The next morning Matthis was beginning to regret his choice of number two. The man’s eyes were just too heavily hooded. The lids even covered the tops of his irises! He'd noticed it last night when the drinking started and had decided there and then that he couldn’t trust a man with heavy eyes.

“Line up,” he ordered the gang. His gang.

They did so reluctantly. The aftereffects of last nights drinking hanging over them, blearing eyes, paling skin and dragging feet. Clasping his hands behind his bag, Matthis walked up and down the line, inspecting each of them. It wasn’t an impressive group, even by the standards of the dead city gangs.

Too gangly. Too pockmarked. Too….Matthis couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem with the third man in line, but whatever it was he was too much of it.

Are you really choosing your second in command by looks alone?

“What of it?”

A few nervous glances passed along the line.

How about skills? Knowledge? Network? Cunning?

Matthis laughed. “So mundane. You!” He pointed to the seventh man in line. He was taller than Matthis, which was annoying. But he was also gaunt and balding and nowhere near as good looking as Matthis. Which was good. “Step forward.”

The man did so. Back straight, blue eyes flickered over Matthis without fear. Blue eyes could be a problem. They were almost as pretty as Matthis’.

“What’s your name?”

“Tarvin.”

“Tarvin? That’s a terrible name. You’ll do.”

A flicker of confusion behind those blue eyes. “Do for what?”

“You’re my new number two, Tarvin!”

“Huh?”

Someone behind Matthis spluttered. Turning his head, Matthis saw it was the man he had originally chosen yesterday. The heavy-lidded man.

“Something to say?” Matthis asked, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes.

The man shook his head.

“Good. Now, First thing is first. Who is the finest tailor?”

“Tailor?”

“Yes Tarvin! A tailor. A tailor is somebody who makes clothes for rich people. Gods if you don’t know that we’re worse off than I thought.”

What on earth are you planning?

Matthis ignored the question.

Tarvin coughed. “I know what a tailor is. I just don’t know of any in the dead town.”

“Do you really think I want a tailor from the dead town? Look at me man. I said the finest tailor. And from hereon you will call me master. No, wait… sir. You will call me sir.”

Tarvin exchanged a nervous look with the man next to him before shrugging his shoulders.

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Matthis sighed and looked at the floor before raising his head.

“Then, Tarvin, I suggest you find out.”

“I know of one, sir.” the voice was a woman’s.

Matthis turned to address her. Short and round with narrow eyes and a battered hat that hid most of her hair. Matthis shook his head silently. Not worth his charm.

“Great. Then you can take me.”

“Now, Tarvin, I pray you have an answer to this next question or so help me you’ll be wearing awful clothes for the rest of your life!”

That isn’t a threat.

“It’s a fuckin terrifying threat. Christ I’m surrounded by morons. Tarvin, who is the nearest gang and how many men do they have?”

Tarvin’s brow furrowed. “That would be Fenigar’s lot—”

The beady eyed woman coughed loudly.

“I er… I mean Tavares’ gang, Sir. Fenigar’s is closer to the old cemetery and Fenigar is—”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes… sir. Tavares' gang is the closest.”

“Ok. Beady eyes, you’re with me. And—” he ran his eyes over the rest of the group “—you!”

“Me?” said a burly, sloping-shouldered man.

“Yes! You and beady eyes with me.”

The man stepped forward to stand behind Matthis.

“Beady eyes. Beady eyes!” Matthis shouted, disbelief and anger that he could be so brazenly ignored.

The men and women all looked at each other.

She probably has a real name.

“Pasht’s balls! You!”

The beady-eyed woman pointed at herself.

“Yes you! What’s your name?”

“I’m Ravanna. Sir.”

Matthis laughed. “Ravanna?” His laughter turned to a giggle. “Ravanna! After the famous Vermatian princess of unsurpassable beauty?” He doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes. When he straightened he was amazed nobody else was laughing with him. “Peasants. No sense of humour. Ravanna and Slope-shoulders come with me. Terv…Tarni…. Number two. Send a message to the Tavares gang. Tell them to meet us at the old market in three days when the moon is highest.”

Tarvin squeaked. “They’ll kill me on sight.”

“No.” Matthis shook his head. “They won’t. Because you’re going to tell them we will make them rich. Incredibly rich. And I told you to call me sir.”

“But what if they shoot me down before I can even get close, sir?”

Matthis scrunched up his face at the ridiculous question. “Then I’ll just send someone else. It’s not a big problem. The rest of you clean this place up. And for Pasht’s sake get rid of those damn bodies.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

With that he left, Beady-eyes and Sloped-shoulders trailing close behind.

What are you planning?

Matthis smiled to himself in the dark of the tunnel.

“Something the good doctor Lapis said during our wonderful time together got me thinking.”

I hope you know what you’re doing.

“I always know what I’m doing.”

In the dark, his two companions swallowed nervously.

----------------------------------------

The tailor wasn’t much from the outside. A crooked building, surrounding by taller, even more skewed buildings. A wooden sign that stuck out from the building creaked slightly in the low wind. The streets of this quarter were alive with the poor and desperate going about whatever daily tasks the poor and desperate busied themselves with. Matthis had no time for them. It wasn’t for a man of his standing to worry about those beneath him.

“I’m warning you Beady-eyes. If this tailor’s work is sub-par then he’ll be making a cloak out of your skin before the day is over,”

Beady-eyes dug a knuckle into a nostril and set about aggressively scratching. When she was done she ruffled her nose and sniffed loudly. “He’s my brother. Good quality.”

“Then why, pray tell, does he work here?”

She sucked her lips against her teeth. “He’s stupid. Wizard with the cloth, but dumb as a pig-post.”

“What in Pasht’s name is a pig-post? No—” he raised a finger “—don’t answer. I don’t care. Let’s go.”

Matthis waited. Beady-eyes waited. Slope-shoulders waited. They each looked from one to another.

Matthis ground his teeth “If one of you doesn’t open that door for me soon, I’ll gut you right here.”

Slope-shoulders jumped, rushing over to the few slabs of wood that, in this part of the city, folk commonly, and completely without irony, referred to as a ‘door’. Matthis strolled inside, followed by his henchman.

If there was any doubt as to Beady-eyes’ claim of kin with the tailor owner, it was put to rest as soon as Matthis saw the small man with the large belly and narrow eyes. Their entering caused a bell fixed to the wall above the door to ring, which in turn caused the tailor to look up from his work. Matthis strolled through the small shop, taking in the array of clothes scattered and hung from almost everywhere. Stopping at the counter, he lifted a dress of blue and white. Cheap material. He stretched and pulled, examining the seams as he did so.

“Sir. Excuse me, sir. Please don’t do that,” the small tailor hurried over to Matthis and snatched the cloth from his hand.

Matthis grinned. He respected a man who respected clothes. “Your work is fine but your material is cheap. If you’re going to make my clothes we’ll have to work with far better material. Not to worry, I’m sure you can source some.” He began to explore, stopping in front of a long coat. “This. This is what I like. Not in this colour, of course. Far too boorish. Red perhaps, and finely embroidered. A yellow silken vest and white shirt. And red trousers. Or should we go with a dark blue? What do you think my good man?” Matthis could feel his excitement growing. Lord how he loved clothes.

The tailor looked Matthis up and down. “Not blue. But maybe a darker red. Crimson?” Said the tailor, steepling his fingers nervously.

“Crimson! Why, of course! Perfect. And I shall need some outfits for my henchman here. Nothing so lavish of course. Just make them matching. Like a uniform No! Wait. I have it— black!”

“Black sir? Black is difficult. I really think a dark purple would be.”

Matthis spun. “I said black,” he hissed.

“Yes sir. Black is good, sir.”

“Good. Now you may measure us. When can we expect our garments to be ready?”

“Well, as you can see. I’m a b-busy man,” the tailor stuttered. “And there’s the m-matter of p-payment…”

Matthis rolled his eyes. “Here we are talking of beautiful clothing and all you are concerned about is payment. Why did you even bother to become a tailor? You’ll be well compensated— after my clothes are ready.”

“Very good sir. It’ll be two or three weeks.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. It won’t. You have three days.”

----------------------------------------

Three days later Matthis stood in the street, admiring his fine new clothes. They were perfect. The cut was beautiful, the stitching a marvel and they hung from his body as if they were made for him alone in all the world. Which, of course, the were. The workmanship was so wonderful he almost felt guilty for threatening the tailor when the man had the audacity to ask for payment. Even now Matthis was amazed. Could the man not see how magnificent Matthis looked? Was that not payment enough? Matthis had blessed him with an image the dull tailor would carry for a lifetime. Never had a set of clothes made a man look so beautiful.

He giggled, giddy with memories of his reflection in the tailor’s mirror. He would pay the tailor, of course. A man who worked so wonderfully with clothes deserved to be well-rewarded. He'd pay the man very handsomely indeed. Soon Matthis would be able to supply the man with the finest cloth in the land. What wonders could he create then? Matthis would be a god. Not just in the underworld, but soon even the very nobility itself would marvel at his appearance.

He just needed to get the riches first.

“They’re coming,” Beady-eyes low voice bounced off the cobbled streets.

“Go and greet them, Number Two. And don’t forget what I told you about introducing me,” Matthis waved a hand forward, vowing one day to try and remember the names of his small gang. Beady-eyes and Slope-shoulders stood either side of him in their new matching black and red uniforms.

The sound of many booted feet reached Matthis then and he smiled. His prey came into view. Octo Tavares was a small, sinewy man with a big black beard. Matthis shook his head. How can any one in power allow themselves to look so awful.

“You the nobleman?” Tavares grunted.

“You will address me as Duke Layfair.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because, good sir, it is my name. And if you do not use it, you will never become rich. And what’s more I’ll rip your tongue out and have a small army come into your territory and torch it.”

Tavares' narrow face scrunched. "Why would they torch my tongue?"

"No, you fool! They'll torch your territory. Your tongue I shall have nailed to the backend of a cow. Now, shall we discuss business?”

Octo Tavares face scrunched even more. His mouth hung open and blood turned his head purple. The gang leader’s eyes switched between the dozen bruisers either side of him. As if taking strength from their presence his shoulders straightened. “Tarvin tells me you have a business proposition.”

“Who the fuck is Tarvin?”

Your number two.

“Right, yes. Tarvin. Well Tavares, my good man, I do have a proposition. One that will make you and your men very rich.”

Tavares raised a busy eyebrow and scratched at his beard. “What is it?”

“You give me your money.”

“I...we…what?” He turned to his men and laughed. They laughed with him. Matthis waited patiently, tapping his foot and examining his fingernails. There was a speck of dirt under one and he frowned, his mood darkening substantially.

“You want us to give you our money?”

“That’s right. But not just your money. Salt, pepper, spices, anything you have of value.”

“And what will you give us?”

“I will give you back what you gave me— and half again.”

“And how exactly will you do that.”

“Mr Tavares, I am an investor. Do you know what that means? It means I gamble on the value of goods. And when I win, I win big. And I always win.”

“I know what a fuckin’ investor is. They’re the biggest damn crooks in the city.”

Matthis smiled. “Exactly right.”

“If you win so Pasht damn big, why do you want my money?” Tavares hawked, spat, sniffed and repeated the disgusting process once more.

Matthis did his best to ignore it.

If you kill him, whatever stupid plan you have is over.

“I know that!”

Tavares looked at him strangely.

Matthis cleared his throat. “I know that is a perfectly reasonable question to ask.”

Terrible save. Just terrible.

“However,” Matthis continued irritably. “As a Duke and a nobleman there are certain ventures I am forbidden to involve myself in. Primarily the affairs of other Dukes. Now, a certain Duke is currently involved in certain military activities. And as I’m sure you well know, wealth trails where armies march.”

Very poetic.

Tavares exhaled air out of his nostrils. “I’ve heard rumour.” So the man was as full of bullshit as Matthis was. There was no such duke or military manoeuvre. Matthis had made that up. “But I also know to trust a nobleman as far as I can throw him.”

Matthis paused, adopted a pose that made it appear as if he were deep in thought. “How about a small investment to start. Say, a few sacks of spice and some coin. I promise that within two days I’ll return your investment, with more.”

Tavares looked to Tarvin. “You trust this dandy?”

Train swallowed, which greatly annoyed Matthis. “Aye,” he managed to say.

“Good, because if he’s lying it’s you what’ll pay.” The gang leader turned back to Matthis. “If you bullshit me, I will come back here and take Tarvin’s wealth and kill his people. Deal?”

Matthis grinned. “Completely reasonable. Deal.”

“You’ll have your goods delivered tomorrow.” With that the leader and his crew left the empty street. Matthis signalled his own men to do the same.

“Sir.”

“What?”

“You didn’t mean that did you?”

“What?”

“That you’d let them kill us and rob us.”

Matthis stopped his walk. “Termin, is it? Termin, what kind of monster do you think I am? Of course I meant it. I’m not going to go back on my word.”

“But how are we going to invest in another Duke?”

“What? Duke? Don’t be so stupid Termarin. I don’t care about war or Dukes.”

The man blanched. “So you’re going to let us die!”

“I’ll kill you my damn self if you don’t shut up. Now, you have another job to do — I need a meeting with a second gang. Arranged in exactly the same way. And I need it tomorrow. Go!”

Tarvin visibly jumped and scurried away down a side street. Matthis was left alone with his retainers and his thoughts and he laughed long and loud. It was all coming together. Soon he would control the underworld, and that son of a whore Three Silvers would be his.