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Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2024-09-06 17:11:54 +0000 UTCHaving decided that Sam and Kársek were uniquely unqualified for a spot of sordid skullduggery, Harald, Vic, and Nessa proceeded into the Shambles later that day by themselves.
The sky had become overcast, with dark clouds pressing low upon the towers that lined the final curvature of the Eternal Circuit. The air was heavy with the promise of rain, and people hurried to accomplish their tasks before the deluge broke upon Flutic.
Vic and Nessa were trapped in a silent detente, with Harald walking between them and wondering how he could break the impasse.
“We need to approach someone who fears us,” said Nessa once more, as if repeating her point could deflect Vic’s desires. “Someone who knows they’ll be run through if they break their word.”
“But fear only gets you so far,” said Vic. “Darling, you may be a Bladeweaver of some notoriety, but you’re hardly the biggest fish in the Shambles, and but a minnow compared to Gorkin’s finest. We can’t rely on fear.”
“Then what?” Nessa’s eyes glittered as she stared past Harald at the Rapier Regent. “We’re going to count on his sense of amusement?”
“Don’t underestimate the power of hilarity,” said Vic. “If it amuses him to deal with us, that’ll be a far stronger inducement to hold his tongue than anything else.”
“Nessa…” Harald fought to find the right words. “This Tibbits. He’s a member of House Celestara, right?”
“Former member,” said Nessa, crossing her arms and looking away. “Outcast and foresworn.”
“But he’s former nobility.” Harald tried to follow the thread of his own intuition. “Who’s decided to spend the last few years preparing glory for elite customers in one of the worst bars in the Shambles.”
“And what of it?”
“Someone like that, they’re never going to consider themselves part of the crowd. He’ll always hold himself apart, above everyone else. See himself as better.”
“Oh, so you’ve met him? Had deep and meaningful conversations?”
“No, of course not. I’m just saying, your point about his not having any fear of us - that’ll be true for everyone else, too. Nobody will be able to coerce him into talking. They’ll fear having to answer to House Celestara if they push him too far.”
“Harald’s got the right of it, darling.” Vic sighed. “Look, I know why you’re loath to go talk to the bastard. It’s not a pretty association to draw out into the light of day. But he’s fantastically positioned to hear all manner of things, enjoys a certain level of immunity to the worst aspects of street life, and if we can but charm him, will keep our secrets for the fun of it. I can’t think of anyone better.”
“Master Thigpen?” tried Nessa desperately.
Vic waggled his head from side to side. “Yes, but… he’s everyone’s go-to for information. Once Red Fist lieutenants start being murdered, who do you think Jacek will round up first for news?”
Nessa looked away, expression stony, then sighed. “Fine. I understand your position, though it’s a wager like any other. Let’s go talk to fucking Tibbits, then.”
“Thanks,” said Harald. “So, where do we find him at this hour?”
“You think I know?” Nessa’s glared at him, instantly roused to ire. “Do you think -” But she cut herself off, pinched the bridge of her nose, and then grimaced. “We can ask after him at The Chopping Block. I can ask after him. Nobody will second-guess my motivation.”
To which neither man had anything to add.
They made their way down ever narrower streets, cutting through alleyways and crowded squares. Flutic’s poverty was on full display; everywhere filthy urchins laughed and screamed and chased each other barefoot or sat bleary-eyed on stoops. Hunched women aged by hardship hauled laundry or baskets of rags, while unemployed men lingered in the shadows, clustered in groups and passing bottles back and forth.
The stench of open sewers was raw and potent, the homes one step above ruins. Ragged vendors hawked rotting vegetables, hanks of real hair, old nails. The streets were uneven, caked with mud and littered with filth. Scraps of cloth, old bones, broken glass.
Harald had stolen into the Shambles on many a drunken night with Vic and Nessa, but always by carriage and always at night while inebriated. He’d known, theoretically, of the squalor, but felt tense and horrified to see it so baldly revealed during the day.
Not Vic; he winked and waved to the occasional familiar face, and led them with confidence down even the darkest side street, until at last they stepped out onto Dark Lane. There they slowed so that Nessa could forge on ahead. They lost sight of her, and Vic pulled Harald into a doorway to wait.
“You don’t think the cost outweighs the benefits?”
“What, asking her to revisit her glory haunts in search of vital information?” Vic’s smile was superficial, his gaze dark. “It’s not ideal, to be sure. But Nessa’s a big girl, darling. It’s not as if she’s forgotten all about this place.”
“But bringing her back here, convincing her to speak with Tibbits…?”
Vic shrugged. “Like I said, not ideal. But I didn’t make the suggestion lightly. Gorkin’s a very, very dangerous fish to be angling after. Either we take this seriously, or we don’t waste anybody’s time. Understand?”
Harald subsided. He leaned back into the shadows alongside Vic, and tried not to fret over the passage of time. But all too quickly Nessa stepped back into view, chin raised, exuding palpable menace, and oriented on them at Vic’s low whistle.
“He’s not at the Block, which is no surprise, but I got his home address from the barman. Who warned me Tibbits is liable to be asleep at this hour, and not pleased at being awoken.”
“Unless it’s for good cause.” Vic pushed off the wall. “Lead on, dear.”
They forged a new path across the Shambles, but didn’t have to go far. Tibbits had commandeered an apartment over what must once have been a fine shop of some kind, though the ground windows were now either shattered or boarded up. The building itself was the definition of faded grandeur, a testament to a long-forgotten era when part of the Shambles had once been a fine quarter.
Vic located a side entrance, and led their group up a flight of narrow stone steps to a warped white wooden door on whose face a gilded rose had been inexpertly painted.
Nessa rapped her knuckles on the boards. “Tibbits?”
Nothing.
She rapped harder. “It’s Nessa. I know you’re home. We need to talk.”
An indistinct voice sounded from within, and then the door cracked open to reveal a white-haired youth wearing a black silk gown, his chest bare, his gaze turning suspicious at the sight of Vic and Harald.
“What’s this about, love?” He affected carelessness, but there was no disguising the annoyance in his voice. “You know I don’t like strangers at this unangelic hour.”
Vic fished out an Aurora Veil and caused it to dance along the back of his knuckles. “But this could prove such a lucrative interruption.”
Tibbits gaze turned speculative. “You vouch for these gents, love?”
“I do,” said Nessa. “May we?”
“But of course. I am nothing if not hospitable.” And Tibbits stepped back to open the door wide.
The apartment was spacious and appeared barely inhabited. Rugs were layered over the bare wooden floors, and a single sagging four poster bed dominated what must have once been the living room, its surface adorned with mismatched blankets. Otherwise, the walls were bare, the place devoid of furniture. Only a rack from which hung scores of outfits betrayed that Tibbits actually spent time here.
“I’m not here about my usual pursuits,” said Nessa, moving to stare out a broad window over the narrow street below. “It’s a different kind of business.”
“Pray tell,” said Tibbits, pulling his robe about himself, hands disappearing up each sleeve. “But pray tell it quickly.”
Harald studied the man. He appeared sickly, his skin pallid in the extreme, his shock of white hair elegantly if brutally cut. At just the right angle his relation to Melisende and Yseult betrayed itself.
Vic took the lead. “We are in need, my charming host, of some dangerous information. Information that’s not casually shared, and that should definitely not be traced back to those with inquiring minds. Nessa’s done nothing but sing your praises, and we’ve come, hats in hand, in hopes of benefitting from your generosity and discretion.”
“You seem to have a type, Nessa,” observed Tibbits as he sneered at Vic. “Though this one’s gotten himself more of a tan. I make no promises without knowing what you need.”
“Your payment up front,” said Vic, and flipped the Aurora Veil to the other man, who plucked it neatly from the air. “With another five such if my friends and I are still alive a month from today.”
“A pretty promise, but not a very enticing one. Much can happen in a month.”
“Assuredly, but we make the offer in the hopes that you, at any rate, won’t hasten our demise.”
Tibbits smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “You think I care for scales?”
“I know you don’t. But they’re meant as an indication of our esteem. We’d not insult you by offering less. You can toss them in the trash if you like.”
“I’m not so far gone. But very well.” Tibbits made the scale disappear. “A pretty promise, and one I appreciate, though this coming from Nessa is what’s really got me talking. You all right there, love? These men aren’t forcing your hand, are they?”
“Not in the way you mean, no.” Nessa hugged herself. “This is as above board as these inquiries get.”
“So long as word doesn’t get back to the target of our affections,” smiled Vic.
“And that would be?”
“A certain porcine lord. Gorkin. You know the name?”
Tibbits’ eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Gorkin? You have my condolences. I should save you the bother and redirect your energies elsewhere.”
“Alas,” sighed Vic. “We’re suicidally obstinate.”
“You’d have to be. You’ve chosen a quagmire in which to play. I’ll return the Veil with some free advice: find another quarry to fuck with.”
“Keep the Veil, though your solicitude is appreciated. Is there anything you can tell us?”
Tibbits bit his lower lip as he considered, eyes narrowed, then sighed. “Poor fools. I can tell you some, but even an Infinitum wouldn’t truly loosen my lips. What do you wish to know?”
Harald stepped forward. “What do you know of his defenses?”
“It’s to be an assault, is it?” Tibbits studied Harald, gaze flicking up and down. “Or an assassination? Again, don’t bother. But since you insist: Gorkin’s home is better defended than most castles. Don’t ask me why, but you’ve a better chance of murdering Lord Draken in his keep than Gorkin in his manor. But yes, yes, specifics, I can already hear you droning on.”
Vic turned to Nessa. “It’s like he knows me already.”
“Gorkin is served by a singular force, a mute Silver-ranked raider called Fosso the Fat. His loyalty is absolute, his lethality exceptional. It’s said he’d been Gold-ranked by now if he didn’t spend night and day watching Gorkin shit, piss, fornicate, and sleep.”
“Sounds like a pervert,” said Vic.
“His dedication is infamous, and he never leaves Gorkin’s side.” Tibbits sniffed. “Any plan you concoct will have to take Fosso into account. Not to mention his household guard, Marheim veterans all, and his dire hounds which patrol his grounds. His windows are barred, his servants vetted, and the city guard always but a whistle-call away.”
“You know more than I expected,” said Nessa quietly.
“It’s common knowledge.” Tibbits shrugged. “His reputation dissuades as much as his armed guards do.”
“He sounds paranoid. Any idea why?” asked Vic.
“Oh yes, but you’ll not pry it from my lips.” Tibbits smiled. “The man’s got no enemies in the City Council. None of the major Houses oppose him. Yet still he fortifies himself as if expecting war. Why would that be?”
“Rhetorical question?” asked Vic.
Tibbits grinned.
“What of his connection to the Red Fist?” asked Harald.
“What of it?” countered Tibbits.
“Anything there worth revealing?”
“Scales, I’ll warrant.” Tibbits shrugged one lean shoulder. “And plentiful in nature.”
Harald felt like he was grasping at straws. “Anything else you can share?”
“I’ve told you what matters most. There’s a very, very good reason Gorkin is left alone. You should learn from your betters, but, alas. You are, as you said, suicidally obstinant.”
Vic, Nessa, and Harald shared a glance.
“You’ve been too generous,” said Vic, taking a step back. “We’ll leave you to your well-deserved rest.”
“But of course,” smiled Tibbits. “Nessa? Will I be seeing you later, love?”
To which Nessa gave no response, leading the way out of the barren apartment.
“I’m always here, love!” Tibbits’ voice trailed them down the stairs. “Always here, day or night, rain or shine: your very best of friends.”
*
“That was weird,” said Vic once they were safely ensconced around a booth in the back of a dingy bar. “No wonder he’s not darkening Melisende’s doorway any longer.”
Nessa frowned off into the distance.
“His information didn’t offer any targets.” Harald slowly spun his mug of ale about within his hands. “If anything, he seemed eager to convince us Gorkin’s untouchable, right? You think he could have been lying?”
“I doubt it.” Nessa’s voice was cool. “He was having too much fun dangling his secrets before our eyes. There’s obviously more to Gorkin than we thought.”
“Doesn’t change things, though.” Harald frowned into his ale. “Fosso the Fat. A Silver-ranked raider who should be Gold. That’s not good.”
“We could take him, the five of us,” said Vic, though his hesitancy was obvious.
“We’d take losses.” Nessa’s tone brooked no argument. “The power of his Abilities will blast past our defenses.”
Harald shook his head. “Not acceptable. It might sound ridiculous, but we’re going to need a plan that doesn’t come with a high risk of a Throne Hunters’ death.”
“Does make it tricky,” said Vic. “Storming his manor seems right out, as far as options go.”
“Hmm.” Harald nodded. “Then I might have to take recourse in Plan B. Whittle down his forces, bleed him dry, until he sues for mercy.”
“Or sends Fosso the Fat after you,” said Vic. “But that would mean his having to tag along, seeing as he never wishes to be left alone. The Red Fist?”
“The Red Fist,” agreed Harald. “I’m not willing to part with the kind of wealth that would guarantee their betraying Gorkin, so…”
Nessa smiled at last, though the expression didn’t touch her eyes. “You won’t get him to beg for mercy by killing a few mercenaries. You need to hurt his purse.”
“I’m sure his coffers are equally inaccessible,” said Vic. “So you’re suggesting…?”
“Destroy his goods at his warehouse. Scare away his trading partners. Burn down his ships.” Nessa glanced at Harald. “And sure, kill some of his top men.”
“What about Lady Sonora’s fear that he’ll blame her?”
Nessa shrugged. “Muddy the waters. Attack concerns of his that have nothing to do with her. Plant false clues. Be creative, Harald.”
“Right, right.” He considered, then glanced at Vic, who shrugged in a way that indicated agreement. “I think I can do all that.”
“Don’t forget Thracos, darling.” Vic leaned back in his chair. “You need to hunt the man down and determine a date for your duel, lest he lose patience and decide it’s tomorrow.”
Harald grimaced. “Fair. Damn it. I still don’t see how I’m supposed to defeat the man, even if he grants me a year. He’s got the same… gift that I have. And his patron’s more powerful than my own.”
“And he’s a member of a major House, with all the benefits that entails. Oh, don’t look at me like that, darling. We all recommended you join a major House for exactly that reason.”
“You’re right.” Harald pinched the bridge of his nose. “And here I was, thinking life would grow easier after defeating Yeoric and joining House Sonora.”
“Poor Harald.” Nessa’s smile was almost cruel. “Are you discovering just how mean and unfair this world is?”
Harald stood. “Well, at least it’s not going to get much worse.” He laughed darkly as he tossed a Copper Crescent on the table. “At least, I don’t see how it could.”
*
Sam and Kársek stood outside Darrowdelve Manor’s wrought iron gate, staring down two impassive guards in Flutic Treasury gold and black. The dark clouds lowered overhead, rumbling ominously, and Baldric Avenue seemed bleached of all color in the premature gloom.
As Harald leaped down from their hired cab, the sight of the twin Treasury guards hit him like a fist to the gut. For a moment it was all he could do to just stand there, chin raised, inhaling deeply, meeting the flat stare of the guards with their ceremonial halberds.
“Damn,” whispered Vic, hopping down beside Harald, and for a second a wild anticipatory fury arose within him, a surety that if Vic made an off-color joke about losing access to the wine cellar, Harald might lose all control and lash out at his friend. But instead Vic squeezed Harald’s shoulder and stepped away, making room for Nessa to descend.
Sam hurried over. “Harald.” Her misery was clear, her desire to say something neutralized by the fact that there was nothing to say.
So he simply hugged her, squeezed her tight, and when her Beacon of Hope washed over him he took a deep, shuddering breath and forced a smile as she stepped back.
“Guess we’ve run out of time at last,” he said, voice husky with emotion.
Sam could only nod, tears in her eyes.
Kársek stepped up, expression grave. “My condolences, Harald. There are Treasury officials awaiting you within.”
“Right.” Harald took a deep breath. “Might as well get it over with.”
“What do you need from us?” asked Vic, and Harald felt a pang of shame over the mental disservice he’d just done his friend.
“Just wait a moment. Hopefully this won’t take too long.”
It took far longer than Harald had hoped.
Upon identifying Harald as the owner of the manor, the guards unlinked the iron chain that bound the iron gate and from which hung a heavy medallion that bore the Treasury seal.
Harald walked up the driveway as if in a dream, up to the open front doors and inside, where Treasury officials stood in a loose crowd. An official representative of the Treasury introduced himself, though Harald didn’t catch the man’s name over the rushing roar in his ears, and he ignored the entourage of clerks that stood about them altogether.
The official read aloud from a large, embossed Writ of Claim that declared the Treasury’s intent to seize the property. He framed the repossession as an act of law. The language was archaic and formal, invoking Flutic’s civic pride and legacy. After that, clerks furnished Harald with a ledger that listed the accumulated debts his estate had incurred, justifying the repossession. Harald understood this presentation to be a ceremonial gesture and signed where asked in a daze.
He was then presented with an elaborate document entitled the Relinquishment of Ownership. The official clearly expected him to place his signet ring on the document’s melted wax, and which became awkward when Harald confessed to not knowing where the ring was.
He was furnished with a catalog of assets, furnishings, and valuables being claimed by the Treasury, assembled in Harald’s absence, and he took fleeting satisfaction in how meager the list was. All items, from the food in the pantry to his clothing in his rooms to the training swords in the gymnasium below were confiscated, and the official denied Harald’s request to fetch a few items of sentimental value.
“I would dismiss all personnel under your employ,” finished the official, tone stark and cold, “but frankly it seems there is nobody to dismiss. And as such, the reclamation process is drawn to a close. You will be escorted off the premises, Sir Darrowdelve, and any return will be considered an act of trespass on city property. You may address any objections to the Treasury itself, and monitor the resale of the property from there as well. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” muttered Harald, passing a hand over his brow. “Quite.”
“Then on behalf of the Flutic Treasury, thank you for acknowledging the reclamation process. Good day.”
Two new guards stepped forward, brows raised as if asking if there’d be any trouble.
Harald cast one final glance at his father’s portrait. For a long, aching moment he met the painted eyes, felt the derision and scorn that the painter had so masterfully captured, and then turned away, head bowed, to quit his family home.
When he stepped outside, the heavens rumbled anew, and the clouds broke open, unleashing a downpour. Wanting to laugh, Harald strode down the driveway, not caring for the swirling curtains of rain, and stepped out through the wrought iron gate for the very last time.
His companions awaited him on the sidewalk. Their expressions were uniformly of compassion and concern.
“What do you want to do?” called Sam over the drum of the rainfall. “Where are you going to go?”
All his emotions, his grief, his anger, his dismay, coalesced into one burning desire.
“Only one place for me right now.” Harald’s grin, he knew, had to be ghastly. “Time for the Throne Hunters to hit the dungeon.”
Comments
ShivaMcTimber
TYFTC! Urgh! Picking the coins off the bridge may need Wellington boots.
Lorenz
Barko - not sure I like the name but sounds like Harald and co have a challenge ahead of them!
