Death's Reckoning

by Will Molinar

  Muldor ignored him. “By all accounts, The Guild is in need of restructuring, from top to bottom.” He glanced at Carl Tomlinson, and the grey bearded man nodded. “For those not already aware, Mr. Tomlinson has been kind enough to allow us his vast expertise and experience as new Guild liaison with the marketplace. I feel this is a long overdue promotion to a valued member of our organization. Welcome him to our ranks.”

  The others gave him a variety of responses, ranging from genuine congratulations to cold stares.

  “Now, Master Tomlinson, please tell us the state of the market in relation to the current shipping surplus and how it relates to Guild activities at the docks.”

  Tomlinson shrugged and looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, not really sure how this all works. I thought liaison meant I coordinate things with the shipping from the dock to the market.”

  Mal Dollenger raised a hand. “What he meant is simple: how is business?”

  Tomlinson gave a nervous chuckle. “Ah. Well then, business is good. Quite good in fact because of a bit of holdover from the rationing of last month. People are stocking up in anticipation of another shortage.”

  A muttering of good news received circulated around the table. Muldor felt glad; people always needed what they needed.

  “What about the back door business?” Muldor said to Maggur. “How is trade there?”

  “Fine, better than last month, as he said. A fifteen percent increase and we’ve got a full five year contract with exclusive rights from Tarsus.”

  A few grunts of satisfaction rippled through the men.

  “What are the odds of circumvention?” Dollenger said.

  “Very little. Maybe a little at point of sale, but we still control these docks. On the back end I’d say nil. Tarsus is trustworthy. I’ll hold him to it.”

  They had thought the same about Castellan once, when he came up through the ranks of independent seller, to merchant, to Guild member, to Guild Master. Everyone trusted him because he never broke a promise. His word had been ironclad.

  “It would do well for our reputation if they are,” Muldor said. “We must do what we can to instill trust in foreign markets, also with other merchant organizations.”

  “There’s little to fear with that, Muldor,” Samuel Becket said. “We haven’t had a cancelled order in five years. You know that.”

  The others agreed, but Muldor knew better. They should have too.

  “That is the case for two very important reasons,” Muldor said. “First, our geographic location. The mountains to the north and south along make travel to the wealthy cities to the east nigh impossible. If cities across the sea or along the coast wish to trade with these cities, they must make port at Sea Haven’s shores, where The Guild controls and charges for use of our piers.”

  “Muldor,” Maggur said and leaned forward, “are you planning on telling us anything we don’t already know?”

  “Second,” Muldor said, “Castellan made certain every ship dropping anchor here was protected from the molestation of piracy. Thus, our recent increase in trade over the past few years has been due in large part to a substantial payoff that has now come to an end.”

  The table went silent as the news sank in. Even Maggur looked uneasy. The Dock Masters were lost in their own thoughts for a time. Muldor said nothing, letting them think.

  “The Pirate Lurenz,” Gunnar Lawson said and looked as if he were about to spit despite the reverence in his voice.

  “Yes,” Muldor said. “Lurenz and his criminal organization brokered a deal some time ago with our illustrious former leader. Now that Castellan is in prison in Janisberg, it seems the deal is null and void.”

  “Dear me,” Dollenger said and rubbed his chin. He sat back and looked contemplative.

  “Well, we can contact them,” Becket said. “It’ll be simple. The pirate dealt with Castellan, he can deal with us. What’s the problem?”

  Maggur laughed. “You think it so easy. Try getting within canon range of The Dark Destiny or any of his ships or even finding him. There are hundreds of possible islands he might be hiding on.” He looked at Muldor. “Do we know the payment amount or schedule?”

  “Unknown. My informants, those I have placed as sailors among various crews, have no details to share at this time.”

  The table went silent again, each man lost in thought. Except Crocker. The older man appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were tight and his features slack. Muldor didn’t allow a frown. The curmudgeon was always like that in meetings, listening, thinking, pretending to not be interested, he was the one out of all of them that would make the biggest plans.

  Dollenger leaned forward and stapled his thin fingers under his pointy chin. He looked like a vulture or some other carrion bird. “Have we attempted to make contact with Lurenz at all?”

  Muldor fixed him with an icy stare. “At this moment I have an agent in place, and we can only hope he is successful in funneling our desires to the appropriate persons involved.”

  “’Hope’, you say?” said Maggur. “I’d rather not pin the future of our trade on something so unreliable as hope.”

  “As you know,” Muldor said, “infiltration within his organization is not without its pitfalls and difficulty. Even rebellious buccaneers have a sense of security and a strong familiarity within their respective crews. It will take some time for him to gain their trust.”

  They began to ask Muldor various details about the agent, his qualifications, how Muldor contacted him, on and on, and Muldor deflected these inquiries due to security issues. He couldn’t protect his man if people knew his name, so Muldor refused to give them his identity. Some of them understood his reasoning, others remained annoyed.

  “How much time do we have, Muldor?” Becket said. “Before they start attacking the shipments again like they used to, is there a way to tell?”

  “None. The details of Castellan’s agreement with them are unknown at this time. But we must assume the time to pay has not yet come to pass, for our shipping has not been molested by Lurenz’ fleet.”

  “’Assume’?” Maggur said and sneered. “You assume too much, Master Muldor. You play with our livelihood and the business of thousands.”

  Muldor chose to ignore the outburst yet again and plunged ahead with the most important topic of the day. “Another matter concerns us at present and also concerns a sizable pay out. One that must be dealt with soon, or we risk all-out war once again.”

  “The Janisberg pricks,” said Gunnar Lawson. “Those fellas. That garrison they left here. All most of them do is pussyfoot about the docks, getting in the way, messing around. They’ve made it down to the Southern Docks as well. I’m sick of ‘em. Something should be done.”

  “Agreed. The delegates from Janisberg hold us responsible for Castellan’s thievery. Now,” Muldor said when they all began to look more uncomfortable, “I am not here today to place blame as every single one of us share a responsibility or even culpability in what Castellan did. But we must face this situation, for our vocation and our livelihood is at stake.”

  “What is the amount they claim we owe?” Dollenger said. “Do we have the funds to pay it?”

  Muldor took a deep breath. “We could. But the amount in my opinion is tantamount to extortion. It could cripple us, and day-to-day petty cash operations would suffer. The Guild’s operating expenses would run at a deficit for some months and require foreign loans from investors to stay working at peak efficiency until the capital is regained.”

  Everyone at the table, even Crocker, started speaking at once. The conversation was not pleasant. The idea of taking out a loan from a foreign investor, paying interest and fees; it was absurd and abhorrent.

  Muldor raised his voice above the swell. “There are other options.”

  “Such as?” Dollenger said.

  “We negotiate.”

  Maggur snickered. “Naiveté is not a strong personality trait and one I didn’t think you had, Muldor. You should know better
after all your years working with these kinds of people. This Grayme Lautner doesn’t wish to negotiate. He wants to dominate, destroy the Guild, take over our trade, and reap the rewards. I have dealt with him before.”

  “What of the King’s regent?” Becket said. “We should be able to turn to him for leverage. No doubt he would be on our side in this discussion once he arrives and we tell him the situation.”

  “The new Lord Governor is a week overdo,” Muldor said, and the tension in the room rose. “There’s been no further news of his arrival. According to some of my people, there is no order from the King, and his advisors have cautioned him in sending a regent.”

  “They won’t send one, the cowards,” Lawson said and smirked. “Who would? This is a dangerous place for politicians.” A slight ripple of levity rang through the group, releasing some tension.

  “In the meantime,” Muldor said without breaking stride, “there is a proposed prisoner exchange that may sweeten the deal with the Janisberg delegates.”

  “A compromise,” Dollenger said.

  “A cop out,” said Maggur.

  “A smart move on our part,” Muldor said. “The only choice we have.”

  Everyone sat back, deep in their own thoughts. Maggur snickered and shook his head, scribbling at his notes. Lawson and Becket exchanged a few whispered words while Crocker continued his nap.

  Dollenger rubbed his chin. “This realm of politicians,” he said. “None of the Guild’s business.”

  “You forget, Master Dollenger,” Muldor said, “that as Guild Master, I am afforded a place on this city’s council. Instead of assuming this post is nothing but an extra set of responsibilities, we will embrace it and use the subsequent leverage in our favor. It is what we must do.”

  Dollenger nodded. “You are right, Muldor. Perhaps this is a boon for the Guild. We can use this position on the council. Keep us updated.”

  Muldor agreed to do so. They set up a rotating schedule to where each of the Dock Masters would join him in turn for each meeting with the city council. He wanted them involved. It would keep them on his side.

  “Do whatever you can, Muldor,” Becket said. “We’ll do whatever we can for the good of the Guild.”

  Muldor thanked them all, and they spoke of other things; yet underneath a tension remained, set to release.

  Chapter Nine

  The chain pulled tight, and the man screamed. No one save the multitude of miserable wretches in the room could hear his cries. Screams in Murder Haven at this hour were commonplace and not worth investigating, even for those with an interest to do so.

  Jerrod pulled the heavy chain harder, and the rusted contraption groaned as the man screamed himself raw and spent. The brutal man yanked again, and the man’s body spread to its limit by both arms and legs. He hung from the ceiling and stretched so far his joints popped. His left shoulder went right out of its socket in one hard snap. With one last scream, he slumped in exhaustion.

  The other prisoners lined one by one on their knees. They were also in chains but smaller versions of the one he used on his latest victim.

  Some of them with some fight left in them gasped in dismay.

  “You’re mad, Jerrod,” one of the floor managers said. “You can’t get away with this. You’ll pay for this with your own life.”

  Jerrod flicked his chin to the particular tough standing behind the man, and the young brute clubbed the ingrate on the back of his head, rendering him unconscious.

  “I’m sorry,” Jerrod said. “Didn’t hear what you said, fella. Yeah, thought so. Anyone else got something to say?”

  There were nineteen former betting tent employees in the room, and not a single one of them had a word to say. All of them were beaten and bruised, and most were cowed. Jerrod saw the flicker of defiance in some of the men’s eyes, only a couple, but it was enough to piss him off.

  That could be fixed right quick. He slugged the man hanging on the chain and broke his jaw. The bone cracked, and an audible pop was heard. The tortured man sagged unresponsive.

  Jerrod spit in his face. “Wish I could get all you cunts here. We’d have a proper celebration.”

  The shackled men were all were cowed and stunned by the blatant display of cruelty. No matter how brave a man, there’s only so much a human body could take.

  “Now,” he said and leaned back and crossed his arms. The room was dark and stuffy, covered with sconces on the walls and billowing smoke. “Besides this bag of shit hanging here pissing himself, which one of you bitches has the highest rank? Huh? Who’s in charge?”

  No one said a word. Jerrod grunted and nodded to Marko. The man snatched up the next employee in line, undoing the chain that connected him to his co-worker. The victim struggled and cried out, kicking the next man in line in the back on accident. But Marko was far too strong and experienced to let him go. The man was also too weak and beaten down to win freedom.

  The prisoner continued to kick at the man in front of him, and Jerrod realized then it was no accident.

  “Jones!” the struggling man said. “Damn it, man! Tell them who you are, you fucking coward! You have seniority.”

  Jerrod punched him in the gut, and he doubled over. Save for heavy coughing and choking sounds, he went silent. Jerrod glanced down at the one he had called Jones and tapped his foot.

  “Get him on his feet,” he said to Marko. “Get him ready.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Jones didn’t protest, perhaps the futility of his situation was too apparent. Marko dragged him to another set of irons hanging from the wall and strapped him in, tossing his wrist shackles over a large hook. The man sagged down into the weight of his own body. Wincing, he looked Jerrod in the eyes.

  “What is it you want? We can work something-”

  Jerrod kicked him in the groin. Then he grabbed his hair and yanked the head back hard. Jones grunted in pain and breathed through his teeth.

  “I’m asking the fucking questions here, you little shit. You speak when I tell you to. You got that?”

  “Yes… yes. Please, sir. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

  Jerrod scoffed. Marko squatted down and strapped the prisoner’s feet to a metal hook on the floor. He then backed away and started cranking up the wench on the far side of the wall. The man screamed and begged for them to stop.

  “Please! Tell me what you want. I’ll tell… I’ll tell anything. Whatever you want… please stop.”

  Jerrod stepped to the side and slammed his fist between the man’s kidneys. Not as hard as possible, but hard enough to cause mind numbing pain. The man would piss blood for a week or two. Jones gasped, and his breath sputtered out of his lips like steam trickling from a tea kettle.

  “P-p-p… p-please! St-st-stop this. I… I will tell you anything!”

  Jerrod yanked his head back again and slammed his knee into his thigh. The hardy man would be crippled for a week. “You tell me, you tell me right now who told you fucks to start cheating me at the tables. Tell me or I’ll gut every single one of you right here and now. I’ll cut you so deep your spines will cover this floor. You got me, fella?”

  An elbow into the man’s nose splattered it against the side of his face. Everyone in the room heard it crack.

  “I… I don’t know. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said a few moments later. His words were slurred and thick. Jerrod might have laughed had it not been so frustrating. He reared back his meaty fist to strike again but held off.

  There was the hint of truth in the voice. This particular man didn’t run the dice tables. Jerrod hadn’t been able to track that swine down yet. But then again, it hadn’t been only the dice tables where they’d cheated him. And this man, a manager, had to know something about it.

  Better to be sure.

  They continued the torture. They had to kill a few men outright when their beatings got them nowhere. Then at last, after seven or eight meat sacks had been bled and left to collapse in their chains, one man sc
reamed and hollered.

  “I’ll tell, I swear I’ll tell you,” he said. He was a smarming looking young man with a scraggy beard and bad breath. “But not here. Somewhere in private.”

  Jerrod jabbed him in the chest. “Out with it, you. No more holding back.”

  The man winced and tried to cover his face, but his shackles clinked together held him tight.

  “No, not here. I’m telling you, it’s for your ears only. Kill everyone else. I don’t care. They can burn, but they can’t hear this. I know who you’re really after.”

  Jerrod eyed him and weighed the possibility of mischief. There was little chance for that. There was no way to escape.

  “Take him to the next room,” he said to Marko.

  “Yes sir!” Marko unchained him from the wall. Keeping a firm grip on the chain, he tugged him along to another room. Jerrod told another man to watch the other slugs. He followed Marko to another room and told the tough to beat it.

  All the while he glared at the prisoner. “Okay, out with it.”

  “It’s… it’s something I saw. I overheard it.”

  Jerrod frowned. “Which is it? Did you see it or overhear it? You better start talking or I’m dragging you back to that other room by your balls.”

  “No! Wait, listen. That city council man, what’s his name? Cassius or something. I saw him come and talk to my boss. He runs the tents.”

  “What are you talking about? You better make some sense, or you’ll be choking on your own teeth.”

  “Wait! I heard them say you were a marked man, finished. Everyone that had been associated with Castellan was gonna taken care of one way or another if you know what I mean.”

  Jerrod’s eyes widened a bit. His bull-headed mental faculties, adept as they were for his grunt work, were thwarted as he considered the wide ranging ramifications of what this man claimed. But it rang true.

  “Son of a bitch.” Jerrod shook his head and paced the room while Jones watched and sweated.

  “I’m not lying,” he said. “I heard them talking. Laughing in the back room about how they were gonna get rid of you and everyone Castellan worked with, how they were gonna get the city back under control.”