Death's Reckoning (39 page)

Unri shook from rage and shame. Tears welled then streamed down his tanned cheeks, mixing in with the salt and pepper beard. Cubbins knew he wanted to rush through the curtain and spew his hate upon his foe, but it would only doom him.

“I must put family to rest.
I must!
They demand recompense from grave. I hear them screaming for it.”

“Then you can join them in hell,” Cubbins said. He squared up with the older man and put his hands on his shoulders. Cubbins was a full head taller. “Understand this: Malthus Benaire is not human because he’s an entity, a phantom. He only exists because we give him the power to exist. This thing feeds on our fears and makes them happen, fulfilling the prophecy we create for ourselves. The only way to win is to turn away.”

Unri’s racial conditioning wouldn’t die that easy, so he looked at Cubbins as if he were a simpleton that didn’t understand what was being discussed. “We all die, Master Cubbins. This is fact. Someday, it will take us.”

“No! This thing isn’t really death, not in a literal sense. And he only wants us if we are strong and virile. Why else set up shop here at Madam Dreary’s house where strong, virile men come? This creature won’t take us when we’re old. Nature will and that’s fine.
This
is not.”

They stared at each other for a few moments then back at the curtain. The light from the torches wavered from some unnamed source of wind, where poor Jenkins was suffering his fate.

“We stand on edge,” Unri said. “Between life and this fate by decision we make.”

“Then we make it now. Walk away forever. If we don’t… he will be drawn back to us, for we are men with a life force that’s desirable. It’s counted on, for men to be men.”

Unri’s face went cold, and Cubbins saw the anguish. The man wanted to die and join his family in whatever afterlife his people believed in, but he also possessed a sense of responsibility. They had the only weapon they could use against their enemy: knowledge.

“This only way to fight this creature,” Unri said. “My people wrong. Now we continue battle but must help others see. Much work to do for you and city. This place is refuge for this spirit.”

“Tell me you’ll stay and help me,” Cubbins said. “I could use a good man by my side, someone I can trust. Your home is gone, so is your family.”

“This is not my place of birth. I do not know if good idea.”

“Think about it. You’ve nowhere else to go anyway.”

“Perhaps you come with me first to my land to learn more of things you know little.” He glanced at Madam Dreary. “What of her? Lady is no part of this.”

Cubbins wasn’t sure. He avoided looking at the curtain and the grisly remains of Jon. The two of them weren’t going to join them, as cold hearted as it sounded, not to the grave just yet. He skirted around the back of Malthus’ position towards Madam Dreary.

She stood up against the wall motionless. Her face was blank, and her eyes lifeless. It saddened Cubbins to see someone so full of life, so vivacious and passionate, reduced to a lifeless husk. The pressure of Malthus Benaire weighed down on his emotional sensibilities. It would’ve been easy to turn and fight him, to give in to the desire to strike him down. But that way laid madness.

Even though the decision to walk away was made, the lingering pulse to do something struggled for dominance. As a man of action, it was difficult to turn away from a conflict. There was a glimmer of motion from behind the curtain, and the figure of death stopped in mid motion, arm raised, head turned.

Cubbins held his breath. No, he wouldn’t die this day. Instead, they would walk away as hard as it was. There was no reason to accept what his vocation offered. He’d lived longer than any police captain had in the history of the city because he was good, smart, didn’t take unnecessary chances, knew the streets, knew the people, and they loved him.

No more skulking about then. Malthus Benaire didn’t exist. Cubbins stood up straight and grabbed Madam Dreary by the arm and pulled her off the wall. She screamed. Loud and long. The shadow of Malthus stood and the room went cold. Cubbins held back a yell and clamped his hand over her mouth. Then he put his arms around her and hissed in her ear.

“Quiet! We’re alive, listen to me! Malthus doesn’t want you because you are alive. Feel my arms, hear my voice. Feel me! This is life, this is what it feels like. You remember. Your life is full of the greatest pleasures, drinking, laughing, loving. Feel me, remember your life.”

Unri came to stand behind them as Cubbins struggled with holding her still. He put his hand on Cubbins’ back. “You are very wise, friend Cubbins.”

“We’re not done yet.”

The shadow behind the curtain moved, and Cubbins felt his stomach churn. He held tighter and told Unri to do the same. They both closed their eyes and smelled her perfume, felt the warmth of her voluptuous body. They held her closer and sucked in the pleasure of her nearness. Madam Dreary calmed, and the three of them held each other. The flickering torchlight was the only illumination save in their hearts.

The shadow settled. Cubbins kept his breathing tight and focused, letting his muscles relax but not enough to release her. The two men held the beautiful madam together and waited for the shadow to continue its work. The distraction held, and Malthus Benaire sat down and worked at his craft unimpeded. Cubbins relaxed.

They were free.

Chapter Twenty Three

The paperwork was perfect. Muldor had worked hard along with his conspirators, considering them loyalists to The Guild regardless of what might’ve been whispered in the streets. It was official and left no doubt as who to blame. Dollenger, Maggur, and Raul plotted to fill their own purses while allowing the city to go to ruin. They were ousted as Castellan’s main contributors and would suffer the consequences. It was done.

The prisoners were kept in the jail on the political prisoners’ floor. Muldor trusted Dillon to remain true. It was The Guild’s fortune that Captain Cubbins was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he was dead, murdered on the street like the previous captain had been years ago. Muldor remembered the man well. The fellow had been corruptible and deserved his fate. And while Cubbins was a good man, Muldor was satisfied he did not have to contend with his animosity towards their cause.

The Guild Master had met with Lawson and Becket’s agents many times over the next several hours since the arrests. The market was reopened. The docks needed two new Dock Masters, and he ordered them to make their recommendations, so he could decide on the replacements. They had to be both capable and loyal.

Several bodyguards followed Muldor as he walked towards the gallows square. He didn’t like it, but Becket and the others insisted. They still had enemies. Maggur and his agents might’ve decided to attack before the hangings commenced, and they wanted the Guild Master protected.

There was something like fear rippling through him as they walked passed stalls and eager, curious faces from the merchants. They were spit images of Castellan and his steel clad guard entourage. He approached the outer edge of the marketplace, where they erected the gallows whenever hangings were in order.

It had been some months since the last big event. Hangings happened every so often, and it was an ironic twist that a city known as Murder Haven had very few public executions. Muldor remembered the last, when his cousin Carver had hung by the neck until dead. He had been powerless to stop it, hadn’t acted until it was too late. This day was different.

Muldor had all the power.

It was early still. The market was opening in an hour or so, but many people lined the streets to and from the gallows square, pushing up against the stage where Muldor would stand with the rest of the city council, to judge and punish the ones responsible for the mess Sea Haven found itself in.

Becket and Lawson stood proud, grim smiles on their faces though Muldor thought they must’ve been celebrating within. They nodded to him. Crocker was there too, and while the old man had argued, Muldor insisted the remaining Dock Master showed a unified front with him when the sentence was carried out. The people would be watching.

The weather chose to be normal that afternoon when the ceremony was set to begin. Muldor was no longer accustomed to wearing his heavy grey robes and sweated underneath the thick sleeves and hood. It was stifling. Maybe he would change to something lighter, more fitting for a man of his stature.

“Styles,” Muldor said to the young man, and he stood straight.

“My lord?”

“Fetch me something else to wear. I’m afraid the increased temperature has made this garb troublesome. A light robe if you would. Speak with master Salem near the silken cloth stalls on Oak Boulevard. He sells such items. Tell him it is for me.”

“Of course, Muldor.”

The little rabbit ran off, and soon Muldor wore a light cotton robe with thin sleeves and a leather belt. He wore his chain of office, a heavy gold medallion, outside of the clothes for the first time since assuming the office. He’d forgotten he still had it. Now everyone could see it.

The afternoon wore on, and the streets were packed with people. Hawkers sold their wares, and Muldor allowed them even though they were independents sellers not part of The Guild. People ate of their food and drank of their wine. Security consisted of police and members of City Watch. Muldor would have to think long and hard on Raul’s replacement, for these men could not be swayed with ease.

People shouted and screamed for the hangings to commence, and those on the stage grew restless. Cassius eyed Muldor from across the way, and Muldor let him. They would begin when he told Dillon to bring forth the prisoners. The crowd got rowdy, clapping and chanting. They came to see some important people punished, and they wanted blood.

Becket approached him. “Muldor, should we get started?”

Muldor turned to him, and with a look Becket stopped talking. “Master Becket, I believe from this point on you should address me as Guild Master Muldor, if you would. It shows respect to my position if not the man.”

Becket did well to hide his frown. “Fine, yes. My apologies. Guild Master Muldor. Shouldn’t we get started? These people are restless.”

“Do not fear them. The people are The Guild, and The Guild is the people. We exist for them and fight for their well-being.”

He waited until the crowd was drooling, and stomping their feet in anticipation for the event. Muldor gave a signal to Lieutenant Dillon, and they brought forth the prisoners, six men in total. Dollenger and Raul, plus their highest ranking aides would fill out the gallows’ six ropes.

They were a ragged bunch, chained on both feet and arms, and as they walked to the stage, they were pelted by the crowd with rotten fruit and mushy vegetables. They deserved it. These men let Castellan get away with everything and put the entire city, their way of life, in jeopardy. They failed to stop him and acted in their own self interests.

This was their fault, and they would reap their reward. For the good of them all, these men had to die. He thought about Maggur, and how the man’s flight had assured this situation look legitimate. Staying to fight might have swayed the council, but his escape made his guilt too clear for all to see. They could not resist Muldor’s logic.

They reached the stage and Cassius stood and gave a speech about their crimes and why this sentence was just and fair. The crowd bellowed in support. Muldor smiled, for he had them all; city, people, everyone. This was the position Castellan had long sought after and never was able to achieve. How ironic that Muldor was able to make it happen his way and not the way of the sword.

Dillon had the prisoners unshackled and shoved forward underneath the nooses while the executioners pulled the ropes down far enough so they could fit over their necks. Dollenger and Raul stood next to each other, looking glum. They had no fight left in them.

But Raul stared at Muldor with seething hate in his eyes. The Guild Master didn’t turn away, though a simmering guilt churned in his stomach. The truth was, he and the other Dock Masters were as culpable as the condemned men. They knew about the theft yet did nothing. Maggur and Dollenger were more active participants in Castellan’s plan but the others were guilty by association.

No matter. The Guild couldn’t survive without some semblance of leadership carried over from this fiasco. Dollenger was proud and kept his composure, eyes straight away. He said not a word when asked. None of the others wished to speak even though it was their right, but as they were about to drape the noose around Raul’s neck, he spoke.

It was hard to hear him over the roar of the crowd, but his words struck Muldor hard.

“Every single one of you within the sound of my voice… every single one, listen to me! This city will burn. Do you hear me? It will burn to the ground. I tried, my whole life, to help this city when the time came to stand up. Kill me if you want, but that won’t change a thing. You all deserve what’s coming to you.”

The crowd listened to most of it, but they continued to yell and throw items at the stage. Some of the filth pelted the officials standing there, who backed away. Muldor heard every word of Raul’s final speech, the last words the man would ever speak. It struck him like a sinuous disease, crawling around his belly, making him ill. He pushed it down, and they gave the order to hang the guilty.

The six men were lined up in a straight line, noosed one by one, and then the executioner, a brutal looking man with black hood and leather pants, grabbed the lever. Cassius looked at Muldor for a moment, looking serene. Muldor saw a look of expectation there. The Lord Governor was waiting for a signal from Muldor.

It was his decision. That was the unspoken truth in Lord Cassius’ eyes. The crowd quieted all of a sudden, and everyone looked at the stage. A hush fell over them. Muldor nodded.

Lord Cassius turned to the executioner, and the man pulled the lever. The bodies dropped as one and snapped back hard. The smell of released bowels followed the sharp crack of their necks as they broke. Some of the crowd groaned in sympathy while others clapped.

It was done. Muldor had replaced the man he had fought so hard to depose. All his work, all the years of slavery to The Guild, all of his sacrifices had led to this moment. He had become Castellan’s replacement in more ways than one.

* * * * *

The matches commenced. Thruck was back on regular rotation, and the crowd responded by showing up in even more impressive numbers and betting with every scrap of coin they could muster. The percentage the average Sea Haven resident spent at either the arena or the betting tents was shameful when compared to the amount spent on home or family, if they had either.

The loan officers stood by the exit and entrance looking for prey. They could keep these idiots in debt for life, if they kept at it. Served them right.

Half drunk already, Jerrod watched them run back and forth to wager windows, frantic to get a winning ticket for the next round, hoping their bet would pay off. A man like him was above them in every way. Sure, he fed off their stupidity, but that’s what made him superior. They worked and slaved, and he reaped their rewards.

One of the bar hops walked by carrying a beer laded tray, and Jerrod grabbed a mug and drank. The man glared but didn’t challenge him. There was nothing he could’ve done anyway. Jerrod grinned back.

The brutal man laughed. These little shits were beginning to learn who was in charge of this place. It was about time.

The night wore on. Jerrod watched Thruck dismantle another group of men, but as no weapons were used in this particular bout, none were killed. There was vengeful wrath in the beast’s eyes. Only a stupid animal could be so angry all the time. It had no other function but to win and make money for others.

Marko found him a little while later. The head tough comingled with several others of their band. The stout man nodded to Jerrod and offered another mug. “Sir. Good night so far.”

Jerrod took the proffered ale and took a drink. “What’s our tally?”

With inside information gleaned from fighters backstage, Jerrod had his men placed side bets, paying off some of the fighters in the process. Anyone would take a dive if the price was right.

“It’s good, sir. Up from last week.”

Jerrod eyed him. “I said what’s the damn tally? Be specific, you dolt.”

“Yes, sir!” Marko said and told him. Jerrod grunted, hiding his pleasure. These people didn’t need to know how satisfied he was. That was how you got people to think they didn’t need you anymore. Marko cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. Jerrod gave him a dark look.

“Uh, sir, some of the men were asking me, that is, uh, some of them were wondering if we were getting that bonus you talked about before. Since we’ve done so well and all, I thought we might get extra.”

Jerrod glowered at him. The idea of handing them any coin turned his stomach. “You all got side bets, doncha?”

“Well, yes, sir, we do.”

“That’s your bonus right there, fella.”

Marko nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Jerrod thought he heard less enthusiasm in the response but didn’t give a damn. They were his men, and they had to live with it.

Another match and another win for them made all of them smile. They drank and laughed. Jerrod felt a little tipsy after a couple of hours. All these morons in the crowd did was feed his retirement fund. At least they were good for something. One of the serving wenches, a brave woman to spend any amount of time in a place of like this, made him consider getting a whore that night. It had been some times since visiting Madam Dreary’s.

This buxom girl would do fine, with every inch of her smooth skin and ripe womanhood, bursting out of her bodice. Nice and juicy. He tried to speak to her, but she said she was too busy to chat. The stupid slut tried to walk off, but he grabbed her arm.

Alcohol clouded his judgment, and his demeanor turned sour in a hurry. He cursed her for a lying whore, and she begged him to release her arm. Some of the security men saw what was happening and came over to talk, and even some of Jerrod’s own attempted to separate his hand from her wrist. They got her free, and he cursed them.

Burn ‘em all.

Shoving them out of his way, roaring drunk, Jerrod pushed through the rest of the crowd, feeling elated, unbeatable. They couldn’t do a damn thing to him though they kept yelling at him to leave. Fuck them.

He stumbled into the street. It was biting cold, too damn cold for mid-summer. Stupid weather, stupid son of whores security, bastard traitors; all of them could rot. A few people stood outside talking and smoking, and they looked his way.