27th Mortifost, 998 NE
The Western Wench was Wyre’s favourite watering hole – they always kept the fires well-stoked – and if he deigned to show up on any given night it would always create a bit of a buzz in the atmosphere. Even those regulars who had nothing to do with the Bertie Boys knew full-well where the tavern’s affiliations lay – who protected it – and if they didn’t rock the boat, they might even end up with a free round when Wyre was in good humour.
This evening Wyre was not in good humour. He entered, scowling, and a hush fell across the patrons, even those with two girls in their laps. He swiftly scanned around through the smoke, ensuring the environment was safe, then stomped over towards his regular booth without saying a word. Jerle would handle that.
His minions were on his heels, over a dozen of them, and he hadn’t got half way to the bench when he heard his captain calling out to the barman for their usuals to be brought over.
There would be no discussion of prices, money trading hands. If it’d just been Jarle and his crew, sure. But not when Wyre was here. Not when the Lultons or Ginnel Gram were about.
Slowly, normal conversations resumed, the love-girls and -boys going back to their tasks, the brain-damaged kid in the corner raising his flute again to his lips. (Damn kid couldn’t string more than three words together, but give him a flute and he was a demigod.) Wyre settled into the centre of the high-backed bench, nestling down into the cushions left here just for him. His chief cronies occupied the seats either side of him and across from him, the rest filing into the next two adjacent booths as well.
If you had power, you might as well flaunt it. If you had a couple of dozen thieves and killers to reward, there were worse ways than booze on tap and women on call. Fear and loyalty; once a man like Wyre had it down, he knew he had the formula to stay on top like this forever.
“I fancy a Ripplemead’s tonight,” he muttered.
“Oi! Dreyna!” Jerle yelled. “Make the boss’s a Ripple!”
“Sure thing!” The serving-girl reached under the counter for the special cask, the one that only the heads of the family could get opened. “Just be a minute!”
“Get yer act together,” Jerle called back, but it was just a gesture, a token phrase; Dreyna was no spring chicken, and she would know he didn’t mean any harm.
Once the beers were served, half the lads disappeared with theirs into the back rooms while Wyre and his hardiest minions settled in for some heavy drinking. It’d been a bad day.
The gods cursed me. The Liberator of Zadhal. A bona fide freakin’ champion.
“Feychilde,” he moaned into his pint. “Why’s it have to be droppin’ Feychilde?”
“He might be wrong, boss,” Lark piped up. “Come on, you know what Orven’s…”
Lark took one look at the expression on Wyre’s face and fell silent.
“Nah, I reckon the little git’s as right about this as he’s ever been.” Wyre ticked off the points on his fingers. “First Feychilde appears. Suddenly Peltos starts actin’ all shifty, then Sorban gets harassed and Old Tibbey’s gets done over… I bet that was him. And then the wings. The droppin’ wings. Everyone’s seen them. It shoulda been obvious.” He clenched his fist. “Stickin’ his hand in me son’s chest – that’s just the icin’ on the cake. Is it a vendetta? Is he tryin’ to take me down?”
No one spoke for a few moments, slurping in silence.
“Wassen it a magister what come smashing Peltos’s wall?” Hadin said at last.
“That come,” Wyre corrected with a growl. “An’ yeah. Yeah it was. That’s when he first started brickin’ it, moaning about the warehouses…”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Wonder if any o’ the Gennelmen got a clue on this,” Lark commented in a musing tone. “Garet told me it wasn’t the first magister he seen that night – then we was both there at Old –”
“You what?” Wyre hissed.
“Yeah – the magister what – that – hurt his arm. Some ghost-thing, he says. And her, he seen her early that night, at some kid’s house. Another magister there, I reckons.”
Wyre looked at Hadin. “Go fetch me Garet.”
“Aw, but boss –“
“You can finish the beer when you get back, an’ if you’re quick enough I might even let you off with the scar you deserve for tryin’ to wheedle out of it.”
Hadin was out of his seat in a jiffy, and, by the time the surface of his beer stopped wobbling with the impact of tankard upon table, he’d already disappeared through the tavern’s front door.
It only took him twenty minutes to get back, and he had the Gentleman in tow. Big, blond-haired Garet had a wary expression on his face as he followed Hadin out of the smoke.
“Alright, boss?” Garet asked.
Wyre narrowed his eyes. ‘Alright, boss’ would normally be a statement. Not a question.
“Pull up a chair, Garet,” Wyre replied. “’Ave a beer.”
“Don’t mind if I do, ta.”
Wyre waved Dreyna over, but even when Garet had his mouth firmly fixed to the lip of his tankard he was still looking wary.
“What’s up, lad?” Wyre asked him. “You nervous?”
“Nah, boss.” Garet put down his half-drunk ale. “Just, you know… wonderin’ what all this is about. Not that I ain’t appreciatin’ the beer, obviously! It’s just Peltos wanted me to go clean out –“
“I don’t care what Peltos wants.” Wyre’s voice was low. “You shouldn’t either, if you wanna keep your head above the water. You get me, Garet?”
“I-I get you, boss.” His large eyes were wide, fixed on Wyre, unblinking, unthinking.
“He’s a good lad, issen ‘e?” Wyre grinned at his underlings, saw their ingratiating grins in response, then turned back to Peltos’s minion. “Arm all fixed up, is it?”
“Good as new, boss. That what you wanted to know? I’m fit to do my bit, boss, trust me.”
“Nah, all it is, Garet, is this… You know who Feychilde is.”
He had turned the tables on the Gentleman. It should’ve been a question, but it was a statement. He saw the startled look swiftly cross the man’s bland features, the flash of panic in his eyes.
“No way, boss! Feychilde? Why would I…?”
Garet did his best to make his voice plaintive, let it carry his natural sincerity – but the haste of the reply, the little click in his throat when he tried to trail off – these things were what betrayed him.
“Now I want you to think very carefully, Garet.” Wyre spoke quietly, his tone not intense but friendly or even casual. It was dreadful for them to hear, he knew, and he saw them all react accordingly, never mind Garet himself who blenched instantly, twisting in his chair, colour flushing out of his face. “Garet. I will give you one more chance, an’ then we will see what has to be done with you. I believe you know somethin’ about Feychilde, about his plans for me. Convince me otherwise. Convince me, please… or you know what’s comin’.”
Garet’s eyes were filling with tears.
“But – boss,” he whispered, “he ain’t no trouble. He’s one o’ them good ones. An’ – an’ he got this kid brother and sister, they got no one else and they’re broke…”
His voice faded away – clearly the Gentleman was beginning to understand the absurdity of his words.
“Broke?” Wyre snarled, then laughed. “A good one? Did he get in your head, boy?”
“Nah!” Garet sat back, clearly offended at the insinuation, which was reassuring – but also far too assertive.
Wyre didn’t need to move. Didn’t need to speak.
His stare did it all for him – within a few seconds Garet seemed to realise once more who he was speaking to.
“Nah,” the Gentleman said more softly, lowering his eyes in deference. “I’ll tell you – I’ll tell you who he is, boss. Where he lives, whatever you want. I ain’t never spoke to him, I swears. But… boss… he’s Feychilde… He didn’t even call the watch on us… and what in Twelve Hells can we do about him? I get he might be bad for business, but –“
“It was him that stuck his hand in Orven’s chest,” Wyre said.
“Oh.” Garet paled once again. “Ohhh. Five save us.”
“Right?” Wyre sat back, smiling, feeling satisfied. “You can finish your beer, Garet, while you give me every bit of information you think might be handy. Cos you’re gonna be helping us with this, you understand that, right? Until I’m a hundred percent convinced you aren’t workin’ for him, you’re gonna be workin’ for me. I’ll let Peltos know, don’t you worry. And maybe between us, we can fix this up good and proper. Get ridda Feychilde. Get Peltos back on track. Get Old Tibbey sleepin’ again at night.”
And get my son out of the gods-cursed house at last.
“Okay, boss… Look, this kid, Kastyr Mor-something – Morden, maybe –“
“Mortenn,” Wyre breathed.
“Mortenn – right…”
“Kastyr Mortenn.” The old man sat back and closed his eyes, a gesture of vulnerability that all his boys gathered here would know they were blessed to witness. “Kastyr.”
“What is it, boss?” Garet moaned.
Jerle answered for him:
“The boss killed ‘is parents.”
* * *