowed smoke and cluttered air.
Jerrod wore a mutton chop beard and a bushy wig, brown and scrubby. He entered the tents while Delios and the two other assassins waited outside at the preordained location. They waited to clean up the fallout of whatever happened. All Jerrod and the toughs had to do was funnel some morons.
The cheating swine went about their business as normal, laughing and drinking, spilling ale and wine, and acting like drunken jackasses. They’d get theirs soon enough. At least the workers and their direct bosses would. All of them all looked so smug and confident in their positions.
It was delicious to think about what was going to happen. He would twist and turn and crunch some bones. Someone bumped into Jerrod’s elbow and interrupted his train of thought. They spilled liquid on his back.
“Hey fella! You big lug, watch it! What do you think you’re doing?”
Jerrod had the loud mouth fat man by the throat in an instant and squeezed hard enough to make his eyes bulge. “You were saying somethin’, bub?”
The man tried to speak and grabbed Jerrod’s arms, but he was a pathetic weakling like most men were. He shoved the puissant back into the crowd, who shouted obscenities at the disruption, but they could all burn.
At the bar, the man behind the counter looked at him askance for a moment, but Jerrod wasn’t having it. “Give me a damn drink.”
He sipped at it, not feeling like getting drunk, for it was necessary to be sharp, vicious, and quick. There would be plenty of time for more after they were done. Maybe a few days at the cabin would be nice, nuzzled up with a fire and some bottles of whiskey.
Jerrod sat back and enjoyed the smug looks on the faces of the workers and the game bosses. He let them revel the last few fleeting moments of freedom. They cheated players every night, but the stupid fools had not the guts to do something about it. Jerrod never minded before.
He shook his head with disgust when the realization of how far he had fallen struck. A few short months ago, they wouldn’t have dared to cheat him. Now they treated him the same as any other slugs wasting their money here, worse in fact. Working with Castellan brought him extra prestige and added to his aura of fear and respect. When the disgraced man went away in chains, Jerrod lost that edge.
This night he would make do with what he had to work with: muscle and guts. Let the pigs wallow around in despondency and complacency. The strong took what was theirs. Jerrod couldn’t wait to wipe the dumb looks off their faces and make them eat shit.
Several minutes later it began. Jerrod smirked as a ruckus started near the front door. Marko and his cronies busted through and shoved people around. They wore police uniforms. Several more toughs, dressed as city watch, came on their heels, and all of a sudden the room plunged into ordered chaos.
“Everyone move away from the tables!” Marko said and people listened to his booming voice. “Employees to the side! Move it!”
Marko spoke the words with command and authority that impressed even Jerrod. The brawny man had his uses after all. His resonant bass echoed through the space. The brawny toughs dressed as police, with several others garbed as city watch, simple brown chemises with dark leggings and red badges on their right arms; together they rounded up the employees. They were stunned and afraid.
Most were anyway. Others, the bouncers in particular, tried to settle things on their own terms by shoving back the ‘police’ where they could. Jerrod wouldn’t let that happen. He went straight into their midst’s, hearing part of their conversation before knocking one man forward.
“You got no right to do this! We’re paid up for the month, we’re clean, you can’t—”
The disguised Jerrod punched this man in the side of his head, and he dropped like a bag of potatoes, knocking into another one. A few of them turned to him, but the toughs already stepped forward and wove into their formation. Other patrons were getting in the way as well, and this only helped Jerrod and his crew.
The other security tried to push through the throng and attempted to come to bear with Jerrod. They thought he was nothing more than a drunken patron that needed thumping, but some of the toughs were already there and stopped them from getting to him.
“Hey! Who is this guy?”
“He ain’t no cop!”
The toughs pushed them back with full force, and the bouncers had lost some of their ire and were mollified. The man Jerrod punched was their leader. They lost their direction and fire, though several other employees ran for the exits. Jerrod smiled and bolted towards the door, throwing elbows and knocking people out of his way.
Jerrod’s long strides caught up to the floor manager like a shot. He grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and tossed him backwards like a dog. Marko and his men took it from there, rounding up all the others into the center of the room.
Jerrod left the chaotic scene and stepped outside. People shouted and cursed at his back. He laughed and caught sight of a man he recognized, one of the bosses of the dice tables. He scurried away like a frightened rat down an alleyway. Jerrod ran off after him.
Turning a corner Jerrod brought the man sprawling on his back, his eyes blinking. Chuckling, Jerrod turned the man over to his stomach and twisted rope around his wrists. He let one of Marko’s toughs take over as the young man came running up.
> “Cart him up,” Jerrod said and smiled. “There’s plenty more out there to get.”
The night was turning out fine. And it had only begun.
Chapter Eight
Sea Haven’s only house of ill repute bustled with activity, filled to capacity. Men and women with similar interests and agendas mingled together, talked together, prepared to do business with each other. The conversations on the surface were light and airy.
“How have you been?”
“Oh, fine. So nice to see you again.”
“Did you hear about the betting tents?”
“Oh, yes! So terrible! They shut it down for a night.”
Others were more business appropriate but still only surface topics as people felt each other out.
“How is your export business?”
“Very fine, very fine. Back into it.”
“They have the embargo lifted I see….”
“Some weather we’re having this time of year.”
“Yes, just dreadful! Can’t believe it. This heat is too much, too soon.”
“Me too. I much prefer the autumnal season you know. This is much too drafty, this nonsense.”
“Well I don’t mind it.”
“Each to his own I suppose….”
Madam Dreary circulated amongst the crowd, smiling, laughing when appropriate, touching each client as she passed. Even if it was a mere squeeze on the arm or gentle pat on the back, she knew it made the men feel wanted, desired, and it gave them the necessary vibe of intimacy. It, along with the alcohol, helped loosen their purse string, the foolish creatures.
“Ah, Count Strickland,” she said to a nobleman and squeezed his arm. “So nice to see you here. It’s been far too long, me love.”
The lord kissed her preferred hand and bowed. “I apologize for the lapse, beautiful one. Business affairs in Thessolai you see. Horrible business, they kept me away from the warm embrace of your house.”