A New Dawn Coming

Chapter Five

The rain had finally stopped, but the wind continued to batter everything. Its relentless fury washed over the city like an invisible tidal wave. Water ran in steady streams along the gutters, drowning the twisty alleyways. No street lanterns had survived the wind, leaving the deserted streets in deep darkness. Heavy clouds still hung low overhead. It felt as though the city was trapped under a towering mountain, the oppressive weight pressing down, threatening to crush them all. Dark thoughts, Faux mused as he scuttled along the streets, fighting the lashing wind as he made his way toward the docks.

He was furious with himself for not having seen through the ruse. A high-profile target. Five hundred marks to make sure that he’d take the contract, a hundred up front, and then a specific time to be there. They drew him into a time and place of their choosing, and meant to put an end to him. His arrogance walked him right into it.

Duggan. He’d been a part of it too, knowing all along. Just one more small detail he’d said; needed it done tomorrow night. And then it was over. He’d taken his five marks and shuffled out the door, his fat ass done with Faux Falaran. Bastard.

“Not quite yet,” Faux muttered under his breath, reaching the wharfs.

The harbour had taken the full brunt of the storm’s fury. There wasn’t a single vendor’s stall or cart left standing. They’d all been toppled over by the driving wind, or smashed by the gigantic waves that surged over the docks and jetties. Bits of wood and rope lay everywhere, sliding along the cobbles as the wind still sought to cause more havoc. Small fishing skiffs and large merchant schooners tossed around in the frothing water. Violent, white topped waves, dashed the vessels against the wharfs. A couple had given up the fight, only a mast left visible, swaying in the water while the rest of the ship sat on the sandy bottom. A fine, mist hung in the air from the rolling breakers, giving the air a sharp, salty taste.

Faux turned down a tight alley between two warehouses and squeezed his way along. The end of the alley opened to a row of dilapidated buildings leaning drunkenly against one another. The wood was salt crusted and weathered, ill-fitting in places, leaving sizable gaps in between the planks.

He headed straight to the third ramshackle building and began his ascent up the rickety steps leading to the crooked door. He held his breath as the wood groaned and creaked in protest with each unsteady step. As the wood sagged beneath his weight, he marveled that these stairs had emerged victorious in supporting Duggan’s tremendous weight.

It would have saved us all a world of trouble if he’d killed himself falling down these damn stairs months ago.

He noticed immediately, as he reached the top of the foreboding stairway, the door wasn’t shut. It swayed back and forth in the wind. The fierce gale was pelting the opposite side of the building, leaving a mild but steady breeze on this side. It’s hinges gave gentle squeals as the door retreated a few inches into the house, before falling forward to hit the door jamb with a soft thud.

Faux leaned against the door frame, listening. The screaming of the wind as it howled over the roof tops and whistled through the network of shambling buildings were the only sounds, besides the door. He drew one of his rapiers and crept through the door, his body tense, ready to spring into action.

He pushed the door, and spied around the corner at what looked like a small kitchen area. A counter top to his right was littered with sacks of what looked like various vegetables and rotting fruits. A half-eaten loaf of bread stood sentry over the counter, a greenish mould crowning its top and running along the edges. An untouched bucket of water sat in the middle, surrounded by scarred wooden plates containing leftovers of whatever Duggan had eaten last. Of the fat man, there was no sign.

Faux crept fully into the small house, letting the door close behind him to resume its swaying in the breeze. The whole house trembled as the wind battered it, a loose shutter from some back room clattered off the twisted planks of an outer wall. He slipped across the filthy floor, ignoring the small table and single chair that was overturned and resting on its side amid the crumbs and dirt.

An opening, on the other side of the cluttered kitchen, lead to a tiny, shadowed hallway a few paces long. He opened a tall, narrow door set against one of the hallway walls, revealing a small storage closet. It was empty save for a lone broom that looked to be missing most of its thick, scratchy bristles. Shutting the door, Faux continued into the tiny house’s back room.

Swirling gusts of wind shoved a broken shutter away from the lone window, invading the cluttered room. A tall wardrobe closet sat closed along one wall, a simple pattern of trees worked along its door. A short but sturdy stool stood next to a stubby but wide bucket of water in one corner, a coarse wash cloth neatly folded over its edge. Except for small bits of gravel and dirt, the floor was mostly bare.

Except for the pool of coagulated blood.

An expansive bed, spanning almost the entire width of the room, held Duggan’s sprawled form. His oversized limbs stretched over the sheets in haphazard positions. The savage s***h across his meaty neck smiled up at Faux.

“See,” it whispered to him in hurt tones, “I was played for a fool too.”

His lifeless eyes stared a fixed point on the ceiling while a solitary fly, having found refuge from the storm, flitted back and forth across their glassy surface. A metallic glint caught Faux’s eye from inside the dead man’s gaping mouth.

Stepping across the room, Faux brushed the fly away and looked down on Duggan’s sagging face. With a grimace, he reached down, plucking a gold mark from his mouth. Examining it in the dim light, he couldn’t be positive, but felt sure it was one of the marks from the bag the day before.

Grimacing, he pulled four more marks from the dead man’s stiff mouth. Five. The same as Duggan’s take from yesterday. Not a coincidence. Whoever Duggan’s contact had been was trying to ensure there were no loose ends. The five marks a warning to every other urchin working the docks; stay out of the way of their betters. The problem for them was that both him and Duggan were supposed to be dead.

Faux reached across to the bucket and grabbed the washcloth. Shooing the stubborn fly away again, he unfolded the cloth and spread it over Duggan’s face. It wasn’t much, but he deserved better than to be left exposed. He leaned back against the wall, his hand idly swirling the gold marks together, thinking things through.

Norward hadn’t been at his estate, it would have been too risky. If Faux had somehow found him, and killed him, it would have ruined the whole trap. The house had been full of not only the Norward’s household guards, but those belonging to Baron Keswick himself. Including that oafish brute they’d decided would be the one to kill him. The pieces were clicking together for him now. As long as he’d been useful, Faux was just another pawn of the elite, but once his usefulness passed, he became a liability. No self-serving noble liked liabilities.

He gave Duggan one last parting glance, stepping away from the wall.

“Sorry buddy. I’m gonna need these more than you.” He spun on his heel, pocketing the gold, and headed back out into the windswept streets. He still had a contract to fill.

* * * * *

The storm seemed to have broken by the time Faux arrived at the Keswick chateau. To call it anything else would have been folly. It was a sprawling three storey structure set on the top of a hill overlooking the entire city. Similar to Norward’s manse where most of the grounds had been protected by a thick brick wall, the baron’s wall had sections cut out. A solid, wrought iron fence stood in these parts. People were meant to see the power that radiated here.

Finely manicured trees and shrubs fought for the attention of the masses. Artfully sculpted statues, depicting fanciful beasts, littered the grounds, while a massive fountain, spurting gouts of water, sat directly in front of the main entrance. The entire grounds covered at least as five times that of the magistrate’s house. That suited Faux fine. The vast array of decorative shrubs and statues created a field of shifting shadows that drifted across the garden, when the pale moonlight managed to fight its way through the scudding clouds.

With little effort, he was over the fence and dancing among the shadows towards the massive house. When he’d taken contracts in the past, he’d spend time scouting the target. Looking for tendencies, maybe even breaking into the premises beforehand to know the layout. It was caution that made him successful and knowing the targets and routines that kept him alive.

But he was running blind now, fueled by a naked rage. His whole body simmering like a hot coal. This man had tried to orchestrate his death, or even worse capture him, and then went and killed Duggan. They’d somehow followed him and put Ahanna in danger as well. It was against the code.

Most people looked at assassins as simple, evil creatures, willing to kill anyone for a bit of coin. It was a stereotype that Faux prided himself on avoiding. Sure, he’d kill for money but he had morals too. He made sure that the person he took contracts on was breaking some type of law. Even if the law they might be breaking was one that Faux had made up himself. He didn’t take contracts on common folk looking to settle debts or an old score. People didn’t deserve to die over trivialities on the whim of someone with a bit of coin and a vendetta.

Faux took targets that balanced an injustice. A ship captain who whipped his crew, and held back pay for his own profits. A noble land owner evicting his workers and their families at the end of the harvest season, before paying them. A corrupt magistrate selling slaves and opium along the docks, when it was his responsibility to police the harbour and prevent that sort of thing. These were the sorts of targets Faux took on. Solving the problems of the common man, against the increasingly corrupt nobility that was causing Estermont to fester under the surface.

Delusions of grandeur, he snorted to himself. The bottom line was, he took coin to kill men. Spin it how you want, but Ahanna was right; it wasn’t the line of work of an honorable man. No matter how many little rules he set to convince himself otherwise. He’d always believed he was the good guy, but was starting to see through the ruse he’d hid behind.

This was different though. They’d come after him. Set him up. Made him the target. They"d turned the tables, and he was about to turn them back. He had morals, but tonight they were gone, replaced by a need for vengeance.

He hesitated in the shadow of a large shrub, trimmed and manicured to resemble a horse rearing up on its hind legs. A pair of guards shambled by. They were engrossed is some sort of conversation that Faux couldn’t make out, though he thought he picked out ‘magistrate’ and ‘fire’. He let them pass, then darted across the rest of the grounds, flitting from shadow to shadow. A silent ghost, invisible.

He paused at a window, pulling out the potion that Ahanna had given him. The dark, blood red fluid he’d seen in her father’s shop looked black here in the shadows. He pulled the cork and sniffed the top of the flask. Nothing wafted out to meet his nose. With a shrug, he downed the contents.

His whole body began tingling within seconds. A ‘pins and needles’ feeling started in his chest, radiating out in pulsing waves. The dull ache that had been accompanying him in his shoulder, and the raw burn that was playing along his ribs vanished as the waves washed over him. The myriad of bumps, bruises, and small cuts decorating his body, healed before his eyes. The tingling sensation raced up his neck and splashed over his head, like a breaking wave of cool refreshing water. He felt energized and refreshed. Better than if he’d just woken from the best sleep he’d ever had.

He stared at the flask in amazement, Ahanna’s father was a skilled apothecary he knew, but this bordered on magical. With a wondering shake of his head, he tossed the flask aside. He flicked open his lock pick, and after a minute, had a window open and was inside the baron’s mansion.

The estate oozed opulence. Intricate tapestries, depicting various historical battles or glorified hunts, lined the walls. Decorative tables, trimmed in gold or silver lace, stood like silent sentinels at various intervals along the walls. Expensive vases, ornaments, or other artifacts sat on their polished tops. Plush carpets lined the corridors, thick and soft. This is how it would feel to walk on a cloud, he thought idly.

Faux crept along the deserted hallways, listening at doors, and peeking into rooms. It’s going to be almost impossible to search the entire place before dawn. As he rounded one corner, his spirits surged. A narrow shaft of light was spilling into the hallway from the small crack of a door, not quite shut. He slid along the wall, a rapier drawn, listening to voices on the other side.

“I don’t give a damn who he is, he’s still a foolish turd.” A whiny, nasally male voice spat out.

“Hush!” a second voice, a woman’s, hissed at the first. “If he hears you talking like that, you’ll end up floating in the harbour, if you’re lucky. Rumour is, you could end up on a ship, headed to Jahlenea knows where, as a slave. I’d consider that to be very much worse.”

“And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? He sits up there drinking the wine, bandying about with Keswick’s son, like there isn’t a care in the world, while he pisses on the rest of us. It isn’t right. Bloody turd!”

Hearing enough, Faux flowed around the corner easily as river water slipping around a stone. He closed the door behind him with a soft click.

A bedraggled looking woman with greying hair, pulled back into a severe bun, looked up from the dough she was kneading on a worn wooden table along the side wall. Her lined eyes widened in shock as a startled yelp jumped from her throat.

A tall, painfully thin, dishevelled looking man with close cropped hair, stepped back from the tray he was preparing with various fruits and cheeses. An arm knocked over an unopened bottle of wine with a clunk, sending it spinning across the floor. His eyes darted quickly to the woman, before jumping back to Faux and then flicking to the now closed door. He reminded Faux of a snared rabbit as a fox closed in.

“A good evening to you,” Faux nodded to the man. “And to you as well my lady.” He held his rapier up, saluting them both. The bright lantern light flickered and danced along the blades edge. “I need a bit of help and I’m hopeful you’ll cooperate. I just need some questions answered, the faster the better.”

“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” The man said, regaining some of his composure now that he’d backed into a corner, putting as much distance between himself and the half-elf as possible. “There’s guards all over this house, one scream from either of us, and that’ll be the end of you.”

“True. But they won’t get here fast enough to save you, or her.” Faux nodded in the direction of the woman. Fear was etched along her features now, like a thin coating of frost. “And I’ll be gone again before they ever arrive. From what I’ve heard, you’ve no reason not to answer me. It seems like I might be doing you a bit of a favour.”

“He was listening. I told you to keep your mouth shut Jarvis,” the woman fixed the poor butler with a murderous stare.

“If I answer the questions, you’ll leave us be?” The man named Jarvis licked his lips an began dry washing his hands. His pinched face and nasally voice reminded Faux of a rat. The large savage ones that staked their claim to the midden heaps back in ‘The Neck’, the slums of Estermont. “Why should we believe you?”

“You won’t be harmed,” Faux agreed. “You only have my word to convince you, but time is getting short, so you’d best make up your mind quickly. Answers or the blade. Where’s the baron?”

“Ha,” Jarvis barked a short laugh. “If that’s who you’re looking for, you wasted your evening. Keswick left a couple of days past, headed to the country.”

“The country?”

“Aye. He’s got another mansion a day’s ride or so from here. He goes there when he wants to get away from the city. Can’t blame him either, filthy s**t hole.” The man spat on the floor, adding emphasis to his thoughts on city life.

“So if the baron isn’t here, who are you complaining about and preparing food for at this hour?”

“Keswick’s bloody son, and Norward, the dock district magistrate. Kylaldir damn the bleeding turd!”

“Hush!” The woman hissed at the man again. ‘You’re going to be tossed to the streets yet because of that tongue of yours.”

“I will not hush Aselle! The bastard is a Blessed forsaken slaver and it’s a disgrace to have him here, in his lordship’s own home.”

Faux’s mind spun. He’d come for Keswick, to ask where he could find Norward, before settling the score for his part in the treachery. It was looking like that wouldn’t be happening tonight, if what the old servant had said was true. However, Norward being here was something of a surprise. Judging by the old man’s comments, it seemed as though what Duggan had said about him was true. A slaver; and likely supplying opium as well. He quickly made up his mind.

“Where are they? I’ve got a few questions for them too.”

“You’re mad,” the old servant barked. “You won’t just walk in and ask away of the baron’s son and his company. They’re drinking the night away upstairs. There’s two guards standing right outside the door. You won’t get within twenty paces before you’ll have every guard in the mansion shoving spears up your arse.”

“You let me work out the details,” Faux replied, a plan already forming in his mind. “I only need to know where they are.”