Matthis sighed. Four gangs had now agreed to invest in his operation, and yet still the fools in front of him didn’t understand.

“Once again,” he said through gritted teeth. “Take this—” he pointed at a pile of sacks on the floor, “—and return it to the Tavares gang. Tell them it’s their investment as promised.”

Tavaravin, or whatever his name was, shook his head. “But that’s their original investment plus Fenigar’s.”

Matthis clapped, the sound sharp and echoing off the walls of their hideout. “Well done! But, and I cannot stress this enough: do. Not. Tell. Them. That. You tell them it is their investment returned with interest as promised. Then you tell them to recruit other gangs. If they do, they will get a cut of each gang’s return. Do you understand?”

Tarvin looked blank, his expression a mix of confusion and fear. Matthis sighed, rose from his chair, and gave Larrod a nice slap across the face before turning to the rest of the group. “I will not explain this again. Does anybody here have a brain larger than a gnat’s bollocks?”

Nobody stirred.

“I do.”

Matthis blinked. “Ah yes, The fat woman. What is it? Beady-eyes! Very good. Then explain it back to me.”

“We take the loot from Fenigar’s investment and give it to Tavares. Then we take the loot from the newer investments and give it to Fenigar’s lot. Soon we’ll have all the gangs in Vermasse coming to us to invest and we keep paying them off with the other’s loot.”

“Brilliant! Perfect. Except we won’t keep paying them off. Eventually we will take their money and hire their men.

You shouldn’t have told them that.

“They deserve to know how good a plan it is! Anyway, beady-eyes, you are my new number two. Congratulations…” he stuttered for her real name. “Number Two,” he finished at last. Whilst talking Matthis caught sight of himself in the new full-length mirror he’d ordered stolen. “Gods but I look fantastic.” Straightening out the lapels of his jacket, he continued, “Ok. New Number Two, take old number two to Tavares’ lot. You do the speaking. In a few days we’ll have have the dead town gangs bringing us all their loot. We’ll need more men to guard it. That’s where I come in.” He clapped his hands once more, “now, you all have your jobs. Get to work. We are about to become very, very rich.”

You’ve revealed too much. Someone will betray you.

Matthis shrugged his shoulders as the men and women of his gang filed out through the underground hideout’s exit. “Probably. But won’t that just add to the fun?” He chuckled and then returned to the mirror to admire himself. Running a hand through his hair, he scowled at the sword strapped to his side. Its quality was not up to the standard of the rest of his outfit. He’d have to do something about that. He’d had a great sword, but that bastard Three Silvers had taken it. Nevermind, he would find a better sword. And then use it to gut Three Silvers before taking his old one back!

Once again your powers of strategy amaze me.

Matthis ignored the voice. He had far more important things to do. A sword to find, and an army to build.

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

The tunnel that lead to his gang’s hideout had been cleaned and well lit and Matthis was beginning to warm to it. It screamed of adventure and exploration and brought images of brave men traveling into unknown lands in search of lost treasure. The fact that it was barely a hundred footsteps long and in the heart of a capital city didn’t take away from the image. When he emerged from the other side of the tunnel, the night air was fresh and crisp and cold against the cheeks of his skin. At his side, a pouch of money rattled against a small sack of salt. By rights, he was a rich man.

Except the money isn’t yours.

“When has that ever stopped the rich?” Matthis shot back. There was a simple truth to the world. The richer you were, the more you could steal. There was an invisible line of wealth and once you crossed it, you were safe. It didn’t matter if corruption got you past that line. All that mattered was crossing it.

Matthis had always known it, he had just never acted upon this knowledge. Now he was acting upon it. It was the key to his revenge. So far it had proven surprisingly easy. Take money from a gang, pay them back with the coin from the next gang and encourage them to keep investing. Keep climbing the ladder. By the time they worked it out, Matthis would have most of their wealth.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

He practically skipped down the street. He was safe now. The local gangs wouldn’t touch him. Not as long as he had their wealth. He hummed a jaunty whistle and traced his fingers along the cold walls of the empty old town as he walked.

This plan is madness.

“The outcome will dictate that.”

The intention has already exposed it.

“Quiet. You’re ruining a lovely night.”

Matthis continued to whistle as he crossed the winding streets of the dead city. Empty. Houses, shops, inns, bakeries, all neglected. Falling apart. And yet in the new town people slept on the streets and starved in their hundreds.

“There’s more than enough space here for the city to house everyone. Yet they don’t. And I’m supposed to be the mad one!”

Perhaps your madness is reflected by this world, not caused by it.

“My madness,” Matthis hissed. “Is caused by the fuckin’ voice in my head!”

He waited, feeling his anger grow.

We’re here, the voice said after a few moments.

Matthis looked upon a large warehouse. Small windows situated high on the building, danced with candlelight.

“Looks like someone is home,” Matthis muttered.

No guards. That’s not encouraging. You sure these are ex-soldiers?

“Maybe a bit too ‘ex’,” Matthis muttered before shrugging. If they were no good, he just wouldn’t hire them. In a dying city, swords for hire were more numerous than fish at a dock. He walked around the large building, searching the dark for some sort of door. He found it, unguarded and half opened and felt his anger grow. If these fools had wasted his time, he’d have their heads on lances.

He pushed the door. It creaked on old hinges and he edged forward. Torchlight flickered across his face and he blinked as his eyes adjusted. Hard eyes stared back at him.

“Who the hell are you?”

Matthis sought out the voice. It was attached to a large head, which in turn was connected to an even larger body covered in worn skin and tattered clothes.

“You the leader?” Matthis asked.

The man laughed, a great booming sound. “I’m no leader.”

“Then why am I talking to you?” Matthis spat, strolling further into the room. He felt the big man move behind him. A smaller man sat atop a slouching bunk, receiving quick glances from his comrades.

“I have a proposition for you,” Matthis addressed him, assuming this must be the leader.

The smaller man looked him up and down, eyes set deep into a face that looked as if the skin assigned to it was too small and had to have been stretched over the skull by some demon that left a few claw marks during the process. Scars criss-crossed the man’s head, blending into the lines scourged by weather and age. It was a hollow face. A cunning face. The man’s eyes narrowed and he dug at his teeth with a dirty finger.

“Go on,” the man ordered.

Matthis’ face darkened. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as they curled into fists. “Forget it,” he spat. He reached the door of the veteran’s lodge when the voice in his head cautioned him, you need them. Without them you’ll never get to Three Silvers.

Matthis paused at the door. Growled and spun. Immediately a well-practised smile fell over his face. “Wait. I’m sure we can all be civil here.” He straightened the collar of his jacket. “I want to hire you.”

The small man laughed. A sound quickly echoed by the rest of the men in the room.

“Hire us for what?” The leader asked after the laughter died out to be replaced by a phlegmy cough.

“To be soldiers. What else?”

There was no laughter this time. The small man sprang from the bed with surprising agility. “Do we look like soldiers to you?”

“Not particularly,” Matthis agreed. “You look like dogs two days from death if I’m honest. You can only imagine my disappointment Still, we must work with what we have.”

“Strange way you have of asking for our help,” the man growled. “With insults.”

Matthis shrugged. “I’d prefer to buy your loyalty with coin rather than words.” He jingled the pouch at his side.

“Can’t buy ale with words,” the small man agreed. “But what’s to stop us from killing you and taking your coin?”

“Because I’d kill you,” Mathis said calmly. “And then you won’t be able to spend it. Besides there’s barely enough coin in here to last each of you a week. Work for me and You’ll earn enough to be drunk for far longer than that.”

“What do you want us to do?” The small man asked, his voice full of suspicion.

“Serve as mu guards. Look menacing. Stab a few people if need be.”

“Any particular people?”

“Cutthroats. Badly-dressed scum. The usual.”

“And for this you’ll pay how much?”

“How many are you?”

“Twenty seven, me included.”

“Two coppers a man, a week. Three for you.”

The man’s face wrinkled as he considered the proposal. “How much fighting there likely to be?”

Matthis shrugged. “Some. Maybe more than that. Maybe less. I’ll throw in the ale, too.”

The man's face broke into a grin, showing two rows of rotted, yellowed teeth. “Deal.”

Matthis left the warehouse as happy as he had been in a long time. It was all coming together so quickly. People were easy to manipulate if you had a plan. Most people had no idea what to do with their lives, give them a bit of direction and they’ll follow like a loyal dog.

He smiled all the way back to his lair, down the well-lit tunnel empty now of spiders and their webs. He was still smiling when he entered the main room that served as his new headquarters, and into half a dozen of his people, all pointing their drawn blades at him.

“You’re going to get us all killed!” Shouted the old number two. Teravin, was it? “You have no idea the people you’re fucking with!” his voice shook. “I’m taking over, and we’re giving everyone back their stuff.”