Good Job Trug, can't wait to read more
Very well written. I enjoyed your portrayal of the humble history of Melonism. I look forward to future references, should we be so lucky.
May Melon be with you.
Gerald Seddon hated Brill with a passion. It was a stone's throw from the watch tower on the eastern side of Chernsburg, and wasn't really a town, so to speak; it was mostly just an amalgamation of shanties, sheds, run-down taverns and muddy roads which had stuck around long enough to earn a name. If pressed to describe the place, Seddon could do it in one word. Shit. It reeked of it, had the same color, and he imagined that the beer was probably made of the stuff, too.
“Oy, bartender! Do you even clean these mugs, or is the dirt just part of the charm?”
The sluggard behind the counter didn't say a word; he just stared at Gerald as he spat into a rag and began wiping out the inside of a fresh tankard. Seddon lost what little interest he had in his beer and turned to survey the crowd.
The clientele matched the rest of the town, in his opinion. A mix of laborers and layabouts were scattered around the dimly lit tavern; drinking if they had money to spare, begging for drinks if they didn't. None appeared to be starving at least – the Count did try to keep his people at least treading water, even out here in the slums. But there is a lot of room between starving and successful, and these poor bastards were smack in the middle of it.
The door swung open, admitting a swirl of fresh air and noise from the street outside. Well, comparatively fresh, anyway. A large man shouldered his way into the room, kicking the flimsy pine door closed behind him. A few patrons cast glances up toward the newcomer, but most kept their eyes fixed on the tabletops and beer mugs in front of them. The burly fellow lumbered across the room toward the bar, veering slightly from side to side. Clearly this wasn't his first watering hole of the night. He staggered up to the bar next to Gerald, tossed down a copper coin and thumped a meaty fist down on the pocked wooden surface.
“Ale.”
The bartender filled a tankard (the same tankard he'd been 'cleaning' a minute ago, Gerald noted with horror) and slapped it down on the counter; deftly making the copper disappear as he did so. The man raised the mug and tipped it back in one long draught, sighing and smacking his lips afterwards.
“Ah, that hits the spot, it does.” The stranger poked Seddon in the ribs with an elbow. “Not drinkin', Gerald? Yer missin' out!”
Seddon nodded glumly, still watching the bartender. “I'm sure, Glen. It certainly looks . . .” The bartender hawked, spat, and started scrubbing away at another mug. “Mouthwatering. Shall we?”
The two men meandered over to a table in the corner of the tavern, far enough away from the main crowd that their voices wouldn't carry to any unwanted ears. Gerald looked his companion up and down as they settled into their seats.
“Well, Glen, I'm always amazed at just how well you clean up for a night on the town.”
Frekkeson laughed and patted the rough homespun tunic he was wearing. “Aye, amazing what some rags, a bit of mud and a generous splash of rotgut can do for an image, eh?”
Seddon smiled thinly and nodded. “You're early this month. Something come up?”
“Straight to business. I like that about you, Gerald. What do you know about the Richfort boys?”
“Local family, been here longer than some, not as long as others. Think it was their grandfather that settled here first.” Seddon shrugged. “Family's been in the trade business for a while, kids took over when their father died ten, fifteen years or so back. Why?”
“Brothers came to me tonight with one of your shipments. Crates busted up, fair bit lost or taken. Said they'd been nearly eaten alive by a pack of starving beggars that moved like the fires of Daemon himself were boiling in their veins. Sound like anyone you know?”
“What?” Seddon hissed, looking furtively over his shoulder. “You don't honestly mean to tell me that a bunch of Quetches are out there vandalizing caravans on the roads?”
“Fucked if I know.” Glen drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “You're the damned alchemist, can Crimson do that to a person?”
Gerald pondered for a moment, then shook his head. “No. At least not that I've seen. The withdrawals vary from person to person, of course, but at worst the subject just goes into convulsions and dies. Looks like a fit. And that takes weeks, even among the heaviest users.”
“Good. I was hoping you'd say that.” Frekkeson chuckled. “More likely the two little gits got robbed while they were taking a piss and were too ashamed to admit it. Last thing we need is customers getting violent and attracting the wrong sort of attention. Whoa...” Glen paused for a moment, then let out a resounding belch. “Whew. That's some good ale. Shipment'll be at your warehouse by third watch tonight – what's left of it anyway. Payment as usual.”
“It's been a good month, I think you'll be pleased.” The two men rose and clasped hands, then Frekkeson turned back toward the bar.
“Think I'll get another one before I hit the road. Care to join me?”
Seddon gave the barkeep one final glare (was the little shit grinning at him?) and shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Glen, but no.” He flipped up the hood of his cloak and headed out into the hustle of early evening Brill.
Anyone following the alchemist would have been hard-pressed to keep track of all the twists and turns the man made on his way through town. A narrow alley here, a loose fence board there, doubling and redoubling over his tracks as he meandered across town toward the warehouse district. Eventually he reached his destination; a stone-walled warehouse with a sturdy slate roof. Seddon walked around to a side door, and rapped out a quick code. A series of taps came from the far side, and Seddon quietly replied, “forty-two”. The door cracked open, and Gerald slipped inside.
The inside of the warehouse looked as though a glassblower with the hiccups had taken up residence. Tubes, bowls, flasks and retorts covered several long tables and ran along the walls. Crates of reddish roots were piled up on one end of the work area, and barrels filled with various powders were placed strategically around the room. On a production night, the air would have been filled with the hiss of steam and the grumbling of boiling solutions, but tonight the room was still.
The man who had opened the door stood quietly to one side as his Seddon removed his gloves and cloak. He was a short fellow with pale blond hair, steady hands and a devious mind. Gerald had been lucky enough to run into Bartholomew back when they had been studying together under a master alchemist in Birchkeep – a city far to the north. With Seddon's knack for alchemy and Bart's ability to procure almost anything (or anyone), the pair had been able to go far. Far enough, in fact, to narrowly escape the headsman's axe in Birchkeep after their “experiments” were discovered.
“What news?” asked Bart, taking Gerald's cloak and hanging it on a hook near the side door.
“It would seem that the latest batch is showing some promise. Frekkeson said a gang of rabid loonies attacked one of our supply shipments tonight.”
Bart grunted. “Hm. So the new additive must be speeding up their hearts and increasing their aggression. Interesting side-effect, but not what we had hoped.”
“Oh, I think it's a step in the right direction at least.” Seddon stepped up to one of the tables and picked up a flask filled with a bright, red liquid. After drying, the resultant salts were sold out on the streets as “Crimson”. It was touted as a miracle powder, which would give you the energy of a young man in his prime, and with no ill effects afterwards. And that was true – as long as you kept taking the stuff. Stop, and the Quetches set in. If you were a light user, the twitches and shakes would eventually fade away, although the craving for more would never really leave you. Heavy users . . . were a different story. In any case, sales were brisk, and both Seddon and Frekkeson were making money hand over fist.
“How long do you figure before we get it right?”
Seddon set the flask down and smiled. It was not a warm smile by any means, and for a large number of people in Birchkeep it had been the last smile they had ever seen.
“Soon, Bart. Very soon.”
Awesome work Trug!
"At its lowest point in the sky, the crimson bloom's to bring forth the night and those who roam its streets." Quote by - Frederick Seddon
“Here, look at this, Silas. What do you make of all that?”
Silas looked up to see what Marna was pointing to. They were walking down Potter's Row, one of the many small streets that honeycombed the craftsman's quarter. Near a squat kiln, a few open crates were stuffed with clay jars, plates, bowls and other vessels; all nestled in beds of straw. Several stacks of sealed crates were piled up nearby, and looked as though they had been sitting for a while.
“I'd say Josh the Potter has goods that needed to be shipped yesterday.”
Marna nodded. “I'd say the same. Shall we?”
The pair crossed the small dooryard and went into the shop. Josh was an old client of theirs, and a good one. He regularly needed his goods sent out to various inns, taverns and public houses around the County, and was known for good quality earthenware at reasonable prices. But in the weeks following Silas and Clyde's disaster on the road, Josh was just one of many old customers that had fallen abruptly and stonily quiet. Silas and Marna had been making the rounds and trying to drum up business, but... Well, things weren't looking good.
The shop was brightly lit, with the rear sliding doors thrown open to admit plenty of sunlight and air. Shelves were stacked with more examples of the potter's trade, and the man himself was sitting down at his wheel, throwing what might have been an urn, or a vase, or . . . something. Silas didn't really spend much time learning the finer points of vessel trivia. Josh looked up with a smile when he heard their footsteps enter the shop, but it faded a bit when he recognized the couple.
“Silas! Marna! Haven't seen you in a dog's age!” Josh stood up, wiping his hands on his apron. “Need some new dishes? Got a great set of bowls with a new style of glaze just come out the kiln yesterday that you might like the look of.”
“Josh, wonderful to see you,” Marna beamed, striding forward to shake his hand. “Silas and I were just in the neighborhood and thought we'd stop by to see how business is doing.”
Josh reached out to shake Silas' hand as well; a worried look on his face. Silas kept his peace – Marna knew people, Silas knew numbers. And the numbers in this shop did not look promising; not if all the stock sitting out in crates and stacked up on the shelves was any indication.
“Well, it's a slow time of year, Marna. You know how it goes, there's those months where I swear nobody breaks a plate in all of Arthos.”
“Mm, I can't imagine. We were worried when we hadn't gotten any orders for your tavern shipments, at least. Can't imagine they could go a day without losing a batch of mugs, let alone a month.”
Josh grimaced, and looked down at his feet. “Aye . . . you're not far wrong there. Look, let me get you both some tea, and I'll explain what I can.”
Silas and Marna exchanged a look – this was new. They leaned against the counter while Josh bustled about the shop's small fireplace, pouring water from a kettle into a set of simple clay cups. Fragrant steam wafted up as he set the tray down on the counter, along with a small bowl of sugar.
“Thank you, Josh,” said Marna as she picked up a cup. “Now do tell. We're all ears.”
“Truth of the matter is . . . Ah, damn it all. You know I always respected both of you, and Clyde too. You never done me wrong, none of the Richforts. But I got to be able to do business in this town, and you know what that means. More to the point, who that means.”
“Frekkeson,” Silas growled.
Josh cocked a finger at Silas. “Got it in one. And Frekkeson's got the contract for my shipments as of about a month ago. So whether I like it or not, I just don't have any business for you.”
Marna set down her cup of tea with a sigh.“Josh, how long have we known each other? Ten, fifteen years?”
Silas picked up his cup and pretended to sip at it. He was too nervous to enjoy the tea anyway, but he needed something to do with his hands beside wring them or wrap them around Josh the Potter's throat. Not that it was really Josh's fault, dammit.
“It's not about that, Marna. I just... I can't give you any work. Not now, not tomorrow, not next week.”
Marna, usually the unflappable one, threw her hands up in frustration. “What the hell, Josh? You've got shipments stacking up to the roof, and you're turning us away? What has that bastard done to you?”
“More than my shop is worth to cross that man, Marna.” Josh rose to his feet, and Marna and Silas followed suit. “I'm really sorry, both of you. But I have to ask you to leave.”
Silas clenched his teeth and turned to go. “We're used to it. Thanks for the tea.” He took Marna's hand in his, and they left the shop together.
“Fucking son of a WHORE!”
Silas winced as Marna launched into a new rant on Frekkeson's ancestors, sexual habits, barnyard escapades, and the Qin only knew what else. Clyde often claimed that he'd learned most of his dockside vocabulary by sitting outside whenever Silas and Marna fought, and Silas didn't doubt it for a second. If words could kill and the son of a bitch had been in the room, Glen would have been a greasy smear on the floor.
The couple had been going over the accounts all afternoon. The table was a mess; with slates, books and scrolls scattered everywhere. The scene at Josh the Potter's shop had been one of their last hopes, and the situation was looking grim. Richfort Traders had been a successful company under their father, Darius Richfort, and things had continued to be good under the brothers up until the incident a month ago. Silas had managed to buy back a wagon and team, and food was still on the table most nights, but not a solitary contract had come in. The coffers were draining rapidly, and all three of them knew that hard times were about to get far harder if things didn't change.
A key rattled in the front door, and Marna halted mid-tirade as Clyde shouldered the door open with a broad grin on his face.
“Marna, if my little brother hadn't snapped you up, I'd marry you today. I don't know any woman who's ever called someone a 'shit-eating mule fucker' before, and it just melts my heart.”
Marna rolled her eyes. “You're incorrigible, Clyde.”
“Nah, we're in Chernsburg,” he said with a wink. “Never heard of Corrigible, they got any work there for us?”
“So, Clyde!” Silas broke in with false cheer, as Marna's eyes narrowed alarmingly. “What news from the town?”
“Glad you asked, little brother!” Clyde pushed past the couple toward the kitchen, clearly immune to the death glare being administered by Marna. “Might have a few folks that are in the same boat as us. Seems Frekkeson's been pushing a lot of folks out of work, and some of the tradesmen are beginning to set up a bit of a stink about it. Aha!” He pulled down a tankard and bent to fill it from the barrel of ale in the corner. After a few seconds of fidgeting with the tap, he turned around with a frown.
“Empty for a week now, dear brother. Can't afford to get it refilled.” Silas smirked. “There's water in the cistern.”
Clyde's lip curled and he put the tankard back on the shelf. “Trying to poison me, eh? No thanks.” He pulled his ever-reliable flask out of his hip pocket and took a swig. “Ah, much better.”
Marna tapped her foot. “So, folks in the same boat? Care to elaborate?”
“Right you are, Marna. So these other traders are out there, you know the gents. Robertson, DeLeon, Bray, some others. Talked to all of ‘em here and there over the past day or so, and they all tell the same story. Frekkeson's forcing out anyone who won't carry only his contracts and pay his royalties. And anybody who tries to strike out on their own gets a cold shoulder from clients, or a few lads rearranging his face in a dark alley somewhere.”
“So?” asked Silas dryly. “The man's got this town in an iron grip. Inkcharm's a pragmatist, he isn't going to do anything to get rid of the one guy in town who manages the bulk of all of the commerce. Frekkeson can blacklist anyone he likes, as long as the money keeps flowing up to the Count.”
“Ah, but there's the rub, Silas. Money isn't flowing; at least not like it used to. Dunno who's generating all of Glen's profits these days, but a lot of the local economy is starting to go to shit. Even Grand Forge is having trouble getting their goods out to market.”
Silas was stunned. The Grand Forge? If there were a more powerful guild in the County, Silas would eat his hat. There wasn't much in life that didn't bear the stamp of the Grand Forge in some shape or form – their smiths were well-known for their craftsmanship, and recently other professions had begun to ply their trade under the Grand Forge roof. Weavers, carpenters, jewelers; the list grew every year. And if they were having trouble getting their product out . . .
“Clyde, who's the man in charge of Grand Forge these days?”
“Man? Hah!” Clyde slapped the table, sending several pages flying. “Shows what you know, little brother. The Grand Master these days is none other than Catherine Armstrong. Cat to her friends. And she didn't get the surname by being a wilting violet, neither.”
Marna nodded. “I know Cat, sure. But Grand Forge is massive. They need more than just a company with two nags and a beaten old wagon. Not to mention the deposits they charge in order to take a shipment – we can't afford to take a contract even if we had the equipment to move that kind of cargo.”
“Wagons and money...” Silas mused, as he looked at Clyde. “Seems to me that you wouldn't still be grinning like an idiot if you didn't have something in mind.”
“Not bad, Silas. Knew you could tell a hawk from a handsaw when the wind is southerly. Now, it just so happens that some of our comrades in the trade business who are also out of work are meeting at the local watering hole in about an hour. Seems that they want to talk to you about an excess of wagons and some spare coinage in their companies. They want back in business, and they are fed up with Frekkeson telling them what they can and can't do in this town. Care for a drink, my fellow Richforts?”
Silas felt the first real smile in weeks stretch across his face, and turned to see its twin on Marna's. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close to his side, winking at Clyde. “Why not. We're getting sick of water, anyway.”
Several hours later, the debate was winding down to an end. The Richforts, along with representatives from several other local trading companies were upstairs in a private room at the Crown and Stag. Discussions had been lively, and a handful of people had left in less than good humor.
A piece of parchment lay in the center of the table, it's lower half covered in the various seals and signatures of the remaining party. The top half was filled in with Silas' neat copperplate script, and it outlined the basic framework of a new trade guild. In simple terms, all of the members contributed something to the guild, whether it was horses, wagons, funds, or manpower. In return, the guild would be able to compete for larger contracts, and the members would get a cut of the profits. Nobody was completely happy with it, but it beat the hell out of starving. Every member could cast a vote in decisions, but as the founding company of the guild, Richfort Traders was given the chairmanship and could make a final decision in the case of a tie.
Silas was tired, but happy. As he looked around the room, he saw similar expressions on the faces of all the other men, and Marna as well. Word had been sent to Grand Forge, and the guild's first contract was due to start on the morrow. No one knew how Frekkeson would react, but the general consensus was “the hell with that fat bastard”.
Clyde rose unsteadily to his feet, tankard raised high. “Gennelmen! And Marna, o' course. We may not be out of the woods yet, but we're a damned sight closer than we were this morning, 'm I right?” A cheer went up around the table. “Damn right! Let's hear it then! To money! To trade! To the guild!”
Twelve hands hoisted up mugs and glasses, and their cheer shook the ceiling of the common room downstairs:
“To the Richfort Trade Alliance!”
“Ho, look lively there big fella! Comin' through!”
Frekkeson jumped to the roadside with a curse, glaring over his shoulder at the wagon and team that came clattering down the street behind him. The bloody driver tipped Glen a wink and a salute as he rode past, and Glen scowled at the crates and burlap sacks that were stacked in the wagon. The sheer cheek of these Richfort Trade Alliance bastards was too much!
Barely two moons had passed since he'd kicked that worthless Silas out on his ass, and Frekkeson was dumbfounded as to how things had gotten to this state. Richfort should be starving; begging on the streets or crawling back to Frekkeson with his hat in hand, pleading for mercy. Instead, the little shits were thriving! Not an hour went past that Glen didn't see one of their damned red and blue liveried wagons rolling around Chernsburg, bringing in gods alone knew how much income. He'd tried to get some of his people inside the guild to get better information, but so far none of them had reported back.
Glowering and muttering to himself, Glen pushed open the door to his warehouse. Two wagons were pulled up next to the doors, bare as bones. A handful of his men were sitting around a rough table, throwing dice, drinking, and generally being useless sods.
“What the fuck are you all sitting around for?!” Glen roared, slamming the door behind him. The lads at the table jumped up hurriedly, knocking it over and spilling dice, drinks and coins over the floor. “There's work to be done you lazy curs, get out there and get to it!”
Two of the men prodded the tallest one there, muttering under their breath and glancing up at Glen furtively. This should be good, Frekkeson thought darkly as the poor spokesman cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“Mister Frekkeson, uh, sir,” stammered the young fellow. “Beggin' your pardon, but we ain't got nothin' to haul today. Next load don't go out 'til tonight.”
Glen clenched his fists and tried to stay calm. Well, calm-ish. Beating this little shit's face in, while probably therapeutic, would not get things fixed. “What do you mean, there's nothing to haul? It's Tuesday. There's ore to haul to the smelters, grain to the mills, flour to the bakers.”
The worker shook his head. “Nossir. Not no more, Richforts have got them contracts as of about a week ago.”
Red began to seep in around the edges of Frekkeson's vision, and his knuckles popped as his fists trembled. “What,” he hissed, as the spokesman began to back slowly away, “happened to you lads roughing up those little scabs and getting us those routes back?”
“We tried, sir! Really, we did!” squeaked the worker, finding his retreat blocked by a wagon. His mates all faded back to the sides as Frekkeson slowly lumbered closer, looking more and more like a large, angry bear. “Tommy and me took the lads out two nights ago to jump their Grand Forge haul, and they were protected! We was lucky to get away! Tommy's arm was broke – !”
“Lucky? LUCKY?!” Frekkeson snarled as he waded in, fists crashing into the hapless worker's face and belly, dropping him to the floor in a heap. “You'll be lucky if your own whore of a mother can recognize you when I'm done! YOU! WORTHLESS! FUCK!” he screamed, punctuating each word with a hobnailed kick to the unconscious lout. Calm was overrated, dammit.
A minute later, panting heavily, Glen pulled out a handkerchief and mopped up the blood from his hands and face. By Ao, he was too old and fat to be indulging his temper like that, but damn did it feel good. He turned to the huddled group of his employees in the corner, and they whimpered and cringed as he crossed the warehouse floor toward them.
“Now. I hope the rest of you lads understand the stakes here a bit better.” Frekkeson smiled as a half dozen heads nodded frantically, and pledges of loyalty poured out like water from a spring. Good. Respect – you couldn't buy the stuff anymore, but by the gods, he could still inspire it. He raised his hand and the babble cut off immediately. “You, you, and you. I want you to go out there and remind some of our tradesmen why they do business with us, and why they don't do business with the fucking Richfort Trade Alliance. You, get rid of your friend's carcass. And you, head over to Brill and get word to our friend. Tell him I need to talk to him, soonest. Usual location.”
Frekkeson folded his arms and watched his minions scurry off on their tasks, all clearly anxious to get out of their boss' sight before he decided to make another example. He looked down at his blood splattered clothes with a frown; he would need to go get cleaned up before he headed over to the tavern. With a sigh, he headed for his apartments on the upper floor of the warehouse – an honest businessman's work was never done.
Glen was nursing his third mug of beer at the bar when a young man sat down next to him. The fellow was unremarkable, average height, face you wouldn't remember a minute after you talked to him. About the only thing that stood out was his hair – the cully was blond as could be in a town where almost everyone had hair the color of soot. Glen spared him a glance and went back to his beer.
“Gerald sends his regards,” the man muttered, tapping on the bar with a coin in an attempt get the barkeep's attention. “He regrets that he can't be here in person. I'm Bart.”
Frekkeson's eyebrows raised, and he looked around over his shoulder. The place was nearly empty at midday, and no one was close enough to overhear. “Gerald? I don't know any Gerald, fellow.”
The man slid the coin along the bar and Glen picked it up. He looked it over while Bart negotiated with the barkeep for a glass of wine, which seemed to be confusing the poor man. The tavern sold two things, beer and ale. Glen was pretty much certain that the ale was just beer with piss added for extra flavor. The coin wasn't locally minted – one side was completely blank, the other was a complicated spiral of heavy lines which looked almost like blades. Seddon's sigil alright. He grunted and slid the coin back to Bart.
“Come on over here to the corner, friend. Bring your wine.”
The two men settled in at a corner table, both with their backs to a wall and able to look out across the room. Bart took a sip from his mug and quickly spat it on the floor. Glen smiled and took a healthy swallow from his.
“So, you mind telling me what's got Gerald so busy that he can't come talk to his business partner?”
“Not at all,” Bart replied. “We're at a critical stage with the product, and he cannot be away for any length of time. So he sent me in his stead.”
“No offense, Bart,” grunted Glen. “But I need someone who knows how to get his hands dirty, not a messenger boy.”
Bart's arm blurred, and Frekkeson found himself staring in disbelief at a dagger buried in the tabletop not a hair's-width from his hand. He looked up, open-mouthed, and saw Bart smiling faintly in return.
“I'm not just a messenger, Mr. Frekkeson.”
Glen picked up his tankard and drained the last dregs from it – he hadn't been scared, just a bit stunned. Sure. “You'll do. Sorry if I, ah, offended.”
Bart made the blade disappear nearly as quickly as he'd produced it. “Not at all. What's the job?”
“These Richfort brats are getting to be too much trouble. They're taking back the shipping market, and I'm losing money and men left and right.”
“Are they a threat to the Crimson shipments?” asked Bart with a frown.
“No, not yet at any rate.” Frekkeson picked at the splinters in the newly gouged tabletop. “But if we don't do something soon, we're going to have trouble.”
“Don't you have people that can handle this? I thought you owned trade in this town.”
“Usual methods aren't working, dammit. And Silas and his brother are getting notice from on high now. Count Carter Inkcharm himself is going to be going to a little soiree the Richforts are hosting at the Commons tonight. They're too visible for my lads.”
Bart nodded. “Let me talk this over with my employer. I think we can be of assistance.” He rose to his feet. “We'll be in touch.”
“Here it is, Bart. The culmination of years of our work, distilled into one small phial.”
Seddon held up a tube filled with a roseate liquid, little more than a spoonful's worth. The precious fluid had been brewed over the past day and a half, and the alchemist was exhausted. But if it worked as he hoped – ah, no amount of energy would be too much to pay.
“So, the blossoms were the answer?” Bart asked, picking up a small, red flower from one of the tables.
“Yes, they were exactly the reagent we needed. They should have catalyzed with the Crimson base and kept the original heart rate properties while adding their own... unique traits.”
“Huh. Who would have thought that a medicinal plant would be what we were missing all this time, eh?”
“Ah, well there is a fine line between medicine and poison, my friend. And we won't know it works for certain until we test it, of course.”
“About that.” Bart set the bloom down and pulled out a cheap piece of parchment from his vest. “I talked with our trading partner.”
“I'm sure it was a very enlightening conversation. What did the fat bastard want this time? Money?”
“Hah, no. Have a look at this.” Bart passed the paper over to Gerald.
“The Richfort Trade Alliance welcomes all gentle folk of Chernsburg to a celebration of life...” Seddon read, eyes scanning down the flyer. “So this Silas got his wife knocked up and their guild is throwing them a party. What of it?”
“Seems Glen has a bee in his bonnet about that fellow, and his brother. Wants them out of the picture. And it just so happens that we need a test subject.”
Seddon's eyes glittered as he picked up the phial. “A celebration of life, eh? I enjoy poetic irony as much as the next fellow. And you deserve a break, Bart.”
Bart smiled. “Aye. A nice garden party sounds like just the ticket.”
“Citizens of Chernsburg! I am delighted tonight to be able to welcome you to this celebration of Silas, Marna and their child to be!”
A wave of applause, cheers and a few good-natured catcalls floated up to the stage from the crowd. Sitting along the high table, Silas, Marna, Bart and the rest of the guild leadership applauded politely as Count Inkcharm paced the boards at the front of the stage, soaking up the adulation.
“Guy sure does know how to make himself the center of attention,” grumped Clyde. “You'd think he was the one having a baby the way he's mincing around up there.”
“You're just bitching because I had the servers stop giving you booze, you lush.” Silas slapped his brother on the shoulder, grinning broadly as Clyde continued to glare at Inkcharm's back. “Lighten up, brother. The man is paying for the celebration, he's earned his right to some applause.”
“Whatever.”
Silas ignored his brother's grousing and looked out over the crowd. Who would have thought that the guild would have come so far, so fast. A few months ago, they had been near to penniless and sure that the worst was yet to come. And now? Trade was growing by the day, Frekkeson's bully boys were being shown their rightful place (the gutter, generally), and the Count himself had taken an interest in supporting the Trade Alliance. And all of that paled in comparison to the news from a month ago – he was going to be a father!
Silas felt his hand squeezed under the table, and looked over at Marna sitting beside him. She grinned and leaned in toward him.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she whispered in his ear.
“Just thinking about how lucky I am, to be married to the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Marna laughed, and the sound was like music to Silas' ears. “You flatterer, you. You'd best remember that next year, when you're minister of trade or some such working for the King. Better not find you slipping off with some young chit of a girl after all the success goes to your head.”
“Never.” Silas promised, and leaned in to give Marna a lingering kiss.
A surge of whistles and jibes rose up from the crowd, and the couple pulled away from each other, grinning sheepishly. Inkcharm was beaming and applauding along with the rest of the crowd.
“That's the spirit! Love and happiness to you both!” The Count signaled, and a group of bards struck up a merry tune. “Enjoy the celebration, everyone!”
“About bloody time,” growled Clyde as the servers came out with salvers of steaming meats, bowls of savory stews, loaves of fresh baked breads, and (most importantly) gallons of mead, ale, and other libations.
As guests of honor, the high table rated their own serving staff. Each of them was shoveling in mouthfuls of mouthwatering food (Marna explained that she was eating for two, just before delivering a monstrous belch that caused Clyde to break out into applause), and the booze was flowing freely. As the night went on, guests began to mingle and come up to the high table to congratulate the young couple on their good fortune.
“A toast! A toast to my brother!”
Clyde had staggered to his feet, empty tankard in hand. The surrounding crowd turned to listen, while a blond-haired servant made his way through to refill the brothers' tankards.
“Silas, you were always the best damned brother a man could ask for.” Clyde shouted, staggering slightly. A few guests started to applaud, but Clyde waved at them to stop. “Not done yet. Gotta finish. After our dad died, you were the one that kept ush together. As family. You kept dad's company in busi... bus.... kept us working. And Marna. I know I give you a lotta grief but... you're my sishter. And you're gonna be a great mother.”
He raised his filled mug high. “To Silas and Marna!”
“Silas and Marna!” cheered the crowd, and Clyde tipped the drink back in one swallow.
Silas went to drink from his own mug, but Clyde deftly snagged it from his grasp with a wink. “And this is for not letting me drink before the show, ya bastard!” And amid the laughter of the crowd, Clyde drained that mug, too.
Silas laughed with the rest of them, calling for more ale as Clyde sat back down heavily. “You drunken idiot! Hey now... are you crying, you big baby?”
Indeed, Clyde wiped at his eyes and his fingers came away wet... but under the lamplight they looked unusually dark. Almost black.
“What the...” Clyde coughed, spraying spittle across the table. “Feel... hot...”
Silas leaned in closer, feeling his good cheer starting to evaporate. “Clyde? Clyde!”
Clyde hacked again, and a red spray covered a young boy who had come up to the table with his mother. The mother screamed and pulled her son back away from the table, as Clyde staggered back to his feet. Blood ran down his face, and Silas could see that his eyes had gone completely scarlet. Runnels of crimson poured from his mouth and nose, and thin streamers traced down his neck from his ears.
“Chirugeon!” screamed Silas. “Someone get a chirugeon! CLYDE!”
Clyde's eyes rolled back in his head, and he toppled across the table like a felled tree. A growing pool of blood ran out from under him, and panic spread through the crowd as shouts of plague and curses from the gods rang out. The gardens emptied as the masses shoved and trampled each other in their hurry to escape, and no one paid any mind to the one blond man who slipped out in the chaos, smiling quietly to himself.
“No, sir. I've been in the office all night catching up on some bookkeeping. Isn't that right, Edgar?”
How in the fires of Karcion am I going to get out of this shit? Frekkeson thought to himself as he stared at the sergeant of the City Watch standing not two paces away from his desk. The office was crowded tonight – Glen, his secretary Edgar Omnia, the sergeant and three other watchmen were crammed into the small room, and Glen could have sworn that it was getting hotter by the second.
Edgar looked up from his account books. “Yes, Mr. Frekkeson.” The boss was looking remarkably calm, Edgar thought. Well, fairly calm. Even though the fall air was quite cool tonight, Glen was sweating like a pig. “You were already here when I arrived just past midday, and I haven't seen you leave since.”
“There you have it, sergeant. Terrible business out there today, and I wish you godspeed catching the culprit.” Frekkeson mopped his brow with a handkerchief and pulled a stack of papers to the center of his desk. “But unless you have anything else, I really must get back to work. Trade never stops, you know!” His attempt at a winning smile withered quickly as the sergeant, drumming his fingers on the hilt of his short sword, continued looking around the room. His gaze came back to meet Frekkeson's eyes, and Glen fought against panic – the man knew, dammit! But the sergeant simply turned and nodded to his men, who filed out without a word.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” The sergeant tipped Glen a quick salute as he turned on his heel to leave. “We'll be back if we need anything else.”
For a minute after the door closed, Glen stayed at his desk, stock-still. Edgar had gone back to his accounting, and the scratching of his quill on the pages was the only sound in the room. Finally, Frekkeson rose and went to the door, opening it a crack and peering out into the street furtively. Nothing – the city was unusually quiet tonight. Most of the law-abiding citizens were at home behind barred doors in fear of whatever plague or assassins were abroad (Frekkeson had heard several variations on the story so far, everything from bands of invisible assassins to demons riding horses made of fire), and the criminal element was lying low while Inkcharm's guard scoured the town looking for the culprits. The Count had vowed to find and punish those responsible, and a hefty reward had been offered for anything that led to the capture of the villain or villains.
“Edgar,” Frekkeson called out tiredly as he returned to slump behind his desk. “What news from the warehouses?”
“Good news, sir.” Edgar pulled out a piece of foolscap from beneath the ledger – he had tucked it away hurriedly when the guards had come knocking. “All of the Crimson supplies have been destroyed or safely taken out of town. I've completed a review of our books, and everything should look above board should the Count order an audit.”
“Good work,” sighed Glen. “That's half the problem solved, at any rate.”
Omnia raised a questioning eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Seddon. The bloody alchemist. What in the FUCK was he thinking!?” Glen slammed a fist down on his desk in frustration. “Middle of the bloody day, right out in public? And the whole fucking town knows that the Richforts have been in my bad books for months! It’s as though he WANTED the whole pile of shit to end up in my lap, the rat-bastard. Well, two can play at that game,” Glen snarled, as an evil leer spread across his face. “Hell, we can even turn a profit on it, thanks to the Count.”
Glen pulled out a piece of parchment and began writing furiously. “Here's what I need you to do, Edgar. Seal this and take it to the Count personally. My name still carries weight in this town, by Ao, so you shouldn't have any trouble getting in to see him.” He passed the hasty note over to Edgar, who glanced at it before folding it and heating up a small pot of sealing wax. “After that, get word to Seddon, tell him we need a meeting at the usual spot to talk about the fallout from this shit storm.”
“Very good, Mr. Frekkeson,” Edgar replied, pouring out a dollop of wax onto the folded letter. “Do you want some of the lads to head over there with you, in case there's trouble?” He pressed Frekkeson's signet into the seal as the wax cooled.
Glen snorted. “With me? I'm not setting foot near the place. Our dear business partner is going to have his meeting with the City Watch, the Count and the executioner.” He leaned back in his chair with a smile. “And I will be humble enough to take half of the reward money and donate it to the poor, bereaved Widow Richfort.”
“Widow? I thought it was the other brother that died?”
“The autumn months can be so dangerous out on the roads, don't you think?”
“Of course, sir.” Edgar smiled thinly and grabbed his cloak from the peg by the door. “I'll be off then, unless you need anything else?”
“No, Edgar, but be quick.” Frekkeson waved a hand languidly toward Brill. “Don't want to let that sodding alchemist and his blonde bedwarmer get wind of this and leave town.”
“What. An. Idiot.” Seddon set the letter down, disbelief warring with amusement on his face. “And he really thinks this will get him clear of the Count?”
Edgar looked up from counting out a pile of coins and shrugged. “You know the man by now, don't you? He's just a thug that thinks he's clever.” He nodded and swept the pile of silver into a leather pouch, stowing it away in his cloak. “You've no idea how hard it is to sit there, praising his “genius”, knowing that he's digging himself deeper into the hole every day. Actually . . . I guess you do know. At least I never had to go out for drinks with the idiot.”
“Hah. Too true, lad, too true.” Seddon tossed Frekkeson's letter into the hearth, and pulled out a small stack of his own letters. “Now don't get too comfortable, we still have a lot of messages that need to get delivered while the night is young.” He set them down in front of Edgar, one by one. “Count Inkcharm. Silas Richfort. Glen Frekkeson. Understood?”
Edgar nodded and slipped the letters into his satchel. “Understood. Shall I return tomorrow?”
“Ah, unfortunately we won't be here tomorrow. Tragic fire,” Gerald gestured at Bart, who was sloshing out a bottle of spirits around the inside of the warehouse. “Wouldn't be at all surprised if half of Brill goes down with it.” Seddon put an arm around Edgar's shoulders and propelled him toward the door. “Probably best if you stay out of this part of town tonight.”
“I... see. And how should I go about finding you afterwards?”
“You don't.” Seddon said flatly, and closed the door.
“Ah, smell that sea air, lads!” Frekkeson inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a large, contented sigh. “Does a body good, it does.”
The collection of thugs, bruisers and cutthroats keeping Glen company in the dockside boathouse didn't seem to share in their employer's enjoyment. All of the men were armed with a variety of clubs, blades and other crude implements. They weren't the most disciplined crew in a fight, but by the Qin they knew how to lay out a solid dose of hurt. “Smells like a pile of dead fucking fish, more like,” muttered Small Jon, a giant of a man at nearly seven feet tall. Several of the others snickered and nodded in agreement.
None of this served to put Frekkeson off of his good mood. There had been a tense couple of days back in Chernsburg following the Richfort bastard’s death, but between his wit and decisive actions, Glen had managed to turn the potential disaster into a golden opportunity.
First, his plan to pin the entire mess on Gerald Seddon had gone off without a hitch. Well, nearly without a hitch. The Count had acted on the tip and sent his men down to Brill to arrest Seddon and his mincing little assistant, but some idiot must have broken the wrong beaker and the whole place had gone up like a torch. No real loss there; those poor wretches in Brill bred like rats anyway. They'd be back in new shanties before the ashes cooled. Still, it would have been better if Seddon had been taken alive and made to dance the hemp fandango for all the city to see. Oh well.
Second, the pain in the ass known as the Richfort Trade Alliance was about to be brought to heel, even if they didn't know it. They'd surprised Glen, and he was man enough to admit it and even grudgingly respect the bastards for having the balls to stand up to him. But there wasn't room in Chernsburg, much less Val’Vadim County, for more than one trading company, and Frekkeson would be damned if he was going to roll over and let a bunch of pissant upstarts shove him out of his own fucking territory.
Which brings us here to Portsmouth, over in the neighboring Duchy of Thracia. Portsmouth was a fishing town out on the Western coast of the Kingdom, and not much happened here that didn't involve the catching, gutting, cooking, drying or selling of all manner of piscine products. The resultant stench more or less assured that no visitors lingered in Portsmouth any longer than they had to, and the nearby ocean made for a wonderful means of 'disappearing' unwanted things. Like a Richfort, for instance. In short, it was remote, sparsely populated, and a regular stop on the Richfort Trade Alliance's rapidly expanding trade network.
The setup had been almost too easy. Glen had leaned on some jellyfish of a potter – Jim, Joe... something with a J, anyway. The little mouse had told Frekkeson about a large shipment of clay jars that was due to go out to a fish processing company in Portsmouth in the next week or so. Apparently fish oil was a valuable commodity, and the company went through jars like water. In any case, Jim Joe whoever had mentioned that Silas always took the shipment himself, something about friends along the way. The details didn't really matter to Frekkeson, what mattered was that Silas would be far away from town, and accidents on the road were oh so common. Tragic, really. Once Richfort was out of the picture, Glen didn't imagine that the rest of the so-called “Alliance” would put up much of a fuss when he stepped in to take his rightful place at the reins.
And who knows, Frekkeson thought with a smirk, maybe the poor, bereaved Widow Richfort will be getting a new man in her life before long, eh?
A sharp whistle from the lookout across the street broke into Glen's reverie – the quarry was here! He unlimbered his hatchet from his belt and gestured to his men. Ten of the toughest brutes money could buy pulled back into the shadows along the walls, and Glen held his breath, listening for the sound of wheels.
“Ho there, trader!”
Silas clicked his tongue and drew back on the reins, bringing his team to a halt alongside the narrow street. “Hello yourself, fishmonger. You one of Gareth's men?”
The fellow strode up to the driver's board, nodding. “Aye, new man on the job. You the fellow with the jars, then?”
“That's right,” Silas waved back at the covered wagon. “Got two gross of crockery here for ya, safe and sound. Where's Gareth want it unloaded, down at the usual spot?”
“Nah, not this lot.” The fellow pointed over at a large boathouse just across the street. “That there is overflow storage, Gareth wanted these in reserve. What with that dry spell earlier this year, he don't want to get caught without enough jars. Cost him dear, that did.”
“Shouldn't be any trouble from here on out, not with the Trade Alliance taking over the route. You tell Gareth I said that, too. If he loses money from a delay on our end, we'll make it up to him.”
“Aye, I'll be sure to do that.” The burly fellow moved across the road. “Here, let me get these doors open and you can pull the whole works inside. Lads'll be along shortly to help unload.”
“Much obliged.”
While the laborer was rolling back the front doors to the boathouse, Silas reached down and surreptitiously pulled on a rope securing the canvas cover over the top of the wagon. He checked to make sure that his bow was within reach and his long knife was loose in the scabbard. He nodded to the man on the seat next to him and the man nodded back in return. Silas set his jaw firmly, and snapped the traces to set the team in motion.
As they rolled into the dark boathouse, Silas couldn't see a damned thing. Before his eyes could adjust, the doors were quickly pulled closed behind the wagon, cutting off most of the light and shrouding the room in shadows once again. The sound of the bolt slamming home sent a shiver down his spine. Someone wasn't going to walk away from this, likely several someones. And he might just be one of those unlucky bastards. Ugly laughter sounded from all around as Silas and his lone guard hopped down from the wagon, drawing steel and facing out toward whatever threat might present itself.
“You might as well show your poxy face, Frekkeson!” Silas shouted. “I've known this was coming since you had Clyde killed, you whoreson bastard!”
“Oh, Silas,” rumbled Frekkeson with a chuckle as he stepped forward into a dusty shaft of light. “I told you your trading days were done, but you wouldn't listen.” He waved a hand, and his band of brutes stepped forward, hemming in the wagon on all sides. “I tried to give you a friendly warning and you spat in my face with this fucking alliance of yours. Well now it's my turn, you little shit.” He hawked and spat a wad of phlegm, hitting Silas right on the cheek. Silas wiped it off on his shoulder, never dropping his gaze from Frekkeson's. Frekkeson didn't like the look in Richfort's eyes, not one bit; the little puling wretch should be on his knees, begging for his life. Not standing there bold as brass, smirking at him.
Frekkeson heard a thud from the main doors and turned to look with a frown. Hmph. Nothing out of the ordinary – he could still see the profile of his man in the small window beside the door. I must be getting paranoid in my old age, he thought, turning back to Richfort.
“I always knew you were a sore loser, Glen. But murder? I want to hear you tell me why,” Silas almost whispered, a flush creeping up from his collar. “Why Clyde? He was my brother, you son of a BITCH!”
“I don't explain myself to dead men, Richfort,” said Frekkeson, hefting his hatchet and motioning for his men to advance. “But I'll send you to your grave with this much. What I did to your brother was just the start. And it was a mercy compared to what I'm about to do to you.”
As Glen lumbered forward, aiming to bury his blade in the little bastard's belly for starters, Richfort raised his free hand to his lips and let out a shrill whistle. What the devil...?
The tarp over the top of the wagon flew back, and the sides folded down on hinges to reveal eight men crouched in the bed, each armed with a crossbow and wearing the livery of the City Watch of Chernsburg. At the same time, the sound of splintering wood accompanied the front doors being torn off of the building by a team of horses, and still more guards charged in through the breach! Most of Frekkeson's thugs stopped dead in their tracks – beating on two traders was one thing, but taking on a regiment of well-armed guards was definitely not in their contract.
“Glen Frekkeson!” bellowed a man in the wagon. Glen recognized him as the sergeant who had been by his office just a week ago. “By order of Count Inkcharm you are to be brought to stand trial for the murder of Clyde Richfort and sundry other crimes against the Crown! Stand down!”
Frekkeson stared, slack jawed, as his men dropped their weapons and placed their hands behind their heads – this wasn't their first time dealing with the law and they knew the drill. He looked out at the guards standing in the ruined doorway, and saw that they were the Baron's own men, wearing the colors of Sicaroos himself! He dragged his dumbfounded gaze back to Richfort and saw nothing but rage and smug satisfaction dancing in the little prick's eyes. He growled and tightened his grip on the hatchet – he might not be long for this world, but by Sanguinis he'd take this fucker with him!
With a roar, Frekkeson leapt toward Silas, hatchet slung back back over his shoulder for the killing blow. Silas crouched, raising his long knife over his head in a feeble attempt to parry the descending blade.
The sound of crossbow strings slamming home was rapidly followed by a sound like a club striking a slab of beef several times in rapid succession. Frekkeson’s body twisted and jerked in midair, and was flung to the ground with a scream of agony. Silas rose, and stepped forward to gaze down at his brother's murderer.
Four bolts had torn into Frekkeson's chest, and judging from the bubbling froth pouring out from the holes, his lungs were punctured. The man was struggling in vain to get a breath, but strangled gasps and gurgling sounds were the best he could do. Silas knelt down beside his fallen adversary and looked him in the eyes. Glen's eyes were filled with terror, and he reached up a hand toward Silas desperately.
“...hel... HELP...”
Silas slapped aside Glen's hand contemptuously and leaned in close. “At least you stayed a blithering idiot right through to the end. Count Inkcharm tipped off his friend the Duke a week ago, and the rest all just fell into place. And you walked right into it.” He gave Glen a hard smile. “If the world was fair, you'd bleed like this for eternity. An age for every drop of blood that my brother wept on that day. But I'll have to settle for whatever the Qin will give me, you fucking cur.”
“Chirugeon!” called a Thracian guard, beckoning to someone out of Frekkeson's rapidly narrowing field of view. “It's a likely a lost cause, but see what you can do.”
“Of course, sir.” That voice... Glen thought it sounded oddly familiar, but couldn't place it. He saw Silas move back slightly as a man stepped forward, bag in hand. With a surge of terror, Frekkeson recognized the man as he bent close with a vial and a wad of gauze. Glen thrashed with renewed vigor, gurgling and gasping but unable to get enough air to cry out.
“Relax, sir,” said Gerald Seddon as he poured a vial of bright red liquid onto the gauze and pressed it to a wound. “This won't hurt a bit.”
Both Gerald and Silas watched as the last minutes of Glen Frekkeson's life passed in exquisite agony. And in their own way, each felt a profound sense of satisfaction.
The weeks after the incident at Portsmouth went past in a blur for the Richfort family. On the ride back to Chernsburg, Silas caught himself repeatedly forgetting that the man next to him was not his brother. At the sight of every roadside inn, or the jounce of every bump in the road – the ghost of Clyde's voice would speak to Silas, poking fun at his driving or making choice commentary on the figures of the womenfolk they drove by. No tears, though. Silas didn't think he had any left.
After arriving back home, the days were spent with the County, and the Trade Alliance; the nights were spent with Marna and their soon-to-be-born child. A flurry of hearings, meetings and appointments with local courts and leadership went past; Silas testified about the whole sordid story more times than he could count. In the evenings, Silas and Marna were busy sorting out Clyde's estate and getting their own home ready for their upcoming arrival. And planning the funeral, of course.
Clyde's service was not exactly . . .formal. But it was definitely what he would have wanted. The fellow leading the service was a priest of the Children of Mann, a local church. Of course, being a true friend of Clyde's, he was also damn near falling-down drunk for the whole thing. The crowd was a mix of barroom brawlers, bards, traders, merchants, and, ah . . . ladies of negotiable affection. Count Inkcharm was also there to pay his respects, and Silas' melancholy mood actually lifted a bit to see the Count leading the congregation in a spirited round of “The Hedgehog Song”, one of Clyde's favorites.
At the graveside, the mourners each poured out a capful of brandy – Clyde's favorite rotgut. The majority of the funeral party staggered off toward the local pubs to finish getting completely knackered in honor of their fallen comrade, while Silas and Marna stayed behind.
“It's been weeks,” Marna said quietly, as she refilled a cup from a flask. “But I still wake up every morning and expect to find him downstairs in our house, eating our food and raiding the booze cabinet.”
Silas nodded glumly. “He definitely left a mighty big hole in our lives. Here's to Clyde,” he called, raising his cup. “He was a pain in the ass, a drunkard, a helluva man to have beside you in a fight, the best friend a man could ever ask for . . . and my brother. You'll be missed, you big bastard.”
“To Clyde,” echoed Marna as she raised a cup of water.
And from just down the street, a boisterous refrain wound its way out into the cold winter air. “. . . the hedgehog can never be buggered at aaaaaaall!”
Two weeks later, Silas and Marna were summoned to the Count's manor. Silas was less than thrilled – Marna was due to give birth any time now, and he certainly didn't want her to have to go out on one of the coldest days of the year. Marna wouldn't hear of staying home, though.
“Honestly, dear, it's not as though I'm a damned porcelain doll,” she huffed, bundling up in heavy furs as the coach pulled up outside their door. “I'm pregnant, not dying. Besides, the child needs some fresh air.”
Silas knew when he was beaten, and walked Marna out to the coach, muttering under his breath about mad women and inconsiderate Counts the whole way. He peered at Marna as they settled into the coach, suddenly suspicious.
“Hold on... out with it, Marna.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Marna asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Out with what?”
“You know damned well what I mean,” scowled Silas. “You've got that little 'I have a secret' smirk on your lips.”
“I think the cold must be affecting your brain, dear husband. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”
Silas turned and glared out the window as the city passed by. When Counts and wives conspire against a man, there is little he can do to defend himself.
“Silas and Marna Richfort,” intoned Count Inkcharm from his place at the front of the hall. “Please come forward to be recognized.”
The hall was packed to the gills with the cream of Chernsburg society. Heads of the most influential families sat cheek and jowl beside successful merchants, lawyers, and guild masters. The leaders of the Richfort Trade Alliance were seated in the front row, beaming and applauding with all the rest as a dumbfounded Silas helped Marna to her feet. The roar of the crowd washed over the pair as they made their way up to the raised dais, where a plush chair awaited. Marna sank into it with a groan, but flashed a quick smile at her husband as he hovered over her.
“Don't worry, darling,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I'm not going to burst in front of half of Chernsburg.”
Silas squeezed back with a smile on his face, and turned to face the Count.
“Everyone here is well aware of the horrible trials our city has been through in the past year,” Inkcharm boomed, waving one arm at the bank of windows which looked out over Chernsburg. “Untold numbers of our citizens have been hurt, driven from their homes, killed, or simply gone missing. And as far as we can tell, the root cause of all that pain was the greed of just one man.” He paused for a moment, gazing out at the audience. “One man. And yet, without the sacrifices and bravery of this couple here, along with their family and friends, that man would still be bleeding this town dry today. And for that, Silas and Marna Richfort, you have my thanks.”
Count Inkcharm turned and bowed deeply to Silas, who stood – stunned – before a sharp jab from Marna brought him back to reality. Silas returned the bow, and the crowd burst into applause once more.
The Count straightened up, his face grim. Oh, hell, thought Silas, what was that saying that Dad used all the time? No good deed goes unpunished?
“But I would be a poor ruler indeed,” continued the Count in a somber tone. “If I did not admit my own culpability in the horrors that engulfed this town. For too many years, I've been foolish and prideful. I'd thought that I could manage the affairs of my County and this city without neglecting either. I could not have been more wrong.”
The Count paused, and held out a hand as a page slipped in from a curtained alcove. The young lad handed Inkcharm a single sheet of linen parchment, and Silas could see the loops and whorls of professional calligraphy over an impressive looking set of wax seals.
“Silas of House Richfort. My neglect cost the city the souls of dozens of citizens, not the least of whom was your brother, Clyde. I can never bring them back.” The Count turned to face the crowd, and his voice rose as he held the document up. “But I can see to it that someone with the vision, intelligence and wherewithal to prevent something like this from ever happening again is given a place of authority over this fair city!” Inkcharm proffered the parchment to Silas, who numbly raised a hand to take it. “Mayor Richfort, Chernsburg is yours. And I know you will serve her citizens well.”
“I...” Silas stammered into the ocean of silence which seemed to have engulfed the room. “I am honored, my lord. But I'm no hero. I just did what needed to be done, sir.”
“Spoken like a true hero, I'd say.” Count Inkcharm grinned and turned to Marna. “Mayoress Richfort, I believe you had a final presentation to make?”
“Yes, my lord, thank you.” Marna beckoned toward the wings, and a pair of pages walked out, unfurling a length of scarlet and white checked cloth between them. “Silas, the Count and I agreed that a mayor ought to have a coat of arms which speaks to his accomplishments.”
“How very curious.” Silas frowned in mock indignation. “So you WERE up to something.”
“Dear, if I took the time to tell you half of what I do on a daily basis while you're off saving the city,” Marna said dryly, amidst a few chuckles from the audience, “you'd never get anything done. Now hush.”
The banner was now fully unfolded, and revealed a shield divided into quarters; two red, two white. In each red quarter, a white dragon reared up with wings unfurled.
“Red for the blood that was spilled. White for the purity and nobility that drove you to confront the villain responsible.” Marna's voice caught slightly, and she took a sip of water. “And the dragons... Well, I know how much your father's stories meant to you and Clyde. And I know that he loved this city just as much as you do. So now the two of you will go on to defend and protect this city,” Marna said, as a tear slid down her cheek. “Just like the twin dragons in your father's story protected each other.”
Silas bent down to draw Marna in close, and kissed the tears off of her cheek. “My love... thank you.”
“To the new Mayor and Mayoress of Chernsburg!” Inkcharm shouted. “Long may they live!”
“Long may they live!” roared the crowd in response.
“To House Richfort!” yelled Inkcharm, and Silas imagined the resounding cheers from the gathered gentry reaching up to Haven, where Clyde's soul was likely vastly amused (and probably drunk, if Haven had liquor) to see how far his little brother had come.
And with that, "Road to Riches" comes to a close. I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know if you did (or not!) in the comments. Look for the next book in the Richfort Chronicles, "Call to Arms", starting in April!
Great Finish. Always looking for more!
"At its lowest point in the sky, the crimson bloom's to bring forth the night and those who roam its streets." Quote by - Frederick Seddon
Book two of the Chronicles - A Call to Arms, is nearly finished. Some of the same characters will be returning, so if you haven't read book one yet, now would be a good time!
While Road to Riches focused more on the foundations of the Richfort's economic power, A Call to Arms will be considerably more bloody. Here's a sneak preview of the opening of chapter one, to whet your appetites:
Fire purifies. So the priests back home used to say, anyway.
Perhaps it was a weakness of faith, but Tobias doubted whether the good clergyman in Chernsberg had ever seen a man burned alive.
Pure, it was not.
The man on the floor screamed out obscenities as the flames from a fallen torch began to spread up his legs. His arms were flailing about madly, trying to beat out the hungry tongues of fire. His guts were hanging out from a messy cut in his belly, and a pool of gore was soaking into the floorboards.
It’s almost a race, Tobias thought to himself as he blocked a frenzied blow from another raider on his shield. Which will kill the wretched cur first - the fire or the wound?
Expect to see the full book start to roll out sometime this month!