Rogues Gallery (2 page)

The tension in the room rose. It wasn’t over yet.

“Keep him down!” Warden Harris said and shoved more men forward. “Get on top of him! Now!”

They responded. Rocko reached forward to grab the escaped limbs and almost lost his seat as 47 kept pushing up from the front. But the weight of extra attendants kept him down. It took two strong men to get one arm behind his back to get the shackle on that side. It took two more and Rocko to get the other. Three others threw themselves on his legs while the big man switched places with them.

Fernando drew closer to Warden Harris, rubbing his sore head. Blood streamed from his nose, and his entire upper body ached. Battle weariness settled in, and all of a sudden the room quieted, with only the breath of the attendants and slight grunts of further exertion. The other violent inmates were silent and still. Their cages settled into a motionless stupor; both person and cage back into their normal positions.

Inmate 47 spoke.

Rocko was out of breath, as were all of them, and he scrunched up his thick features and stared at the madman.

Fernando couldn’t hear what was said. “W-w-what did he say?”

Warden Harris stood beside him and heaved a sigh, shaking his head. “What indeed.” His face had paled, and he was sweating. He drew a shaking hand across his brow. “Bring some more chains in. I want him in seclusion as soon as possible.”

They had the now docile man on his feet. His face covered with blood and strains of long, scraggly hair. They dragged him towards the door, and Fernando limped out the way, still afraid. How normal the inmate’s eyes looked at that moment, whereas before they held an undeniable glint of insanity.

47 kept muttering the same thing under his breath over and over in a relentless chant. As he went by, Fernando thought he understood.

“… Muldor, Muldor, Muldor….”

Fernando had no idea who this Muldor fellow might’ve been, but he did not envy him.

Chapter One

Marko knew trouble when he saw it.

The drunken fool on the other side of the tavern’s taproom was all kinds of trouble. The lout was loud, oafish, and stupid; qualities that often went together, and in most cases meant bad things would happen. He dressed in thick brown leggings and a dirty frock.

The nominal leader of what the locals called the “toughs,” a gang of rough but less violent than many other more insidious groups of ne’er-do-wells, Marko Bulini stood with several of his men and watched the drunk make a fool of himself with a young woman.

She was dainty and small, very young, trying her best to be nice. She was a prostitute, one of Madam Dreary’s girls no doubt, perhaps on his first night out to drum up business for the city’s lone whorehouse. Marko felt bad for her. Dealing with the losers and scum of Sea Haven must’ve been exhausting.

Marko doubted the man had much money, if any, and most had been spent on booze. The girl was being too nice. She should shove him away and move on to a paying customer. The man’s speech was slurred, and his breath must have been rank. He groped at the poor girl with dirty hands, feeling up her breasts, and while she did her best to smile, the discomfort was prevalent in her eyes.

Marko frowned and imagined what it would be like to bounce the man’s head off the floor. It would’ve been fun as hell.

Another tough, Julien, smacked his back with a hearty slap and refilled his tankard of ale, but Marko didn’t feel like drinking anymore. Julien laughed at something one of the others in the gang said, but Marko wasn’t listening. Like all of them, Julien wore a tight fitting black vest with short sleeves and black leather pants. It showed off their muscles and let others know who they were.

Initiation was simple. Survive a gauntlet of pummeling from all the others and compete in their wrestling contests. It was grueling, but they weren’t called toughs for nothing. Julien was taller than Marko, but few of them thicker or stronger than the bull necked youth.

Marko stared at the drunken lout and started moving forward. Julien clicked his tongue at him.

“Goin’ somewhere, Marko?”

Marko turned his head. “Wanna have some fun?” He turned back and walked towards the drunk.

Julien grinned and swatted the toughs next to him. Then he whistled. “Fellas, let’s start our night out right, I say.”

Hearty grunts of agreement followed, and the patrons near them stood up and paid attention to what was about to occur. The tavern was called Stern’s Place, and the primary establishment hosted the toughs wrestling matches. People came from all over the city to watch them. Some prospective recruits would often join in, hoping to get a spot on their roster but most failed.

Marko moved forward. The lout continued his harassment, pawing and groping at the young lady. Now she was looking around for a way out. She should have brought more ladies with her. But she was young and perhaps inexperienced.

She turned away from the man, but he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him, yelling. “You dirty slut! Nobody turns from Giuseppe!”

The drunken lout struck her a loud, resounding slap across her left cheek. She didn’t scream. The poor girl seemed too stunned to do anything. A red welt already began to form in the shape of his hand.

Marko cursed under his breath for waiting too long and sprinted over. Clamping a thick fingered hand on the back on the man’s neck and squeezing hard, he pushed his body away and watched as Giuseppe’s eyes bulged in pain and surprise.

“You have two choices, sir,” Marko said and grabbed the man’s near wrist when he tried to swat at him. The tough held it tight to the man’s body and twisted his neck so his head peered up. Then he popped his own knee cap in the back of the man’s left knee, and the joint buckled.

“You can walk out or be thrown out.”

The man sputtered and resisted. “You-you-you no treat Giuseppe like this!”

“Wrong choice.” Marko yanked his head around and nodded to the young girl. A couple other whores gathered around her. They were looking at the drunk with disdain and anger. “Pardon me, miss. Have a good night.” She smiled despite her obvious pain.

Patrons and toughs nearby clapped and cheered Marko on. His men slapped him on the back and kicked at the drunk, but Marko waved them off. It wasn’t fair to attack a man who couldn’t fight back. But it was nice to have encouragement.

“Get ‘im, Marko!”

“Nice going! Take the chigger out and stomp ‘im good!”

“Serves the drunkard right!”

The drunk was sober enough to be embarrassed and fought back with more energy. He planted his feet to push back against Marko. He threw his other arm at Marko’s barrel chest, but it felt like a cool breeze with nothing behind it. Marko twisted the captured wrist behind his back and pulled up. The man grunted in pain and stopped fighting. People gave up so easy.

The crowd parted before him, and more people patted him on the back. Marko gave a slight nod and marched the drunk out the door, a few of his men right behind him. Outside, the man tried to elbow him in the face, but Marko controlled the man’s body too well for the lazy blow to connect. But the motion upset him.

Marko shoved him forward, a little harder than intended, and the man sprawled in the dirt. People laughed. The man yelled in pain and flopped on his belly, trying to get to his hands and knees. Marko didn’t laugh but rather kept his eyes on the man, watching for any aggressive movement.

But the man was done. When he got to his knees, his bloated, alcohol flushed face was covered with dirt. He wiped some detritus from his clothes and tried to stand, but he stumbled back down. The crowd laughed and began to dissipate.

“Have a good night, sir,” Marko said. “And don’t come back unless you can behave yourself.”

The man cursed him in some foreign tongue. Marko grunted and was about to turn back into the tavern, but Donald ran up to him. Tall and blocky, with dark hair and a thick forehead, Donald was one of his best toughs.

“Listen, he wants to see you. Right now.” Marko stood straighter and knew who the man meant. “You better hurry, Marko. He’s not in a good mood.”

“I bet. Thanks.”

Donald went inside the tavern, where no doubt the tough would drink away the tension from his recent experience with their boss. Marko took a deep breath and looked to the east, to the edge of the city’s boundaries, and his destination.

Walking fast helped him reach the rocky, forested section on the low side of the south east cliff, where the edge of town met the wilderness. Darkness enveloped him, and the eerie silence of the woods was somewhat frightening. The devil lived here.

Jerrod’s cabin was a few minutes away. It was small and simple, with a few scattered trees nearby. Most of the surrounding foliage was sparse as if the plants had trouble finding purchase on the rocky terrain.

Knocking caused shuffling and muttering curses behind the door. “The fuck is it?”

“It’s me, sir. Marko.”

“Huh? Wait a damn second.”

It was less than a second. Jerrod yanked the door open, and the glare from his fireplace backlit him in a strange way. His eyes were bloodshot, his head bandaged from Zandor’s ill-fated attack, and the stubble on his large head matched that of his week’s old beard. He was very drunk.

“’Bout damn time you showed up. You lazy cunts need to get to work, hear me?”

“Yes sir. What do you need?”

“What do you think I need, moron? Get that shit Zandor. Maybe flame him. Go and fuck up, the, uh, the….”

“The betting tents? They already had a fire there once and might expect that. They can shut them down pretty fast, sir.”

Jerrod looked confused for a second and then got angrier. “Huh? Well then burn the damn arena. Yeah, that’s great… fucking arena….”

“Sir, that’s a lot of work. They have guards, lots of them.”

“Don’t argue with me, you little shit!”

Jerrod stepped forward. His rancid breath and towering presence made Marko quail.

“Get it done!” Jerrod said and stepped back into the cabin. “Burn that place to the ground.” He slammed the door.

Marko sighed.

* * * * *

A seagull’s cry pierced the normal afternoon hubbub of the Western Docks. The bird flew in a lazy arc over Piers One and Two, drifting in between the tall masts and wooden crow’s nests. Numerous ships docked there, ready to unload their wares to the largest trading port on the continent.

It soon mixed in with the other gulls filtering around the sky and was lost.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed the singular visitor to the docks, lost as they were in their own business. Some would say their level of observation was too low to track such a motion, that they were too stupid or lacked the ability to think above the normal consideration that plagued day to day life.

Samuel Becket would have agreed with that assessment. The Dock Master stood and looked for more seagulls, and close as he was to those piers, it afforded him a nice view of the sea and its denizens. It was enjoyable to watch and study them. His mother would say it was because of his inquisitive nature and artistic temperament. They were beautiful creatures, in an odd way, with their yellow beaks and white and gray coats. They were such a mainstay of the docks, he couldn’t imagine a world without them.

One in particular stuck out with a very unusual coloring. It had some pigmentation problem that caused it to be almost all white, with only a streak of gray down each wing. He was very pretty.

It flew off and landed with another group of them stood perched on the masts of
Pleasant Dream
. The mercantile craft shipped fine jewelry from a southern supplier and was one of Becket’s best clients. It was inspiring, uplifting somehow, to see the way the sun outlined their forms. The light twinkled and glimmered, like some divine force percolating within the world of man. A few of them spread their wings and lifted off. The sun blasted Becket’s eyes, and he turned away.

“Master Becket,” one of his aides said as he came up to him. The man was thin and sallow faced, named Barker. “The shipping details for the day. We’ve had another defection. Sorry, sir.”

Becket took the papers and shook his head. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong. The fault lies with others.”

Becket looked at the manifest reports and saw that the trend continued. More merchants were leaving the Guild. He sighed and told Barker to go back to his work. Fewer and fewer ships were coming in. Soon only dust and rust would build until nothing was left but the gulls and their shit.

Recent events had changed the personnel within The Merchants Guild. Dock Master Dollenger, along with City Watch Commander Raul Parkins and a few others, were hung at the gallows for the part they played in Castellan’s attempted coup of Sea Haven.

Because of this, Becket enjoyed a promotion to Senior Dock Master of the Western Docks, the larger of the two ports where hundreds of ship dumped their wares every week. Guilt wracked him, for all of them were guilty of conspiring with Castellan du Sol, and all of them should have paid.

But Muldor, the new Guild Master, had talked them into throwing certain members of their leadership to the wolves. They had lost another Dock Master, Maggur, when he had escaped the authorities, and at the present moment his whereabouts were unknown. Young Gunnar Lawson took over senior position at the Southern Docks, and two new members were to join their ranks to replace the murdered men.

And Becket considered them murdered. Though he never liked them much anyway since both colleagues were greedy, unscrupulous men, but killing them was extreme. But someone had to take the blame.

Moving into the top position at the Western Docks, in charge of Piers One through Three, ahead of the cranky old coot Melvin Crocker, Becket was now one of the highest ranking members of The Merchants Guild. He might have even been Guild Master Muldor’s second.

‘Who else would be higher?’ he thought. Carl Tomlinson, the marketplace liaison for the Guild? No, that man’s time in the position was a mere fraction compared to Becket’s tenure. No one would consider him higher on the pecking order.

Young Gunnar Lawson was the senior Dock Master at the Southern Docks now that Maggur had been expelled but couldn’t lay claim to having more seniority than Becket. No, Samuel Becket was the second most important person in the Guild. This position put him in the upper echelon of the city entire.

Which meant the responsibility and stress were greater.

He glanced back at the gulls, but he had lost the specific beauty he had been spying before. Oh well. There would be others.

Back in his office, in the mammoth warehouse, they stored much of the extra goods unloaded on the docks. Becket stopped to admire one of his paintings, picked up from one of his favorite sellers only last week. Its frame propped against the wall next to another work of art, a waist high sculpture he wanted to return. It was a bust of some historical figure but clashed with the theme of his foyer. The décor of his home was important, so he tried things out first in his office.

The room was cramped. The painting was as tall as the sculpture, even on the ground and almost as wide as his arm span. He looked at the painting, judging its worth. The scene was idyllic, with gentle hills and a stream cutting through a beautiful countryside. The plan was for a rural theme for his foyer, so as to give visitors a feeling of warmth and belonging when they entered his home.