Chapter 13: Bargained

After a few heated conversations with merchants and currency exchangers, Tybalt made his way to a bar. He needed a place to stop and collect himself, preferably with a drink in his hand. If he managed to glean a few bits of information, all the better.

He had traded away a half a bottle of hurry to a skeezy merchant who operated from a small fortified residence. The merchant had blamed the aggressiveness of withdrawal for the over-abundance of protection. Still, while Tybalt had no desire to sling drugs, he had no problem tossing a few to a peddler for a good price. This drug merchant had heavily implied that many of the prominent citizens in this ring of Carrion Hill had been addicted to some form of drug. He gladly purchased a dozen little white pills of hurry, knowing exactly to whom he could resell these stimulants. Tybalt wanted to press the price higher, more out of a natural desire for combativeness than any sort of greed. He wanted to make sure he got the best price for his goods, even though he was willing to take any price under the present circumstances.

The exchanging currency had been more of a hassle. The plump man behind the till had no desire to open his stall again for trade. He had been adamant that his services had ended for the day and only the most grotesque of exchange rates would be considered. Tybalt tried imitating the man a little, but this route of persuasion proved ineffective. He tried to charm the man by sprinkling in a belated compliment here and there, but that proved to not be much better. He needed to the play to the man’s avarice and agreed to the terrible exchange rate. Tybalt laid out all the of the junk rounds he had lifted from the storage locker and the rounds of ammunition his half-bottle of hurry had provided him. In return, Tybalt received a handful of steel coins crafted at the municipal mint. The council of Carrion Hill had decided that establishing their own currency, something solid and stable, would be one of the ways they could influence the region. So far, their methods had proved successful, with the New Federation of Borealia depending upon the mint for their own influx of coins.

Regardless, Tybalt agreed to the exchange, knowing that he had been robbed unfairly. With a motivation of wasteland justice, Tybalt kept his eyes on the money exchanger’s hand and pockets. When the plump man closed his stall and made for his residence, he had been unwittingly lax with the money that hung about his belt. Tybalt did the man a favour by reducing the man’s weight with a quick flick of a knife. Only feeling a little remorseful for his blatant theft, he tossed a small coin into the pewter bowl some wayward beggar held in front of his contorted body.

Arriving at his destination, Tybalt entered the bar. He had a decent amount of exchangeable goods, of ammunition, and of Carrion Hill’s own coin to make himself comfortable for many days, or, at least, to have one night of absolute abandon. He pushed through the various citizens and travelers that congregated through the room and ignored the lascivious suggestions of the women that approached him. Instead, he kept his head down, made his way to the bar, and asked for a double-whiskey. His hand pushed a little extra coinage for the tough behind the bar. The man poured a few extra drams in appreciation for the advance. Tybalt twisted in his red stool and scanned the faces of the people around him. Most of the men seemed fairly effete and would not offer much of a fight or resistance if things got ugly. Only a few of the men, the ones dressed in courser clothing, alongside the establishment’s employees, carried an air of danger with them. As long he kept these select few happy, he would have no problem getting himself what he needed. These men were not the type he grew up when he knocked about various streets and allies. Tybalt felt confident he could take almost every single person in this establishment in one-on-one combat.

Tybalt downed the double shot. The blend was rubbish, the kind unworthy of savouring. Still, he was grateful for the brew as it burned down his throat. With his empty stomach, he felt the heat of the whiskey slide into abdomen. He gestured for another drink and received immediate service. The tough behind the bar knew that this customer would be worth his time.

As Tybalt spun the amber whiskey in his glass, he kept his ears alert. He snatched pieces and parcels of words and sentences from the people around him. The men six feet to his right had been complaining about the lack of flax they had received in their last shipment. The ladies immediately to his left had been bickering about their performances, each trying to up the other in her sufferings. Tybalt scanned the tables. Across a few of the wooden ones, men and women of a higher class sat. Their clothing seemed to be a little better than those standing. It seemed that this posh class could easily acquire seating with a wave of their hand. Everyone seemed to obey their whim. Tybalt took a half-shot of a sip of his drink, moving through the crowd toward one of the tables.

At the closest table, he had heard more discussions about the safety of the incoming merchants and how a shipment had recently been ambushed, their caravan killed down to the last man. These men and women argued different policy changes to ensure their highways would be safer from these types of brigands. Tybalt moved away from the discussion, trying to get closer to a moustached man on the far table. Something about this figure enticed him. The heavy-set man, aside from his droopy white moustache, he sported a half-shaven head, the sides closely cropped, but a long tuft of white hair that flowed from the middle of his skull. He also wore a plush overcoat, trimmed with white fur, with a thick leather belt girding his stomach. From the belt, hung small leather pouches. His shirt beneath had been made from fine flax, held together by toggle buttons made from empty bullet casings. He had the airs of friendly grandfather crossed with a wasteland war chief. The contrast made quite the appearance.

If he could get closer to their table, Tybalt could probably glean something useful, either information, or, perhaps, one of those leather pouches.

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“That’s unacceptable,” the moustached man whispered angrily. He tried to decrease his voice. He sputtered a few more words which Tybalt wasn’t able to catch. He moved closer to their table, taking another half-shot sip.

“This is the best plan that I have,” the man sitting across from the moustached man said. This man seemed younger, his hair cropped close to his skull, almost making him bald. Heavy scars rode over the crown of his head. When Tybalt had repositioned himself, he saw that these scars had descend across his face, nicking near the eye socket. “If you want to stop Mercury Transport taking this election, you need to get your hands dirty.”

Tybalt’s eyebrows raised. These words intrigued him. They were the very thing that he needed to hear.

“Watch your tongue,” the moustached man said. “You are here because I have invited you in confidence. I do not want you to run your mouth with such dangerous suggestions.”

Tybalt felt the need to do something drastic, something risky. If he did not seize this opportunity, it would slip through his fingers.

“Dangerous suggestions that I can help with,” Tybalt said, placing his hands on the end of the table. Both of the men swiveled their heads quickly at the interloper.

The scarred man half-rose from his spot, when the moustached man used his hand to gesture the man back to his spot.

“You involve yourself with matters that are not your own,” the moustached man said.

“Anything that seeks the destruction of Mercury Transport is my own,” Tybalt responded. He leaned closer to the man, “And you want the destruction of Mercury Transport, don’t you?”

The moustached man coughed to himself.

“You young men have too much fire in your blood. Lukasz, pay me a visit tomorrow at noon.”

The scarred man grimaced with the corner of his lips.

“As you wish,” Lukasz said. He rose from the table and shot a nasty glance at Tybalt.

“And you,” the moustached man said, “you must learn your place in this world. As it is, I might have use of you. Come, follow.” The moustached man rose from his seat and waved to the man behind the counter. The tough behind the bar nodded his head with two quick bobs.

Soon, Tybalt had exited the bar and walked around it. The moustached man said nothing in the crisp evening air. Tybalt decided to err on the side of silence and kept himself from striking up a minor conversation. The moustached man turned the corner and reached a heavy iron door. He slammed his fists against it twice. The slit on the door flung open.

“Password,” a voice said.

“It’s me, you imbecile,” the moustached man said.

“Sorry, my Lord,” the voice said, flinging the slit shut and unbarring the door. The heavy iron door swung open.

“Please,” the moustached man said to Tybalt, allowing him to enter the building first.

Tybalt observed the sparse room with high ceilings. Aside from a number of benches along the side of the room, there had been nothing in the middle, save two men wrestling. These men pushed each other back and forth, trying to throw the other off of the coarsely woven mat. In the middle of the struggle, one of the men caught sight of the moustached man.

“My Lord, Zoltan,” the man said, unclenching his opponent. His opponent took a few more seconds to register what was happening. Both men stood shoulder-to-shoulder and bowed deeply to the man who had entered.

“As you were,” Zoltan said with a spiral wave of his hand. The two men immediately squared themselves on the mat and waited for their trainer to call the next round of their match.

Tybalt followed Zoltan up the stairs in the training center and into a room guarded by two men. The room he entered perched over the training area. From this room, anyone could take notes on the fights that happened below.

“Do you know who I am?” Zoltan asked Tybalt. The older man took a seat. Tybalt reached for a chair across the man’s desk. “Did I say that you could sit?” The older man’s voice rung with an ounce of vitriol.

“I have heard of your name,” Tybalt said. He shrugged off the petty insult. He could swallow his pride long enough to entertain this old man’s sense of grandeur. After all, Tybalt was a free man. He only wanted revenge. Anyone who could provide him a step closer to revenge was a useful step. Zoltan would be a pawn in his game, not the other way around.

“And of my reputation?” Zoltan said, interweaving his fingers.

“I have only heard of you through discussions between Jurand and Corvus.”

“Between Jurand and Corvus.” Zoltan repeated the words without any indication of feeling or opinion.

“Yes, sir.” Tybalt wanted to seem deferential to this man. He could play to his sense of self. He seemed a man easily swayed by flattery.

“And what do you know of Corvus?” he said.

“I know only what I experienced alongside them.”

“Are you one of them?” Zoltan said. He opened a drawer from his desk.

“No, sir.”

Zoltan’s had hesitated. He closed the draw and opened another. From it, he pulled a bottle and two glasses.

“You may sit,” Zoltan said. He poured out a measure of the liquid in each glass. He pushed one forward to Tybalt. Zoltan lifted his glass into the air. “For the truth.”

“For truth,” Tybalt said. He shot back the liquid. He was struck by its sweetness. Something fruity and light hung in the taste of the alcohol. In fact, he felt as though some of the beverage’s sweetness stuck to the sides of his mouth. Unintentionally, he smacked his lips, tasting more of the sweetness.

“Then, do not lie to me. Tell me of the caravan.”

Tybalt relayed the story of their encounter with Jurand, the need for ware, and the assault of the on-coming caravan.

“Would you like to know a little secret?” Zoltan scooted his chair closer to the desk. He leaned forward. “That was my caravan.”

Zoltan jolted to his feet. He turned and looked out of the window over his gymnasium. He said nothing for awhile. Tybalt remained looked at the older man’s back, admiring the needlework that went into the man’s overcoat.

“My requested help killed my requested caravan.” Zoltan spoke softly. He seemed dissociated from his words. He shook his head with a slight disappointment. “Now, I am to believe that a new gun comes to me and requests to help me destroy Mercury Transport. How am I to believe that you are not going to ruin my operations? How am I to trust that you will not bungle like those men did? Incompetence.” Zoltan turned to face Tybalt. His voice began to rise in anger. “Incompetence! Everywhere, incompetent men. Are you incompetent?”

“No, sir.” Tybalt said quickly.

“You speak like the men of Corvus spoke. You speak like every single man I hire. Young men with no sense of limits, no sense of their own ability. You go until you hit an obstacle you cannot overcome and give up. Or, you succeed in your stupidity, and make more work for everyone else.” Zoltan sneered at the thought of previous failures. “Tell me,” he said, taking his chair again. “Do you know where the wares of this caravan are located?”

“I do, sir.”

“Then, your task is simple. Bring it for me by tomorrow morning.”