by VM Sapone
Ezren stood at the door of the townhouse in the quiet dawn hour. The place looked like all the other townhomes along the street. Somewhere behind him, where the street intersected with the alleyways, Torvik and his Guard waited. There were two dozen men in grey uniforms with swords and flintlocks, keeping out of sight until the right moment. Ezren didn’t know when the right moment would come.
Van pulled the rope and a bell rang inside the house. He adjusted his waistcoat, checking his buttons, tugging the sleeves down to his wrists.
“Quit fidgeting,” Ezren scolded.
Van looked up with his brow drawn down. “You’ve been chewing your thumbnail since we left. Do you have anything left?”
The plan was simple. Wait. No, it wasn’t.
The plan was dangerous and ridiculous. Ezren and Van read and discussed the papers Torvik collected. They knew who should be in the house, who was not in the house, and how this drop-off was supposed to happen. Fallard and his men took the carriage around the back, through the alleyway. Ezren and Van would go inside and convince the house-boss they were new runners. Then they’d get through the cellar to open the back doors.
Fallard and his men had a carriage full of boxes, weighted with pebbles, where the opium would have been. They’d take the boxes from the cellar and replace them with new, empty boxes. One crate had a sample of opium inside, to trick the house-boss in case he decided to check. The quarter barrels of black powder were replaced with black sand—heavier, but far less lethal. If they checked the tightly sealed barrels there would be trouble, since sand didn’t smell anything like black powder.
Getting the girls out would be the hard part. There was no telling where they’d be or whether they’d follow instructions. Could be they were so used to their new life that they’d side with their captors.
Ezren carried his simple rapier. The scabbard dangled from his belt with the hilt of silver and steel, a simple swept cross-piece, sticking out by his side. Beneath his coat, Ezren had tucked a small, black, wooden club that Torvik handed to him. Crack a man’s skull open, Torvik explained.
Van’s own two-handed bastard, a sword from the days of hacking and swinging, kept him company.
“Hope I don’t have to draw this thing,” Ezren whispered. “Never killed anyone, before.”
“Neither have I,” said Van. “Doubt there’s enough room in the corridor to get this thing out of the sheath.” He patted the long handle of his sword.
Footsteps sounded in the hall beyond the door. A small peephole slid open and an eyeball came into view. It darted back and forth between the scholars.
“Drop-off,” Ezren said. That’s how it was described in the papers. He hoped using the right words would add to their credibility.
The peephole slid closed and the door creaked inward. A foreign man who looked Skazian waved them in. Ezren thought he looked like one of the desert-dwellers near the coast of the Choked Sea. That made sense, since Torvik said the Opium came from that region. “Come in,” the man said in heavily accented Mirnese. He was dressed well, though his clothes didn’t fit well.
“Gelwan,” said the man.
Ezren and Van shared a look.
“Gelwan,” the man said, again. He looked like he was asking them something. He patted his chest.
“Gelwan,” Ezren said.
Van leaned in and whispered. “I think that’s his name.”
Ezren shrugged. “Whatever.”
Ezren walked in and Van followed closely behind him. Their boots thumped on the wood floor in the entry. The house was quiet downstairs. This was going to be impossible. The townhome had three stories, including the ground floor, plus a cellar.
“Inspection,” Ezren said, trying his best to look confident.
Reading the papers and ledgers they found in the carriage, it appeared that this drop-off was also an inspection run. Apparently the people in charge wanted to make sure the house was being run properly. Neither Ezren nor Van wanted to pretend to carry out an inspection, but Torvik said it’d be a good excuse to find the girls and get them out.
The man paused, staring. “Gelwan,” he said.
Van nodded and looked up the stairs. “Okay, Gelwan.”
“You go?” the man asked, pointing at the staircase.
“I go,” Van said. “I mean, I’m going.” He cautiously put a foot on the lowest step, looking back down at Ezren and then up the stairs. He began to climb.
Ezren held out a hand. “After you,” he said.
The man stared, again, for a moment before walking down the hall to a door on the right. He stopped and clicked the latch, pushing the door inward and backed up to give Ezren room. The hallway smelled stronger down there, like flowery perfume used to cover up dirty laundry. An open door at the end of the hall gave view to a wide room with curtains hanging from the ceiling. Two other doors on the opposite side of the hallway were shut.
Ezren walked through the door that the man had opened. The space was narrow and a stair descended to the cellar, below. Somewhere down at the bottom, candlelight glowed. Walking down the stairs, Ezren could smell the dank opium mixed with the sulfurous odor of black powder. He checked behind and saw that the man remained in the hallway.
At the bottom, Ezren turned right. A desk in the far corner held an open ledger, papers, a candelabra, and a flintlock pistol. On the wall, hanging from brackets, were three muskets. The room was sparse, with wooden crates stacked from the packed dirt floor, three high, beside the stairs. Eight quarter-barrels of powder were lined up on a shelf at eye level, near the desk on the back wall. Ezren looked around, pretending he was inspecting the place. He turned and walked back toward the stair, passing through to the back of the cellar.
It was darker in the rear. Ezren thought he heard something move. A rattle of metal, like chains. “Hello,” he said. Nothing. “Hello,” he said, again.
Something moved and yawned.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, behind him. Gelwan was descending. Maybe someone else. Luckily, it sounded like just one pair of feet. Ezren walked on to the back wall. He could hardly see anything in the light of the distant candles. He found the latch and the cross-bar set in brackets on the cellar doors. Ezren put his shoulder underneath the beam and lifted. The wood came free and he let it drop to the ground with a loud clatter.
Gelwan reached the bottom. He walked up behind Ezren and said something in Skazian. “What’s that?” Ezren asked. He reached around and stuck a hand under his waistcoat, gripping the handle of the club Torvik gave him.
The man shrugged and moved into the dark corner. Ezren heard a slap and a girl cry out. There was a rustle as the girl struggled against Gelwan. Ezren pushed the cellar door open to let the light in from the alleyway. The sun was up, now, but low in the sky. The black carriage sat in the alley. Fallard stood at the door and nodded once. Ezren held up a hand for him to wait and moved toward the corner on his left.
Gelwan leaned over a bed, pinning a girl down with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. He shouted something in Skazian again. Ezren crept up behind him, lifting the club to shoulder height. When he stood behind the man, the girl’s blue eyes opened wide. Gelwan turned to look.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to play out. Ezren knew the plan was to pretend they were supposed to be there—pretend they were the right guys. They were supposed to act normally and carry out the loading and unloading, doing nothing that would tip off anyone that they were imposters. But something about this Gelwan roughing up the girl on the cot didn’t sit right with Ezren.
Ezren moved closer and brought the club around against the man’s temple. Crack. He went down like a sack of pebbles.
Ezren turned toward the cellar door. “Come in!” he shouted. Fallard wasted no time. He stepped through with his two men, Del and Hyburn. They crossed the cellar, sparing a glance toward Ezren and the man on the floor.
Ezren put the club back in his breeches and held out a ha
nd to the girl. She couldn’t get up—there was a chain around her ankle. She sat on the cot wearing a simple, sheer smock.
“What’s your name?” Ezren asked.
“Willa,” she breathed. “Who are you?”
“Ezren. We’re getting you out of here. Just stay quiet.” He went through Gelwan’s vest pockets and found a small, iron key.
The girl began to sob. “Oh, gods,” she said, between snuffles.
“Come on,” Ezren said. He took her hand and pulled her from the cot. “Are there other girls?”
She nodded. “Upstairs. Her name is Vee. She’s in a room on the second floor, I think.”
“Okay,” Ezren said. “Let’s go. There’s a carriage outside.”
Fallard and his men put the empty boxes down by the stairs and went through the crates that were already there. They were looking for boxes that still contained opium.
Banging noises came from upstairs.
Ezren took the girl into the alley and put her in the carriage. “Sit in here and don’t move,” he said. “We’ll get you home.”
She nodded, still crying.
Back inside, Ezren rushed to the stairs. “I’m going up to see what’s going on. Hurry it up, down here,” he said.
Ezren ran up the stairs and out into the hallway. He turned right and looked around in the wide room at the end. The curtains hanging from the ceiling made it hard to see if anyone was in there. He rushed through, shoving curtains aside. He found empty cots and shuttered windows. Tables held silver trays and little bowls with opium residue, wooden tapers and long pipes. He went to the end of the room and through a door to one of the side rooms. Empty. Ezren rushed through. It looked like a study or a library with a desk and shelves lining the walls. Another door on the far end. Ezren opened it, carefully. A small sitting room with sofas and chairs. No one there.
Back in the hallway, Ezren made for the stairs. He heard heavy footsteps upstairs, again. He rushed up, looking for Van. There should have been at least three more men in the house. At the top of the stairs was a small, open hallway with a closed door. Ezren turned around to see a corridor with doors and Van standing in a doorway.
Van leaned back, showing his face. “Those rooms are empty,” he said. “Got one in here, though.”
Ezren walked up to Van and looked into the room. It was a small bedroom, dark, with the windows shuttered. A man sat on the bed, stripped to the waist. Van held his sword out with the point aimed at the man’s chest. “Where is everyone?” Ezren asked.
The man shrugged. “Boss is upstairs. Fillip is downstairs. Don’t know where the others are.”
“Fillip?”
“The doorman.”
Ezren’s brow creased. “Who the hell is Gelwan?”
The man laughed. “Gelwan is Skazian for ‘trouble’.
“The other girl? The one that’s not in the cellar. Where is she?”
“Upstairs,” said the man, looking at the ceiling.
“Take him out through the cellar. Torvik can deal with him. The other girl is in the carriage,” Ezren explained. “I’m going up.”
“Let’s go,” said Van, lowering his sword. “Out and down.”
Ezren ran up the second flight of stairs. Caution was overrated. He was going to charge into this thing. If there were others outside and they came back, they could be in big trouble. He reached the top and faced a wall. He turned quickly. Someone was moving inside one of the rooms. Ezren kicked the first door open. Nothing. He moved down the hallway and kicked the second door in. Another girl. “Are you Vee?” he asked. She was chained to the bedpost, dressed just the like other girl. This one looked thin and tired.
She nodded, looking baffled. Ezren drew out the key he used to unlock Willa. He tried the lock that held the shackle and chain together.
The lock clicked.
“He’s behind you,” she whispered, as Ezren bent low to get her foot out of the cuff.
Ezren turned his head, looking sideways at the doorway. The man was large: nearly as big as Torvik and definitely bigger than himself. He was dressed for bed in a linen nightshirt that hung to his knees. He stepped into the room, quickly.
“No!” Vee shouted.
The man hesitated, distracted by Vee’s shout.
Ezren had a moment to move. His attacker came in with a hunting knife held high. Ezren ducked and lunged at the man, aiming his shoulder at his stomach. The man went down backwards, hitting his head on the wall.
“Cellar,” Ezren said, turning back to Vee. “Now!”
The girl got up and moved quickly across the room, out into the hall.
Ezren followed her out, pausing to pick up the hunting knife. The man was groaning on the floor.
A ruckus outside caught Ezren’s attention. He ran to the front of the hallway and looked out the window to the street below. Three men stood by the front door, calling out. “Why isn’t he answering the door?” one said.
“Crap!” Ezren whispered harshly. He turned and ran back down the hall to the stairs. He could hear the man getting to his feet inside Vee’s room. Ezren followed the girl down, boots thudding heavily against the wood steps. He reached the second floor. Good. He ran down the hall and turned at the second flight of stairs. Up above, he heard footsteps. The man would be coming after them any moment now.
Ezren reached the ground floor and ran passed the front door. A heavy fist banged against the wood.
“Just a moment!” Ezren shouted as he ran by. He made the cellar and slid to a stop, grabbing the doorframe and pulling himself through the doorway. Turning to shut the door behind him, Ezren heard footsteps on the stairs, above. He turned the latch to lock the door and hustled down to find Fallard and his men milling about. Vee stood there, looking lost.
“Outside,” Ezren said. “Get in the carriage.”
The girl nodded and ran to the cellar door.
Ezren turned to Fallard. “They know we’re here. Forget the empty boxes, we have to go.”
Fallard looked confused. “What about Torvik’s plan? We have to secure the house so the Guard can come in.”
They both looked up the stairs at the sound of an explosion. Splinters flew down the stairs from the door above.
“That’s a flintlock,” Fallard said. “He’s gonna need a moment to reload. We better get out of here.”
“That’s what I said! Grab those pistols and muskets and get out of here!”
“What about the powder barrels?”
Ezren looked at the row of barrels on the shelf by the desk. “Leave them,” he said. “Go! Don’t wait for me. Get those girls out of here.”
Fallard and his men rushed out of the cellar, into the alleyway. The door at the top of the stairs banged open. The man stood there in his nightgown holding a flintlock pistol. He was jamming something into the barrel with a rod, cursing at it.
Ezren ran to the desk to grab papers, knocking over the candelabra and an open bottle of whisky. He bundled the papers in his arms and made for the door to the alleyway. Ezren turned back to see the remaining papers burst into flame on the desk. “Damnit!”
The man tripped on the stairs and slid down to the dirt floor on his ass. He cursed and raised the pistol. Ezren dashed to the side, beyond the stairs, toward the back of the cellar.
“Stop right there,” the man shouted. “I’ll put a hole right through you from back to front.”
Ezren turned slowly, watching the flintlock aim at his chest. He was far enough away that the man might miss, but he didn’t want to take his chances. The fire was spreading rapidly on the far wall.
The man followed Ezren’s eyes back behind him and lowered the flintlock at the sight of the fire. “No,” he said. “No, no, no, no.” The man dropped the flintlock and ran to the desk, smacking the fire with his bare hands. “No!” he shouted. “Gods, no!”
Ezren took a slow step backward. He heard the carriage pull away, behind him, in the alleyway. The man couldn’t do anything about th
e fire. It was spreading to where ever the whisky ran. The floor, the desk, even part of the shelf was on fire, now.
The shelf.
Ezren looked to the right and saw the black powder barrels. Eight barrels, sitting directly above the fire. Ezren took two more steps backward and stood in the doorway to the alley. Upstairs he heard heavy footsteps coming down the corridor. The men at the front door had gotten inside.
Maybe it was the wrong thing to do. Maybe it made him a coward. Perhaps he’d feel badly, later. But for now, he was no match for four armed men and definitely no match for eight barrels of black powder. The fire sparked and fizzled at the edge of the shelf as Ezren backed into the alley. The last thing he saw as he turned to run was the man noticing the barrels catching fire. He panicked and reached for the closest barrel.
Ezren ran as fast as he could down the alleyway, after the carriage. Behind him, an explosion shook the townhouse. Windows broke and glass tumbled down in the alley. He turned around to watch the fire and smoke billow from the cellar door. “That wasn’t half as bad as I—.”
Another explosion erupted, much larger than the first. Fire and debris flew through every window. The street shook and windows shattered on every townhouse in the row, on both sides of the alleyway. Ezren fell backwards from the force of the blast, landing flat on his back. He leapt to his feet and fled as the stone and timber crumbled into the alley from the back of the townhouse. Turning at the intersection of alleyways, Ezren watched as the tall house fell in on itself. Clouds of dust curled up and through the narrow valley.
Up ahead he could see the black carriage passing out into the street. He ran after it, hoping to catch up.
“Ez!” It was Van, behind him. “This way.”
Van led him up the side alley, toward the front street. At the end of the alley, Torvik stood staring at the townhouse. A dozen of the Guard stood along the street, motionless. Ezren reached him and turned to look. The front wall had fallen, leaving the first floor and second floor open. As he stood and watched, the third floor wall fell. Ezren walked closer with Van at his side. The floor of the ground level was gone. The stairs were gone, even part of the ceiling was gone. He could look inside and up, through a giant hole, and see the underside of the third story floor.
People were coming out of their homes, now, standing on the street. Some were crying, some were pointing with looks of awe on their faces. Babies cried, children stared, passersby stopped to gawk.
The black carriage came up behind them. Fallard and Del sat on the bench, up front, driving the horses, mouths hanging open.
The Day After