Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) (58 page)

The doubt was written large on the man’s face, so Kesh threw more bait to sweeten the pot. “Consider... I am
not
highborn, and yet I didn’t balk at the fees you demanded, because I can assure you that pittance only represents the smallest portion of my benefactor’s wealth and power.” Kesh held his breath as the scarred face showed little emotion while digesting this latest plea. Kesh
had
been born to a noble house, albeit a minor one. It was unlikely Jagger could possibly know of his true roots and was only operating on an assumption. The money Kesh had given the thief to secure his services had, of course, come from Banlor. The sight of such bounty had nearly made Kesh’s eyes pop.

Jagger simply grunted in response, but Kesh thought he could see interest, and perhaps hope, behind the avarice that always colored the man’s face.

Pushing gently, he continued. “A man of your reputation will of course have some difficulty coming openly into the city, even with the celebration. Send me with one of your men to ensure my loyalty, and we will see a carriage sent for you this very night, so this business can be concluded.”

Suspicion flared in Jagger’s eyes and he narrowed them to glare at Kesh. “I think not. I would see this new master of yours for myself.” He flicked the switch at his dull-looking cronies. “Besides, my men and I love a good party. It looks as if they could use some real men to spice it up down there.” In spite of his light-hearted tone, Jagger’s expression remained stony.

Mitchum, however, gave a horrid grin, with his blackened and twisted teeth, in response to his leader’s jest. The rest of Jagger’s motley crew laughed uproariously.

Kesh had suspected the scarred brigand would not let him out of his sight. Still, he had to try and persuade him otherwise. Jagger’s presence would definitely make his plan to escape more difficult, but not impossible.

When the laughter died, Jagger fingered his scar contemplatively with one hand and considered the nobleman. “You may make
some
sense though, Sir Swine.” He cast his eye over the ragged lot of survivors of that horrible night at Ordair’s Keep. “It might be that even your oiled tongue cannot talk all of us into the city.”

Jagger lifted his switch and pointed at another of his men, who had lost an arm at the elbow. Mitchum had used a red-hot pan to cauterize the stump in a fine example of brutally efficient field surgery mere hours after the monster had torn through the fort. Kesh had personally believed the maimed man to be a casualty who had not yet realized his own mortality, but against all odds, his color had returned and the infection that was all too frequent after amputations had not set in. “Jona, take this sorry lot to the knoll on the south side of the Citadel and set a camp there. Mitchum, Harten, Dale, Crester, and I”—Jagger gestured at each man in turn—-“will see Sir Piggy to his new master and meet you tomorrow with fresh supplies.”

Pointing with the stick to the bridges to the Citadel, he said, “Time to trot, my piggy.”

Entering the Citadel was much easier than Kesh had envisioned. The bridge guards recognized him immediately and not only allowed him through, but offered him and his companions fresh water. Kesh managed to retain enough of his usual poise that it was a simple matter to divert their questions about his absence and convince them to treat his return to the city with the utmost discretion.

Jagger, to his credit, managed to withhold his laughter at the guards and their credulity until they had passed well beyond the gate and into the city itself. “I’ll be damned, boys.” he guffawed. “Our piglet has been blessed with a silver tongue as well as a padded pen.” Mitchum and Harten chuckled at their leader’s gibe, though Kesh felt the two men probably lacked the wit to see the whole joke Jagger was making. The final two members of their party did not laugh, but they smiled at Kesh’s discomfort and rode along with eyes alert.

He put the chortling brigands from his mind as he made his way through the city. The hour was late enough that they should have passed few people on the torchlit streets, but most every thoroughfare was still packed with milling patrons singing out in celebration.

Unlike the guards who had allowed them through the gates, none of the passersby seemed inclined to look at or interrupt the half-dozen men. Those few who looked up long enough for Kesh to see their faces quickly returned their gaze to the merriment about them.

Searching the crowds, Kesh spotted the occasional night soil cart rumbling through the knots of revelers, wafting its noxious odors along the lanes as it made the rounds, cleansing the city. The revelers parted readily for the carts, but closed once again to continue their celebration.

Most of Waterfall Citadel had been plumbed with strategic channels that removed the wastes in the swiftly flowing water, but much of the construction that had taken place in the past two hundred years had been done without the will or access to the skill that the first builders had employed. The result was a need for the removal of human waste to the farms and pits beyond the city walls on a daily basis. The farther the group rode, the more often they saw the filth-laden carts, while the crowds thinned to a dribble, until finally Jagger reined in with a curse.

“I thought you were taking us to meet your ‘new master.’” The rogue leader bared his teeth, drawing his horse in front of Kesh’s own, and forcing a stop as yet another cart rumbled by. “No one with money would be anywhere close to these shit-wagons.” He spit at the ground in front of Kesh’s horse and gestured at the retreating cart with his switch. “What kind of hustle are you hoping to employ? It’s not too late for us to cut our price from your hide.” He glared as Mitchum and Harten both dropped hands to settle on the pommels of their long knives. “Mitchum in particular is fond of bacon, aren’t you Mitchum?” The tough man grinned and nodded eagerly.

Kesh began to sweat despite the cool air provided by the lack of partygoers.
Remain calm
, he thought, then snorted derisively. “And I suppose if
you
were a man like my employer, you would make yourself easy to find?” Kesh shook his head sadly. “Perhaps I was wrong, and bringing you into the fold won’t be such a coup for me.” He allowed his shoulders to slump, as though defeated. “Best kill me now, on the very doorstep of your victory.” He gestured to a large black building from which an intermittent stream of wagons traveled back and forth. The bulky wooden structure loomed behind an open courtyard.

Disbelief shone in Jagger’s eyes. “You expect me to believe that your employer,” he said, loading the word with condescension, “lives in the shit yard?” He answered Kesh’s snort with one of his own. “Mitchum, bacon it is.”

Rotten teeth were revealed once again in the dim lantern light as Mitchum heeled his mare forward, and Harten mirrored his action. Both men began to draw their knives as they approached.

“Wait! Truly, you are correct!” Kesh blurted.

Jagger raised one hand and rolled his wrist, indicating that Kesh should continue. Mitchum and Harten halted. Mitchum’s ugly face fell into a disconsolate pout.

“He is
not
here, at least, he should not be, but one who knows where he might be found this night
is
here.” Kesh strove mightily to keep from gabbling, and he continued, eyes fixed on the fingers of Mitchum’s hand as they stroked the well-worn pommel of his knife. “The man who manages this facility works for my employer. If anyone knows how to make contact with him, it is this man.”

Jagger eyed Kesh speculatively, creases in his brow belying his suspicion once again. He made a placating gesture and the men who had been advancing on the chancellor relaxed. “Well, then,” the scarred man said, “I suppose we should proceed.” Jagger turned slightly in his saddle to address Mitchum. “Time to earn your keep, my lad.” The rogue leader began to turn his horse as he spoke. “Harten stays with me. The rest of you become Lord Piggy’s shadow. If he gives you any trouble or seems to be trying anything at all to cheat us, you have my blessings to get that rasher you have so longed for.” He presented the switch he had been carrying for days to Mitchum as if it were a prized family heirloom. Mitchum’s horrid smile was on full display as he pretended at honored surprise. He leered horribly at Kesh while wielding the stick like a scepter.

Elation welled within Kesh and threatened to overrule his sense of control. “Wait... You’re not coming?” His voice squeaked slightly.

The scarred rogue gave Kesh a level stare, his eyes void of emotion.

“You underestimate me, my high and mighty piglet. I am above meeting with trivial men.” Jagger’s expression had been completely bled of any previous humor he had displayed in tormenting Kesh. “
You
will make no betrayals here, because if you do, you will be the sole object of my time and attention until I feel fully compensated for my losses.”

The implied threat hung in the air, sending a chill down Kesh’s spine. He didn’t have to act when putting on his most weary expression and dragged his words out tortuously. “As you say. I had tried to save you from this demeaning task outside of the city, as I’m certain you will recall.” He dared a glance at Jagger’s face to see if his words and posture allayed the brigand’s suspicion.

The rogue’s eyes remained fixed on Kesh, and only when the chancellor felt his ruse was about to crumble did the horrid gaze break. Jagger reined his horse around without a word and signaled for Harten to follow.

Kesh allowed himself a small breath of relief and heeled his mare back into motion. His confidence began to grow as he recognized the man standing before the heavy gates that sheltered the public from the filth within.

Bon was a grossly fat bald man who approached the height of King Hathorn. Clad only in breeches and a vest that failed to cover his bloated belly, he stood in a wide-legged stance before the open gates of the courtyard. In his beefy hands he held a tally board that he checked as each cart left or returned. Small eyes peered up suspiciously from the depths of a pale face as the chancellor approached. If a flicker of recognition passed over the man’s pockmarked features, it was lost in his scowl.

Kesh fought the gag that rose in his throat as the smell of the central courtyard wafted through the open gates. Noises from behind him gave him some satisfaction that his discomfort was shared by his tormentors.

A cart emptied its load onto the flat slab of a dock and a waiting barge was tied before the slab. Several men, whose faces were obscured behind cloths, were plying shovels and wheelbarrows to move the pile of waste from the slab to the waiting low dock on the river. Bon stepped forward. “Whut you want?” the bald man said, regarding the four men with eyes that glittered behind fat cheeks and a brutal lowered brow.

Kesh drew himself up. “Chancellor Tomelen, here to see Micount Wartel.” Kesh said with his most imperious air. It was ruined a bit by a hitch in his voice as bile rose in his throat, but he mastered himself and sat tall, trying to ignore the stench. Perhaps his encounter with the pen at the old ruin had bolstered his tolerance for rankness, for one of the men behind him retched, sending vomit to splash on the cobblestone street.

Bon’s eyes didn’t move from Kesh as the tough behind him emptied his stomach. “N’body sees ’count,” the fat giant grunted. “B’gone wit you.”

Another man began to heave, and Kesh fought to master his own twitching gut. “The time for cleaning waits for no man, least of all
three
,” he said quickly but quietly, while reciting a quiet prayer that he had remembered the correct words. He began to feel his control slipping as the sounds of more splashing came from behind him.

His words wrought a change on the pale features before him. A smile split the thick layer of blubber that was Bon’s face. “The ’count will see you now.” Reaching into a small box behind the wall that housed the gate, he produced a grubby handful of moistened black cloths and held the nest aloft for Kesh. Strong camphor-like smells wafted from the pallid, fleshy hand, and Kesh hastily grabbed the bundle and extracted a cloth, holding it before his face and breathing deeply. The rancid odor from the courtyard was almost completely drowned in the bright, powerful odor of the spices that soaked the cloth, and Kesh could feel his desire to vomit recede immediately. He turned in the saddle to offer the remaining cloths to the men behind him.