Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (18 page)

He squinted… something was not quite right. He leaned forward in his chair and turned down the knob, darkening the room. Along the left edge of the window he could almost make out something miniscule yet familiar… he swore beneath his breath as he realized that it was a human eye. And it was looking right at him.

Then the eye vanished, zipping out of view behind the wall, and with its departure the silhouette of a human form moved with it, shoulder, arm and all.

Ranaloc gasped.

Then he leapt from his desk and ran from the room.

“You!” he called to the first servant he saw in the foyer. “There’s someone outside! I just saw someone outside, watching me! Lock the doors, tell all the –”

The sound of shattering glass echoed from down the hall. Ranaloc and the servant froze, listening. The sound appeared to have come from the conservatory, the doors to which had been left slightly open. The rain now sounded louder from that direction, as if it were falling directly into the greenhouse.

Ranaloc and the servant exchanged looks, and together they cautiously approached the conservatory doors. The servant picked up a hefty candelabrum from a side table along the way.

Shazahd was at her vanity, taking apart her hair, when she heard the scuffle from downstairs. It sounded like someone threw over a table, then beat on the walls with something heavy. She flew from her room, though dressed only in her nightgown, to investigate the commotion.

At the top of the stairs, she was about to call down when she saw a servant running across the foyer. His urgency frightened her. He ran out of sight beneath the stairs, toward the conservatory, and toward the sound of the scuffle.

She heard him yell, “Get off him!” followed by more struggling, heavier and louder than before. She heard shoes slide against the smooth stone floor.

“Father!” she cried, and ran for the stairs, but a hand grabbed her from behind. It was Rom. He put a finger to his lips and nodded for her to follow him back to her room.

“We have to help my father, Rom!” she insisted with a whisper.

“
I
need to make sure you’re safe,” he whispered back. “Come with me!” He pulled her back, but she fought against him.

“No, Rom! Let me –!”

And then the fight in the conservatory spilled out into the foyer. Mentrat sprinted across the parquet floor, but someone was right on his heels. Near the base of the staircase the stranger tackled him from behind, and the two wrestled on the ground. The sound of another falling body thudded beneath the stairs, and two more intruders came into view. They were coming for Mentrat.

Rom could wait no longer. He used his superior strength to wrench Shazahd away from the banister and carry her into her room.

“Let no one in,” he said as he closed the door. Shazahd strained against the knob, but he had locked it from the other side.

“Rom!
Rom!
”

She heard the servant cry out as he bounded down the stairs. There was more fighting, grunting, and cursing. Shazahd ran to her bureau and tore it apart looking for the key. Outside, it sounded like Rom was putting up a decent fight against the three intruders. She could hear his blows accentuated with yelps of effort, and the three-on-one brawl carried on for quite a while.

Where the mlec is it?!

The pounding of fists ended with the heavy
plop
of a body slapping the hard marble floor. Then there was silence. A few footsteps. Shazahd thought she heard a man’s voice. She abandoned the bureau and pressed her ear to the door. Someone was talking. She could barely understand them from this distance.

“…You don’t… a Lamarioth,” it sounded like. “…Never forgive… never forget….” That was all she could discern.

Lamarioth?
The name resounded in her mind. She was certain that’s what she’d heard. Pru Lamarioth was one of the twelve Imperial Councilors of Gresadia. Though the council convened in New Gresad, Lamarioth represented the country’s southernmost province of Pothogan. His home was in Zarothus, the Old Capital of the Empire, which also served as headquarters for the Tricorn mafia syndicate. It was rumored that longstanding politicians from the area, like Lamarioth, had close ties with the organized crime underworld. Some believed that the Lamarioth family had actually been running the Tricorns for generations. But even if that were true, what interest could they possibly have in her father…?

Shazahd heard more footsteps, and the front door opened and closed.

Afterward she found her key in the bureau and bolted from her room. Rom was at the bottom of the stairs, battered and unconscious. There was blood smeared all over the floor.

The three men and her father were gone.

By the time Owein reached the Praeshuc Marloth the rain had thoroughly drenched him for a second time. Given the scope of New Gresad the walk had not been long, only about a half hour slog directly into one of the poorest neighborhoods of the city. The so-called Jof district was named after the dirt roads for which it was famous. City funding had been steadily diverted away from the area for years, with politicians seeing more value in beautifying the parts of town that paid more in taxes and held greater affluence, and therefore greater influence.

The illiterate population of Jof was generally unaware of the political processes that had been furthering its decay for years, and its inhabitants lacked the resources and opportunity necessary to do much about it anyway. The festering ghetto was like an untreated sore hidden away in the folds of New Gresad, only worsening with time – a pock ignored by the city with the same heartless indifference that had come to define Gresadian morality.

That was where Owein had to go to meet his friend. Mud in the street clung to his boots like wet cement. Rivulets cut wide gashes through the road, eroded by the heavy rain, that were now deep enough to trap carriage wheels. Carriages weren’t common on this street, however.

Shabby buildings lined the roadway and sagged inwards toward the street, waterlogged, and seemingly ready to give out beneath their own weight. It was late and nearly all the lights were out, making this usually grimy part of town even darker and more unwelcoming.

The Praeshuc Marloth was a cheap saloon marked on the side of the road by a rotted, hanging sign, below which burned a small lamp. The simple image of a mug of beer was painted on it, clearly advertising what could be found inside. The bar was a cellar below tenement housing, with a narrow set of steps leading down to the entrance.

As he came through the door, Owein was surprised to find it was a busy night for the pub. The residents of Jof, now wet as well as filthy, were sandwiched at the bar or clustered around tiny tables, each with a mug of dark beer held close. The entire establishment was one long, narrow room. Owein maneuvered his way to the back, to the private booths. He could hear his friend’s voice as he approached.

“…No, no, no,” he was saying, apparently in the middle of a story. “Not for one gross – maybe
half
a gross – but definitely not one.”

“And what did he say?” someone asked.

“Well… he just looked at me, square in the eyes, and made that face he makes – you know….” Owein found his table, and saw the face his friend was impersonating. “…And he said… ‘you
jefeth
.’”

The booth rolled with laughter. When Owein stepped up beside it, his friend stopped laughing. His company followed suit.

“Owein…” he said, astonished.

“Benzo. Long time, huh?”

“Yeah…. Yes. I’d say so. Um, you know Ronib, and Merse, and… aw,
nieva
, the rest of these guys are all buggering
tetsum
.” That elicited an outburst of jocular protests from around the table. A few peanuts were thrown at him.

“I’m just joking, grow up,” he said chuckling, and brushed off the peanuts. “Come on and sit down,” he said to Owein. “Join us. Have a drink!”

“Actually, Benzo, I need to talk to you. Alone.” Owein was cold, wet and tired, and in no mood for frivolity. Even so, his words came out sounding a little more aggravated than he had intended.

Benzo mocked his tone. “Ooh, a
serious
chat! Very important, I’m sure. Afterward. Don’t be a
tetsa
, sit down and let’s get you a drink.”

Owein just stared at him.

“As a matter of fact,” he said coolly, “it
is
important.”

“
Bacar
, what sour temper….” Benzo looked around to all his friends. “Well… all right, I suppose. If you
must
talk to me this very instant….” And he slid out of the booth. “Excuse me, fellows. I’ll be back shortly.” He turned to Owein. “I know the owner. We can talk in the storeroom.”

“Of course you do.”

“Come on.”

The storeroom of the Praeshuc Marloth was a tiny closet lined with shelves and packed with crates and bottles. They dragged in a couple stools and an oil lamp. Benzo set the lamp on a shelf and, when he brought his hand back, held a dusty bottle of wine.

“Ooh, look at that,” he said. “Vintage Wralish stuff…
1842. Garilough, Soth Waestshier
. Hm. Sounds good.” He pulled the cork out with his teeth, spit it onto the floor, and took a few big gulps. “Not bad,” he said, wiping his mouth with his arm. “Want some?”

Owein took the bottle from him and put down several gulps of his own.

“So,” said Benzo. “Let’s just forget all the pleasantries of regular conversation that would normally take place between two old friends who haven’t seen each another in years, and just get right down to business, shall we?”

Owein wiped the red liquid from his lips. Then he took a second series of glugs from the bottle.

“Just what is it you want to talk about? Is it that wool deal with Dromin? Because if it is, I don’t know anything about it. My hands are clean. I had nothing to do with it. And how do you know about that, anyway?”

“I’m not here to talk about you,” Owein said. “I’m here to talk about me.”

“Well, that’s pretty selfish of you. If that’s the case, why don’t you just find a wife to bore?”

“Benzo… somebody wants me dead. Badly.”

Benzo was actually stunned by the news. Genuinely stunned. His mouth remained agape as Owein put the bottle back into his hand.

“Are you sure…?” he muttered at last, slowly lifting the bottle to his lips. “You?
Dead?
”

“Yeah. At least according to the Imperial Navy.”

“The Navy?”

“They had a warrant for my arrest and execution.”

“Execution?”

Owein nodded. “On sight.”

“For a bounty?”

“Don’t know. Maybe.”

“That’s pretty bad.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, what have you done to get on the Navy’s bad side?”

“If I had any clue I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”

“Hm. Right. So who else have you have pissed off lately? The Tricorns?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Been playing at tazar, have you? Been winning too much?” Benzo took another glug from the bottle and handed it back to Owein.

“That’s the odd part. My closest connection to the Tricorns is you, if that counts for anything.”

“No comment.”

“Thanks again, by the way, for lying to me about that.” He took a pull of the wine.

“Hey, whoa! Hey now! Let’s forget about the past, shall we? What’s done is done.” Benzo snatched the bottle back. “It seems like we’ve got bigger problems. And by we, I mean you.” He lofted the bottle, finishing it off, and then dropped it in the corner. “That was delicious,” he said. “A little overpriced, though, for Wralish fare – but delicious.”

“Hey,” Owein snapped. “Pay attention! What do you know? What have you heard? Why does someone want me dead? And how are they getting bluejacks to do their dirty work?”

“Yeah, about that….” Benzo thought for a moment. “I have no idea.”

“Thanks anyway,” Owein said. “You’ve been a big help.” He rose abruptly to leave.

“Hey there! Hold on, pal! I didn’t say I couldn’t
find out
,
now did I?” Owein turned to look at him, his face entirely humorless. “I might be able to ask around… talk to a few friends of mine, see what they know. Maybe something will turn up.” He grinned drunkenly at Owein.

“Would you mind?”

“Would I mind…?
Would
I –?! Come on now, Owein. That’s nothing for an old friend like you.” He rose, sloppily, and grabbed Owein by the shoulders. Owein sensed the action was more for stability than for camaraderie. “I’ll see what I can do. But that’s for later. Right now, let’s go have a drink with some of the old gang!”

“Maybe another time, Benzo. I’m not really in the carousing mood.” Owein opened the storeroom door and stepped out.