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Throne Hunters Book 4, Chapter 28
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 14:03:42 +0000 UTCVic sat in the window of their rented room, the shutters open just wide enough that he could watch the street outside. It was mostly quiet. An occasional shadowy figure strode by. This was a mostly commercial district; at this hour, the machinery of trade had rumbled to a near halt, and all was still.
Plenty of City watch patrols, though. Every five or ten minutes one would pass by, a couple of men in the regalia of authority, shoulders squared, down the center of the street as if they owned it. Vic watched each passing patrol with growing animosity. Why did the Forge district warrant so much oversight when the Shambles received none?
A stupid question. The answer was glaringly obvious. There weren’t warehouses filled with valuable goods in the Shambles. Its citizens weren’t paying extra for enhanced security. Disruption and chaos in the Shambles would be ignored, while here? Concerned merchants and nobles would immediately complain, file petitions to investigate how any chaos had been allowed to disrupt their prized sources of income, and heads would roll.
Money.
That’s what it all came down to. People mouthed platitudes about the value of the human soul, how each living person carried within their hidden Cosmos a unique link to the Fallen Angel, but it was just a web of lies meant to make the wealthy feel better about their ill gotten gains. Nobody cared, not even the Church, about the starving masses. The best they were willing to do was lecture about the value of hard work, the need to clean themselves up, how important pride was in maintaining a tidy household.
As if the raw instinct for survival had time for washing one’s doorstep.
Vic rippled his fingers so that a Copper Crescent danced across his knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth. A Crescent would cause a pack of waifs to descend into a fistfight. Here? Maybe a wealthy merchant would pluck it from the gutter, but most likely they’d refuse to soil their lambskin gloves.
Wealth. Scales. What rich irony that the path to personal power was literally dependent on acquiring scales. In the Shambles, across most of the city, people couldn’t afford to absorb a scale in a bid to gain Abilities, a Class, the means to raid and earn more wealth. They had to trade whatever they got for another night’s rent, a warm meal, perhaps, if they saved enough, for medicine or a visit to the healer.
Whereas to the nobility? Wealth was just a game. Someone like Melisende Celestis saw scales as a means to an end, and that end was power. Personal power. So that she could look into her fancy mirrors and preen.
Vic glanced at the others. Anna and Sam shared one bed, while Nessa had the second. Kársek sat in the corner chair, chin having dipped to his chest, arms crossed as he slept.
Restless, angry, unable to remain still, he padded over to Kársek and touched his shoulder. “I’m going out. Just for a moment. I’ll be right back.”
Something about his tone warned Kársek not to ask questions. The dwarf merely studied him for a moment, then straightened and gave a nod.
Liberated, Vic grabbed his cloak and crept out of the room, down the creaky landing, down the creak steps, and out the creaky front door into the Forge District.
For a moment he stood indecisive, and then swift urgency led him to lope off down the street. A vague plan was forming in his mind. A necessity. He hailed a phaeton when he reached a main thoroughfare, and gave the driver directions. The man blanched, but Vic sneered and offered to pay him double.
The man acquiesced.
It was, after all, money that he wanted.
Half a Bell later he leaped lightly from the phaeton and entered the Shambles. The night lay thick upon the unlit streets, was murderously dark in the knife-wound alleys. Vic felt his breath deepen as a smile crossed his face. Ah, here at last there was honesty to be had. Nobody smiled at him, nobody inclined their head. Instead they gauged him, evaluated him with a practiced eye. Was he a mark or a predator? Was he wealthy enough to warrant rounding up a pack of toughs and cornering in an alley, even if he looked like he could bite?
That was the one blessing of poverty. It stripped folks of pretense, reduced them to their feral needs.
How refreshing.
Yet even as Vic navigated the familiar warren, its byways and sewage choked main streets, its courtyards and stinking cesspits, he felt a modicum of wonder. He’d never looked at the Shambles in this way. Always he’d understood it instinctively, but much as a pretty fish might understand how an aquarium worked: you went round and round, you avoided obstacles, and you rose to the surface of the water when it was feeding time.
But never had he truly wondered why.
Who owned all these ramshackle buildings? Every resident here, from the bent-backed washerwomen to the hollow-eyed factory workers, from the whores with their bells on their wrists to the thugs lurking in the shadows, paid for the roof over their heads, whether it was permanent or that of a temporary flophouse.
Where did all those drips and drabs of wealth go?
And if the payments dried up? If a factory man hurt his hand and was forced to stop working? Who noticed, who sent a gang of bravos to roust him out of his home, and accept a new and more desperate tenant?
Vic knew who. The nobility. But Lady Celestis would never send House Celestara guards down here. She’d rather die than allow her royal colors be worn in the Shambles.
No. There had to be a web of intermediaries, parasites and leeches, middlemen and entrepreneurs who funneled that wealth up into coffers like her own.
Vic thought on the layers of criminality that he’d experienced and partaken in his time. Fences who accepted stolen goods with a disappointed sigh, crew bosses who took their cut of their underlings muggings and thefts, the beggar lords who decided which enterprising mendicant got the best corners. The Shambles was carved up into a hundred miniature fiefdoms, each led by their own powerful or charismatic boss, men and women who oversaw the gambling, the whoring, the dispensing of angel dust or yearnsmoke. Who worked the protection rackets, who tithed the sales of beer and wine, who paid their thugs to watch their boundaries and prevent others from muscling in.
But he’d never thought beyond that layer.
Who did those sordid kings and queens of tepid corruption report to in turn?
He’d always been so intent on merely surviving, and getting out, that he’d never tried to peel back the layers.
Finally he stepped out into the small plaza that housed the Kitty Kat Club. It was in full swing, the windows thrown open to allow rich yellow light, smoke, music, and laughter out into the night air, a small crowd gathered by the front door.
Vic forced himself to relax, and sauntered through the crowd till he reached the two bouncers at the front. One he recognized: a slope-shouldered brute called Fistmonger, his slab-like face hiding the philosophical bent of his personality and secret ambitions of having his poetry published one day in the local rags.
Fistmonger recognized him in turn, and gestured for him to go ahead and enter. “Ain’t seen you around in a hardship of days, Vic. You found yourself a filly to settle down with?”
Vic laughed. “I tried a baker’s dozen, but none could perform the Thousand Little Fishes to my satisfaction. So I’ve come back to sup from the wellspring itself.”
Fistmonger grunted in amusement, and then Vic was inside.
The Kitty Kat Club lay before him, romantically lit by artfully placed lanterns, its broad floor divided by partitions and ferns into intimate nooks and social tables, the patrons lounging and laughing and watching the performances as countless beautiful employees worked their wiles and deprived patrons of their scales.
But for the first time in his life Vic felt unmoved by the tableaux. The sway of hips and the ruby lips did nothing for him, the scent of yearnsmoke and the clink of glasses quickened no desire, and the promise of companionship and laughter left him unmoved. Instead, adeptly avoiding eye contact with curious acquaintances and past friends, he wove his way through the crowd to where the Madam stood fanning herself, her smile not reaching her glittering eyes.
“Kat,” said Vic, performing an easy bow. “The club’s doing well.”
“What do you want, Vic?” Kat Mavelle was a formidable woman, well into her fifties and renowned for having fended off countless pretenders to her throne. Her face was smoothed and lightened by an artfully applied layer of makeup, and her famous wig of bright fiery red tumbled past her shoulders in wondrous curls. Her dress was garish but perfectly tailored to flatter her once voluptuous figure, but Vic wasn’t fooled: behind these gestures at vanity lay a whipcrack mind and she clearly wasn’t interested in wasting time on him.
“I’ll pay a Golden Dawn for a few minutes of your time.” Vic raised his hands with a smile. “Just conversation. I’ve a few questions to ask.”
Her suspicion was immediate. “What game you playing at?”
“The only one I know how: finding advantage. Come on. Five minutes. It’s all I ask.”
Kat glanced across her kingdom and clearly decided all was well; she pushed off the column and without a word led him behind the bar and through a rear door.
A moment later they were in her office, a small room that looked on the verge of exploding into a blizzard of notes, bills, invoices, receipts, and documents of every kind. The shelves groaned, her table was hidden, and Vic had to move a stack of folders off a chair to even sit.
Kat sat with a sigh. “The Golden Dawn, Vic. Upfront.”
He drew it from his pouch and set it atop a notebook whose cover was ringed with old coffee stains. “I’m a man of my word. Now. A simple question, though you’ll find it personal: you own the Kitty Kat, don’t you?”
Kat eyed the Dawn but didn’t take it. Her gaze turned speculative. “Aye, I do. I’m not selling, Vic.”
“I wouldn’t dream of making you an offer. But still. You own the deed, the title, whatever it is that proves this building and business is yours?”
Kat nodded warily, trying to figure out his angle.
“But this is the Shambles,” said Vic. “You must pay taxes of some kind or another?”
“Of course. What’s this about?”
“Curiosity. Nothing more. Indulge me. To whom do you pay taxes?”
Kat took the scale and tucked it into her dress. “Monthly dues to the Iron Rook. Like every other business in the quarter.”
“The Iron Rook.” Vic vaguely knew the name. Had known enough, in his time, to avoid drawing the man’s attention. “He sets the rates?”
“On a monthly basis. Never punitive.”
“And in exchange the Kitty Kat Club is protected from… misfortune.”
“I still don’t understand what you’re after.”
“Who does the Iron Rook work for?”
Confusion. “Work for? He works for himself.”
“Nobody works for themselves. To whom does he pay taxes?”
More confusion. “He’s not a bloody employee, Vic. He’s the Iron Rook, and this, all of this—” she gestured about the room, but Vic knew she meant the streets and immediate environs, “is his rookery.”
“How much did you pay him last month?”
“None of your bloody business.”
Vic sat forward, and everything within him went still and intent. “Tell me how much you paid him last month.”
Kat met his stare. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m on a civic crusade, darling.” Vic smiled but knew his eyes were still burning with need. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Three Golden Dawns.”
Vic let out a low whistle. “That’s got to be a fair chunk of your income. What would happen if you refused, or asked to pay less?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said. “Honestly. Vic. What are you after? You opening a business? You harboring ambitions of setting yourself up as a crime lord?”
“Me?” Vic rose to his feet. “I’m too lazy for that kind of nonsense. No, I was just mildly, ever so mildly curious. Thanks, Kat. I’ll see myself out.”
The night air was cold and clear after the muggy warmth of the Club, and Vic inhaled deeply as he emerged. A thought, and he tapped Fistmonger on the shoulder, flashed him a Silver Starburst, and stepped aside.
The brutish bouncer followed after a moment’s hesitation. “What ’cha need, Vic?”
“The Iron Rook. Where’s he do business? Where might a concerned citizen go to lodge a complaint?”
The Fistmonger narrowed his already small eyes. “A concerned citizen would do no such thing.”
Vic allowed the Starburst to dance across his knuckles.
“But speculatin’ on the existence of such a rare bird, brimmed up with suicidal notions of altruistic grandeur, said bird might head on down to the Black Pipe, down off’a Drewery Lane. The Rook mighten have an office above it.”
Vic flipped the scale to the Fistmonger, who snatched it out of the air. “Cheers, mate.”
Whistling, Vic made his way to the Black Pipe. His mind felt as smooth as a river-washed stone, his body light as a feather, his will coiled, his anger simmering.
What a grand night.
The Black Pipe was a smoke and liquor den, its door three steps down from the street, its interior as murky as a church pond. The smell of herbs and whisky and leather furniture was strong as Vic skipped down the steps and took in the small bar, the many armchairs, the display cabinets, the wary glances cast his way.
Smiling genially, he made his way to the back where two heavy set men were lounging by the base of a staircase. They pushed off the wall at his approach.
“What’s your business, friend?” asked the first, his voice a gravelly rasp.
Vic summoned The Point and extended its tip so that it speared through the man’s eye and out the back of his head. Subtle Step allowed him to glide around and behind the second man and cut his throat with a smooth drawing of his off-hand Ruby’s Hunger dagger.
The man’s gasp turned to a gurgle. He clutched at the flaps of his gushing neck, staggered forward a few steps, then dropped to his knees with a dramatic thud. A moment later he toppled over onto his side, still gurgling desperately.
Tendrils of blood rose from the corpse to flow into the dagger’s hilt.
“Excuse the interruption,” said Vic with a florid bow to the room. “But don’t let this intemperate spot of violence ruin your evening. Savor your smokes, wash down your whisky, and enjoy the evening as if nothing untoward had taken place.”
Then, whistling jauntily, he mounted the steps and jogged up to the second floor.
A heavy door stood closed at the top, a horizontal eyeslit currently closed on the far side. Vic knocked. Voices still on the far side, no doubt concerned that some code hadn’t been used or that the men downstairs hadn’t announced an arrival. Footsteps, then the security flap slid aside to reveal a suspicious glare.
Vic extended The Point into one suspicious eye.
A scream sounded from within.
Smiling widely, Vic rushed back down the steps, ran through the common room where patrons had risen to their feet in horror, and back out into the street. Nobody challenged him, and when he emerged into the night air he ran around the back of the Black Pipe. Its rear faced into a narrow alley, and of course their was a heavily reinforced back door.
Vic reached it just as it opened and a guard looked out, face pale in the gloom, manner tense, almost as if he expected to be murdered by a sword to the face.
Piercing Lance allowed Vic to kill the man with ease, his whole body gliding forward, The Point extending the last few yards to take the guard in the mouth and punch out the back of his head.
Vic pulled the door open wide as the corpse fell into the street, then jogged up the narrow back staircase to where a second man was descending, short sword held at the ready.
“Wait—” snarled the man. “Who the devil—”
Vic punched The Point through the man’s heart, and again sidestepped so the corpse could pitch face-first down the stairwell into the gloom.
Unable to resist whistling once more, he climbed the last few steps and entered the Iron Rook’s office.
It was a small, shabby affair. A corpse yet lay at the foot of the far reinforced door. A large desk dominated one wall, while a handful of leather armchairs in the style of those below filled the remaining space. A bottle of liquor stood open amongst piles of Copper Crescents and Silver Starbursts, and everything was lit by a Copper scale-lantern.
“Hello,” said Vic, ton genial as he assessed the remaining man. “The Iron Rook, I presume?”
The Iron Rook had enough strength of character to look furious instead of afraid. In his late forties, his face scarred by a mass of ancient pocks, he wore his thinning hair slicked back and a black suit that might have once been fine. He was built like a bear and his hands were heavy and scarred and had no doubt broken countless bones before.
Vic allowed his Aura of Cruelty to fill the small room. Predator’s Insight informed him that his man was dangerous in his own way, but absolutely no match for Vic’s own burgeoning abilities.
“Whatdya want?” The Rook forced himself to sit back on the table’s edge and crossed his arms, attempting to look unimpressed. “Who the hell are ya?”
“Me? Vic Carmine, a wastrel of no account.” Vic perched on the heavily upholstered arm of a leather chair. “I just had a couple of quick questions for you.”
The Rook sneered. “That all? You coulda knocked.”
“Who do you pay your taxes to?”
The man’s heavy brows furrowed. “What?”
Vic gestured at the pile of scales. “You don’t get to keep all that. Who allows you to do business here? And for how much?”
The Rook darted a dry, lizard-like tongue over his narrow lips. “Who are ya? Really?”
“If you don’t answer my questions to my satisfaction, I’ll extend this little beauty through your crotch.” Vic raised The Point. “Now. Answer my question, or prepare for the immediate deflation of your nutsack.”
The Rook’s glare was thunderous, savage, but the man had enough wits to realize the nature of his predicament. “I pay’s my dues to Julius Conte.”
“Julius Conte. What a lovely name. Who is that?”
“He works for Gregor Balavo, the man who owns most the properties round ‘ere.”
“So he’s just the landlord?”
“Landlord?” The Rook snorted. “He’s the one who pays off the Watch. Who makes sure the Crab don’t come sniffing around my corners. Who oversees the shipments of dust and everythin’ else that’s good and worth sellin’ on the streets.”
“That so. Gregor Balavo. Sounds fascinating. Do you know who he works for?”
The Rook narrowed his eyes.
Vic raised The Point. It shot out with terrific speed, its tip stopping perhaps a quarter of an inch from the Rook’s crotch.
To the man’s credit he didn’t flinch, but a sheen of sweat was growing on his brow. “In my line o’work, it don’t pay to ask questions like that. But I ain’t no fool. Balavo works for Cap’n Fordas, who oversees the entire Shambles.”
“Captain Fordas. Of the City Watch?”
“The same,” allowed the Rook.
“What rich yet utterly unsurprising irony. And who does he work for?”
The Rook dry swallowed and glanced down, as if against his will, to where the gleaming tip of Vic’s rapier hovered before his crotch. For a long, drawn out moment he wrestled with his instincts to lie or dissemble, but a glance at Vic convinced him otherwise. “He works for Lord Draken.”
“Huh.” Vic retracted The Point and propped it over one shoulder. “Lord Draken of House Drakenhart. Would you look at that.” Vic allowed the truth to sink in. “The man made famous for his devotion to Flutic, his willingness to spend his own House resources on bolstering the City Watch, and caring for the downtrodden. What a world.”
The Iron Rook sneered. “You’re a fool if you thought it worked otherwise.”
“To be honest, I just never really thought about it at all.” Vic considered. “You’re a man of the world, Mr. Iron Rook. Let me ask you a question: do you think it possible that the City Council could be reorganized, or, say, the nobility in general incentivized, to do better by the people of Flutic?”
“What are ya talkin’ about?”
“You know.” Vic made a vague gesture. “If incredible force were brought to bear, like I just did here tonight. Do you think the City Council could be reformed and made to take care of the poor, the unfortunate, the downtrodden of Flutic?”
The Iron Rook gave a rough bark of laughter. “You’re fuckin’ jokin’.”
“Hmm. I’d guess that’s a no?”
The Iron Rook leaned forward. “It ain’t the nobility. It’s everyone from Draken down to me. It’s mankind. It’s in our blood. It’s why we get up in the morning and stay up late thinkin’. We all of us want money. Power. And it don’t matter how we get it. Take any poor fool off the street, give ‘im some authority and six toughs to carry out his orders, and he’ll turn overnight into the next Iron Rook.” The man bared his yellowed teeth. “That’s who we are. What’s what we all are. Everyone’s out for themselves. The City Council?” The Iron Rook spat. “They’d rather die than give up what they got. They’ll never play nice.”
“Huh.” Vic considered again, then sighed. “You know, I think you’re right. I suspected as much, but had to hear it from someone like you. The… futility, I guess you could call it, of trying to reform something fundamentally rotten.”
The Iron Rook narrowed his eyes. “You got what you came for, then.”
“I did.” Vic stood up straight. “To think even Vic Carmine was a bit of an idealist. What a world.”
Resignation, acceptance, and bitter amusement filled him even as his sense of purpose solidified.
Words appeared in his vision:
The Demon Seed Has Stirred
Your Ego has risen from 18 to 19
“Huh,” he said. “Will you look at that.”
The Iron Rook’s brows lowered into a suspicious glower. “At what?”
“Oh, nothing.” And Vic raised The Point and extended it through the Rook’s left eye.
Comments
Charles Ohiri
Oh that's a nice twist!!
Matt Spratte
awesome chapter! Man oh man are things gonna change
Phil Tucker
Correct!
Lorenz
Enjoyed this. Vic really seems like a man on a mission or should I say crusade. And his demon seed stirring was cool. Isn’t Drakenheart who Countess Sonora owed allegiance to?
