Death's Reckoning (10 page)

Giorgio had no choice but to obey. The food engorged his body and mind. It tasted like nothing else, filling his belly to bursting. There was nothing else in the world but the food and the act of shoveling it down his gullet. The dog did the same, sniffing and wolfing at the lamb, beef, and chicken from a massive plate on the floor.

After gorging himself like a pig, Giorgio sat back and felt calmness spread from the tips of his fingers down to the end of his toes. Warmth struck him in the belly and radiated through his limbs. An aching thrum hit his temples and nagged. It grew more powerful, and he rubbed his head and squinted. It seemed as if someone were talking to him.

The dog barked. Giorgio snapped his attention back to the man across the table. People didn’t offer a meal and solace to a stranger. The man gazed at him from under his hat, and though his face could not be seen, the eyes could be felt.

“There now” Malthus Benaire said. “That’s better, yes? We can’t have you ravenous, can we? It would ruin your concentration my dear fellow.”

“Who are you?”

The man smiled, and the air went out of the room. “How rude of me. I forget my manners, so please do me the curtsey and forgive. I am Malthus Benaire, and you may address me however you wish. I’m a bit old fashioned at times and would not think to presume on the customary routines of my companions. And your name, you are called Giorgio, yes? Wonderful name; Gee-or-gee-oh. Ah. I have encountered cognates before in other lands. I would be interested in your specific genealogy.”

Giorgio nodded. “That’s my name. How do you know me?”

Malthus laughed. “My dear fellow! One cannot walk the streets of this city for long without hearing of you. You were the thieves’ leader. You helped unify the docks against those marauders. Most impressive.”

Giorgio grunted. “We lost.”

“Ah, but the effort was noteworthy as were some of your more recent activities.”

Giorgio froze, trying to control his thoughts lest this magician could read his mind. There was no telling what he was capable of.

“Ease you mind,” Malthus said. “I come as a friend. Rest assured this is true.”

Giorgio glanced around, fear gripping him. No one was watching. It seemed he and the man were the only people in the room. “What do you want?”

Malthus’ voice changed. It became deeper, more resonant. “The question comes. I want what all men desire if they search for the truth within their hearts. To increase my influence. To have my existence matter.” He leaned forward and tapped the table with his gloved fingers. “Now, the pertinent question remains. And that is, what do I wish with you? Let’s say I am
very
interested in your development. Your skills, your particular abilities are a boon you must take full advantage of, here and now.”

Giorgio glanced around again. His paranoia foremost in his mind. No one paid them any attention. “How do you know these things? Who are you?”

“I’ve told you how I am. Your skittishness is appalling. Pull yourself together, this instant. Your very soul is at stake.”

Giorgio sat back, stunned. There was an undeniable gravitas and truth to the man’s words. “What do you mean by that?”

Malthus Benaire smiled, and it was as if the entire world opened up in that instant. “I will show you.”

* * * * *

Another day and another balanced book. Muldor was gratified, and his confidence buoyed by the work.

Spring was breaking into summer, and enough weeks were behind him that he felt strong about what they had accomplished. The Guild was back to normal functioning. The debt lingered in political morass, and Cassius had left him alone about it. No doubt he and the rest of the council postponed the negotiations with Janisberg, and Ambassador Lautner could stew all he wanted.

There was no reason to waste any further time on it. It wasn’t his fight anymore. Aides from the city council had requested his presence at the meetings, but the new Guild Master hadn’t gone to any of them in over two weeks. Perhaps he would elect a Guild member to go in his place, one of the Dock Masters. Or send the new market liaison Tomlinson to go in his stead. That would work fine.

Maggur would also be sufficient. The ambitious man was always demanding more responsibility, so Muldor wrote out a contract, stipulating the man’s new responsibilities, along with proper compensation for his time. He called in a dock worker by the name of Styles. The young man stood at the doorway, looking with expectant eyes for his next assignment.

“Give this to Dock Master Maggur,” Muldor said and handed him the rolled up sheet stamped with his seal, the Guild Master’s seal still didn’t feel as if it were his to use.

“Yes, sir,” Styles said and turned away, but Muldor called him back.

“And tell your supervisor I have approved your request for a lighter assignment. I am in need of an additional runner. You’ll have full use of furloughs as well.”

Styles brightened. His rather goofy smile split his sharp features, and glowed. “Yes, sir! Right away, Guild Master Muldor!”

He ran off.

Muldor allowed himself a smile. Things were getting better by the day. A couple hours later, the paperwork was done. It was rare to finish early enough to see the sun set, but there it was, dipping behind the raised sails of the numerous ships anchored at port. It was breathtaking, though Muldor seldom stopped to appreciate it.

Some extra workers, not part of the regular hiring by The Guild, spoiled his mood for a moment. He watched them work near Pier Three. They off-loaded the largest shipment of the week, a consignment of exotic goods. Most dock workers didn’t like these men because they were foreigners, hired by the selling merchants.

Besides jars of expensive perfume and boxes of jewelry, men brought out spools of silk by the dozen and huge trolleys. The extra security comprised of brawny men with poleaxes and plate armor, even more impressive than the fellows from Janisberg. They continued to occupy the Western and Southern Docks. Muldor counted a score, and eight foreign merchants watched as their precious wares were taken off ship.

Muldor recognized each seller; very rich men who held special membership within The Guild. It allowed them to sell their goods and set up special events to sell at a higher rate for unique clients. A large portion of the marketplace was being prepared for the bazaar. They did it once every couple of months to make it more prestigious, and it always left the city much richer.

The fading sunlight waned, and soon the men finished and walked off for their favorite tavern. If he wanted, Muldor could make a list of where each man went, where the rich merchants stayed, where they put their guards, and even which whore they preferred at Madam Dreary’s.

Maybe that should happen someday. It could give him leverage. But that was what Castellan would think, and that was why he was in prison. If it wasn’t Guild business, it was no business of his. Muldor sighed and watched some of the regular dock workers take a short break.

His heart clutched with thoughts of his cousin Carver. The man had done the same things countless times. He liked to smoke a specific type of cigarette made with mint. It was a nice flavor that Muldor enjoyed on occasion as well. He could see him standing there now, smoking, his hand rising and falling as he smiled and puffed. The hanged man would never do so again.

Muldor should check in on the three children, Gertrude, Willard, and little Robert. All three were housed as inmates at the city orphanage. Inmates was an appropriate word. Many people used it, since the orphanage had that reputation. Muldor knew from experience it was an apt term.

The eldest child Marissa was still missing. Her siblings, too young to understand, knew nothing of her whereabouts and could not remember the last time they had seen her. Muldor had asked around in some of the seedier parts of town. Men kidnapped children from time to time, but only wealthy people could pay ransoms, not poor lost children with no homes. There were hundreds of those cases in the city of Sea Haven. No one knew anything.

Muldor figured she was a runaway or had been consumed on the street. Or she was used in one of the illegal prostitution rings men ran in the southern section of the city. Cubbins had worked hard to root it out, but it was impossible for the police to finish with their staffing issues. The Guild hadn’t had time to dwell on it much to the dismay of Muldor’s sense of family loyalty and human compassion.

Their mother was locked away in the city’s insane asylum, the most horrifying place in the entire city, and that said something. There was nothing Muldor could do to change that, for the building operated outside the normal policing of the city.

Only the Arc Lector had any say on its policing. For some reason years ago, the venerable man had absconded his attempts to curtail the harsh conditions there. Some said it was his greater failure in life and his greatest shame.

The Arc Lector Morlin. Muldor hadn’t thought of the man for a moment since the day the city surrendered itself to the Janisberg fleet. Something happened that night, something Muldor couldn’t understand. The power of the Arc Lector, his influence, had been complete, total, and all encompassing.

With a mouth full of bile and a heavy heart, Muldor wasted no more thought on it. It was a cold night; always so surprising how fast the temperature dropped during the nighttime hours. The wind was powerful, even as he walked away from the water. The sea air so invigorating to him, so natural and comforting.

A few beggars congregated outside The Tattered Sail. Men who occupied an even lower social stratum than the poor dock workers frequented there. Most nights he wouldn’t give the homeless a second glance, but perhaps because he had been reminded of the remnants of his family, he felt generous towards the destitute.

He fisted out a few coppers from under his cloak and tossed them to a crooked old man sitting by a wall. The man sat up fast and snatched them out of the dirt, looking at Muldor with suspicion. Then he closed his eyes and sat back, not saying a word.

Muldor shook his head. “May the gods bless you too.”

He turned away, and someone struck him from behind. A hard, sudden blow landed square in the middle of the rear of his skull. Blackness filled his vision, and the next second he was down on his knees in the street. People were screaming.

Two sets of boots kicked him. He raised his hands to protect his head and face and felt sticky blood on the back of his skull. It matted his hair. Another kick sent him sprawling on his hand, and then a foot dislodged his palm from the ground, and he landed hard on his other elbow.

They kept at it while someone else yelled for help. In this part of town, police and dock security should have been close by already. But Muldor was oblivious to the other people, alternating between trying to protect his head and ribs with his elbows, but with two people kicking him, it was difficult to block at all.

All he saw were boots, leering faces, and dirt. Blood mixed in with the dust of the road, and his arms and face were covered with it. Some of it got in his right eye, but he had no time or ability to wipe it out. Everything happened so fast. There was no time to reaction, only pain and confusion. Chaos reigned.

More people had gathered. Some shouted encouragement to his attackers, others in dismay. Cries for police, security, anyone to come and help rang out while others laughed and even placed bets as to whether they would kill him before they finished. It felt to Muldor that wager was lost.

He tried to plant his feet, but his strength was flagging, and the sheer pain made him weaker. The kicking stopped for half a breath, and maybe the beaten man might’ve been able to roll away, but then someone kicked him hard in the face, and he collapsed hard.

A man leaned in close to his ear and whispered, his voice harsh and unrecognizable. His breath was rancid. “You listen to me, mister guild master. You got one week to come up with the money you owe, or this is just the beginning. The whole city will burn after you die. You got it?”

The man kicked him again, harder than before. Muldor grunted in pain and sprawled. He gasped in agony and held his cracked ribs. His ears rang. People yammered about something. Someone tugged at his elbow to help him to his feet, but it was a struggle. It was too painful. Blood dribbled down his head.

Standing on shaky legs, two bystanders helped. His left arm was numb. Muldor looked around but couldn’t see well. He wiped some blood out of his eyes. A tooth was loose. Another had busted through his mouth and cut into his check.

“You okay, Master Muldor?” someone said to him, peering into his eyes.

This couldn’t happen here, not to him.

* * * * *

Jerrod had his boys together, and they were ready to move. The time was right for a little thump, thump, bone and crunch. It was time to get their knuckles bloody. He might have lousy street cred in the betting tents, but the toughs were his to push and shove into whomever he needed smashed to a pulp. The former enforcer also had a nice stash of gold left over from Castellan’s nonsense and could use it well against these bastards. It would go a long way to re-establishing his reputation as a ruthless killer. That was the way it had to be.

Marko, the lead tough, was his contact within their organization. A stocky, thick-headed man half a head shorter than Jerrod but almost as wide. His black leather vest, cut below the ball of his shoulders, and his arm muscles burst. He rubbed the back of his bull neck while Jerrod outlined his plan.