Chapter II

-CHAPTER II-

Sitting astride his chestnut mare, Dowforth ached all over. Dawn had come and gone hours past, taking with it the soft morning mist that blanketed the stony sands, and keeping cool those sheathed within its midst. The sun was now a hot orb high in the sky, blistering them mercilessly with its golden rays.

They had packed light to make for good time, taking along five spare ponies, hardy creatures, not terribly fast, but highly resilient. Two of them were saddled with panniers containing all the equipment they might need on the road and even in the time it took to get ready, they parted before the first of the mornings light had begun to show. The ride out of the city had been tedious, as an overzealous gate officer had demanded their papers before opening the gate. That little annoyance had taken a good half a bell before the iron banded door had started to open slowly to allow them past. The gate guard had insisted on rousing the commander of the gate to verify who Dowforth was, and even that had been arduous, since the commander had spent the evening drinking heavily, so was not in the best state, nor the greatest of moods. Either way, they had eventually managed to make it through, and were on their way out through the suburbs of the city, heading North, after the fleeing criminal.

At first, he had wanted to go hell for leather try and bring down the distance as much as he could, but he soon realised what a pointless endeavour that would be. This was going to be a long race, about endurance more than blind speed. He couldn’t afford to wear his mounts out in the first few hours when they had weeks of travel yet to go. So they had settled into the slowest he could make himself, varying a few leagues at a canter, then a few trotting, then just walking beside the ponies. Doing that cyclically, they managed to cross a goodly distance by midday, but now, having had nothing to eat since the day before; he was starting to feel weak from the exertion.

Dowforth turned in his saddle to where Sandon was lagging and waved to catch his attention. As the private caught up to wear he sat still in his saddle, Dowforth called a halt. They dismounted and sat under the shade of a nearby tree where they ate salted beef, and a little wine in silence before mounting up again.

The day continued as before, creeping past and before long, it was growing dark, though it had only felt a short period of time since lunch to Dowforth. He realised he’d been lost in his imagination, reminiscing over his youth with his brother for a long time. Again silently, the two men set up camp, with Dowforth taking first watch. When time to switch came, the private woke easily, and Dowforth quickly fell into a troubled sleep.

By midday the next day, they were far out in the wilderness where there were almost no travellers on the road, barring the occasional caravan. The two still didn’t talk much; the heat of the sun during the day dried the moisture in their mouths, making talking difficult and painful at best. Even in the evenings, there was little conversation, due to the exhaustion of the day and no little awkwardness between the two men. Dowforth had tried on occasion to break through the stoicism of the other, but to little success. Eventually, he gave up conversing altogether outside of necessity. It was coming towards dark on the fifth day, and he was looking out for a place to camp, and the private was some distance back on the road, looking somewhat haggard now. Dowforth was from a horse owning family, and he tended to look after his horse more conservatively than did Sandon.

Scanning the horizon, he saw signs of a small stream over to the North and East and called back to his companion, ‘See the stream yonder?’ he shouted ‘we’ll make for it for tonight's camp to let the horses breathe awhile.’

As they drew closer, Dowforth saw that the area wasn’t empty. There was a man sitting beside his grazing horse, stirring a cookpot over a small fire which exhibited little smoke. He looked up at the sound of horses, and nodded in greeting. From his look, he was a Frenchman and when he opened his mouth, he confirmed it, ‘bonjour messieurs! What brings you this way?’ he asked with a strong French accent. It wasn’t surprising that he greeted them in English, given Dowforth’s look.

‘We are officers of the British embassy in India, chasing down a criminal to be brought in for questioning,’ replied Dowforth firmly.

‘Well, perhaps you should have come quicker. The blaggart shot me. I have been here since early yesterday afternoon.’ he said with a wince. Wondering how he’d not noticed it straight away, Dowforth saw that the man had a dark red stain on his shoulder, hastily wrapped with some old white linen. Rather than inform the Frenchman that the man they were searching for was actually going by ship, and they were racing to intercept him, Dowforth hesitated, then dismounted and closed on the man.

‘Here, let me look at that.’ So saying, he cautiously peeled the bandage back to look at the wound. It was deep, looked clean and there were no signs of gangrene. The ball had gone straight through the man’s shoulder. Blood was soaking the ground around him, and had stained most of his shirt and trousers.

‘Private, fetch me water and some fresh bandages,’ he called behind him. Looking back to the man, he said ‘who are you sir, to be out here alone, and whence are you heading?’

‘Garderon’s the name, but mostly just Gar. I am a mercenary, recently of the Fromage Noir, but they got wiped out in a skirmish to the East,’ he sighed, ‘a lot of good men died that day.’ Dowforth nodded his sympathy. He’d heard of the skirmish in the city. As odd a bunch of mercenaries as the black cheese was, it had been a good well respected band. Gar continued with his story after a pause for water ‘A lot of us survived, but the company was doomed with most of the command dead or captured, so we just sort of dispersed our own separate ways. For myself, I decided it was time I journeyed home. It's been many years since I last set eyes on France. I had only been travelling for a few days when your man shot me. He rode up to me casual as you like as though he were an old friend, then shot me point-blank with his pistol. I can’t even remember what he looked like, only that he had one working eye- black it was, the other just a milky orb.’

Dowforth looked down at Gar, listening intently as he spoke. When Gar mentioned the shooter, he thought he recognised the description. He was sure he had seen someone with such eyes, but he couldn’t quite remember more either. He had thought the man looked dangerous when he'd seen him, if only he could remember where. Dowforth finished cleaning and replacing the bandages, before offering the man his wine skin to ease the pain.

Gar drank greedily, choked, scowled up at the officer, 'what is this rubbish? Camel piss?'

'Spanish wine. It's all we've got. Deal with it, or give it back.'

In response, the Frenchman took one more swig, as if ingesting poison, and then thrust it back at him.

'So, when are we setting off in the morning?' he asked

'The private and I are leaving at first light' replied Dowforth pointedly.

'Then so am I.'

'Don't be daft man. You're in no fit state to travel.'

'I'm certainly not remaining here,' he said firmly, ‘besides; I want to get the b*****d that shot me. I want to get him good. Wake me up when it's my sentry. Feel free to have some of the stew,' and so saying, he passed out on the hard ground, less than a foot from burning his feet. Dowforth thought about the situation for a moment, barked, 'Private, you heard the man, watch that stew, and take first watch. Oh, and drag the damned silly fool a bit further away from the fire afore he burns himself.'

With that done, he walked out of the camp to stare at the stars. It was at times like this, alone, that the pain of losing his brother came up to claw him down with its icy clutches. David and he had been the last of a family that had died almost to a man when an unknown disease had wipe out all in their village bar the two of them as babies. Neither had remembered anything about the village or their parents. Occasionally though, James had nightmares where he heard screams and saw flashes of colour that must have been the horror of the crippling, murderous thing that had hit them. On those nights, it had been his younger brother that had soothed him. He had made an excellent officer. Now, only James survived. Slowly, he sank down against a rock, far from the camp, and wept.

The morning saw the three men riding North, leaving little behind but for the smoking cinders of the campfire. At first, there wasn’t much conversation, as each was lost in his own thoughts, but the silence became oppressive, and though awkward and stilted at first, they started to talk. Mostly, Gar talked really, and Dowforth listened. He was very fond of his own voice, and had a knack for story telling.

He told of some of the more outrageous of his experiences with the black cheese’s engagements and various other mercenary bands before them. He had first heard the calling to be a soldier as a young boy, and had run off to enlist in the army at ten and four, but upon finding out he was too young to serve as a regular, he had gone off with the first mercenary band he found. It transpired that they had found out he was a crack-shot with a rifle, and so while he was still young, the band he was with had set him in a safe place further back during any mêlée engagements where he could pick off foes at will. This suited him fine, as he rarely missed what he aimed at, and because of this, had saved more than a few men from a down swinging sabre or pike.

He was a braggart and a guzzler of wine- wine he continued to sleight and curse, because it is not French, but Spanish piss- nonetheless; he was enjoyable company for all that. Dowforth took most of what he said with salt, but from the way he continually cleaned and polished his rifle, he was less than inclined to argue his skill. Early on, the private had asked to see the piece, and, after no little time, Gar had finally handed it over for inspection.

‘Hand-made for me by a master craftsman over in Jerusalem. Cost me a handful of fine gems that did. Rubies, Emeralds, Sapphires, even a small Diamond or two! I tell you though, it was worth it. With this rifle, I can outshoot any man!’

The private looked down at the weapon, then back to Gar dubiously. There was an obvious air of disbelief.

‘Pass it here man. I’ll show you. Find me a target!’ Gar called brusquely at the obvious lack of faith.

‘No,’ replied Dowforth ‘We’re trying not to draw much attention to ourselves. Shooting while we ride is hardly inconspicuous. Besides, don’t you want to catch your- our- man before he gets away?’

Gar grumbled something under his breath, but didn’t bring up shooting again that day. He seemed to mostly ignore the large wound in his shoulder. Though he was a large man with ample muscle, the wound should still have pained him a lot more than it did. When asked, he just shrugged and made some comment on his iron strength and will.

For dinner, they settled down in a small copse of stunted trees, where the private built up a fire, and cooked a simple broth of mutton and roots.

For the next fifteen days, the journey continued on, following the coast North towards the next Indian port where they could sail across the Arabian sea to the opening of the red sea. Dowforth was certain that was where Tavian was going.

On the eve of the fifteenth day travelling together, they found themselves on the edge of the port city of Bassein. The guard gave them no trouble, and they rode silently through the South gate and into the city.

After more than two weeks on the open road, it felt strange to be surrounded by such a large amount of people again. With no idea where they were going, Dowforth asked directions of the nearest watch members he could, and they directed them to the consul offices in the centre of the city.

It seemed like the best place to stay since there might have been word of Tavian, or the mysterious gunman that Gar had encountered. Dowforth still hadn’t admitted to him that they were searching after a different person, but it seemed more prudent to keep it to himself.

The consul building in Bassein was a large three story white stone building with a flat roof, and two redcoats on guard outside. Explaining who he was, he walked straight on in, and asked to see the consul.

After indicating to the other two to find a nearby tavern for them to stay in, he went upstairs to meet the consul.

A servant had led him inside, down meandering passages, past rich tapestries and statues abound, eventually to a large dining hall where a large feast was taking place.

‘Ahh, you must be Sergeant Dowforth!’ boomed a voice from the head table over the ribald voices raised throughout the room. He looked over to find where the voice came from, and found himself looking at a grossly obese middle aged man, with a drooping handlebar moustache, surrounded by platters of meat. ‘Here, come and join me at my side. My name is Percibald T. Fatherton, and I am the consul here in Bassein’ he said, waving a huge, sweaty hand at Dowforth who nodded and sat down beside the fat man at table after another man shuffled further down the bench with apparent unconcern.

‘I am here on official business I am afraid.’ Waving away an offered a flagon of wine as he settled himself. Turning to Fatherton, he raised his voice, ‘I was hoping to find ship for this evening and be off again with the morning tide if at all possible consul.’

Percibald looked over at him with sharp grey eyes from under bushy brows, and replied stormily ‘you would refuse to share meat and mead with a high official of the Empire? Are you trying to insult me at my own feast?’ his voice raising at the end. The man was clearly drunk.

‘I don’t wish to offend you, but..’

‘Then don’t. Stay, and eat. What can be more important than a fine feast?’ Fatherton continued merrily once more.

‘As I was saying’ replied Dowforth, ‘I am chasing after a known murderer; a member of the aristocracy.’

‘The fellow murdered a member of the aristocracy!’ he roared, trying to push himself to his feet. Dowforth hastily put his arm on the consul’s shoulder, and whispered furiously.

‘No. The murderer is a member of the aristocracy. He took the life of an official down in Goa.’

‘Well, blimey sir. Who cares? Nobody likes those little pricks anyway. No offense of course. Besides, the aristocracy can do whatever they want in this day and age! It’s what makes the empire great.’ and with that, he lurched to his feet and bellowed out at his guests ‘A toast. Long live the Empire,’ to which the room erupted in counter toasts of similar veins, including more than a few calling for ‘Percibald’s good health.’

Dowforth glared icily at the Consul and replied in a stony tone, ‘the man you are referring to was my brother. I would take kindly if you did not speak so ill of the dead. What’s more, no one has the right to freely commit murder, be he slave, merchant, or king. I will find this man, and I will hang him for his crimes.’

During the tirade, the consul had lost his pallor somewhat, and hastily stammered for someone to find out about the ships departing the harbour in the morning. The man was a blundering buffoon, and a coward at heart. How men such as this came into any form of power baffled and infuriated him. The only way to deal with them was sternness and authority.

An hour later, a somewhat subdued Dowforth emerged from the Consul building with the information he desired and went in search of his companions. He eventually found them at a small tavern on the waterfront, where Gar was partaking in a game of dice, which he was patently winning.

As he stepped over, a cheer went up around the table, with half the men raising their beers together, while Gar pushed away a large amount of his pile. Leaving them to it, Dowforth went over to the bar and ordered a tankard of cheap ale for a few Ruples and sat down in a dark corner of the common room. Sipping the dark liquid, he leant back into the shadows and thought about his brother. Every now and then, he’d call out for another pint, and at one point, someone tried to sit at his table, but one look at Dowforth’s face told the man it wasn’t a wise decision.

Some time later, after some four or five pints, Dowforth stumbled to his feet and lurched outside to get some fresh air and empty his bladder. By the side of the inn was a small dark alley, and he staggered down it. Leaning heavily against a wall, he unlatched his braces and sighed heavily as he begun his stream.

Eyes shut, he carried on, feeling himself draining of more than just water. He was feeling a lot less tense after some drinks feeling his maudlin mood fleeting. It was then he heard a faint noise of cloth on cloth from behind him. He turned his head to look, instantly suspicious, and slipped on something.

It was that slip which saved his life. As he moved, a knife, aimed to tear out his throat instead cut deep into his face narrowly avoiding his eye socket. Blood splashed out, and he yelled in pain. Fumbling at his opponent, he tripped and landed in a puddle of his own piss and blood. Looking up, he knew he was going to die. His eyesight was going black at the edges, his ears rang blindingly, and his cheek was in agony. All he could do was put his hands above him to try and protect himself. When the blow didn’t fall, he looked up. Leaning over him, he saw two eyes looking down at him that he recognised.

‘Oh thank Christ, it’s you! Did you get the attacker?’ Then there was a glint of madness in the man’s eyes, and a flash of silver and red as the already bloody knife plunged towards his chest.

What followed was an agonising crushing feeling in his chest,

‘David…Brother…I’m sorry,’ he managed to whisper as blood bubbled from his mouth, his cheeks wet with tears. Then, darkness took him.

~

Gar stared down emotionlessly at the dead man as he twitched in his death throes. He felt like there should be some regret, or sadness, but he just felt angry. He should have done it sooner. He had thought the risk had been worth it for the chance to learn more, but instead, he might have left it too late. Gar prayed silently in his head.

His anger began to abate. The man had needed killing. Besides, killing was something that had to be done. There was no point in feeling remorse about it. He’d learnt that from a young age. Taking up the knife, he cleaned it on the dead man’s clothes, then picked up one of the victim’s legs and dragged him unceremoniously to the end of the alley, dropping him there. Before he left him, he felt through the man’s pockets for valuables, taking everything of worth, including a small, odd piece of paper with something about the Anarchist’s written on it which he quickly pocketed, then kicked and spat on the corpse for good measure.

~

Tavion was delighted by his new trousers. Winston had brought them to him as he lay asleep in a hammock below decks sometime in the afternoon. When he had gone on deck wearing the fine creation, he had thoroughly appreciated the awe showing so obviously on the crew’s faces, and even a little bit of envy on some. He didn’t of course realise that what he saw was shock, going toward anger at the desecration of the noble symbol of their sovereign nation, but then, he was oblivious to a lot of things.

He found the captain at the helm; resting comfortably against the wood, in a pose he had obviously maintained over years aboard this ship. A slight indentation showed beneath his forearm; though whether his arm rested there because of the dent, or his arm had rested there so often it had caused the dent, he didn’t know.

Captain Darian was a portly, large shouldered man of average height, and the startings of a small potbelly, but his parade ground voice hinted that he was an ex soldier. He ran a very tight ship, and Tavion was only slightly envious of his ability to bellow orders. Days back, Tavion had tried it of an evening when there was no one about, but all he managed was a very large, but most effeminate howl. The result of which, as giving a mighty shock to one of the sailors on watch, and he had nearly fallen over the side. Tavion cringed at the memory.

As he sauntered up to the man, the captain appraised him with a lopsided grin, looking bemused more than irked by the absurd nature of Tavion’s attire.

‘You know, I think we might have a banner of the East India company that you might like to cut up for a shirt.’ he said in his gruff drawl.

‘well, actually, that might not be so bad.’ Tavion replied sincerely with a sparkle in his eye.

The captain’s lopsided grin soured slightly.

‘Yes, well, maybe another day. Soon we shall arrive in Surat, and there we leave you, as agreed. I must admit, we have had some very smooth sailing, with the wind at our beck and call the whole way. Very unusual for this time of year indeed.’

‘Indeed? I might go back to bed then. Call Winston to run me a bath could you,’ and he turned around, and retired back to his quarters.

~

Watching Tavion walk away, Darian smiled inwardly at the ridiculousness of it all. Since boarding the ship, he had warmed some towards his eccentric passenger. Once past the very unusual tendencies he displayed like the night he had screamed so loud, one of his men had gone into the sea in fright. Despite these oddities, he was clearly quite a sharp individual. His butler on the other hand was a genius. His skills seemed unending.

From the time when arriving on board, he had offered his services to help out aboard the ship. At first, he had laughed, along with the crew, but when he had shimmied up the mast quicker than they could manage, to fix one of the lines on the topsail, they had started to wonder.

Winston was fantastic, He’d shown his skills at knots, sailing, mending clothes, woodwork, cooking, and a whole host of other tasks.

While Tavion spent much of his time sleeping, admiring himself, or demanding things of his butler, Winston was constantly moving about and working diligently.

He had been dumbfounded when he found Tavion on deck the first evening, seated at a small dinner table by himself, with cloth and silverware, eating what appeared to be quail, while quaffing fine wine. At his side, Winston was keeping his glass filled, while his master talked ceaselessly. The sight was just surreal. He had no idea where Winston had found any of it. He had just shaken his head and gone back to his watch.

‘We’ll be in port of the eve shall we not, captain’ a soft voice called from right behind him, startling him upright. It was Winston, and looking around, he had no idea where he’d just come from. Damn but the man moved quietly he thought.

‘Aye, and I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about that. See; the crew here have got used to you being around, and I must say, you’re a useful man with skills I can use. I’ve discussed it with my second, and the watch leaders, and we thought we’d see, well, if you’d stay on?’ Darian asked haltingly, cursing himself for sounding so unsure.

Winston looked at him, and replied slowly, ‘A splendid offer Captain, but I am afraid that Tavion and I have pressing matters to attend to in the city, and further afield thereafter.’

‘What? No, not Tavion- just you. He can go and rot in any city he likes, but you are wasted as a butler on a man such as he. Whatever he is paying you, I shall double it!’ Darian responded more forcefully.

‘I can’t afford that at the moment,’ he replied wryly, thinking of the penny he had had to pay his master, ‘anyway, I am afraid I am rather bound to my master, and I can’t see that ending any time soon. For all his faults, he is certainly an interesting man to work with. We have a certain respect for each other,’ he said gravely.

Perfectly timed, a yell called out ‘Winston! Winston, where are you? While the ship was heaving, my chamber pot upended. I need you to clean it up! Come on man, get on with it, you useless butler. I have been lying here trying to ignore the smell for the past hour! I put one of your coats over it, but the smell has come back!’

The captain stared at Winston, with one eyebrow raised through the tirade.

‘Yes, well, er, he doesn’t cope terribly well with anything dirty. I had best go and attend to it,’ Winston said to the Captain with an almost embarrassed shrug.

Clucking in frustration, Darian went back to the helm, contemplating why on earth such a man of talent would work for Tavion.

Soon, they were entering the large natural harbour at Surat, and he carefully brought her around a series of shallow rocks that could have taken the hull out from under her.

‘Easy girl’ he murmured, stroking the wood of the ship as he manoeuvred her with the utmost precision. By now they, were just crawling along, and all around them, tiny fishing boats darted to and fro, right in front of the bow of his vessel. It wasn’t rare for one of the fishers to time it just slightly too late, and have his boat torn apart beneath the huge oak front of galleys, and other larger craft. This time though, nothing went awry, and they smoothly floated up to the wharf with an evening sun shining warmly down on them.

A group of a dozen or more dockworkers appeared and started pulling in the lines to tie her up, and sailors dropped the gang plank down to start unloading their cargo. Darian frowned at the men helping. They didn’t look like the usual run of port helpers, and something about them put him ill at ease

Oddly, they all started aboard, seemingly to assist with the unloading, but then Darian realised what had bothered him. They were all armed!

Pulling out his pistol, he pointed at the leader and shouted so his men could hear ‘You men there stop right where you are. By what right do you board my vessel armed as you are?’ Silence followed his statement, as the crew all edged toward things that could be used as weaponry, and the workers stood staring at Darian.

‘Now!’ shouted the leader. Everything seemed to happen at once.

The fake workers all pulled pistols and cutlasses, and charged the crew. One fired at him, but Darian was already ducking behind cover after firing of f a shot and grazing the arm of the leader.

A furious fight ensued. The crew outnumbered the men, but these were trained killers, and well armed, while the seamen only had fish hooks and paddles plus a knife or two to hand. They were being cut down with ease.

As he looked on, he saw one of his men beg for mercy from a large black man with a sword. The man laughed, and cut his head from his shoulders with a vicious sweeping blow.

Then suddenly, Tavion and Winston appeared; the former in his insane trousers, no shirt, wielding a large curved sword found from God only knew where, and the other in his suit, with a brace of pistols.

Tavion threw himself at the nearest man, aiming a huge down-stroke that would have severed the man in half if he hadn’t got his sword up, then Tavion’s sword was underneath and sweeping across his mid half. The man clutched his stomach as blood and intestines flopped out.

Two men attacked him at once, and Winston shot one in the chest, while the other, Tavion cut his throat with one lightning strike.

Darian shook himself, and turned in time to find one of the assassins coming towards him with a garrotte in hands. The two men froze for a second, and then the assassin reached for his knife, but not before Darian pulled a pistol and shot him.

He tore out his sword and leapt to the deck where he fell amongst the would-be killers like a whirlwind of rage, screaming obscenities.

He looked across and saw a dozen more assassins leaping aboard, and he ran at them sword raised high, noticing Tavion at his side. He seemed to be cursing them for getting red on his trousers, but before Darian had time to think, he was amongst them.

Soon, he and Tavion found themselves fighting desperately back to back. Enemies came thick and fast and he killed all of them as they came. Fatigue was nonexistent. All was adrenaline and killing.

One ran at him, and he stabbed him clumsily through the heart. Another had his hand cut off as he tried to a riposte to the captain’s groin. He then sprouted a hole in his head.

In the gap in fighting it caused Darian paused to breathe and looked for his saviour and found Winston standing on the railing above them like an angel of death, killing with every shot he took.

Looking behind at Tavion, he saw he was struggling with three adversaries. As he watched, Tavion cut one down, Winston shot another, but the last managed to a slice to Tavion’s arm he only partially managed to evade. Darian jumped in and cut open the man’s face with a savage swipe, and Tavion finished him off with an elegant, almost delicate slice to the throat.

As the man fell to the ground, the deck went silent.

Looking around, he saw that theirs had been the last of the fake workers left alive. All around him, his men stood panting, cut to pieces, and bleeding from numerous wounds. He looked down at himself and realised for the first time that there was a knife in his thigh.

With clenched teeth, he wrenched it out with a squirt of blood. Other than that, he had just a few cuts and scratches. Tearing his shirt, he wrapped his thigh, then stood to inspect the toll.

They lined out the dead members of the crew at one end of the deck, and dumped the foe in a pile at the other.

Of the forty crew, ten and seven lay dead, and half the rest were wounded. There were six and twenty dead enemies. None had escaped.

Looking about, he saw Tavion in his trousers, almost free of cuts, bar the one on his arm which Winston was stitching up.

Walking over to him to thank him for the aid, without which, they would have certainly died, he realised that these men were probably why the assassin’s had attacked. He could think of no other reason. His gratitude died in his throat as he thought of how many good men he had lost.

‘Get off my ship, and don’t dare come back. I don’t know who those men were, but they were after you. I am not losing any more of my men over you. Now, get out of my sight.’ he growled fiercely at Tavion.

Seeing that this was not the time to argue, the man stood, bowed, and walked off the ship without a word or another glance.

Winston looked to say something, but didn’t, then he too limped down the gangplank.

Darian felt sick and exhausted. He slumped to the wooden floor and stared around him bleakly. His crew avoided his gaze. They didn’t understand why he had just thrown the two men off the ship. Most of them just stood around, eyes glazed, shock finally starting to hit them.

‘Get to work. Dump the bodies of those assassins on the wharf, and scrub down the deck! The rest of you, prepare the bodies of our men to be buried at sea as they would wish.’

~

Tavion strolled down the streets thoughtfully, paying little attention to those around him, still shirtless, shoeless, and bleeding slightly through the stitches from the cut on his arm. A few yards behind, Winston followed, looking entirely unruffled after the ordeal, though inside, his mind was ill at ease. He knew his master was thinking about the dead men, and what they could have been about. As he walked, he looked out for suspicious looking men, but none overly stood out in the crowd.

It was at a moment when he was staring down an alley at a man with one eye who he’d originally thought was the man Tavion had met in the bar so long ago, that he realised his master had stopped and was staring at him thoughtfully.

‘You of course saw the man I pushed off the ship,’ Tavion stated.

‘Yes,’ he replied

‘You are also aware that that is not the first time I have seen the man’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you aware of what he wanted?’

A pause.

‘Not definitely.’

‘Guess,’ Tavion said dryly.

‘The man was trying to recruit you to a secret organisation with some no doubt terrible agenda. He thought he’d trap you by framing you for murder to try and lure you into joining with him, if only to escape the law. If you’re indecisive, the law is the last person you’d be able to go to, because they’d simply arrest you. After all, it was your knife that killed the man. Unfortunately for him, you decided to decline his offer, which means he has to kill you anyway to stop you finding a way to spread what you know.’ Winston paused for breath, thought a bit, and then continued. ‘He gave you another chance on the ship, so if you said no, he could kill you there and then, but you didn’t just say no, you threw him into the sea. Somehow he made it from there to here in Surat, ahead of us and with enough time to set up an ambush. Furthermore, if he was able to do these things, his organisation must be a somewhat powerful one with numerous resources at its disposal. The one thing I don’t understand is why they want you master. No offense of course.’

‘Thanks. Am I not such a gallant and heroic individual?’ he said with a flourish that took the hat off a man walking past who grumbled some obscenity and carried on after collecting his lost apparel. ‘Although, I had surmised something similar of course’ Tavion added.

‘Of course.’

‘So, we now need a great and brilliant plan to discover what is happening.’

Winston eyed his master expectantly.

‘Aha! Winston, you shall first go and explore the city for any unusual groups of people that are out of place. Further, you shall search through the taverns and meeting places of the city for any rumours and interesting stories you hear.’

‘Excellent master, and what shall you be doing throughout this?’

‘Why, I am doing the most dangerous thing of all. I am going across to the palace.’

‘Is that dangerous, sir?’

‘Of course. I left a spurned lover here. No doubt, she is still in love with me, and will be most furious when I arrive, but I shall have to be courageous and strong.’

‘You spurned a woman?’ said with obvious doubt.

‘How could you think otherwise? Women practically queue to admire my wit and charms,’ Tavion replied, pride hurt.

Winston looked round at the crowds passing by on either side. One or two glanced, intrigued at the argument going on in the street between the suited man and the beggar, and then moved on. ‘Oh yes sir, how silly of me.’

He glowered at the butler for a moment. Winston stared guilelessly back. Tavion laughed or snorted, then marched off resolutely to find the palace.

Winston watched after him, wishing he could be there to see how the gate guards took him- a bloody man, naked but for a pair of trousers sewn from their country’s flag, with absolute confidence in his right to be there. He laughed to himself, then went in search of unusual people, besides his master of course.

Reviews

[Craig2591]

Fascinating story so far. The characters are quite colorful. And I like the 'old style' way you are telling the story. Action scenes are a challenge and you seemed to pull off the fight on the ship pretty well. I was able to follow it without getting confused. It does need some editing as there are a few typos here and there, but very good so far.

[C. L. Aemon]

Haha, thanks. I wasn't sure if my writing style was suitable, or a bit over the top. Indeed, action scenes are a bit of a challenge. I hadn't realised before I started writing them, after seeing so many that are well done in books I've read. I agree that it needs a lot of work yet. I wanted to get a chunk up before I went back to really edit it through. I think I have around 30,000 words out of about 80,000 up so far...