A Tailor's Son (Valadfar)

by Damien Tiller

  “So you think William’s there?” Muriel said, as serious as a judge in response. Harold had no choice but to actually laugh aloud, something he had not done in weeks. It felt great and when Muriel realised her mistake and joined him with a giggle the world seemed to slow down and pause. Another spark for her fluttered through his heart and Harold saw her bite her lip gently. They sat in silence for a few moments, probably only seconds but with the tension between them it may as well have been hours.

  “ No, no I don’t” Harold said with a smile. “But I have an idea where I might find out.” Harold said, forced to re-focus. He wished things had been different and he had time to investigate the tension further, but he did not.

  “Oh?” Muriel’s brow wrinkled and sent a little line down her nose no bigger than the width of a penny’s edge. It was the first time Harold had seen it and he instantly adored it. He really had become smitten.

  Harold understood how silly it would have sounded if he had told anyone that he had fallen for her so quickly. Even crazier was the thought that she seemed to mirror his affections. It was the stress they both were going through, each second felt like days and they both knew that the end for them may be closer than ever. It made them shake off the normality of thought and let their hearts make the orders for their bodies to follow. It was instinctual, beyond the control of thought or logic. He knew he should not have spared a thought for loving her and should have been shocked and horrified by everything that had happened, but he wasn’t. It helped to think that the growing feelings for each other kept them from having nothing but horror in their lives. If he didn’t have Muriel to fight for then Harold could not see how he would have kept his sanity. No, it was love that kept him going. That love, that drive was what gave him the strength to say the words that came from his mouth next.

  “ I need to break into the guard station. They’ll have the case notes there.” Harold explained. Muriel’s face dropped. She blinked a couple of times and her mouth fell open, as a fish starved of water.

  “ Are you mad?” She asked, leaning forward in her chair. If they had had the money for strong drink, Harold was sure she would have downed the bottle at that point.

  “It’s the only way and I need your help.” Harold said, hating himself for having to ask, but he had no idea how he could manage it alone. The same guppy-like expression mixed with one of anxiety occupied Muriel’s face for a while before she relaxed into the strong woman Harold had come to know. The fire that drove her forward blazed and she spoke with a refreshed determination that still shocked him.

  “What do you need?” She asked coolly. She really did amaze him with just how quickly she adapted to any situation and Harold almost felt embarrassed at how weak he seemed in comparison.

  “I don’t know yet. We need to get inside the station somehow and read the reports.” Harold said, feeling a little foolish that he didn’t actually have a plan on how to achieve it.

  “ For Sacellum sake, Harry, this is madness!” Muriel exclaimed and she was right. Harold had never paid much attention to the guard station and had no idea of how to break in, or where to go once he succeeded.

  “ Madness or not, I have to do it. Will you help?” He said and to his relief Muriel nodded in reply. Together they spent the day sat at the table, making plans to get into the station.

  Chapter 17: Thieves and Brigands His savings wearing thin, and the trip into the market more risky than it was worth, had meant only two pots of tea and a whole day later they had come up with a plan. It was risky but they thought it would work, although it relied heavily on the incompetence of the city guard. During their discussions Harold remembered they had taken in an order by a junior constable a couple of days before everything had gone so very wrong. He had been around the same build as Harold, maybe a little fatter but with a few quick adjustments his uniform would fit him. Harold left Muriel’s almost straightaway to begin work on it. While Harold hid in the back of the tailor’s shop, busily amending the uniform, Muriel was, much to his disgust, out working the streets. It was risky and Harold hated the idea of it, but at least she was not in it for her normal few pence. She was after a guard officer, or his badge to be exact. They met back at hers around noon and she had been successful in getting the brass shoulder buckles from the officer’s uniform. Harold did his best not to think of how she did it. Harold changed quickly, pulling the whole uniform together. The long blue coat, crisp and firm around him, its brass buttons done up to the neck. The shoulder pieces slipped under the lapels on his shoulders. Harold reached for his top hat from his bag of belongings and was ready to go. The plan was simple, Harold would pretend to be a guard officer and Muriel would play herself. They would simply walk straight in the front doors and head towards the cells. Once out of sight of the officer on the front desk, they would then begin looking for the files.

  The walk to Donkey Road Courthouse did not take long. They made their way quickly from Muriel’s house on the Knoll, past the candle maker’s and pawnbrokers out onto Trade Road. It was still bitterly cold and Muriel shivered as they walked. How Harold wanted to put his arm around her to keep her warm but he fought his feelings. She tried to press into him a few times but Harold had to remain in character as they approached the station. They could not risk someone seeing through their disguise. His palms began to sweat with nerves. Muriel must have sensed it and turned to him taking his hand.

  “It’ll be all right.” She whispered shooting him one of her smiles. It warmed him slightly and gave him the determination Harold needed. He nodded back to her, pulled his shoulders back, muscles tight and standing tall and determined they made their way inside. The inside of the station was bare and the floor and walls shared the same grey coat of matching plaster as half the city seemed to. They walked quickly and all was going well. A few more steps and they would make it to the first door. Harold’s hand twitched, eager to grasp the door handle and step inside the corridor that led to the cells. With barely a step remaining, Harold pushed his hand out, shakily reaching for the small latch when from behind his desk to his left a fat balding old man who seemed to be bursting from his uniform called out.

  “ Hey.” Was all he said but Harold’s heart sank and his stomach leapt. Harold turned as calmly as he could and put a smile across his face. The fat officer sat down behind a rather shoddy looking desk. Its top was covered with papers, most of them having stains from teacups across their tops. A sickly plant with huge leaves sat next to the desk, adding only a little colour to the mass of grey. The room reminded Harold a little of the hospital ward in which he had woken up, but somehow this place was even more depressing, if that was possible.

  “ What?” Harold asked trying to sound calm and like he had every right to be there.

  “I haven’t seen you before, what you doing here?” The fat man said and got up from behind his desk and began to slide around it. Harold could see the wooden rattle tucked into his belt at his side ready to call for assistance. He had not bothered reaching for that though, and Harold noticed the truncheon in his hands. Harold had to think fast if he wanted to keep his teeth.

  “I’m just bringing this girl in.” Harold said trying hard to sound like a city guard. “I caught her trying to lift some meat from the butcher’s.” The lie sounded convincing, but Harold did not risk a mental pat on the back just yet.

  “You don’t work here, what’s your game?” The old officer said, sideling up towards him. Harold saw him flexing his knuckles as he got a good grip on the truncation.

  “What? You mean this serf doesn’t even work here?” Muriel suddenly interrupted, a look full of anger flashing across her eyes. She tried to break free of his grasp with such force Harold actually had to pull back hard, the sudden jolt marking her wrists. She let out a whimper and Harold was amazed at how well she acted.

  “You better start talking lad.” The fat man said stalking towards him. Harold knew that if the walrus-looking man brought that truncheon down on him, it would hit hi
m hard and Harold would probably wake up in one of the cells, missing a few teeth and with a headache worse than any hangover he had ever experienced.

  “ All right, I don’t work here but my brother does.” Harold said his brain cheering at its own ingenuity. It worked. Harold confused the real officer, which bought him time to think and luckily time to remember the name of the young officer whose suit Harold was wearing. “Frederick Swenson. You must know him.” Harold waited, trying his best to look expectant.

  “ Yeah, I know him” The officer replied. “It doesn’t tell me why you’re here though, does it?” He lowered the truncheon and it looked like his plan was working. Harold grinned and stepped towards him, his confidence growing.

  “If you know him, it should do.” Harold said, with a small chuckle. “He was out last night and is a little unwell today. In fact, he is pig sick. You could smell him halfway down the hall this morning. He didn’t want the sergeant giving him another ear-full so asked him if I would come in for him. You know, so his beat would still get walked and that, and I thought, what the hell, always good to have your brother owing you a favour right?” Harold said, releasing his inner thespian.

  “Yeah, I saw Fred leave here last night talking about going somewhere. You know, the sergeant is going to kill him if he finds out. He’s already on his last warning after getting caught in the alley behind the bell with one of O’Brien’s tarts.” The old man’s face melted and he actually looked somewhat jolly. Harold could imagine he would have many stories to tell if Harold had the time to listen.

  “He won’t unless you tell him, right?” Harold said, still in awe that this was working.

  “You tell your brother he owes me a brew – actually make that two.” The fat man said with a laugh. “If you’re anything like your brother I bet your collar here isn’t coming in for stealing a bit of meat. Go on, what did she give you? Bite you when you said you weren’t paying?”

  “Yeah, something like that, but don’t tell him. It will please him no end. Come on you.” Harold said, tugging on Muriel’s wrist and leading her away.

  Harold did not relax until the door closed behind them and they had walked halfway down the corridor. Harold was glad to let go of Muriel’s wrist, still feeling bad that he’d had to man-handle her.

  “You were great.” She whispered, giving him a quick kiss him on the cheek in her excitement and Harold felt instantly proud.

  “Thanks for buying me time back there. I couldn’t have done it without you.” Harold replied, holding his cheek.

  “Come on, the files room should be just up here. If we get out of here alive and without cuffs I’ll give you another kiss.” She said with a giggle and Harold could tell his face must have turned a strong shade of red.

  The filing room was just as Harold expected it to be, dark and filled with cobwebs and dust. A corridor between the bookshelves ran from the main door down to the far wall. Scattered about on the floor were wooden crates containing what he guessed to be the older files. There were no candles in the room and the darkness felt chokingly close and coated everything in a palette of greyscale. While Muriel held the solid door open, just enough to let in what little light there was in the main corridor; Harold pressed forward, his eyes trying their best to scan the small-carved letters under each shelf. His heart leapt, beating against his ribcage as from down the hall, Harold heard a man’s voice shout out. Harold froze watching as the dust fell from the shelves. Breathing deeply, he realised the shout had come from one of the convicts in a cell and not from the guards.

  “Any luck?” Muriel whispered from the open doorway and Harold shook his head, a pointless motion in the dark.

  “No.” He whispered back. Harold could barely see more than an inch or so in front of his nose and paranoia began to play with him. Harold could not help but feel that some unknown shadow, something lurking in the dark, was watching him. It was a stupid idea but one that all humans shared. A sudden squeak as his foot hit something small and fluffy followed by the sound of tiny feet running for cover exposed his stalker. A rat scrambled under one of the nearby bookcases. Harold had no idea why he followed the rat’s path, maybe out of frustration for the shock it gave him. Harold wanted to kick the little blighter, so he followed it. Harold stopped once he reached the bookshelf where the rat had made its escape. Harold could see two shiny orbs glowing back out from under it, watching him. His eyes squinted upon the plaque at eye level. It was either the letter ‘r’ to ‘u’ or ‘s’ to ‘v’, Harold really could not tell in the darkness but either way this was the rack Harold needed. Harold couldn’t help but feel like somehow the rat had meant for him to find this shelf.

  Harold used his finger to run across the bound files feeling for dust, until he came to one that felt crisp and new. Harold pulled it free, being careful not to knock any of the other files to the floor. They were not far from the main reception, and any noise could bring that aged, but well built, officer running from behind his desk to investigate. Harold carefully made his way back towards Muriel, doing his best to avoid the litter of crates on the floor and leaving the rat to its solitude.

  “You got it?” Muriel asked, obviously eager to get out of the place.

  “I think so.” Harold said glancing down at the file in his hands. In the slit of light from the door Harold could make out the word ‘Spinks’. This was indeed his file. “Yeah this is it.” He added. With the file now in his hands it then occurred to him that in their rush to get in and acquire the file, neither Muriel nor Harold had actually thought about how they would get out of the station unchallenged.

  Chapter 18: Some Strength Never Dies While Muriel and Harold were trying to think of a way to escape Donkey Road guard station the O'Brien boys had begun closing the noose around the neck of everything he held dear, or so they thought. The two thugs stood on his family’s doorstep. They had already knocked and no one had answered. His mother was upstairs writing in her journal and peaking through the upstairs window; careful not to let the light from her candle escape the gap between the curtains as she peered out. She did not dare open the door with his father in such a weakened state. It is quite funny that even with the sheltered life his mother led; the harshness of the streets of the common district had seeped its way into her heart and worried her terribly. She was right not to open the door though, and if only his father had fitted a new lock as he had planned, things may have been so different. A second knock yielded no answer so Ernest pulled a river trader knife, the ones with the curly maple handles and thick blade almost like a butcher’s cleaver, from his pocket and rammed it in to the split between the door and frame. He knew just how to pop it open from his years of brutal debt collection and enforcement for his deceased father. The old lock gave way within seconds under the thugs’ strength and the door fell open.

  Harold’s father was asleep in his chair, slippers on and smoking jacket wrapped around him tightly. He was unaware as the two thugs stampeded into their home. Ernest made straight for the stairs while barking an order for Neill to check downstairs. Ernest checked the upper rooms finding Harold’s mother and grabbing her quickly he bound her hands, gagged her, and tied her to the bed. She couldn’t put up much of a fight, she was well into her fifties and not able to even dent Ernest’s assault. She screamed out for help through the poorly tied gag but with the degradation of the city, a women screaming for help during the cold of night had become all too common and anyone who heard it allowed her screams to fall on deaf ears.

  Ernest went back downstairs to join Neill, leaving Harold’s mother tied to the bed panic ridden, listening to what evolved on the ground floor below. His father awoke to see Neill standing in the lounge, knife in his hand. The house was old and echoed like the acoustics from one of the theatres as the aged and dampened beams readied for what was about to happen.

  “Where is he?” Neill demanded, not taking his eyes of the old man in front of him. There had been a little bit of doubt in his heart if they had the right hous
e when they first arrived but the old man looked so much like Harold, it had to be his father. Harold’s father ignored the question as he had a fair few of his own that he wanted answered first.

  “Who are you, what are you doing in my home? ” He challenged, trying to push himself up out of his chair. Adrenaline surged through his body making his vision blur and his heart race.

  “ Look, old man, just tells us where Harold is.” Ernest said from the doorway. Harold’s father was a strong and stubborn man and the mention of his son’s name seemed to infuriate him even further. He reached for the iron fire poker, which he kept close to his chair during the colder parts of the year. Grasping it like a Polearm his father swung it with the strength Harold always imagined he wielded during the battle for Neeskmouth some twenty eight years before. It struck Neill, who had been standing just in front of what used to be Harold’s chair. For a big set man Neill’s sharp scream sounded more like that of a wounded child at the first successful blow. The iron poker cut through flesh sending a spray of blood across the fabric of Harold’s chair and splattering up the wall. It followed the sound of metal clattering against the ground as the knife fell away from Neill’s fractured wrist to the floor. As resilient a thug as Neill was, this bone breaking blow made him recoil in agony and Harold’s father swung again not missing his chance to get the upper hand in battle. It had been years since he disregarded his title as one of the Pole, but he had not forgotten the art of battle. Rage filled his body as Harold’s father pushed the brutes back out into the corridor.

  “ Ernest.” Neill called out, ducking under another swing of the poker. Harold’s father swung repeatedly even through flu-ridden limbs. The table was sent flying with a kick from his aged foot and smashed against Neill’s leg, closely followed by his father’s stripy escaped slipper.

  “What the hell? ” Ernest exclaimed, finding himself forced back up two or three stairs before he fell onto his back as the deranged old man with the iron weapon swung it madly in his direction. It sliced at his cheek, digging in deep and sending a spray of Drow blood against the wooden railing that crawled up the stairway. The power of his swing sent his father stumbling forward, and with a push from Ernest as he stepped aside, Harold’s father ended up face first on the stairs above the injured Drow. Ernest took his chance and scrambled on all fours like a dog towards the open front door and fled into the street leaving a trail of dripping blood from the wound on his cheek all the way.