Chapter 21: Insurance

“Your screams will be a symphony. My message to the traitor god.”

-?O?, date unknown.

Stephan was playing a dangerous game.

Regardless of whether what Arqen had said was true or not, he had to prepare for the Masks and the Outlaw Clan. Of course, joining forces with Arqen would have stopped them in their tracks, but that would make him beholden to the ideals of a militaristic revolutionary. That was unacceptable. He had to find a middle ground.

To start with, he’d given Amaline the funds to buy herself a gun. She insisted that she didn’t know how to use one, but eventually relented and bought herself a dainty Waystone pistol. He’d also installed a portable ward generator behind the bar. In case of an organized attack, they’d need the protection. Lastly, he’d officially hired Aegur to act as bar security in Yin’s absence, with the stipulation that the cat outright refused to kill anyone, regardless of the circumstances. It went against his beliefs. This meant that Stephan was essentially paying the cat to day-drink at the bar, but a little bit of extra insurance couldn’t hurt.

For the time being, until the mess with the gangs was settled, Stephan put the search for his daughter on hold. He wouldn’t want her to come back to this situation anyway. Wherever she was, she’d probably be safer there than at the Sweet Devil. As such, he’d reopened the bar for business. Less suspicious that way.

But his precautions wouldn’t be enough. Not by a long shot. Based on the limited information he’d gotten from Amaline and from patrons, if the gangs wanted him dead, they’d reduce the bar to rubble one way or another. The Masks and the Outlaw Gang conducted themselves differently, but they were the same in that they were both utterly ruthless in achieving their ends.

He’d need something more substantial than a bubble shield and a cat bodyguard to keep them at bay. He had just the thing in mind.

Arqen had cut him loose not because of guns or threats, but because Stephan had said the right words. He’d been sitting on the right information. Arqen was honorable to a fault. It only stood to reason that the other gang leaders would have similar chinks in their armor. He just needed to find out which buttons to press.

When he opened the bar that evening, he kept his eyes and ears open, instructing his employees to do the same. He was looking for any intel he could use against the Masks and the Outlaw Clan.

It was a slow night, no doubt due to his sporadic opening schedule as of the last few days. Stephan shined glasses and listened to the steady hum of the emanators in the ceiling. Amaline got to chatting with a trio of hookers she’d worked alongside at one point. Aegur lay curled-up on a barstool, one lazy eye scanning the place. A lubbard pirate drank his sorrows away at the counter, having lost big on some powerbrawl bets.

The lubbard favored beer. He drank himself under the table in less than two hours. After some coaxing, Aegur put his arcane talents to use and threw the man out. The other patrons stared as the lubbard floated, unconscious, straight through the door.

A slow drip of patrons came through and left. After about two hours came someone who looked a little more useful. Gruff and scarred, he wore a white mask on one shoulder that denoted him as a member of the Masks. At the sight of him, the hookers paled. Two of them left, leaving only one other patron in the bar.

The gang member had a seat by the counter next to the maiori. Man and cat glanced at each other, but the former made no comment.

“Good evening, sir,” Stephan said. He set aside the glass he’d been cleaning. “What can I get you?”

“I don’t much care,” the man said, busy digging out crusted blood from under his nails. “Whatever’s cheap and’ll get me drunk.”

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“A Swift Death, then.”

The gang member chuckled at the name. “One of those, yeah.”

Stephan prepared the drink, and the gang member got to drinking. Stephan prodded him with a few questions, but he remained tight-lipped. Even with his glasses activated, there wasn’t much to glean from his aura apart from dull apathy. That wouldn’t do.

Perhaps I can be of some assistance, Aegur purred. One of my many talents is to loosen tongues in friendly conversation. None can resist Lord Ordynion’s intoxicating influence.

Stephan nodded.

Aegur’s violet eye briefly lit up. The gang member drank with added gusto—and Stephan had never seen someone look eager to drink a Swift Death after the first sip. Once he finished his cocktail, he ordered a second. And a third. And a fourth.

“I see you’re a member of the Masks,” Stephan said once the man was good and wasted.

“Yeah, so?” he said. “Got a problem with that, you… You…” He frowned and trailed off, unable to find the proper insult.

Stephan made a placating gesture. “Not at all! In fact, I have nothing but respect for your profession. Without the gangs, who would keep Tumba running?”

The gang member thought about it for a second. “The Concord, I guess.”

“And none of us want that, do we?”

The gang member laughed. “That’s right! That’s really very… correct. Yeah.”

“The Revelers aren’t all that reliable, though, are they?” Stephan continued. “I mean, total revolution? How’s that supposed to work? And the Outlaw Clan? Don’t get me started. If you ask me, it seems like the Masks are pulling all the weight around here.”

“Right? Those fuckers make us all look weak!” The gang member made a wide, cutting gesture with his arm, spilling his cocktail in the process. Stephan smoothly caught the glass before it rolled off the counter and began the process of mixing a new one.

“You get it, man,” he continued. He jabbed a swaying finger in Stephan’s general direction. “People say we’re scary or whatever, but at the end of the day, we care about the city just as much… just as much as anyone. We’re gonna keep it safe, you hear? It’s just gonna take a little blood.”

“I hear you.”

The gang member let out a big sigh. He slowly deflated, sinking towards the countertop. “That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Lately I, uh… I’ve been ques—… question—… questioning that.”

Stephan perked up. That sounded useful. He slid the new Swift Death across the table, and him and Aegur shared a brief look of understanding.

“How come?” Stephan asked. “What makes you question yourself?”

The gang member’s countenance contorted with sudden rage. He reached up and took Stephan by the collar, hoisting him forward. “Why you asking so many questions, huh? You know who asks a lotta questions? Rats. You a rat, bartender?”

Yes, Stephan thought.

“Of course not,” Stephan said, slowly reaching for the Rivello under his suit jacket. Amaline cast a worried look his way, but he waved her off with his free hand.

Aegur’s eye flashed.

The gang member’s gaze went unfocused—more so than before—and he slowly relinquished his hold on Stephan. “Nah, you’re cool.” He sat back on the stool, features smoothing out. “You know how I can tell? You keep your calm. You’re not some baby who pisses himself at the smell of trouble. Rats are all like that.”

Stephan chuckled inwardly at that. “I’m happy you think so,” he said.

“Well, anyway…” the gang member continued. “I guess it don’t hurt if I tell you. The city’s gonna find out sooner or later.” He looked around the nearly empty bar, then leaned conspiratorially towards Stephan. The cloying scent of alcohol wafted in his face. “You didn’t hear this from me, alright?”

“Hear what from who?” Stephan asked.

The gang member grinned. “Exactly. The Butcher, he’s too soft on his sons. Gave ‘em all positions in the gang, powerful positions, but half o’ them are complete losers.”

According to Stephan’s research, the Butcher was the leader of the Masks, having carved a bloody path through the previous gang to occupy their territory, the Red Street Rippers.

“Now one of them, Yuli, has up and killed himself. ‘Cept I don’t think that’s what happened.”

Now this sounded juicy.

“What do you think happened?” Stephan asked, feigning casual interest.

“Yuli’s a bullshitter and a coward. He’s way too concerned with his own hide to off himself. I say he faked his death to make off with dear ol’ dad’s money and settle somewhere else. There wasn’t even a body—they just found his clothes by the sea with a suicide note.”

“What a bastard,” Stephan said.

“Rat bastard,” the gang member echoed. He muttered a string of unintelligible curses into the cocktail glass.

Despite himself, Stephan grinned. He couldn’t have hoped for a juicier lead.