Chapter 2 - A Little Drop of Poison
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.”
