Anselmo’s eyes drifted out of focus as he pretended to watch the monotonous treeline next to the canal, or the River Albi, or whatever it was. The water had been diverted into this artificial channel so long ago that nobody even knew where it had been originally. His horse swayed slightly back and forth, meandering down the tow path. He was still upset about how things had turned out. It was hardly his fault the damned Popinjay had gotten in, anybody would have let him through the gate dressed as he was! Could Anselmo help it if the nobility, the Scaeptrians, and underhanded deals went together like liquor and bad decisions? Trevallion was bribing important assholes, and being bribed in return, about as often as he was changing his preposterous outfits. Anselmo wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that a couple of ponces clad in lace and feathers and answering to the names of Harlow and Hornigold had showed up the day after his previous employment ended, for the exact purpose the Popinjay had used to lie his way into the house.
On top of that, nobody in all of Stanhope had tried harder to catch the brazen horse-thief, Anselmo had chased him all across the city! Did he get any credit or recognition for that? No, of course not. In fact, he’d barely avoided being arrested himself for borrowing a horse to pursue the outlaw! Where was the justice in that?
Something stung the back of his neck, and he swatted at it absentmindedly.
Anyway, guards were for keeping out the riffraff, not people with power or money, everyone knew that. The foppish sellsword had been wearing more money than the horses he’d stolen were worth, and he hadn’t even taken the clothes with him! Not that the boss had cared. He suspected the only reason the Count wasn’t still screaming at him was that the pompous, perfumed pillock had spent the better part of that morning screaming at the watch commander, and he’d gotten hoarse before his tirade against Anselmo went on too long. He’d concluded his apoplectic rant by firing Anselmo and ordering him beaten, but Anselmo was friends with the guards ordered to do it, and they’d pulled their punches. He bought their drinks that night after they got off, a friend in need was a friend indeed.
All things considered though, he liked his new job considerably less than his old one, and he obviously hadn’t liked that one much at all. The pay had been better and he got to sleep in his own bed at night, maybe even somebody else’s bed, if he was lucky. There wouldn’t be any of that out here, that much he was sure of. While he wasn’t particular about gender, even if the opportunity presented itself he wouldn’t touch anyone on this crew with a ten foot pole. Nobody was really dirty or smelly, not anymore than he was at the end of the day, but every one of them was trouble.
The damned fly stung him again, and he swore and slapped the back of his neck.
He’d have turned Breakspear down when the commander offered him the job if he had any other prospects, but the reason he was unemployed was too well known for him to find work as a guard, and he really needed the work. He'd had a string of poor wagers on the fights, and didn't have enough silver put away to cover an extended bout of unemployment. After a couple days of doors being slammed in his face, he’d been desperate enough to consider joining the watch, but Commander Breakspear hadn’t had any regular openings. Instead, he offered him a position with what he’d called the “Assayer’s Commission for the General Welfare”, which was apparently a duty so boring nobody he’d asked had ever heard of it. The Commander had told him he’d be assisting with security and general labor for some clerk performing a survey of the canal downriver from Stanhope. It sounded awful and the pay wasn’t impressive, but Anselmo needed the work, and frankly, he needed to get out of town. A bit of time for the gentry to forget his name and face, and soon he’d be back to earning good coin to stand in one place all day and tell people to get bent. Success was about having attainable goals, that’s what his father had said. The old man had been talking about bedding the miller’s wife, but Anselmo thought the mark of good advice was that you could use it over and over.
With nothing better to do, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his pipe. He began to pack it with smokeleaf as he sized up his new associates.
The kid seemed decent enough, if a little... odd? Naive, maybe? It could just be that he was corvidian, the beak and wide-set eyes made it difficult to infer his emotions from facial expressions. He hadn’t complained about anything though, which Anselmo found agreeable. He spent enough time formulating his own complaints, he couldn’t spare any for listening to other people’s.
Still, the corvidian's loyalties were difficult to know. The kid, who went by Rado, was almost certainly on loan from Ribaud’s organization, which Anselmo had deduced from the fact that his mentor, Tavin, was definitely one of Ribaud’s. The older man had apparently been a soldier in the last war with the Empire, but Anselmo thought he might as well just tattoo the word “criminal” on his forehead already and be done with it. Everything from his clothes, to his speech and mannerisms, to the way his eyes always seemed to be determining an escape route from his current location, said that he lived his life on the wrong side of the law. He kept a close watch on their surroundings and was a light sleeper, which Anselmo supposed was nice. After all, it would be a shame if some strange cutthroats he’d never met murdered him in his sleep, rather than the cutthroats he’d spent the last couple of days getting to know.
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He’d tried to bring up his concerns about the two gangsters to the last member, and leader, of their little band of reprobates, but he hadn’t seemed concerned. In fact, he’d said he was aware of the matter, and that he’d hired them on purpose!
Anselmo glanced forward at the Assayer’s Commission’s intrepid leader, and likely survivor of a serious head injury. Maybe that’s the source of his confidence? He’s clearly good at surviving debilitating injuries, he’s got one knee and no feet left.
“Porkchop! Come here!” Grimsby shouted into the trees. A moment later, the dark-colored dog bounded out of a thicket and through the tall grass to join the riders on the canal’s tow path. Her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth as she ran.
Anselmo struck a match and puffed at his pipe, drawing the flame into the dried herb. He supposed the big dog could account for Grimsbsy’s nonchalance. That and his awful horse! Anselmo had never seen such a vicious animal actually used to carry a rider, the evil nag would be better used to run down poachers or hunt wolves. It liked Grimsby well enough, but the big, black beast would snap its teeth and try to bite anyone or anything that came close enough. The other horses didn’t want anything to do with it, and Grimsby had to tie it up away from them when they stopped for the night, then hobble back to the campfire on his wooden legs, leaning on a crutch to steady himself.
He’d lay out his bedroll with the brutish horse at his back, and the dog next to him. Anselmo wasn’t entirely sure if the stallion was watching Grimsby’s back, or if he was protecting the rest of them from the creature. Nobody wanted to get too close at any rate.
“Dawnbreaker’s blazing ballsack!” Anselmo erupted as he swatted at the back of his neck yet again. He twisted in his saddle, trying to lay eyes on his elusive tormentor, but it was nowhere to be found. He looked up at the two riders behind him. Rado’s expression was as inscrutable as ever, and Tavin was watching the trees. He turned back around to see Grimsby giving him an odd look. “Are these damned biting flies not bothering you?!” Anselmo demanded.
“The only flies around here that bite are horseflies, and I haven’t so much as seen one all day. It’s too early in the season for them.” Grimsby answered him.
“Aye, they’ve been bothering me as well!” Tavin called from behind him. “I’ve had to be real vigilant and keep my eyes open, lest they eat me alive!”
Rado let out a slight croak, which Anselmo didn’t know how to interpret, but he had a suspicious frown on his face as he continued to puff on his pipe, shooting the occasional glare back at Tavin.
A smile was tugging at the corners of Grimsby’s mouth as he pulled a spyglass from his coat and took a look at a small ruin on the other side of the canal, then scribbled a note to himself in a pad he was keeping in a breast pocket. Anselmo squinted at the blocky stone remnant, but didn’t see anything remarkable about it. It was probably an old tollhouse or something like that. There were a couple of words carved into a wall in large letters, but they were mostly covered in moss. It made no real difference, he couldn’t read Old Stygian anyway.
A couple of bargemen rounded the bend ahead, one leading their tow horse, and the other poling the barge along from the stern. When they got close, Grimsby gave a friendly wave and introduced himself, then asked them the same questions he’d been asking all the way down the river. Had they seen anything unusual lately? Where did people camp along the waterways? Had they heard of any robberies along the canal? Did they have any damage to the banks, or snags, to report?
It sounded like bullshit to Anselmo, who was paying more attention to the smoke rings he was blowing than the answers to Grimsby’s inane queries. Canal maintenance wasn’t Breakspear’s problem, and neither was smuggling. If Anselmo was a betting man, they were looking for any evidence the Popinjay had survived. It was a popular rumor in the taverns, but Anselmo thought it was ridiculous. The lack of a body didn’t mean anything, it was probably wrapped around a log or caught in an undercut somewhere around here. They could have passed it already for all they knew! Breakspear didn’t seem like the sort to indulge in flights of fancy, but Anselmo could respect a man who didn’t leave things to chance. Especially when that man was paying him.
A fourth smoke ring had just joined the procession when the breeze picked up and they all vanished. Anselmo sighed. In the end, he was hired muscle, and the rest was just idle speculation because he was bored and had nothing better to do. It was probably better if he didn’t think about it too much.
He needed something else to occupy his mind. There had to be a hobby he could pick up out here that didn’t need any special equipment, didn’t cost anything, and wasn’t so annoying it would get him stabbed in his sleep. He puffed at his pipe thoughtfully as the Assayer’s Commission for the General Welfare ambled downstream on the tow path next to the canal.