Death's Reckoning (12 page)

An hour or so later found the police captain on the streets, and then on a roof top a few blocks over from his last meeting with Craven Mills. Several lanky strides and Cubbins climbed the rickety metal frame to find the informant already waiting for him. The short man held his hat and wrung his hands. A split second before Cubbins rose over the lip Mills had been looking somewhere else; he snapped his eyes to Cubbins and waited.

His words were rushed as if he were trying to get them out faster and faster and couldn’t hold them in long enough. “There’s nothing, Cubbins, nothing at all. Leave well enough alone on this.”

Cubbins stopped short. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I said
leave it alone
!”

Mills’ eyes bulged, and his voice rose to a terrible shriek. Cubbins was wary and took a step back, his hand on his sword hilt. The sound was familiar, the sound of the insane. Mills pulled up short as if the rant ended as fast as he spoke. He stared at the roof tiles, his head slack.

Cubbins studied him for a few moments. Mills looked pale and thin, thinner than even a week ago. Mills scratched his forearm. His nails were filthy, covered with crust and dried blood. He fidgeted and squirmed as if fleas infested his clothes and body.

“Mills,” Cubbins said. “Mills, talk to me. Tell me what happened to you.”

The man shook his head like a petulant child and slapped his hands all over his body. He smacked his arms hard as if something crawled inside them. He stamped his feet, made a gurgling noise in his throat, and spun around in a complete circle. Cubbins grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard.

“Mills! Craven Mills! Hold it together, man. Talk to me!”

No response except to swat at Cubbins’ arms, but there was no strength or commitment to the blows. He acted so afraid Cubbins thought the man’s wits were taken. It took Cubbins several minutes and no small amount of patience to calm him down enough to make him sit and relax. He rocked back and forth on his backside, arms cradling his knees, and looked much like a lunatic.

The police captain’s mother had been placed in the city asylum by his father, and young Cubbins visited her often. He watched as her mental acuity waned away in a scant number of months. By the time Cubbins reached adolescence, she had progressed far beyond the ability to recognize husband or child. Later, she began gnashing her teeth and pulling her hair.

Craven Mills wasn’t quite there yet, but Cubbins could recognize the signs. He sat down with him for a few moments, letting the tortured man play out the manic energy that befuddled his mind. It wasted away but glimmered with twitchy mannerisms.

Cubbins prodded his shoulder after a while, thinking he might be more coherent. “Speak to me, Mills. Tell me what happened to you.”

The inquiry was repeated several times, and at last Mills looked at him with something resembling recognition. When he spoke, his voice almost sounded normal, clear, and sure of what he said. “Leave it all alone, Captain Cubbins. Only death awaits you.”

Cubbins stared at him. A moment later his eyes glazed over, and Mills went slack again, gibbering and drooling. Sea Haven’s asylum would have a new tenant very soon, and the police would need another informant on the streets.

* * * * *

The water felt cool and refreshing. So clean and so necessary to life, it was a shame not to take more advantage of it. He would not make the same mistake again. Muldor changed the bandage on his head for the second time that day and washed the wound above the bridge of his broken nose. He had medicine the surgeon gave him, but it stung his skin something fierce. It could have been acid for all he knew. These medicine men needed refinement of their practice, though in truth the surgeon had done a fine job of resetting his broken nose.

Glancing at his bruised face and bloodied nose in the mirror above his wash basin, Muldor understood well why Castellan always had bodyguards. Being Guild Master had its share of danger.

Quite a bit of blood remained on his hands and clothing. The surgeon had never cared for hygiene. A crusted glob of red on the front of his shirt made him look like a butcher without an apron.

A meeting was set that afternoon with the Dock Masters; however, bruised and battered might convey a weak image of the leader. He sat at his desk for a few minutes, mulling it over. Forces were moving against The Guild. Trust was hard to come by. His informants had said nothing of recent, and it fed into Muldor’s paranoia. He had no inkling. Perhaps it was Janisberg agents only, and no one from Sea Haven was involved, but somehow that was doubtful. It was always more complicated than it seemed.

They met in one of the largest warehouses on the Western Docks, all five Dock Masters, along with market liaison Carl Tomlinson. They set up a large table, and all six men sat across from Muldor in the back room. Boxes and crates stacked in a haphazard manner around them. To Muldor, the disorder felt like home.

“Gentlemen,” the Guild Master said, “our recent trouble over our former leader’s embezzlement and other transgression pale in comparison to our current predicament. Castellan has left our Guild in dire straits.”

The declaration hung for a few moments. Samuel Becket, youthful despite his middle age, handsome clean cut cheeks, and curly brown hair, looked upset but determined. Muldor knew The Guild was his life.

Melvin Crocker, old and gruff, with wild hair was unreadable. Muldor was never certain where his loyalties lay, so it was best to keep a closer eye on him.

Mal Dollenger, tall and lanky as a crane, with a smallish head that belied his intelligence. He sat back and looked at Muldor with a studious glare. As the highest ranking member of the Dock Master cadre, it was impossible for him to be ignorant of Castellan’s indiscretions from the beginning.

Gunnar Lawson, young and brash, his blonde hair long enough to reach his shoulders, he appeared ready for anything. He glanced around at the others with murder in his eyes, and Muldor fought the urge to smile. Here was a man on his side, someone to shift the balance of power towards total compliance.

Del Maggur was the most senior member, the longest tenured Dock Master, and a high ranking Guild member years before Castellan ever set foot on Sea Haven soil. He stared at Muldor with a bored yet frustrated expression. Muldor knew he had never been happy being relegated to the Southern Docks. It was seen as a slight.

His hideous features grew uglier as he sneered at Muldor. “Why don’t you stop being so melodramatic and get to the point, Muldor. All of us are busy.”

Muldor ignored him. “By all accounts, The Guild is in need of restructuring, from top to bottom.” He glanced at Carl Tomlinson, and the grey bearded man nodded. “For those not already aware, Mr. Tomlinson has been kind enough to allow us his vast expertise and experience as new Guild liaison with the marketplace. I feel this is a long overdue promotion to a valued member of our organization. Welcome him to our ranks.”

The others gave him a variety of responses, ranging from genuine congratulations to cold stares.

“Now, Master Tomlinson, please tell us the state of the market in relation to the current shipping surplus and how it relates to Guild activities at the docks.”

Tomlinson shrugged and looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, not really sure how this all works. I thought liaison meant I coordinate things with the shipping from the dock to the market.”

Mal Dollenger raised a hand. “What he meant is simple: how is business?”

Tomlinson gave a nervous chuckle. “Ah. Well then, business is good. Quite good in fact because of a bit of holdover from the rationing of last month. People are stocking up in anticipation of another shortage.”

A muttering of good news received circulated around the table. Muldor felt glad; people always needed what they needed.

“What about the back door business?” Muldor said to Maggur. “How is trade there?”

“Fine, better than last month, as he said. A fifteen percent increase and we’ve got a full five year contract with exclusive rights from Tarsus.”

A few grunts of satisfaction rippled through the men.

“What are the odds of circumvention?” Dollenger said.

“Very little. Maybe a little at point of sale, but we still control these docks. On the back end I’d say nil. Tarsus is trustworthy. I’ll hold him to it.”

They had thought the same about Castellan once, when he came up through the ranks of independent seller, to merchant, to Guild member, to Guild Master. Everyone trusted him because he never broke a promise. His word had been ironclad.

“It would do well for our reputation if they are,” Muldor said. “We must do what we can to instill trust in foreign markets, also with other merchant organizations.”

“There’s little to fear with that, Muldor,” Samuel Becket said. “We haven’t had a cancelled order in five years. You know that.”

The others agreed, but Muldor knew better. They should have too.

“That is the case for two very important reasons,” Muldor said. “First, our geographic location. The mountains to the north and south along make travel to the wealthy cities to the east nigh impossible. If cities across the sea or along the coast wish to trade with these cities, they must make port at Sea Haven’s shores, where The Guild controls and charges for use of our piers.”

“Muldor,” Maggur said and leaned forward, “are you planning on telling us anything we don’t already know?”

“Second,” Muldor said, “Castellan made certain every ship dropping anchor here was protected from the molestation of piracy. Thus, our recent increase in trade over the past few years has been due in large part to a substantial payoff that has now come to an end.”

The table went silent as the news sank in. Even Maggur looked uneasy. The Dock Masters were lost in their own thoughts for a time. Muldor said nothing, letting them think.

“The Pirate Lurenz,” Gunnar Lawson said and looked as if he were about to spit despite the reverence in his voice.

“Yes,” Muldor said. “Lurenz and his criminal organization brokered a deal some time ago with our illustrious former leader. Now that Castellan is in prison in Janisberg, it seems the deal is null and void.”

“Dear me,” Dollenger said and rubbed his chin. He sat back and looked contemplative.

“Well, we can contact them,” Becket said. “It’ll be simple. The pirate dealt with Castellan, he can deal with us. What’s the problem?”

Maggur laughed. “You think it so easy. Try getting within canon range of
The Dark Destiny
or any of his ships or even finding him. There are hundreds of possible islands he might be hiding on.” He looked at Muldor. “Do we know the payment amount or schedule?”

“Unknown. My informants, those I have placed as sailors among various crews, have no details to share at this time.”

The table went silent again, each man lost in thought. Except Crocker. The older man appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were tight and his features slack. Muldor didn’t allow a frown. The curmudgeon was always like that in meetings, listening, thinking, pretending to not be interested, he was the one out of all of them that would make the biggest plans.

Dollenger leaned forward and stapled his thin fingers under his pointy chin. He looked like a vulture or some other carrion bird. “Have we attempted to make contact with Lurenz at all?”

Muldor fixed him with an icy stare. “At this moment I have an agent in place, and we can only hope he is successful in funneling our desires to the appropriate persons involved.”

“’Hope’, you say?” said Maggur. “I’d rather not pin the future of our trade on something so unreliable as hope.”

“As you know,” Muldor said, “infiltration within his organization is not without its pitfalls and difficulty. Even rebellious buccaneers have a sense of security and a strong familiarity within their respective crews. It will take some time for him to gain their trust.”

They began to ask Muldor various details about the agent, his qualifications, how Muldor contacted him, on and on, and Muldor deflected these inquiries due to security issues. He couldn’t protect his man if people knew his name, so Muldor refused to give them his identity. Some of them understood his reasoning, others remained annoyed.

“How much time do we have, Muldor?” Becket said. “Before they start attacking the shipments again like they used to, is there a way to tell?”

“None. The details of Castellan’s agreement with them are unknown at this time. But we must assume the time to pay has not yet come to pass, for our shipping has not been molested by Lurenz’ fleet.”

“’Assume’?” Maggur said and sneered. “You assume too much,
Master
Muldor. You play with our livelihood and the business of thousands.”

Muldor chose to ignore the outburst yet again and plunged ahead with the most important topic of the day. “Another matter concerns us at present and also concerns a sizable pay out. One that must be dealt with soon, or we risk all-out war once again.”

“The Janisberg pricks,” said Gunnar Lawson. “Those fellas. That garrison they left here. All most of them do is pussyfoot about the docks, getting in the way, messing around. They’ve made it down to the Southern Docks as well. I’m sick of ‘em. Something should be done.”

“Agreed. The delegates from Janisberg hold us responsible for Castellan’s thievery. Now,” Muldor said when they all began to look more uncomfortable, “I am not here today to place blame as every single one of us share a responsibility or even culpability in what Castellan did. But we must face this situation, for our vocation and our livelihood is at stake.”