Chapter 5 - Thieves Fall out
“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.
