Chapter 4 - Blood is Thicker Than Water
“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 Bruce 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.
