Rogues Gallery (20 page)

There was no guarantee the Lord Governor would show up that night or any night soon. But according to his informants, the man was a regular customer. And Zandor had already spied some people of importance, including Carl Tomlinson, the most connected merchant at the marketplace due to his position within the guild.

Tomlinson was a thick-bodied man with a brown beard turning to gray, a strong jaw line, and a stern countenance. Even here in a lively environment, his face looked sour as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. He sat with a couple of men and two women.

‘Lighten up, buddy,’ Zandor thought. ‘If you can’t be at ease here, where can you do it?’

Zandor watched and waited, acting like a spendthrift merchant. He ordered more wine, the finest they had available, and a huge spread of food; a thick steak, golden potatoes, fresh vegetables, and then a rich dessert. It was wicked expensive but worth it.

These were fine folks, a bit haughty but nice enough. Zandor never bought into the idea that rich people were evil or wicked. Poor people were mean spirited, untrusting, and had less manners than rich people, from his experience.

Later, he ordered a round of drinks for Carl Tomlinson’s table. Instead of smiles or a toast, Zandor got a slight nod from Tomlinson and a look of distrust from one of his male companions.

People were too untrusting in this town. Everyone was wound so tight they might as well been a trebuchet about to spring their loads. What a shame. When even the rich of a city cannot sit and enjoy themselves, there was something wrong. The fools. They had the means, they took advantage of their positions with better food and drink and girls; might as well enjoy yourself.

Zandor knew why. It was because they had to work so hard to get what they had, they feared losing it. They were paranoid. Under this entire cozy atmosphere was a lingering sense of extreme caution and distrust, a misguided permutation of impending doom. The city was suffused with it.

As time wore on, Tomlinson’s table loosened up a bit, no doubt in part to Zandor’s gift of libation. The women seemed to be having fun. Zandor could tell they felt secure in the men’s company. They sat close to them and laughed and smiled. The men sat stone faced, and Zandor heaved an inward sigh.

He went to their table and asked if he could sit with them. The two other men eyed him with suspicion, and the women wouldn’t make eye contact. One was pale blond, the other black haired. They were young enough to be their daughters.

Tomlinson grunted. “Who are you?”

Direct. Good on him.

Zandor made a bow. “Yes, yes,” he said with a slight accent. “I am Tevin de Sunni. How please to meet you. I am seller of fine jewelry. Would have words with you, if no mind.”

Tomlinson thought for a moment then indicated a chair.

“Ah, many thanks, good sir. Yes. I understand you are man to talk to on marketplace, yes?”

Tomlinson shifted in his seat. “Well, I’m liaison with the Guild if that’s what you mean. But you’ll have to speak with them about membership. We don’t take independent sellers.”

“Ah, no. No independent sellers?”

“We have four slots annual. But those are already taken. You will have to apply like everyone else.”

“Yes, yes. So is good to be member of guild, yes?”

“If you wish to sell your jewelry at our market, you must be.”

Zandor smiled and ordered another round for their table, assessing the other two men. They were bodyguards. He saw no easy camaraderie among them, only stiff acceptance of their stations. Plus they were armed. It appeared the guild higher ups were starting to use bodyguards.

The dark haired girl looked with curiosity at Zandor, and when she stared too long, Tomlinson grabbed her hand and whispered something in her ear. Zandor was too far to hear, but it was a castigating remark.

His attempts to pry some more information about all things guild and merchant related confirmed his suspicions. They had an ironclad monopoly on the inner city transactions. Nothing got sold or traded without the guild getting a piece.

The dearth of any black market operation was somewhat shocking to him. It was impossible. Every city had a black market, where stolen goods could be sold to a third party cheaper than bought through regular means. He wondered what the thieves did with the items they stole. Thieves didn’t hang on to silver candle sticks or jewelry. They sold them for coin.

Tomlinson was outspoken on most of the topics, with a quiet reserve about him. He was proud but matter-of-fact about his job. It was obvious the man had worked hard to get to his current position, but he was guarded about information on guild membership. He continued the mantra that interested parties should go to the dock master’s offices and speak with them on getting an application.

Zandor thanked him for his time. “Tevin de Sunni bid you good night. Chen qua.”

Tomlinson managed a slight smile, and Zandor walked away liking the man. The guard’s looks burned a hole in his back. At least the slobs at the arena knew how to have fun.

The city’s influence was exerting itself onto him, a subtle whisper here, a none too gentle nudge there. It added up to a general feeling of paranoia and unease. Zandor knew from experience, it was difficult for anyone, no matter how strong willed, to repudiate the environment in which they were raised. The attitudes, behaviors, and beliefs of a particular culture became ingrained.

It was the biggest reason Jerrod was the way he was. The stubborn fool was raised here, not only on the streets but
by
the streets. If everyone around you were thieves, murderers, and liars, it was easy to become, one and because of the dangerous man’s particular natural ability and build, he excelled and dominated his peers at a young age. Violence begat violence and the man knew no other way. It was an unending cycle of stupidity and madness.

Zandor sighed and drank his drink. Cassius did not show up that night or the next. On the third night, Zandor changed his disguise to a simple garb of yellow silk that felt fabulous against his skin though he kept his regular clothes on underneath, complete with throwing knives. He wore a black wig and colored his skin to match that of a man from a southern climate.

Such heavy make-up was a risk. If someone bumped into him or rubbed hard enough, it might have come off. The product he used dried well, but extreme caution was needed.

Standing by the bar, earrings gleamed in his ears by the firelight, and he made a point to be as loud and obnoxious as possible, flirting with the serving girls and applauding when the band of skilled wind instruments finished each song.

“Bravo! Bravo! Wonderful, very good! Yes!”

The rest of the crowd was more subdued with a general lassitude permeating the rich and servants alike. They were in a protective bubble as if the shallow sheen of guards and thin walls could shield them from the dangers of the outside. Zandor wouldn’t let them stay comfortable. It was time to stir the pot.

A sudden thought struck him. He didn’t belong here. There was this strange prejudice against anyone not from here. Murder Haven was tough on outsiders even to good men like Jon Baumgardener. Poor kid. Zandor had no idea what happened to him.

No one had heard of him back in Janisberg, and Zandor had to assume the young man was dead in a ditch somewhere. The city had churned him up and spat him out like trash. Only Zandor’s next level skills allowed him to survive and even thrive. He felt a sense of guilt over Jon’s fate, but then people were tools, to be used and cast away.

Nothing on the third night either, but he kept the disguise for the fourth night, and at last he spied the Lord Governor enter. Cassius came inside with no retinue, and that surprised Zandor, but of course they were outside waiting in the cold. According to Zandor’s people, the man never went anywhere without protection and other hangers around him. Runners, scribes, assistants, aides of any and all kinds were his to call upon.

‘Too good to drink with your men, eh?’ Zandor thought.

The tavern workers rushed to his table, which was right in front of the stage, and put on a new tablecloth, a new candle, and a flagon of wine before he even sat down. Cassius had been at the Prancing Pony before.

The beautiful young singer was back. Zandor wondered at her origin for a moment. The same harpist accompanied her, and they had the same fellow playing the lyre to back up her dulcet tones. Since they were not performing at the Prancing Pony every night, he wondered where she went off on other nights.

She sang a few songs with the Lord Governor watching. All the while he sipped his expensive wine and snapped his fingers instead of clapping. Zandor had to scoff. Cassius’ rings glittered in the candlelight, and his silken robes hung off his fat arms. He was so comfortable, basking in his power, his authority, his riches.

Zandor walked over to the stage during her next song and stood in front, blocking the view from Cassius’ table. She managed a smile, but the performers looked uncomfortable as they began the next song. Zandor clapped and urged them on.

“Very good! Play, play! Yes, magnificent! I like very much.”

They played, but the tension in the air increased. Someone coughed behind him.

“Pardon me, sir, but you are blocking my view.”

Zandor continued to watch and clap. “Yes, yes, play! Wonderful! I like very much. Play!”

Cassius raised his voice and asked again for him to move, but Zandor acted as if he didn’t hear him. Then he turned and smiled, indicating the stage.

“Is wonderful, no? They are magnificent! I love to hear them.”

Cassius frowned. “Yes, I know. But as I said, you are blocking my view.”

Zandor boomed an obnoxious laugh and turned away. “Yes! Play! I love it!”

They continued the song. Zandor heard activity behind, and no doubt Cassius the pig was calling for security to come and help him since he couldn’t have done anything other than wipe his ass without someone’s assistance.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder halfway through the next song, a sad melody about unrequited love and suicide. Zandor had heard it before.

“Sir,” said one of the male servers. “Please move to the side, so the other patrons can to enjoy the show.”

The man grabbed his elbow, and Zandor turned. “What?! I wish to see pretty girl sing her song! I pay good money for wine.” He wheeled on Cassius and pointed a finger. “You do this, yes?”

The lord only stared, a look of bemusement on his face. Zandor tossed his wine in his face. The politician’s eyes went wide in shock, and he yelled for his guards. Zandor stood his ground as security men from within the tavern came forward with their clubs, much like the dock security. Zandor began cussing in a southern language and throwing his arms about.

They stood back. The music stopped.

Zandor stood forward to the Lord Governor’s table, still cussing and wagging his finger. The politician paled and looked around, yelling again for his men. At that moment Zandor knew for certain what kind of man Cassius was.

A moment later, the door busted open and armored men rushed in. There were three of them. They assessed the situation with a glance and stormed over to Zandor surrounding him. They did not draw swords but looked ready for action.

One of them was older, with grayish hair, a thick goatee, and seemed to be the leader among them. He also moved like a warrior and looked like he could handle himself in a fight.

“My lord?”

The Lord Governor stood, taking a napkin from a serving girl and wiping his face. He walked over to stand in front of Zandor, smug but with an underlining cruelty. Zandor thought a slap was coming, but the lord only motioned to the guards and smiled.

“Take this man outside.” He looked at one of the tavern employees, an older, well-dressed man with a long beard. “This is no place for a disruption, Marcus. I think we should have a talk on your in house security some time. This is a travesty.”

Marcus made a bow. “Many apologies, my lord. This will not happen again.” He flicked his head to the security men, and they grabbed him before Cassius’ guards could. Zandor made a show of protest as they dragged him to the door.

“No, you do not touch me, fiends! I will not stand to be touched by you! I will see city magistrate about this. I will see you punished.”

Cassius’ smile was wicked. “This city does not have a magistrate, sir. There are witnesses, you are guilty of assault. That is all.”

Zandor cursed and struggled like any man would, and prepared himself for a fight outside in case they tried to get too carried away. There were people waiting nearby. Men that would have come and helped him, but he doubted he would’ve needed it. These boys were easy.

Outside, the streets were deserted, in stark contrast to the bubbling atmosphere of The Prancing Pony, and the other sections of town at night. People didn’t loiter in the wealthy quarter.

Zandor bellowed in mock outrage. “You men! I demand you unhand me. You do not put hands on me! Where are you take me?”

They grunted and marched him to the edge of the neighborhood, passed the gated mansions and picturesque landscapes to the main gate. There, two of them held him while the other spoke with the gate guards. One of them ran off, to fetch the police, Zandor assumed. A few minutes later, two officers came and spoke with the tavern security.