Rogues Gallery

by Will Molinar

  Dark garbed and always with his maroon hood hovering over his eyes, he stood with practiced patience. The multitude of knives strapped to his tight waist spoke of his deadly intentions, and the compact nature of his wiry frame brokered no argument to his physical readiness.

  Something happened on the floor, which was out of his sight for the moment because the platform was raised. The crowd shook with excitement. He marveled at the feat of engineering involved in keeping such a rackety looking set of bleachers from falling apart.

  The arena’s proprietors, Derek and Desmond, assured him it was all very simple, but he knew it was more complicated than they claimed. There was magic involved, had to be, to keep the structure from collapsing. The crisscrossing network of simple boards nailed together could have never kept the weight and mass of it all without failure. He made a mental note to dive in deeper to investigate at a later date. Not yet, though. There was too much money and fun to be had.

  The arena security men, his men, filtered in and out of the crowd, keeping things under control. There was never total control that was an illusion because that was the nature of the world. Zandor liked to think of it as controlled chaos. And with his particular skills, he could harness and aim the powers that ebbed and flowed around him pretty much the way he wanted.

  His men were long time members of his cabal. Trusted, well trained men whom he treated well. None of Jerrod’s black shirted goons were operating in an official capacity any longer. Zandor had seen to that.

  The arena was his operation and his alone. The owners were… different. Zandor wanted to investigate them further, but there was no need at the moment. They let him do what he wanted and paid him well. Plus, with his control of the back end tribute, they continued to pay to Tanner McDowell, and Zandor got more gold on top of that.

  McDowell had retired up the coast to a secluded mansion several years before, but unbeknownst to Derek, Desmond, and the people that ran the betting tents, McDowell had died some years ago. When Zandor and Jerrod went up to broker a deal with him, they discovered this secret and strong armed the men who kept it going into dealing with them instead. They took the vast majority of the profits.

  A group of three toughs walked by him. They came in most nights and bet. He hadn’t taken away that privilege yet and saw no reason to. If they wanted to waste money like everyone else then so be it. They strolled by and went towards the latrines.

  They eyed him, and he eyed them back. They looked smug. Jerrod was pumping them up with foolish notions to cause trouble, no doubt.

  The owners didn’t even know what was going on, and Zandor preferred it that way. They kept out of his business, and if he wanted to switch up the security forces, it was possible to. The toughs had been great at it, though. Strong and capable of following orders, but a lot of men could do that. They were chattel. And replaceable.

  One of his men walked through the crowd, and Zandor whistled. “Hey! Donny! C’mere a sec, would ya?”

  Tall and lanky, young Donny glanced over at Zandor with bright, alert eyes. He weaved his way through the common spectators. Zandor cracked a smile because the boy was smart and more than a simple big body used to push people around. That was something Jerrod would never learn about people.

  “What can I do for you, Zee?”

  Zandor put his arm on his shoulder. “You doin’ okay, kid? How is everything?”

  Donny shrugged. “Good crowd tonight, everyone is behaving so far.”

  “Good, good. Listen, take a couple more guys and go to the latrine. I think we got some problem there.”

  Zandor stopped. He smelled smoke. Donny looked at him askance.

  “Everything okay, Zee? What’s wrong?”

  “Stupid, stupid bastards. Hey, get some more guys now. We got some fools to deal with right now. C’mon.”

  Donny looked confused, but Zandor didn’t give him enough time to think on it, grabbing his shoulder to rush off towards the latrines. A couple more of his men were close by, and he flicked a hand at them to say “come with us.” They followed.

  The latrines were located to the back and below the south side bleachers. The walls were the same boarded complex of wood and nails, crisscrossed and flimsy looking. There were two open doorways to the right and left, one for males, the other for females. Zandor and company went right to where men did their business.

  The entrance was crowded with men standing and talking though it didn’t appear to Zandor any of them were anxious about pissing. He shoved through them. One man was peeing right there, only five feet from the entranceway, and Zandor sucked in his teeth.

  One of his men shoved the slob away from the wall and ordered him to use the proper facilities, but Zandor didn’t bother waiting to see how that turned out. The smoke was growing stronger.

  The room consisted of shit holes to the right, perhaps a dozen of them; little more than simple hollow seats where a man could squat and defecate. The left side housed the piss trough, a long rectangular construction designed to collect and dispense hundreds of men’s worth of waste product. It all ran underground.

  Zandor weaved through the crowd. The source of the smoke was near. A drunken jackass smashed into Zandor as he moved around another lug, and the man had not yet pulled up his pants. He bellowed, and some stray piss struck Zandor on the hand. He cursed under his breath and dodged by him, forcing his hand away from one of his knives before he could pull one out and stab the fool in the throat. Too much else was going on.

  The three toughs stood at the far right side of the trough smoking cigarettes. His men rolled up behind him, but Zandor held up a hand.

  “Easy now, lads. Let’s try to talk this out first.”

  He stepped closer and made sure the toughs saw him, smiling. “Hey there, fellas. Listen, we got a strict policy on smoking around here; for obvious reasons. See, it’s real dangerous ‘cuz of all this wood and whatnot all over the place. The whole place is wood, right?”

  They kept smoking. One of them smirked and dropped his lighted cigarette on the ground where it continued to burn.

  “Yeah, well, that’s a good start,” Zandor said. “Go ahead and stomp that out, and we got something nice going on here.”

  The tough looked at him and then kicked the butt across the floor towards him. “You do it then if it’s so important to you.”

  His three men tensed, but Zandor kept smiling. He stepped on the burning brand and held his arms out.

  “It’s important to all of us,” he said. “This place goes up in smoke, we all got problems.”

  The other two looked at each other, scoffed, and kept smoking. They all stared at each other. The crowd nearby was getting annoyed at the extra space they were taking up in the room, but they would have to wait.

  The toughs looked at each other and then started moving off. They passed Zandor and his men, almost daring them to grab the cigs from their hands. Zandor didn’t. He let them go but followed close enough behind. It was easier to move through the crowd because the toughs were strong and practiced enough to create a large space around and behind them.

  Outside the latrine they started moving away, still trailing smoke from their cigarettes. Zandor slowed and watched them walk, suspecting something. It wouldn’t have been this easy.

  “Well, that takes care of them,” Donny said and shook his head. “You want us to follow them, Zee?”

  “Yes I do.”

  They started moving when the toughs stopped and huddled up to one another. A second later, they tossed a flaming bag. He guessed it was shit or something else disgusting and flammable, and the toughs ran off.

  Zandor scoffed. Predictable jackasses. Donny and the others rushed forward as spectators grumbled and stepped back from the burning bag. It wasn’t big but placed in the right location, it might do some damage. Donny and two others stomped it out but not without getting messy.

  Zandor shook his head. It was juvenile and pathetic of Jerrod, but it could’ve proved troublesome if left u
nchecked. If they wanted to play that way and get serious about things, Zandor would oblige them.

  Chapter Two

  “I think that edifice will do well,” Becket said and turned the page. “I like the colors.” He stood in his foyer with a few workers, going over several potential designs for the backdrop on his foyer’s walls. He was looking for something artistic but simple enough to go with his bucolic theme.

  “Yes. I want that background here below the right side staircase. Can you recreate it well enough?”

  The artist opened his arms. “Of course, Master Becket! We do splendid job, sir. Very splendid.” He was short and thin, with wisp thin hair that belied his vigorous body language. His name was Monthua and came recommended by some of Becket’s friends. The man was older, perhaps sixty, but didn’t act that way.

  Monthua clapped his hands, and his assistants snatched up the large codex of pictures and scurried away.

  “Will have done for you very soon! Ah-ha!”

  Becket smiled and waved. “Much appreciated. Let’s start this week, shall we? Perhaps tomorrow, I’m a bit busy now.”

  “Yes, yes! Very good, sir.” Monthua nodded and left.

  It was early morning, and with all the excitement of his redecoration, Becket was needed at the Western Docks, as always. There were so many things with The Guild that required his attention. It was intimidating.

  Outside, he breathed in a deep breath of the cooler, more autumnal air that was breaking in as the seasons turned. He felt invigorated. His neighborhood was part of the wealthy quarter where the city’s upper echelon lived, merchants and politicians alike. His abode was not in the most elaborate section of the gated community, but he still enjoyed a somewhat premier status.

  It was important to keep up appearances as they said. The fountain that adorned the cobblestoned walkway leading to his marbled steps needed a fresh coat of paint. The white was cracked in places.

  Walking through the gate and nodding to the security guards there garnered little attention. The men dressed a lot like the dock security with dark leather breeches and loose fitting shirts with simple short swords and gauntlets and skin guards for armor.

  “Mornin’ Master Becket,” one of them said, sounding bored. “There’s a missive for you.”

  “Oh?” Becket stopped by the little guard shack and took a rolled parchment. It was from Warden Harris, pleading for him to come to the asylum at once. Becket raised an eyebrow.

  “My thanks,” he said and kept walking. His path took him past Tranquility’s Palace, the city’s cathedral, and the Dock Master was always glad of it. It was a beautiful building, with tall spires, four cornered peaks, and stained glass windows that went higher than most structures in Sea Haven. He had been inside once or twice, but the sermons were not for him.

  He turned left towards the waterfront where his Western Dock offices were located, but something in the note from the warden made him slow. Something glimmered in the back of his mind, a warning that the message mattered.

  Or perhaps he didn’t feel like dealing with the workload that faced him at the docks. Whatever the reason, Becket turned the opposite direction and headed to where Sea Haven housed their insane. It was a non-descript building, almost like one of the warehouses on dockside, with simple gray siding and extra thick boards nailed over the windows, with only the barest crack available to look in or out.

  The front door was a thick, cast iron affair with bolted reinforcement that could keep out a battering ram. Or was it meant to keep people in? Becket was certain it was the latter. Standing in front of the door, the urge to leave struck hard, but curiosity got the better of him, and after several knocks and shouts, they let him in.

  As the white shirted attendant escorted him down a darkened corridor to Warden Harris’ office, Becket remembered his last visit. Years ago, he’d been a material witness to a crime and had been called in to identify a criminal. His testimony was sufficient to convict the man, as it always was in their city, and the man had been condemned to a life of cruelty.

  At least Becket figured that’s what happened. Spending less than ten minutes inside the asylum had been plenty. Now that he was back inside, it was like he’d never left.

  He was forced to hold his breath as he walked by the iron bonded doors. The smell was tremendous. He began to question his decision to come here. There had not been a magistrate in Sea Haven for decades. If you were accused of a crime, there wasn’t much to do about it. People paid off the person accusing them, or murdered them. But it didn’t take much evidence to put an individual into the asylum or string them up at the gallows.

  It might’ve seemed strange to an outsider for a city to run without an official judiciary system in place, but few who lived there thought much of it unless they were in Becket’s current situation. Most of the time he believed it kept people in line and since he had money it worked. ‘Well, I’m fine being paranoid,’ he thought. Better that than in jail or dead.

  The attendant brought him to Warden Harris’ small, cramped office, little more than a closet with a desk. It smelled too. He covered his nose and did his best to smile when Harris saw him enter. The warden got up quick and rushed over to shake his hand.

  “I’m very glad you came, Master Becket. We have a problem here. I don’t, uh, know quite what to make of it. It’s very strange.”

  “Yes, I’m certain of that. Listen, I’m very busy, and I don’t mean to be rude, but why am I here?”

  Harris nodded as if he expected that exact question. “Yes, of course. Why you are here. It’s better if I show you. This way.”

  The red headed man passed Becket, and soon they were in dark and dingy hallway with rusty walls. Becket heaved a mental sigh and kept his arms close to his side, lest his robes touch them. At last they reached the far end where a gigantic attendant stood watch over an iron barred door.

  The man was the largest human being Becket had ever seen. From far away he hadn’t noticed just how huge the man was, but once they neared, it was obvious this was a freak of nature. Seven feet tall if an inch, and wide enough to make standing there uncomfortable. The giant stood straighter with Warden Harris there, and his head almost touched the ceiling.

  “Rocko, open the door please,” Harris said, sounding agitated and nervous. They started walking in when Harris stopped and turned back. Becket tensed, waiting for a trap to be sprung.

  “Rocko, come with us.”

  Becket almost caved to the pressure in his screaming mind to run away, but Rocko’s bulk already blocked the doorway. There was nothing for it. He was trapped inside a metal room with a giant and a man who worked with the insane.

  ‘What a life I’ve built for myself,’ he thought. ‘My father would never approve. Good thing he’s dead.’

  A ragged, filthy creature slumped against the far wall. It wore the same scrubby rags every other inmate did, faded, threadbare gray with no shoes and a simple rope as a belt. Becket studied the still form for a moment and then shook his head. He stared at Warden Harris and couldn’t help the annoyance from showing in his voice.

  “Warden Harris. I trust you’ll get to the point of this visit. What does this person have to do with me?”

  Harris looked back and forth between Becket and the miserable retch chained to the wall with both leg and arm shackled. They were thick enough to hold a bull. There was no way to tell if it was male or female, but he suspected the former. It hung its head and sat against the back wall like an abandoned marionette doll.

  “This person came to us under mysterious circumstances,” Warden Harris said, and his voice sounded sad. “I don’t even know who brought him in. He was just here one day, swinging in a cage.”

  Becket eyed the warden. “Come again? You don’t know how he came to be here, that’s what you are trying to tell me? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Nevertheless, Master Becket, it is true. If I had some kind of official record, it would behoove me to keep track of it. As you well know,
our budget is allocated based on the number of inmates, but without a transcript I cannot count this inmate as one of ours. He began as an accounting error and has since become a violent among violents.”

  The creature shifted and groaned. Becket felt nervous. The inmate sounded like a wounded animal, but there was the glimmer of recognition in the noise as well. He stepped forward, but Harris put his arm out to stop him.

  “Wait. This man has killed three of my workers. He’s prone to violent outbursts, so I don’t recommend getting any closer.”

  Becket shook his head. “Fine. But who is he and what does it have to do with me?”

  Warden Harris motioned Rocko forward. The huge man grabbed the inmate by the chin, under the back of his arm, and stood him up. The madman groaned again and slumped forward, but Rocko was too strong. He pushed his face towards Becket, and the Dock Master saw something impossible to understand.

  “More to do with the Guild,” Harris said. “As you can see I hope.”

  Becket couldn’t speak. Despite the bruises, multiple lumps, and cuts marring the prisoner’s features, he was still handsome as the devil. This was a man who never had problems getting attention from the ladies. Those eyes, always so intense and piercing, were now dull and lifeless. Yet still they retained a spark of madness and a sense of power.

  “How-how is this possible? How did he get here?”

  Harris shuffled his feet. “As I said, I don’t know. I apologize, Master Becket. It’s possible to look into it if you want and track down some more information, but I thought someone from your organization should know about this.”

  “Indeed. No, you did fine. I’ll, uh, I’ll think about what to do. But try to find out how this happened, if you can.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Becket left and went to his office. By the time he got there, he had forgotten about the visit and thought nothing more of it for days.

  * * * * *

  Lord Benedict Cassius always found the Eastern Road relaxing yet frustrating. On one hand, the landscape was suitable to his bucolic upbringing. He’d been raised on a farm near the capital, and the luscious forest that met Sea Haven’s eastern edge fit in well with his sensibilities towards peace of mind.