Rogues Gallery (26 page)

The arm was emaciated, covered in filthy rags, and the hand was little more than a gnarled claw. The nails were blackened and split. It twisted and swatted at the door while the three Guild members stared, fascinated.

Fernando clubbed it hard with his thick truncheon, and the unseen owner of the appendage squealed in pain and pulled it back inside. The hunchback giggled and hopped about in delight. His twisted features alighted with glee.

“Fernando!” Warden Harris said. “Enough! Move on, now. Move!”

The creature hung its head as it trotted down the hallway towards the solitary door, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Harris unlocked the door and stepped inside, but Becket stopped him.

“Thank you, warden. Now leave us.”

The warden looked like he was about to argue, but then thought twice about it and nodded. “As you wish.”

“Wait,” Becket said, “has he said anything else?”

Harris looked at Muldor for a second before replying. “Nay. Only what he kept saying before. Gentlemen, I will be right outside if you need anything.”

Lawson made a weird face at Muldor as if suspicious of the look Harris gave him, and Becket held his breath. The prisoner had said the Guild Master’s name, over and over again, like a mad mantra.

‘Muldor is always so quiet,’ Becket thought, ‘so easy to forget he’s there.’

Becket led them inside. The room stank. It was worse than before, and the three of them covered their mouths with the edge of their sleeves. Lawson coughed and shook his head before cursing the smell. Becket felt his nervousness rise. This was a mistake. The mystery was worth it to discover. This is none of his business.

“Who the hell is that?” Lawson said.

The bedraggled figure, dressed in rags and chained to the wall in heavy irons at wrist and ankle, stirred. Its hair and beard were unkempt, filthy. Its whole body, unwashed for months, looked sick and emaciated like many of the other inmates, yet it retained a certain air of athleticism.

“Becket, come on.”

“Come closer, Gunnar. You too, Muldor. I’ll feel like I belong here with the madmen if no one else confirms what I’ve seen.”

They crept closer and soon the word the pitiful creature was mumbling became clear.

“…Muldor… Muldor….”

Lawson stared back and forth between Muldor and the prisoner. Becket stepped back and stared at all of them, watching for a reaction. Muldor narrowed his eyes and listened for a few moments. Then his eyes widened and recognition dawned. A single word escaped his lips.

“Castellan….”

Lawson acted as if he had been struck. “What?!”

“It’s him,” Becket said and knelt down next to the man, looking back at the others as they stood in stunned silence. He swept away some of the hair from his face to give them a better look at their former boss, and the reality of the situation sunk in. Muldor looked confused, his normal façade of ultimate control swept away from what was before them.

Becket stood. “Warden Harris contacted me weeks ago. He told me inmate 47 here, our beloved former Guild Master Castellan du Sol, went berserk and killed a couple of his security men. They said he showed unbelievable strength. Inhuman strength and ferocity as if possessed by a demon.

“It took half a dozen men with clubs to subdue him, and when they struck him, he felt no pain. They’ve had him locked up here since that day.”

Lawson continued to stare and rubbed his face with a shaking hand. “Dammit all, what happened to him?”

Becket could only shake his head, relief at last someone else knew. They could deal with it. “I don’t know. Warden Harris claims there’s no record of this patient’s entry into the asylum. He was just here one day.”

“How could they not have a patient record? We should do an audit.”

“I suppose but good would it do? You know how it is. The police, dock security, whomever, can drag up whatever person they deem a danger to the city, and if the warden determines they are insane, they get committed. There is no trial and sometimes no record, like if someone wanted it to remain a secret, for example.”

Lawson’s jaw worked. He seemed bewildered, shocked even, that this was possible. Gunnar was so young, smarter than he let on but so naïve at times. He’s lived here his whole life, and people that grew up in a certain place often didn’t see what was so obvious to an outsider. Becket wondered how Muldor had managed to be so omnipotent about so many things; but then Muldor was a genius.

“Tell me,” Muldor said, his usual controlled mannerisms back in place, “why is it, Master Becket, that you chose to bring this matter to our attention now, right before we are to see Lord Cassius?”

Becket felt anger rise in his gut, and his cheeks flushed with heat. “Dammit, Muldor, I brought this to your attention weeks ago. I told you I had to see you, and you ignored me, didn’t you?”

“That’s true,” Lawson said, and Becket was heartened to have his support. Lawson turned to Muldor. “Why is that? You’re supposed to support us.”

Muldor straightened his robes. “How I conduct my affairs is my own business. I have other commitments—”

“Oh, come off it!” Becket said. “I don’t care what you were doing. I’m sure it was in the Guild’s best interests; but don’t insinuate accusations against me for doing this now. Don’t try and act like this is my fault. I wasn’t hiding anything.”

“You didn’t tell me either,” Lawson said, sounding hurt and suspicious.

“I’m telling you both now. We have other things to deal with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gentlemen, please,” Muldor said, raising his hands. “Enough. Master Becket is correct. There are much more pressing concerns at the moment, the least of which is the origin of this man’s incarceration here.”

Becket noticed he didn’t use Castellan’s name. He shared a look with Lawson. The prisoner, meanwhile, had scampered back up against the wall in fear during their argument. They all glanced over. The flickering torchlight illuminated what had once been the most powerful man in the city, who had brought the City Council to its proverbial knees, reduced now to a pitiful wreck. Castellan mewed like a kitten.

“By the gods,” Lawson said, sounding awed. “What on earth happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” Becket said again. “It’s beyond my understanding, I know that. Seems a bit supernatural if his displays of strength are to be believed.”

“Perhaps,” Muldor said. “But it is our duty to uncover this mystery.”

“What do we say to Cassius?”

“About this matter, nothing.”

Becket frowned, not liking the idea of continuing a secret at last revealed. Lawson was about to speak, but Muldor cut him off.

“What proof do we now possess that links the Lord Governor to this man’s condition? How can we be certain he has anything whatsoever to do with this? If memory serves me, it was the Arc Lector himself that was responsible for Castellan’s imprisonment. Morlin was the one who placed him into custody that day at the end of battle, with Janisberg at our shores.”

Becket started a protest. “But-but….”

“We assumed Castellan would be turned over to the proper authorities, those in Janisberg responsible for prosecuting. That, we understand now, was not the case. Someone else has taken over the case for his punishment, one much more, it would seem, severe.”

Stunned silence followed as the idea that the mystery here was much deeper than any of them could have fathomed. The portents eluded Becket for the moment. The ecclesiastical segment of Sea Haven was the furthest thing from his mind at all times. He would have sooner flapped his arms and try to fly across the ocean than spend time at the cathedral.

Lawson cursed. “What can we do about him then, the Arc Lector I mean. What do we really know about him? I’ve never been to a sermon in my life. ”

Becket shrugged. “Not much on my part. For a public figure, he is in fact a very private man from what I’ve heard. No one knows much about him.”

“Then perhaps it is time we change that,” Muldor said. “The church has long been an agency of this city much outside of our purview.”

“What do we do then?” Lawson said. “Start spying on the clergy? We could watch his assistants easy enough, those younger guys, whatever they’re called. But the lector guy? I dunno.”

Becket heaved an internal sigh. That’s always Lawson’s first instinct. Spy on everyone and that solved the problem. That solved everything! The paranoia in this town was implanted into them from birth.

“No,” Muldor said. “This is not our first priority. Remember, there is a fleet to launch, and another matter to resolve first. Once we settle that issue with Lord Cassius, we shall turn our attention to unraveling this other mystery.”

“Fine,” Becket said, feeling both glad and somewhat sad. He pointed to wreck of a man cowering in the corner. “But what about him?”

Muldor sighed and considered. The last few minutes was the most emotion Becket had seen from him combined in the entirety of their working relationship.

“We must leave him be for now. Until we discover the nature of this malaise, there is aught else to be done. He will be fine here in the meantime.”

“He sure as hell ain’t comin’ with me,” Lawson said and clicked his teeth.

“Yeah, we leave him here, sure. Until we figure it out.”

Becket rubbed the back of his neck. “And now we must confront the Lord Governor.”

“Correct,” Muldor said.

Chapter Ten

“You need rest,” said the apothecary. “These healing draughts can only do so much, and they work best when you are sleeping.”

Jerrod tilted back another bottle, quaffing the liquid and swishing it around his mouth. It was thick, oily, and had a numbing aftertaste. It was his third bottle. He eyed the wizened man in front of him.

“I’ll rest when the job is done, buddy. So long as they work, that’s all I need. Get it?”

“Yes. You have seen the surgeon?”

Jerrod lifted his shirt and showed the multiple rows of stitching, arrayed up and down his torso. The apothecary grimaced.

“He stitched me up right before I came here, boss.”

“Good. The draughts I gave you can also be poured into the wounds itself for accelerated healing, but I do not recommend this as there can be side effects. It is better to let the body heal on its own since it is more natural and longer lasting.”

“Whatever,” Jerrod said and rose off the bench, feeling much improved. “I’ll be sending you some more business soon. Assuming those fucks are still alive when I’m done with them.”

Leaving the shop, he limped only a little. Compared to when he had dragged himself out of the forest and into town, a trail of blood miles long behind him, he felt downright rejuvenated in both mind and body. There was a renewed sense of purpose in spirit as well. Plenty of people to kill.

The idea of wearing a disguise struck him at times. That was what Zandor would have done, that little sneaky bastard; some sissy wig or whatever, tromping around like a girl. Jerrod thought about even acting as if he had died out in the forest. There was little evidence besides his burnt out cabin, and that could convince plenty he was dead.

But he wanted them to know he was alive, wanted them to know they had tried to kill him but failed. He wanted them to understand the full extent of their mistake, that Jerrod was unbeatable, that no one could’ve taken him out.

Jerrod had proven to himself and everyone what real power was at the tavern the other night. The brutal man wasn’t afraid of the consequences of his actions. He did what he wanted and damned anyone that tried to make him pay. There was no sense in being coy about it.

Here I am, fuckers. Come and get me.

Stern’s Place was not far from the apothecary’s. Outside were several people standing around: vagrants, prostitutes, johns, and the like. Jerrod knew he looked like hell warmed over; with blood stained clothes, a dozen facial wounds still healing, burn marks on his boots and arms, and a sour look on his brutal face. He was the perfect picture of a nightmare.

The master assassin looked like a dead man who had just crawled from a battlefield. People stared and muttered to themselves. Some of the girls gasped, and entering the tavern, he turned more heads. In fact, everyone near the door stopped speaking after he went inside, and the stillness spread to the rest of the patrons.

Some people recognized him; some did not, but they all stared with their mouths open. A few nudged their neighbors with elbows, but it did not matter. They were already staring.

A few toughs sat in the corner, looking quiet and still, which was much different than how they looked on most nights Jerrod had been there. They were always fighting. Jerrod saw only three, and even then they, were hard to recognize because they did not wear their customary v-necked shirts. Instead they had on longer shirts like everyone else wore this time of year.

Jerrod approached them. “You boys ain’t havin’ matches here these days? What happened? Someone complain about the smell?”

One of them, a thick necked man with a broken nose, frowned, and Jerrod knew he had struck a nerve.

“They don’t let us fight here anymore. They’re mad because people lost money on us at the arena.”

The arena. Jerrod remembered that Marko had said something about them going there. Jerrod didn’t want them to know he didn’t know the details, so he barked a laugh.

“Oh yeah, well forget all that,” he said and pulled a chair. “Let’s get some more booze here, on me.”

That raised their spirits, and so did his surprising ebullience. They asked him questions, most were about his bloodied appearance, and he was honest in his answers. When he finished his very simple explanation about a band of assassins trying to kill him, they stared. His matter-of-fact speech was easy to believe. They were impressed, and they would not shut up about it.

“You killed ‘em all, did ya?”

“Course he did, ya git! That’s our Jerrod, a true killer.”

“Yeah, thought I saw some smoke out east the other night. Saw a big plume of it.”

“Hells, that’s what they was? Real assassins? Damn, boss, good job on that.”

The physical evidence of the fire, the smoke that could be seen from so far away, added to the legitimacy of his tale, and even though Jerrod did not give a damn if they believed him or not, it would have been a smoother transition to getting them to work.

It was what Zandor said was one of his weaknesses, that he was not good with people. To be a leader was different from the role of enforcer. Marko had been Jerrod’s only contact among the toughs, so he didn’t know many of the others by name, and without Marko as the go between, it would have been tough going.

Jerrod wondered who among them was in charge when Marko was not around, but it didn’t matter, for he was in charge now. Donald seemed to do a lot of talking, and they mentioned some guy named Renner, but he was among those injured from their disaster at the arena. Something about getting conned into fighting there, under their rules, and Zandor had been behind it.

All crime cost time and blood, but there were better ways. For them to get set up for something big, they would have to get financial backing. There was plenty in his personal stash buried in a secret place in the forest. It was for retirement purposes, but he might’ve been dead before then.

Jerrod drank his drink and ordered more for their table, feeling generous, knowing the money would come back tenfold for what he had planned.

“Where’s the rest of you fellas, huh? Why they so cold to you all here? I thought this was your place.”

Donald frowned and looked embarrassed. “Like we said, they lost money from our match at the arena. So they don’t want us around anymore.”

“So leave.”

Jerrod got some uncomfortable shrugs, so he scowled at them all.

“The way I see it, you all need to get yer heads outta yer asses and get movin’. The best way to teach these slugs how ‘tough’ you are is to show them.”

They leaned forward.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell us. We’re ready.”

He smiled. “I bet. Well, you better get organized if you wanna keep workin’ for me.”

A chorus of agreement answered him. But then Donald asked a question Jerrod had no intention of answering. “Hey, where’s Marko? Have you seen him?”

Others asked the same thing, and Jerrod scowled again. “How the fuck should I know? I ain’t his mother. Now, if you shits can’t handle the job I have for you alone, then go ahead and fuck off. What’s it gonna be?”

A chorus of disagreement followed this announcement. They shifted in their seats and grumbled.

“Nah! We can handle it.”

“Sure, boss. Whatever you need. We’ll get it done.”

Jerrod grinned and started asking the questions, leading the conversation towards what was happening in the town, making it look like he knew but wanted to see if they knew, like a test.

There was some hubbub at the shipping yards. It was said the merchants’ guild was primed and ready to sail out. There was a new fleet built, and many out of work dock workers and sailors were anxious to have a job.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jerrod said and waved them on. “I get it. What else?”

Part of the excitement was the call for volunteers, and some of the toughs were thinking of joining as extra security men. The fleet was said to be going after hard sailing buccaneers, and they would at some point see battle. But they were waiting to hear from Marko, who had been missing for the last few days.

Jerrod grunted. “What is he, your master and keeper? If you want some real coin, stay here and work for me. I guarantee your reputation around here will get a good shot in the ass real fast.”

No one argued. They were his.

The big road outside of town was under construction, but it happened in fits and starts. There was an argument over money, and who was supposed to be paying for it, the city or the guild and no one knew what the problem was. Either way, many of the workers that might have worked on it were setting sail anyway.

“Fuck’s sake! I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. Tell me something about the arena, or that little shit Zandor.” Jerrod leaned forward. “Or are you gonna tell me about Mama Goodness and her gardening tips? Huh?”

Abashed, they changed the subject. They all started talking at once, but then one of the tavern employees came over and stood at their table. Jerrod craned his neck up at him.

The man was annoyed. “You folks all need to keep it down. We don’t want you here anyway, so iffen you gotta stay, then you best keep quiet see?”

The toughs looked hang dogged and dropped their heads, nodding.

Jerrod eyed the man, venom in his words. “You ever speak another word to me again, I’ll gut you and feed your innards to that dog.” He nodded to the mutt near the door and watched the man’s face for reaction. At first he looked offended, but when he saw the depth of pure hatred and potential death in Jerrod’s eyes, he stuttered and backed away.

He looked back to them, his previous question still hanging in the air. Donald cleared his throat.

“The arena is doing good, boss.” He had a bandage across his nose and two black eyes. He looked as tired as Jerrod felt a day ago. “Thruck is still the main attraction. They got that monster doing everything these days. Feats of strength, battle royales, all that. People can’t get enough.”

Jerrod grunted and thought about the last time he had seen the beast, about the ultimatum to fight him.

“The tents have a problem,” one of the other toughs said.

“What problem?”

“Some of the table managers have been skimming.”

“They always do that,” Jerrod said.

“Not like this. It’s more than usual. It’s getting bad, and they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Jerrod smiled. “Good. Let’s make it look like Zandor’s fault. Some of them will take a handout and plead the case to the higher ups. One of you will make a delivery for me later. Got it?”

They did and made plans to do the same at the arena. It was a tried and true method to undermine an operation, and it worked better if trust was an issue, and no matter what Zandor had done for them in the past, he was still an outsider. When someone got fired—or killed—everyone else toed the line. It was a classic move, and Jerrod started warming up to the idea of being back in his element. Maybe he had learned something from the little shit after all.

There was more. The police were acting strange. And the jail was even stranger. Jerrod narrowed his eyes.

“How so?”

“It’s empty,” one of them said. “Never seen anything like it. There was some kind of amnesty while back, yeah. They made ‘em go work on the road there by the wealthy quarter.”

“Sure,” Donald said. “But when the money for materials stopped coming, they couldn’t work on it. All the workers went home, including the thieves they had locked up at night and working during the day. The police were pissed off. I guess they went on strike or something because I haven’t seen many around much the last couple of days.”

Jerrod considered. The men at the tavern the other night fit the description well. They hadn’t fought him at all, and he had assumed it was because he was an ultimate badass kind of guy, but that was not all. They didn’t want to arrest him because of some tiff with the city.

If they weren’t working, it made it easier for him to do his job. He sat back and let them talk amongst themselves, spouting out more rumors around town he was not interested in.

The police on strike made the city wide open. It wasn’t that Jerrod ever feared a reprisal from the police. They were easy enough to handle, but it made robbing people easier. All they would face would be whatever security men they had at whatever place they chose to rob. Such men were neither armed nor paid well and thus easy to overcome.

They could have robbed the taverns or anyone they wanted with impunity, but the taverns had access to more money. Jerrod could start his own group of thieves, thugs that would swoop in and smash the fools before they knew what hit them. They wouldn’t be like the other thieves that stole with stealth and subtlety. The toughs weren’t like that.

There was no need for financial backing to get at Zandor. All they had to do was steal and foster the idea he was part of the skimming that was taking place.

It would work. A plan formed in his mind on how to approach it all. It would work out better than he could have imagined.

* * * * *

Sunlight spilled through the window and silk curtains to land on the floor of the palatial bedroom. It provided superficial warmth to spread across the area. The room’s lone occupant did not care for the extra heat, preferring it dark and cool.