Garrilport was not a huge city. It was maybe half the population of Karenstoch but twice the area. It had not started to grow up like the northern capital. Trees did not hinder its expansion, and the city planners took full advantage of this. There were mountains to the west, but only the foothills slowed growth. The actual mountains were half a day further away.
Garrilport was named such because it sat at the headwaters of the largest river on the entire continent. The Garril River was named after the man who had discovered it, and it was the lifeblood of the southern half of the continent. The river came through the foothills and was barely more than a stream most of the year. It gained most of its size and furry downstream as many different tributaries joined it. That had all changed when civilization moved in.
A brilliant engineer had designed a series of locks to bring the river out of the foothills under control. The river’s elevation changed by over 100 feet. The change to the river transformed the formerly small town of Garril into the bustling city of Garrilport. The swift rapids that had poured out of the hills in the spring and half of the summer turned into a calm and consistent river. Also, by backing up the spring floods and releasing them slowly throughout the rest of the year, a vast artificial lake was created nestled in the hill valleys.
Industry sprouted along the new coast overnight. Someone had the bright idea of filling the lake with fish, and they flourished. A lumber mill stood on the northern edge of the city before, but now with shipbuilders setting up shop around the lake, two more mills sprang up within a week. Now, farmers, prospectors, trappers, and other traders no longer had to travel south to deliver their goods to the rest of the continent but could use this man-made port.
The locks operated twice a week, lowering ships into the river for a modest fee. Most vessels were brand new and sent down the river to another city for purchase. Some were already loaded with goods, and some were both. With the prosperity and business, the locks brought, the rest of the city expanded on its own.
Blacksmiths, tanners, carpenters, butchers, and others were needed to change the traders' raw goods into finished products sent downriver. Taverns and gaming houses made an effort to skim a bit of the money being made by offering visitors and residents alike a chance to spend their money on pleasure. Respectable restaurants and hotels were also needed.
Government had moved into the city of Garrilport also. Garril, the city's founder, had died of old age several decades ago, and there had been many mayors since. One bright mayor had set up a city council. Together they set up a tax and tariff system. The people nearly tore the city apart as a result, but when the council began to hire city guards to keep the crime rate down, the people understood the wisdom of the tax. The council also offered low-interest loans to businessmen who wanted to set up shop and add a new commodity to the city.
The council organized city fairs and celebrations a few times a year. They held contests and honored prominent members of the city. In the end, the citizens willingly paid their taxes, for they hardly needed all the money they made.
A few dozen years after the initial boom, the city slowly separated into two distinct sections. There was the northwestern half of the town, which was rough and dirty. This was where the lumbermills, shipyards, refineries, slaughterhouses, and fish houses were. The southern portion of the city was more residential. It sold the goods made in the northern half but wanted nothing more to do with it.
The taverns and inns in the north were rough and always rowdy. Death was not uncommon, though it was not too frequent. The industries in the foothills and lower forests were hard and dirty, and the men who worked in them reflected this. The guardhouses were quickly moved to the city’s center to keep the north half of the city in the north. Few people worked in one and lived in the other, and they were not always accepted when they came back home. After a while, people began to accept the fact that the northerns, as they were called, were not going to refine their ways. They also realized that the city would crumble in financial ruin without them.
Not only did they build the ships that were the backbone of the community, but they also made a more significant tax contribution than the rest of the city, for they more often frequented the heavily regulated gaming houses and brothels that densely populated the north. However, it was the northerns that kept the city from growing into capital city status. Instead of setting up shop in the city, one could make two trips a week and still make the ships south.
Entreri thought this town be as good a place as any. He had crossed the waterfall after leaving the ranger, but instead of continuing southeast, he had hugged the river back west and stopped for a short while in Mastin. There he had supplied himself for the mountains, changed horses, and set out.
He had seen several towns like Elliorn had described, rough and struggling to survive. While they had not found goblins yet, they had found precious minerals. They were pulling gold, copper, silver, and traditional iron ore. Entreri could see little use for such metal up in the mountain communities. He always got the same answer when he asked the question: “We take it to Garrilport.”
Entreri reached the city ten days after he had left Elliorn by the river. Several times he had almost turned around to find her and kill her, but each time he had restrained himself. He had to stop his old profession sometime. But now, as he walked into a new city, probably the most diverse he had found yet, he realized he didn’t have any marketable skills.
Everything he knew how to do related to his dark trade. He could work for a locksmith and design an unpickable lock. He could work for the circus and dazzle people with his juggling and tight-wire acts. He could try to be the weapon master for the city guards. He supposed there were many things he could do, but only one of his skills allowed him to work independently: killing.
This city was the roughest he had found – at least half of it was – but the northern half’s action was not based on anything rational. Calimport had been dangerous because guild-houses struggled for power. They laid claim to sections of the city. The more they controlled, the more taxes they could pull. The more money they had, the more killers they could hire. The more killers they had, the more area they could claim and defend.
The northern half of Garrilport was not like this at all. They did not get into fights and kill each other for power or money. They killed each other because they were drunk. They killed each other because they had the same IQ as the fish and cattle they killed and cleaned. They killed each other because one of them looked at the other in the wrong way. Entreri wanted no part of that. Besides, while the northerns made the city all its money, the northerns themselves had very little and wouldn’t be able to afford the assassin.
The city planning office was located in the southern half in a pristine section of the city. There were few homeless or beggars in the south part of the city. If you tried to settle on the outskirts without registering with the city, you were driven away or forced to pay a penalty. Everyone was taxed. To maintain this fairly, everyone had to register.
The council was proud of the city they had created and would not put up with anyone leeching off the system. Although it was encouraged, you did not have to have a business, but those who maintained a taxable venture got a break on their personal taxes. Once a week, beggars and peasants were rounded up and either escorted out of the city or, more frequently, they were escorted to the northern half. There they either absorbed the drunken furry of the rowdies, sparing a contributing member of the city, or they became a contributing member by filling a job position vacated by someone who had met with an unfortunate end. Anyone was allowed into the northern half, but you had to be registered with the city guards and have good reason to return to the southern half.
Entreri stepped into the city planning office and looked around, wondering if this was all just a big mistake. The majority of the office consisted of a lavish waiting room with comfortable couches and serving girls. Entreri took a number and a drink and then sat down to wait his turn. An expertly drawn and painted city map took up one entire wall of the waiting room.
Entreri also took notice of the rest of the people in the room. Speaking more in snickers and giggles than actual words, a young couple cuddled on a two-person seat. The assassin guessed they were newlyweds looking for a new home away from their parents. A man dressed much nicer than Entreri sat nervously, trying not to look at anyone. He was probably hoping this city of opportunity had a place for someone with his skills, whatever those skills might be.
It took half an hour, but Entreri was finally ushered into the planner's office. The man had just dealt with the giddy couple and was happy to see someone his own age and apparent demeanor. The man rose from behind his desk and shook Entreri's hand. “Welcome to Garrilport; my name is Leron. What can I do for you today?”
Entreri decided to play this easy. His typical business style probably would not work too well. “I'm looking for a place to settle down. I've been through the northland and have heard good things about your city.”
“I see,” Leron said, still trying to figure this man out. He talked to dozens of people every day, and he was pretty good at identifying them. Businessmen were all the same. The first words out of their mouths were always, “I make the finest wooden sculptures in all the realms,” or “My candles burn longer and brighter than any you've ever seen.”
Entreri was well dressed, his goatee trimmed and his shoulder-length hair tied together behind him under his black bolero. His handshake had been firm and his gate sure. His posture was perfect, and his face relaxed. He was either insanely rich or a mercenary on the run. Either way, as long as he paid his taxes and did not cause trouble, he was welcome in Garrilport.
“What kind of place were you looking for?”
“What kind of places do you have?” Entreri asked, not really knowing how to go about this. He had always just lived in a room in a guild house. He did not know anything about buying a place for himself.
“Well, a few shops just opened up. Their former owners either left or went out of business. Two of them are in a perfect location, right-” Leron began to turn around to motion to a map of the city behind him, but Entreri cut him off.
“Shops?”
“Yes,” Leron replied, looking back at his guest. “Are you a merchant? Do you have a trade?”
Yes, thought Entreri, but I don't need a shop. I mostly make house calls. “I thought I would just find a place to live first. I have many talents and just want to live quietly for a while before I set up shop.”
“Well, can you give me an idea of what you plan to do? Location is everything in this town. Perhaps I can reserve a place for you.”
Entreri shook his head. “I'm just looking for a place to live.”
Leron shrugged. He had tried anyway. “I have several nice apartments in the center of town. The rent runs a bit high in some, but they are well furnished, and some have added luxuries.”
“I like my privacy. Do you have anything on the edge of town?”
Leron raised his eyes. Maybe he had judged this man wrong. “Yes, but they aren't all very nice.” He pulled out a rolled-up map from under his desk. He only had the main section of town on the map behind him on the wall. “There are a few small cottages on the edge of the commercial district,” Leron said, not sounding very enthusiastic about it, “but if you get much further away, you begin to get into the poor section of-”
“What about here?” Entreri pointed to a lot on the very edge of the map.
Leron nearly fell over. “No, I don't think you want to live there. Why, the streets aren't paved. There are no sewers. It smells, and you will be surrounded by peasants just scraping to get by. I'm sure you'd prefer to live-”
“Sounds fine by me,” Entreri said. “As I said, I like my privacy.”
Leron was sure he had him pegged now. This man was dirt poor. He had probably stolen the clothes he wore and thought that if he could just get into the “glorious” city of Garrilport, he might be able to make his fortune in the gaming houses. Maybe he planned to steal his way to a fortune. Whatever his ploy, Leron doubted he would last thirty days.
The lot Entreri had chosen did not even have a number. Leron scribbled one in. He got out the paperwork and began to fill it out. Entreri spelled his name for the man and answered a few other trivial pieces of information such as age, family size, and so forth. “There is a fee involved,” Leron said, hoping that he would be able to throw away the deed he had just written up and get to more important customers.
Entreri reached behind his back and pulled out a coin bag that was easily twice as big as any bag Leron had ever carried himself. Leron's mouth hung open as Entreri set it on his desk and then produced a twin bag to sit next to it. “M-m-more than enough,” Leron muttered. “Much more. Are you sure you don't want an apartment? Or maybe even a riverfront chateau? I have a nice house available. It has its own dock, sixteen rooms, servant quarters, seven-”
“The plot I chose will be fine for now. Remember, I just want to get a feel for the town.”
“Right. Right! Of course, sir! I understand.” The rest of the process went smoothly and quickly.
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Entreri took one look at his new home and wondered if he should go back to the planner and get the chateau he had talked about. And why not? Entreri had the gold. Entreri had never wanted to live like a pasha, though. He had despised and then killed Dondon for giving into pleasure and luxury; he would not do the same.
The shack, for it could not be called a house, was made of two rooms. There was a tiny outhouse in the back with an only slightly bigger shed next to it. All the windows had been broken, and dust and dirt almost lay thicker on the floor inside than on the ground outside. There was no furniture to speak of, and neither were there doors. Loren had given him the plot and everything on it for 20 gold pieces. Entreri had eaten meals in Calimport worth twice that. At the time, he thought Loren was giving him a deal, but now having seen the place, Entreri realized if someone had swindled him like this a year ago, the man would have spent the last ten seconds of his life looking for his small intestines.
The city should pay him for taking this off their hands. It was noon, and Entreri had little to do. He rode back into town and bought a small cart for his horse. He then filled it with windows, doors, straw, sheets, a broom, nails, and a hammer. Three hours later, his shack had doors, windows, very little dirt inside, and a small straw bed. The rest of the day was spent pounding nails into the floor every time it squeaked.
That night he lay on his scratchy bed wondering what he was doing. He was the deadliest man alive, and he had decided to live a peasant's life on the edge of a very wealthy town. Entreri had always known he would have to stop killing eventually, but he thought it would result from someone else's blade and not boredom.
Entreri knew what kind of fighters lived in this new land. Elliorn had been good, but Entreri felt confident he would continue to come out on top if she refrained from shooting him in the back with her longbow. There were others like her, but Entreri knew they were in the minority. Most of these people had never faced mortal combat. Sure, some of them had killed or been involved in fights where someone had died. But walking into a one-on-one battle knowing only one will walk away is an entirely different thing.
So, what was he going to do? The only thing he did not want was to grow weak with age. Dondon had done that. The halfling knew he could never go outside and was done being a thief. His answer was to gorge himself. Entreri knew he was done being an assassin, but that did not mean he had to lose his edge.
Entreri did not shy away from hard labor like some killers he had known. He was not afraid to get his hands dirty and realized the physical benefits of a hard day's work. This place needed plenty of work. That's what he would do. He would spend the next ten days working on this shack until it resembled a home, not because it was where he would spend the rest of his life, but because he needed something to do.
Working on the house would give him a chance to meet several merchants and get a good feel for the rest of the city. He would talk to his neighbors and see what they felt about this area. Maybe Elliorn was wrong, and this city did have a use for his skills. He would never find out unless he stayed. If he stayed, he needed something to do, and working on this place was as good a task as any.
The following five days went by quickly, and Entreri almost forgot who he was. He worked on the property first. He did not have a lot of land at his disposal, but he set up a fence around all of it. Cool breezes came off the mountains, but it was summer, and the sun beat down on him. Back in Calimport, if anyone had told him that when he turned 40, he would spend his days driving fence posts, he probably would have killed them. Now he enjoyed it.
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The assassin's body had been honed to be as efficient as possible in everything it did, and it did not take long before he was driving in each post with only three shots from his sledge. It took him one morning to do one side of his square lot. He finished the rest of the posts in half the time that afternoon. The rest of the day involved nailing the slats to the posts that made up the actual fence. He added a small corral for his horse and then built a hayloft and water trough.
A well a hundred yards from his house fed the entire eastern edge of the city. He purchased a watertight wooden tank that could hold fifty gallons. He propped it up on a wooden stand on the edge of his house and used a pulley system to fill it. It took an entire morning to fill, but by piping a faucet into his home, he had running water that only needed to be filled once a week. He sowed grass into his dirty, weedy property and watered it sparingly.
While working outside, he had a chance to meet his neighbors. The closest house to his stood sixty feet away. They were a poor family with a young son, about eight years old. They had a small garden that the mother tended. The father disappeared each morning and returned late each night. Entreri figured he worked in one of the northern industries. The son tried to sell his mother's vegetables in front of their house, but this was not a high-traffic area.
Entreri saw few other people. No one came out to the area unless they lived there, and few were poor enough to do so. Trees were growing around the houses, and more families might live beyond them, but Entreri did not check.
The inside of his house took more work. He coated and sealed the floor and did the same to the walls. Now that he had running water, he spent a few coins on a new wash-sink and sprang for a new woodstove. He got curtains for the windows and half a dozen rugs to cover the ugly spots on the floor. The house was open to the ceiling, and Entreri installed a full loft.
Entreri did not spend too much on furniture, buying only what was necessary. Still, he got looks from those living in squalor around him as he hauled in a bed, a few chairs, a table, and lamps. These people had practically nothing, but what they did have, they built for themselves. Here was a man living in the most rundown house in the most rundown section of the city, and he appeared to have money to burn.
On the morning of the fifth day, Entreri was ready to do some real work. He took a small amount of pride in what he had done thus far and almost laughed when he saw other peasants following his lead by hauling fencing posts and wood sealant down the dusty road. So far, he had spent the days repairing or improving; now, he wanted to build.
The two rooms of the house were barely enough to hold the few pieces of furniture he had, and his property had plenty of room for more. He also wanted to get another horse and needed a bigger shed.
He awoke early, but before he could get out of the house, a rap on the door brought him to attention. He crept toward the new door, a hand reaching into his vest for the jeweled dagger. Old habits die hard. The man at the door wore a Garrilport crest on his coat and had a pleasant smile. “I like what you've done with the place.”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Entreri.” The man took a step back and saluted. “I am here representing the city council to collect the monthly tax.” The man laughed at his own absurdity. “I talked with Leron, and he told me about you. Said you would have little trouble paying.”
Entreri handed over the pitifully small sum. “Is there something wrong?” Entreri asked. The man seemed almost drunk.
“It's a beautiful summer morning,” the man replied, a huge smile on his face, “the birds are singing, the cool breeze is blowing, and I have to collect taxes from the poorest section of town. Things couldn't be better. I figured I'd start my day with you and work my way downhill. Good day.”
Entreri watched the man walk to his neighbors and turned to lock his door. “Like anyone's going to rob me,” he thought as he snapped the lock closed. He went around back to get his horse but thought better of it. He was going to buy much more wood than his small cart could carry and not from the same cheap woodyard half a mile away. He was going to need quality wood if he was going to build an addition to the house that would last.
As he walked down the street to town, he could not help but overhear the taxman talking to the poor wife next door. “What?!”
“I'm sorry, ma'am, but the local official assigned to this section saw your son set up shop on your property. We've been over the city regulations with you several times before, and I've been ordered to enforce the rules this time.”
“But we can't afford a merchant's tax. My husband barely makes enough to put food on our table.”
“Well, maybe instead of breaking city zoning laws by setting up a store outside of the commercial district, you should keep your vegetables for when your husband can't provide for you.”
“But my son didn't even sell anything!”
“The system is not based on profitability, only on availability. It is not our fault your son did not sell anything; you still broke the law. I should be evicting you, but I do ha-” Entreri sighed as he moved out of earshot.
The money meant nothing to the city. Entreri knew how much these people had to pay in taxes, and it would take a thousand such payments before the total tax amounted to anything. They said they were being kind in not evicting them, but that was precisely what they were doing.
These people did not contribute to the city but were not worth the trouble to bring the city guards out to toss them. Instead, the town bled them dry until they had to leave on their own. Soon, as the taxes got high enough, the entire poor section would be evacuated, and the city could expand its upper and middle-class neighborhoods.
By removing the peasants, you removed a large part of the northerns' workforce. This would force them to clean up the city to attract more respectable workers. It was a nice plan, but Entreri had lived long enough to know there was always a bottom rung to every ladder. It did not matter how many rungs you broke off; you still had a bottom one. The only solution was to have one rung. Then you had a monarchy.
Despite the city's treatment of his neighbors, Entreri had to admit they had done an excellent job with the rest of the town. As he moved into the wealthier sections, the streets were clean and smell-free. The buildings were well kept, for if a merchant let his building go, the city would force him to fix it up or evict him so someone else could.
Entreri was a student of the people. He watched as a woman hung laundry on top of a three-story building. Another woman swept off the porch to a lamp shop. Two men were busy loading kegs of something out of a building and into the back of an open cart. A small boy stood on a ladder nailing a new rain gutter onto the front of another building.
Entreri saw them all and imagined that he was back in Calimport. The woman hanging clothes was really a guild house lookout, and as soon as the target man exited the shop across the street, she would signal the men loading the kegs. They would, in turn, stop what they were doing, pull out daggers, and follow the target into a dark alley, from which only two of the three would exit.
The woman sweeping was also a lookout. She was watching for a particular buyer to come down the street. When she saw them, she would signal inside for her partner to get the illegal merchandise out of the safe and ready so their valued customer could be on their way quickly.
Entreri enjoyed this fantasy for a while but could not think of anything for the boy on the ladder. He walked close to the young worker. The boy turned on his ladder to look at Entreri also. As he turned, his hand slipped, and he lost his balance. He suddenly stood straight up on the ladder, his arms waving in circles beside him. It looked like he might be able to save his balance, but he leaned one inch too far back and fell.
Entreri had been ready to catch him the whole time, seeing the hand slip as the boy had initially turned. The boy fell into his arms, and he quickly lowered him to the ground. “Boy,” he reprimanded, “you need to be more careful.”
The child was badly frightened and nodded his head.
“What's your name?” Entreri asked.
“B-B-Billy,” he responded.
“Well, Billy, if I hadn't been here, you could have had a serious accident.” The boy continued to nod frantically. “Do you promise to be more careful now?” Entreri had his hands on the boy's shoulders as he spoke down to him. The boy nodded some more. “Good.”
Billy watched Entreri leave and start down the street. He smiled. Turning away from the road and stepping up onto the porch, Billy slowly pulled his right hand out of his jacket. It held Entreri's heavy gold pouch. “That was too easy,” he thought. “You'd think he'd miss something this heavy.”
It had been a good morning so far. He had taken four other coin pouches, but this was by far the richest. He reached around under his jacket to his belt where the additional four pouches hung and looped his new prize through a belt loop. He was a little concerned his pants would not be able to stay up under all the weight. If that were the case, he would-
Billy stopped. The other pouches were not there. He patted himself down, wondering where they could have gone. He turned around and looked at the ground where he had almost fallen. The street was empty. He looked up. Entreri was back, standing there holding the four pouches in one hand. “Looking for something?”
The kid thought about trying to grab the bags from this strange man but turned to run instead. Entreri was too quick, his free hand snaking out and grabbing Billy by the wrist. The assassin hauled him off the porch and into the street next to him. He crouched down in front of him and grabbed onto the kid’s collar.
“None of these bags are yours, are they?”
The boy shook his head.
“Talk, boy!”
“N-n-no, sir,” Billy stuttered.
The kid had been acting before, but now he was terrified. Entreri had just beat him at his own game so severely it was like a man off the street outperforming a circus diver and then emerging from the pool with dry clothes.
“Stealing is not a very safe profession if you are not good at it, and you are not good at it. I don't know what blind wretches you took these from,” Entreri raised the four pouches, “but they probably are so stupid they still haven't realized they've lost them.”
Entreri watched a small puddle form under his captive, and he repositioned his feet to keep his boots dry. “I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do. I don't usually like to spill blood this early in the day, so I will let you go, but only if you bring these four bags out to the eastern edge of town. Pick four run-down houses and give a bag to each. In particular, search out a gray shack with a garden out back sitting next to a house with a new fence. Tell them a wealthy merchant in town died, and his will said that a small portion of his money was to be given to some poor families because that is how he started in this city.”
The boy nodded quickly. Too quickly for Entreri's liking. “I will check up on you.” Entreri stared death at the boy now. “I will check to see if you've done this, and if I find that you have lied to me, I will punish you.”
“B-b-but, s-sir, m-my m-master will k-kill me.”
“Better him than me. Trust me, for your sake, better him than me.” Entreri tossed the four pouches into a dry spot on the street and turned around, though not before reclaiming his own purse. The kid would do as he was told; Entreri had faith in his persuasion skills. Across the street, unseen by either of the two, a city guard smiled at the exchange and stepped out from behind a parked wagon. He watched Entreri briefly but decided to follow the boy instead.
The lumber store was just down the street. Entreri placed his order and paid to have the wood delivered to his house as soon as it was ready. He took an early lunch in a nice restaurant while the order was being filled and then rode down with the delivery boy back to his home. The boy confirmed the address with Entreri twice and then said he did not know why anyone would want to spend money on a house out there.
Entreri ignored the comments, and the two unloaded the wagon once they reached his house. Entreri took particular notice of the cries from his neighbors. They were pleased about something, and Entreri was glad he would not have to hunt down the young thief. Entreri thanked the delivery boy and then went to work.
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Quinton Palluge heard the snap of the whip and boyish scream through two closed doors. “What is going on now?” he muttered to himself as he got up from behind his desk.
Quinton pushed his office door open and walked quickly down the hall, pausing to look out the hallway window at his latest ship going down the Garril River. The sound was coming from one of the rec rooms. He opened the door and saw one of his lieutenants whipping a boy.
“What's going on here, Draick?”
The lieutenant quickly turned around at his master's words. “Sir,” he said, surprised he had not heard Quinton enter, “Billy here has robbed us.”
Quinton squinted at the young pickpocket he employed. The boy had tears coming from his eyes and several welts along his back, though none looked severe yet. “Is that true?”
Billy shook his head furiously, still sniffling too hard to speak. Quinton turned back to Draick for his side of the story. “We sent him out as usual with ten gold pieces and he returned just a few minutes ago with nothing.”
Quinton turned back to Billy, his eyes demanding a verbal answer this time. The young boy inhaled deeply, trying to remove the jerky breathing of his sobs. “I didn't steal it, honest. I paid the people on the street so they would look the other way, like you said, like I always do. They never call the guards on me if I give them a few coins.”
“You know not to return unless you have made a successful pick and at least doubled the money we gave you,” Quinton said sternly, waiting for the rest of the story.
“I got way more than double,” Billy said quickly. “Four full pouches and almost a fifth.” Quinton frowned. Billy saw the frown and promptly explained. “This guy caught me and took all of the coins I had gotten so far.”
Quinton stood up, scowling, both at the man who had robbed his boy and for his best lieutenant beating the boy for it. “What did he look like?” Quinton asked Billy, though he looked at Draick. Draick understood that he wanted the man found.
Billy understood the look also. “Oh, no, he gave the bags back to me, except for his, of course.”
That was the wrong thing to say, and Billy realized it as Quinton leveled an evil gaze on him. “Where is my money?”
“Th-th-the man made me give it all back,” Billy was close to sobbing again.
“He made you track down all the people you picked and return the money?”
“N-no, he made me give it to the poor people on the eastern edge of town.”
Quinton found this even harder to believe. “He brought you to the peasants and forced you to give the money to them?”
“Oh, no, he didn't follow m-”
“He let you go, and you did it anyway! You stupid rat child! Why did you do it?!”
“H-h-he s-said he would ch-check up on m-m-me,” but Quinton was not listening.
He turned back to Draick and nodded. “You may continue.” Draick smiled and raised the whip for a strike. As he swung forward, Quinton caught his arm and held it fast. Despite his master's age, Draick was always surprised at his strength. “But work on your follow-through,” Quinton said. He glanced over his shoulder at Billy's red back. “You'll never become captain of the guards if you can't bring blood from a child's back.”
Draick smiled and nodded. Quinton left the room and closed the door as Draick continued his punishment, and Billy continued his screaming. The older man paused outside the closed the door, listening to the pitiful cries for a moment, and then moved back toward his office.
He stopped at his window again, his ship just disappearing from view behind another section of his large riverfront residence. He had built quite a fortune in this town, and it kept growing larger. He had a piece in just about every northern industry yet still held respect and favor amongst the people in the more civilized section of the city. He dealt in gems and precious metals, buying them and trading them with the southern cities along the river. He owned several ships of his own and rented the extra space on them to several other merchants who wanted to send their cargo downriver.
Besides his honest business ventures, though even they were scandalous at best, he had half a dozen children roaming the streets, picking pockets and stealing jewelry. Billy was one of his best, and if he learned his lesson today, he would become even better. Quinton also had several city guards drawing pay from him, though the city knew nothing about it. These guards were very apt at looking the other way when Quinton's other men made a hit on a less than cooperative business partners.
Quinton sighed and walked away from the window. If only he were on the city council. Quinton suspected several of the men on the council were near death, for they had been in the ruling body for decades and had to be weak with age. The ambitious entrepreneur had often thought about taking measures into his own hands and bringing those council members even closer to death, but he had stayed his hand thus far.
Quinton would gain the position honestly, with no questions asked. That was the only way he would be able to do what he wanted. Once on the council, he could rewrite the trading laws in his favor. He could create tax loopholes for himself and burden others so they would be forced to use his ships. He would then buy even more vessels, and soon, he would control all trade that left Garrilport.
Until that time came, he would have to continue to throw parties in his lavish home, inviting all the influential merchants who had voting privileges to elect new council members. He would continue to attend their parties and deal with their businesses at a loss to gain their favor.
“Any day now,” Quinton said as he opened the door to his office. Two men were inside, and one was howling in pain, grabbing his right hand. His entire limb looked like it had been dragged through a fire slowly. “Parnid, Trevor,” Quinton said, addressing his two best thieves, “what's going on, and why does it need to occur in my office?”
“It's that cursed magician,” Parnid, the uninjured one, said.
“He nearly burned my whole arm off!”
“What did you do to him?” Quinton asked. Nothing was ever as it seemed among his men.
“He's locked himself up in that room of his for almost a week,” Parnid explained. “We thought he might be hurt or gone or-”
“Up to no good!” Trevor had to throw in.
“His lock looked easy enough to pick,” Parnid said.
“The bolt of lightning nearly killed me!”
“Bolt of lightning?” Quinton wished Trevor would shut up and let his partner tell the story without interruption.
“Trevor hadn't been working on the lock for more than a few seconds when this bolt of energy - it looked like lightning - came shooting out of the keyhole, traveled the length of his forearm, and then blasted into the wall behind him.”
Quinton stood in silence. He had hired the magician several months ago for entertainment purposes only. The man was a big hit at his parties, making eggs disappear in a puff of smoke, lighting candles with his fingers, and several other slight of hand tricks. Quinton had never gotten the man to tell him how he did it. Reillon, the magician, insisted that it was magic.
Quinton suffered the eccentric man because he entertained the voting merchants. If he started hurting his best men for no reason, something would have to be done. Besides that - a lock that could shoot out lightning! - Quinton had never thought Reillon capable of such a feat. If the magician really had magic about him and was hiding his true power from Quinton, there would be hell to pay.
“Let's go pay him a visit,” Quinton said.
The three men walked back through the hallway, down a flight of stairs, and stopped in front of the infamous locked door. Quinton could clearly see the charred section of the wall opposite the door lock. “Reillon! Open this door!” No response. “Parnid, knock on the door.”
“With all due respect, sir, I am not touching that door.”
Quinton expected as much; he was not touching the door either. A dining room was just down the hall, and Quinton quickly retrieved a wooden chair. The two thieves backed away, and Quinton banged on the door with the legs of the chair. A jet of flame shot out of the peephole in the center of the door, igniting the bottom of the chair.
Quinton furiously banged the chair to pieces on the floor and stamped out the flames. Now there was a much bigger burn mark across from the door. “Reillon, you will open this door right now, or, so help me, I will get an axe and break it down myself!”
Quinton waited, coughing a little on the smoke. The door slowly opened, snapping the chain lock tight after it had swung only a few inches. Reillon was a frail man and, having spent a week inside his room, looked haggard and pale. His beady little eyes peered at his angry master through the barely opened door. “Yes?”
“Open this door, magician! I want an explanation from you!”
“I'm sorry, sir, but it will have to wait. I'm in the middle of something.”
Behind him, Quinton's thieves blanched at the magician's boldness. “It will have to wait?” Quinton repeated in quiet furry and then exploded. “You nearly burned down my entire house and did destroy my best thief's hand! What good are you if you do more harm than good?! And what kind of tricks are you hiding from me? If I had doors equipped like yours, I wouldn't need half the guards I employ. I want an answer now!”
“Sorry, sir, but this interruption alone has cost me six hours of preparation. I need peace and quiet. If no one touches my door, no one will get hurt. You will have all your answers and much more in two days’ time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Before Quinton could scream in outrage, the magician closed the door and locked it again. “Do you want me to get an axe?” Parnid asked.
Quinton shook his head. “We'll give him his two days, after which, if I still don't have an answer . . .” he left the threat hanging.
They turned to go, but the door behind them opened suddenly and then quickly closed before they could turn back around. On the floor, just outside the door, was a small vile filled with a pink salve. Quinton picked up the glass container and read the label on the outside. “Apply twice a day for five days. Heals burns.” Quinton smiled, handed the healing salve to Trevor, and returned to his office.