| The Descent - By Casenor |
Notes:
This is a crossover between Shining Force 3 and the classic "The Godfather."
In this fic, Synbios is a GIRL. For Medion's sake, you understand :P
The relationship between characters may differ from the game.
The time is a bit more modern than ShF3 but far from 1945.
Um...well, hope you enjoy the fic. Any feedback would be welcome!
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It was spring in Destonia.
Not that it would have made any difference to the revelers. From the darkened chamber, Grantuck watched in mild amusement as they feasted and danced with absolute abandon all over the vast Domaric estate. It was the wedding of the Don's only daughter, Isabella, and nothing so trifling as the weather was ever going to affect the celebration.
He turned his eyes back to his master and the visitor, who were conversing in low tones. For them, the seasons meant nothing; even the wedding could not influence their business. Domaric loved his daughter, yet to him, business must be done everyday, regardless of the occasion. And in many ways, Grantuck reflected, the Don's business was more important than any celebration could ever be. It was, after all, the dealing out of mercy or death.
The visitor, a wood elf named Hans, had raised his voice, while Domaric sat unperturbed. The Don motioned for Grantuck to bring the elf a drink. Hans took the glass with trembling fingers, then managed to continue in a calmer, though still shaky, voice, "Don Domaric, you must help me."
"I don't see what I can do," replied Domaric. A bulldog of a man, the Don's aged but powerful frame was relaxed. His voice was quiet and gravelly, yet masterful beyond description. With a steady gaze he stared at his desperate petitioner. "In your own words, your daughter married this David willingly. Whether she regrets her choice now is not my, or even your, business. Granted," he continued, "that in our time the parents had greater influence in the marriage matters. But that's the past, my friend. My eldest, Arrawnt, married the woman of his choice. I allowed my daughter to choose her husband. Now, uh, how can I meddle with your Hedoba's marriage, when I don't decide my own children's spouses?"
"My daughter made a foolish choice," Hans whispered. He put the glass down, and without a word Grantuck removed it. "This David, he beats her. He abuses her. She wants out, but our customs won't allow it. There's only one way for her to escape this bondage--" He lowered his eyes.
Domaric spoke easily, "And that is?"
Hans looked nervously at Grantuck and the bodyguards by the door. With a dismissive wave Domaric urged him forward. Hans whispered quickly into the Don's ear, only to receive a low chuckle in reply.
"This, I cannot do, my friend," Domaric said. "Your daughter may be suffering, but she lives still. What you're asking of me, it's, uh, unfair to the groom."
"But you must help me!" Hans voice became urgent again. He moved as if to grip the Don's hand, then thought better of it. "Hedoba is my only daughter--my only child, now, since her brother's death. How can a father stand by and watch one error in his child's life destroy the child? You are different from most humans, Don Domaric. You understand how important children are. Please, please have pity on my plight and aid me!"
Domaric considered his visitor for a moment, then walked to his side. His voice carried mock sorrow and subtle menace as he said, "We've known each other for a long time, Hans. You know I would help any old friend of mine. But, uh, the truth is, you have not been a good friend. You hardly ever visit me. You didn't invite me to your daughter's wedding. The truth is, uh, you didn't want my friendship. You were afraid to be in my debt."
Hans trembled. "That...that was true once. I was content to live without quarrel, like any wood elf. But quarrel has sought me out, and I need your help now."
"None gains my help without first winning my friendship," replied Domaric sharply. "Had we been true friends I would have helped you long before, without your begging me in person."
Hans had turned deathly pale, and his quivering words were spoken so quietly Grantuck could hardly hear him. "How might I win this friendship now, Don Domaric?"
Domaric watched him carefully. Grantuck looked uncertainly from the Don to the bodyguards, wondering how Domaric might receive this desperate plea. Then Domaric spoke, "One day, my friend, I may seek a favor of you. Grant it now, and I shall in turn help you."
The wood elf swallowed audibly, and for a moment looked as if he would ask what the favor might be. Then he stood quickly and, bowing low, answered, "I grant it now, Don Domaric. Please, be my friend."
Domaric gripped the elf's shoulders, as if claiming a new servant, or slave. "Do not worry any longer, Friend Hans. As a gift from my daughter, on her wedding day, to yours, you shall have your wish."
Hans whispered, "Thank you, Don Domaric." Then, with what sounded like a low sob, he excused himself and left.
Domaric sighed, looked at his waiting advisor. "Uh, Grantuck, send Campbell on this one. Tell him to be careful." He glanced out the window. "Why don't you boys go down there, enjoy yourselves? I will be down shortly myself."
Grantuck hissed in relief. "Thank you."
Synbios was surprised by the number and variety of the wedding guests, and she didn't try to hide it. From her seat opposite Medion, she gawked openly with her innocent green eyes at the revelers. Her actions made Medion embarrassed for her sake, but also more protective.
"My father has many...sorts of friends," he offered quietly when Synbios started and pointed at another odd visitor. He held up some food, hoping to distract her, but she wasn't even looking at him.
"Aren't you going to introduce them to me?" She asked. Medion shifted uncomfortably; the company his father kept were not the sort of people he wanted to introduce to his girlfriend. Nonetheless, he pointed: "That elf over there, his name is Bernard. He's a sharpshooter, quite famous among archers. Um, that centaur and the red-haired woman? That's Generals Franz and Spiriel. They've been working separately for my father for a while, and recently got engaged..."
"A hobbit!" Synbios exclaimed. She pointed in the direction of two child-like figures talking with a white centaur. "Are they friends? Or distant cousins?"
Medion glanced at the trio and experienced a faint pang. "No, they work for my father as well."
He felt her inquiring look, and his face reddened slightly. Very few of the guests at his father's party were simply friends; they were mostly relatives or henchmen. Of the latter he knew most by name, and had even played with them, in an innocent childhood long past.
Now that he was older, and have learned their business, he tried to avoid them whenever possible.
Fortunately Grantuck appeared beside them, ending the awkward moment. The advisor gave Medion a warm hug. "Where have you been, kid? Your father's been looking for you. He's hired an artist to do a family portrait, but they can't start without you."
"Oh...ah, I pretty much just arrived." Medion smiled at Synbios. "Synbios, this is my brother Grantuck. Grantuck, my academy friend, Synbios."
"Young daughter of Lord Conrad. It's a pleasure." Grantuck kissed Synbios's hand, nodded to Medion, and disappeared into the crowd.
Synbios watched Grantuck curiously, then asked, "Brother?"
Medion smiled with sincere affection. "My big brother Arrawnt met him in the streets, before I was born. Grantuck had no home, so my father took him in. He's not as old as he looks; their people all look like that." He pondered a bit before adding, "He's quite wise. I suppose he'd still be war counselor to Arrawnt, after my father retires."
Synbios frowned slightly. "War...?"
"It's a term my father uses in his business," replied Medion hurriedly. He was not comforted, however, by Synbios's understanding smile. There was, after all, so much she didn't know about his family. Medion looked miserably around, decided now was as good a time as ever. It wouldn't be fair to continue their relationship if Synbios didn't understand what sort of family she might someday be marrying into. He reached for her hand. "Synbios..."
She seemed distracted, however. Bending toward him, her brown bangs brushing his brow, she whispered, "Medion, the big man sitting behind me has been talking to himself for a while now. Do you know him? He's frightening."
Medion glanced over her shoulder and, to his dismay, recognized the man. "Yes. He's an old friend of my father's. More like, an old employee." He hesitated. "His name is James."
"But why is he talking to himself?"
Medion listened, then managed a smile. "James is frightening, but he's even more frightened of my father. It sounds like he is rehearsing a speech of some kind. Probably to greet my father with."
A loud cheer erupted suddenly from the center of the crowd. A singer had just climbed onto the stage. They both turned to watch. Synbios squinted, then said in surprise, "Medion--that's Mageron!"
"Yeah," grinned Medion.
She looked disbelievingly at him. "You mentioned your brother was a singer, but you never said..."
"We can go say hi to him later, if you like." Medion suggested.
She blinked, then smiled. "I'd love to!"
"Yeah, well..." Medion paused. "Seeing that he's come all the way from Saraband, I suppose he'd want to talk with my father first. Probably some trouble with competitors again."
"But how will talking with your father solve that?" Synbios wanted to know.
"My father...has a way of getting things done." Medion hedged. He looked away quickly, realizing all the sudden he wasn't ready to tell his girlfriend everything yet. Perhaps a week from now, at someplace private, he'd be able to manage it...
She, however, was too curious to let the subject slide. "I don't understand, Medion. How can your father defeat your brother's rivals for him?" She laughed, then joked, "Is he going to bribe them not to sing?"
"Look..." Medion took a deep breath, then confessed, "My father helped Mageron from the beginning. At first my brother wasn't famous, or even admired. There were other popular entertainers, and Mageron had trouble getting to perform at all. You probably know he became popular singing at a bar in Saraband, but I bet you have no idea how he got the permission to perform."
"Your father paid the owner...?" Synbios's voice faltered as Medion shook his head grimly.
"That's what he did at first. My father offered the guy 100,000 gold to give my brother a chance. The guy refused. Then my father went with James, and the owner paid 1,000 gold to have Mageron sing."
She stared. "How?"
"My father...made him an offer he couldn't refuse." Medion answered quietly.
"And that is?"
"James held a knife to the guy's throat, and my father promised him either Mageron be allowed to sing or the guy never draw breath again. After that the business was concluded very simply." He saw Synbios's horrified look, took her hand. "Honey, that's my family. Not me." He held up the food again and offered belatedly, "Cookies?"
Domaric was not surprised to see James being escorted in by Grantuck. He was, however, a bit astonished to see the man's son follow his father in. The nervous henchman faltered before striding forward to take the Don's hand. "Don Domaric, I am honored and grateful that you've invited me to your daugh--daughter's wedding. And I hope, hope that her first child will be a strong boy. And I bring this gift, to you and your family, as a pledge of my loyalty..."
Domaric accepted the present with a fatherly smile. "I am glad to see you too, James. But, uh, aren't you going to introduce your boy...?"
"Ah, yes." The bigger man looked about, as if unable to locate his son, before beckoning the boy over. "Julian..."
The boy, who, Domaric noticed, was about the age of his own youngest son, showed no sign of his father's nervousness. He bowed respectfully before the Don, and said evenly, "I, too, pledge my loyalty to my father's master."
"I am pleased," replied Domaric. He patted James on the shoulder. "Your son follows your footsteps. That's good, that's good."
"Yes." The big henchman's frame relaxed slightly as he spoke of his son. "Julian is young, but already experienced. He will make an excellent soldier for you, Don Domaric. I have but one son, but, like you, I've taught him to learn our trade..."
"Like me!" Domaric felt a moment of sorrow through his icy soul. "Yes, uh, that's very fine. I'm sure the son would be much like his father." His gaze traversed the room and caught Grantuck's eye. The advisor moved forward as the Don said to his visitors, "I am sorry, James, but I must attend to other things now. Please, go back to the party. Enjoy yourselves." Once the pair had gone, Domaric spoke crossly to Grantuck. "Where is Medion? And Arrawnt?"
Grantuck bowed. "Medion has arrived, and is enjoying the party. Arrawnt, ah, is enjoying the party too, though a bit more privately than the others." The Don frowned disapprovingly, and he quickly added, "But Mageron would like to see you now, if that's ok."
Domaric smiled, his displeasure melting away. "Sure, sure. Tell the boy to come in."
Grantuck turned and motioned to the guard, who promptly escorted Mageron in. In the dim light of the cool chamber he seemed subdued and uncertain, even a little fearful. Nothing like his flamboyant look onstage, reflected Domaric. Nonetheless he strode forward and enfolded his son in an affectionate embrace. "How is my big star?" He pinched Mageron's cheeks, then said proudly to Grantuck, "He's come all the way from Saraband to be with the family, when he could be performing for all those fans who adore him, and making a fortune. Just like how I taught all of you--a real man puts family ahead of everything. Go on, get your brother a glass of wine. And find Arrawnt, I need to talk to him after this."
He resumed his seat and waited while Mageron finished the refreshment, feeling a bit of true pride dispelling the earlier sadness. James was proud of his child, and the Don had every reason to feel the same. Arrawnt and Grantuck had a mind for the family business, and could be counted on to continue his work. Mageron found his calling in being an entertainer, but that was fine too, so long as he remembered his roots. Domaric's only disappointment came from his youngest boy, Medion. Unlike his siblings, he'd learned all the wrong things in the academy. He'd learned to think outside of the family, to consider that his loyalty lay first in his country. Domaric remembered the day Medion boldly announced that he was leaving the academy and joining the army, to help fight against marauding bandits from eastern nations. He remembered his rage, and the feeling of utter helplessness, for on a battlefield even the might of a Don was of little use. To Domaric, who didn't believe in anything outside of the family, it was clear that Medion had become a lost cause. And it tore him up inside, for Medion, level-headed and smart, was the son he'd ultimately wanted to have running the family businesses.
But then again, perhaps that would be for the best. By training his son to be a mercenary like him, James was probably dooming Julian to a bloody death in battle. Domaric himself lived his days knowing there are people who'd rejoice to see him murdered, and understood that this was the pressure Arrawnt would someday face as well. Maybe, by allowing his favorite son to decide his destiny, he was giving Medion the greatest gift a Don could grant: freedom.
"Father," Mageron began, snapping Domaric out of his reverie. "It's good to see you and mother so healthy and happy."
"Yes," replied Domaric with a slight smile. "And your brothers, and their family--they're all here today as well. It is indeed a blessing, especially for an old man, to know his loved ones are well. But uh," he added shrewdly, "You didn't abandon the admiring girls in the sunny courtyard just to compliment your old man. You are in trouble again, and need help--no?"
Mageron looked embarrassed, but also relieved that his father had spared him of bringing it up himself. He sighed wearily. "Yes, Father. I could really use your aid, again." He glanced at Domaric's waiting frown, glanced down at his hands, then looked about nervously. When his father still declined to comment, he took a deep breath and began: "I can't stay in Saraband anymore, pops. Some unpleasant things have happened, and I...it would be inconvenient, even damaging, to my career if I stayed. So I want to start performing in a different city, with different people."
The Don regarded him with some surprise. "But how could that be difficult for you? You, uh, are very popular, and well admired. It should be no trouble finding other suitable places."
"No," conceded Mageron. "But there is a place I have my heart set on--I want to go to Storich. It's a great place, pops, just like Saraband, only Saraband is a harbor and Storich is a major train station. There'll be all sorts of people coming to hear me sing, you know. It'll be great, and I'll become even more successful...it's perfect for me, pops."
"So what's the problem?" Domaric prodded.
"The owner of the Storich bars has something against me," confessed Mageron. "And he's a good friend of the Storich mayor's. He is determined to keep me from ever setting foot in that town, pops. He's...set on seeing me go down."
"That would never happen while you're my good son," promised Domaric, but with a significant look in Mageron's direction. He never missed a chance to emphasize how important blood ties and loyalty was to him. Distantly he wondered how Medion could've forgotten, or ignored, all those lessons. "But I am, uh, confused. Mageron, what does this Storich barkeeper has against you?"
The singer flinched noticeably. "The unpleasant things I mentioned, the happenings in Saraband...he took it rather personally, pops."
The Don's steady gaze did not waver. "Explain."
Mageron looked about uncomfortably again, but obviously realized there was no concealing things from his father. "I...had an affair with a girl he liked. Liked a lot, actually." He breathed heavily, put his head in his hands. "I don't know what to do, pops."
Grantuck understood Arrawnt enough to find him even when his wife didn't know where he'd run off to. In any case, the panting sound emitting from the locked bedroom on the top floor was clue enough.
He knocked on the door. Immediately the sounds stopped, though Grantuck distinctly heard an additional feminine whimper at the end. He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Arrawnt, it's me. You in there?"
There was a pause, then his brother's annoyed voice. "What do you want?"
"Father wants to see you, Arrawnt," Grantuck informed him. He waited for a reply, and, when he didn't get one, added, "I'll be downstairs. Better come down in a few minutes, or when you're done...whichever is first." The advisor turned and started down the steps.
He'd hardly reached middle before the sounds started again, this time in earnest.
To his surprise, though, Arrawnt appeared behind him shortly afterwards. Domaric's oldest son looked flushed and sweaty, but smiled confidently as he followed Grantuck into the Don's room. As Grantuck turned to shut the door, he saw the girl Arrawnt had been with--Brigit, childhood friend of their sister Isabella--descend the stairs, giggling to herself and buttoning her clothes. She managed to throw a wink in his direction before he closed the door firmly.
"I can't believe you," he murmured to his brother.
Arrawnt grinned broadly. "Sometimes I surprise myself too."
They both turned as Domaric rose from his seat, seemingly irritated. The Don patted Mageron's cheek in a rough manner. "Don't know what to do? You can act like a man! What, has all the singing and dancing turned you into a sniveling woman? Now," he shot a meaningful glance at Arrawnt, "I know you'll turn out fine, because you still spend time with your family. Inside you're still a man, all right. So you don't worry. I'll take care of it."
Mageron shook his head dejectedly. "It's too late, pops. Once the Storich mayor issues the order that I not be allowed to visit Storich, my reputation will be marred. It's too late..."
"I'll make him an offer he can't refuse," was the Don's firm and final answer. Mageron nodded, understanding, as his two awaiting brothers did, the deadliness of their father's determination. He shook hands with Arrawnt and Grantuck on his way out.
Grantuck watched expectantly as Domaric motioned Arrawnt over. The Don, however, did not speak a word about his successor's infidelity, choosing instead to go straight to business. "When does Isabella leave with the groom?"
Arrawnt bowed respectfully. "As soon as the family portrait is done, father."
"Is Medion ready?"
"I'll find him soon as we go down," promised Arrawnt. "Um, pops--what position should we appoint Crewart in the family business? Now that he's in-law..."
Domaric frowned. "Let him make a good living, so he could take care of my daughter--but do not discuss family business with him, ever. In-laws are not family, not to me." He motioned Grantuck over. "I want you to start for Storich tonight."
The advisor laughed in surprise. He should have known even a wedding wouldn't guarantee a long holiday. "Why Storich?"
"I want you to talk to this, uh, bartender boss Mageron offended. I'll have a couple of our people right behind you, in case he doesn't like our proposal. And I want you back quickly, because we'll be having a meeting with this uh, young man called Braff next week." He looked around, and for a moment looked tired and old. "If there's nothing else, I'd like to go and enjoy my daughter's wedding."
The family portrait was done in the stately main courtyard. Medion smiled joyfully when he saw his family--Domaric, Melinda, Arrawnt, Grantuck, Mageron and Isabella--standing already before the artist. They all seemed to be waiting for him. Even the new brother-in-law, Crewart, was nodding in his direction. Out of sudden impulse he took Synbios's hand. "Come on, let's go."
She started, then blushed. "Oh Medion, not me too."
He winked at her. "This way we won't have to do another portrait when we...when we get married."
Her nervous but happy giggle was like music to his ears. Together they ran to where the others were waiting.
************
The night was dark by the time Grantuck's train arrived in Storich, but the warm lights of the tavern shone like a beacon. All through the crisscrossing streets of the large town there was a restful silence, while cheery laughter and singing emitted from Grantuck's destination. The dragonnewt headed toward the light, like an insidious demon crawling out of the darkness, with a calm demeanor contradicting his grim mission.
He ignored the drinking and dancing denizens as he strode up to the bar. The centaur bartender's friendly grin disappeared as Grantuck stated simply: "I would like to see Mr. Donhort, please."
The bartend rubbed his red nose. "Donhort is listening."
Grantuck leaned forward. "Mr. Donhort, I've come on behalf of my client's son, Mageron. I'm sure you know the famous singer well. Now, we've heard that, due to some past grievances, you're determined to make things difficult for Mageron. My client would like to make up for his son's mistakes. He offers Mr. Donhort his undying friendship, if only Mr. Donhort would be forgiving and allow Mageron to perform here."
Donhort's wrinkled face twisted into a sneer when he heard Mageron's name. "So what favors would daddy grant if I was to forgive and forget?"
Grantuck glanced around at the people crowding the bar and raised his eyebrows. Somehow this only made Donhort angrier. "Go on and say it, you think I've anything to hide?"
The advisor cleared his throat. "Very well. You've been trying to expand your establishment, but there are a number of competitors. My client could convince them to run their businesses elsewhere. Also, rumors has it your late wife did not die from natural causes; they say she killed herself..."
Donhort reached forward and grabbed a fistful of Grantuck's silk tunic. The old centaur's grip was surprisingly strong. "You trying to muscle me?"
"Absolutely not." Grantuck assured him.
"Well you just listen to me you disgusting Lizard-Man. I will never let Mageron show his ugly face in my bar, or in this town for that matter. I'm gonna see that SOB go down in disgrace--you can go tell daddy that!" Donhort's voice had nearly risen over the loud music and singing; his face was now every bit as red as his nose.
Grantuck smiled to put off the throng of curious onlookers, but his eyes were ice cold. "I'm a dragonnewt."
The bartend growled. "Tell ya what, I don't care. You come making those offers again, and I'm gonna make so much trouble for you, you wouldn't know what hit ya!'
"Mr. Donhort, I'm a business counselor, trying to make a deal. I haven't threatened you."
"Yeah?" Donhort retorted. "I know just about every big business counselor, and I've never seen your ugly face. Who the hell are you anyway?"
"My name is Grantuck, and I handle only one special client. Now I'll be staying in the hotel by the station; you know how to contact me." With that, Grantuck turned and politely pushed his way out of the tavern, back into the lonely streets.
As he expected, the wait wasn't long. By the next evening a carriage had come, courtesy of Mr. Donhort, to invite him to dinner with the bartender.
The aged centaur was standing with a smile when Grantuck arrived at Donhort's private estate. He hastily shook Grantuck's hand the minute the advisor got off the carriage. His demeanor had changed overnight, from one of outrage to that of someone eager to please. Without waiting for the dragonnewt to speak, he began to show his guest around the beautiful estate.
Grantuck hid his triumphant grin behind a stolid, business-like mask. He knew Donhort would have his men check out just who the client was, and anyone who had an inkling about who Don Domaric was would scramble to treat his underlings decently. Distantly Grantuck wondered why Mageron went to all that trouble to conceal his father's identity, when in the end he had to have Domaric get him out of trouble.
"It's all very nice, Mr. Donhort." He finally said politely, to interrupt the tavern boss's breathless tirade. "But, um, about the proposal we discussed yesterday..."
Donhort's grin shrunk a bit around the edges. "We'll speak of it over dinner, Grantuck. Before we go in though, I'll pay my respects to my deceased wife, if you don't mind."
The dragonnewt followed his host to a small yard just behind the house. There, under the shade of elms and oaks, was a neat and tidy grave. Grantuck watched with slight bemusement as Donhort knelt before the grave, recalling in his mind the ugly rumors concerning how Donhort treated his late wife. Whether this was merely a display he did not know; but he was relieved when the centaur stood again, and said with a nod. "We can go in for dinner now. You must be famished."
"Please lead the way," replied the advisor. He cast one last look at the grave, then walked quickly after Donhort.
Grantuck explained everything again, very clearly and simply, over their food. By the end, though, he could tell from his host's gaze that the centaur was displeased. Donhort leaned closer. "I would treasure Don Domaric's friendship, Grantuck; but you must tell him, he would have to have his son perform elsewhere. I simply cannot grant this favor. However, if there is anything else I can help with, you have my assistance."
"The Don never asks a second favor once the first is refused," the advisor informed Donhort. "Whatever wrong Mageron did to you, we can amend, to our mutual benefit. If only you could forgive..."
Donhort struck the table angrily. "You don't understand. I have nothing against the Don, but I'm set on seeing Mageron go down in flames. Yes, if he were allowed to perform in Storich, he'd be even more famous and popular. And I'll never allow that. Mageron stole from me a singer, a songbird I trained for years, a human who was like my daughter. I wanted her to be a star, to be recognized and loved, just like that SOB Mageron is. Then Mageron comes and makes love to the girl, runs off with her, then abandons her! He ditched her back into the gutters I fished her from!" The agitated centaur paced the room, his hooves stomping like hammers. "Mageron not only stole from me someone I treasured like a daughter, he made a mockery of all my pains and efforts! For this one reason, I will never tolerate his thriving in my territory. Ever. Now you get outta here, you dirty henchman, and you tell your precious Don that I don't care how many more of your kind he throws at me! I'm not afraid him; I'm not some simple Saraband bartend--yeah, I know that story, and I tell ya..."
Grantuck stopped his host by politely standing, leaving the rest of his dinner untouched. "I understand, Mr. Donhort. Now you must excuse me; I have a train to catch. Don Domaric insists on hearing bad news immediately." As he opened the door he added, "Thanks for the dinner, and the tour. I enjoyed it."
Donhort had trouble sleeping that night. The angry conversation with Domaric's goon lingered in his mind like salt on the open wound that was his hurt at being betrayed by his protégé. The look in the dragonnewt's eyes when he showed him his wife's grave annoyed him too: Grantuck seemed to recognize it as a ploy to dispel the rumors. Donhort told himself he could shake off whatever the crime lord threw at him; but alone in his room in the small hours, he didn't feel so confident.
Dreams came to him, but only for a while; presently, he felt something cold leaning against his side. He shifted uncomfortably, but the weight persisted. Finally he opened his eyes and looked.
It was the remains of his wife--or rather, the horse half of it. Even as Donhort shouted in horror and tried to get up, he saw the upper half--decomposed almost beyond recognition, it had been carefully sawed off, and was hanging by its neck right before him, arms stretched as if to embrace her husband.
The tavern owner's horrified screams echoed ceaselessly through the tranquil dawn.
************
Domaric regarded his adopted son with some concern. The dragonnewt looked weary and a bit nervous--probably tired from his trip to Storich. He patted Grantuck on the shoulder. "You ok?"
"I'm fine," replied Grantuck. "I slept on the train." He looked up into the Don's probing gaze and added, "It's just the report Hagane and Hazuki gave me, about their handiwork. I bet it scared that Donhort. It sure shook me up."
"It's business, son." Domaric admonished. "You know I appreciate it, as does Mageron."
Arrawnt cleared his throat even as Grantuck nodded. "I have the dirt about Braff here, pops. His mother is none other than Don Basanda; he is her bastard child, by an old acquaintance of ours: Fafhard."
"The traitor who ran loose," murmured Mageron from his seat by the door.
"His father is not of our concern," the Don told them. "Go on, Arrawnt."
"Well, first of all he's reputed to be even better at the killing business than his father. To date he has been involved in at least a dozen killings. But he's also cunning, like his mother. He runs protection rackets, imports prohibited stuff from eastern countries, and owns brothels. It's said Don Basanda will make him the next Don, regardless what her relatives say." Arrawnt looked up with furrowed brows. "This is a guy who's been fighting both the law and members of his family, yet he's still alive and kicking. Definitely a worthy business partner, but also dangerous as hell."
"So what does he want with us?" Grantuck asked.
"It appears he's been doing business with a group of...foreigners that was previously shunned by us all." Arrawnt grunted and held up some papers. "He's a friend of the Vandals. And now he wants all the families to cooperate with the Vandals, in order to carry out some...master plan of his. Needless to say, Don Basanda is behind him, and the other Dons are also leaning in his direction."
The Don screwed up his face. "The Vandals? Those violent murderers...it would appear this Braff has found fitting companions. Yet, to imagine anybody would want to have anything to do with the Vandals is beyond me. I would have to consider listening to him this one time a favor I'm doing his mother; were he someone else's child I would have thrown him out the minute he entered my office."
"Well, I see him coming up the path now," commented Mageron. "I guess this would be a good chance to judge him for ourselves, pops."
The Don sat back and watched with shrewd eyes as his young visitor entered. Though Braff looked only about Medion's age, he carried himself with pride and confidence. He took with him no weapons, yet seemed totally fearless in the company of ruthless men every bit as capable of violence as he was. In a second his gaze had taken in the room and its inhabitants; just as quickly, his pose transformed from tensed and prepared to relaxed and innocent. Domaric watched with some envy as his sons stood to greet Braff, for he recognized in a possible enemy potential not detected in his own heirs. If Braff really succeeded Don Basanda, Domaric wondered if Arrawnt and Grantuck would be capable of fending him off.
He waited until everyone had sat down before he spoke up: "Welcome, Mr. Braff. Now I'm sure you understand my, uh, views on the Vandals, and realize I'm seeing you out of my respect for your mother. So we'll skip the formalities--let's hear what you're asking, and what you'll offer for our assistance."
Braff nodded with a friendly smile that seemed to reach out to everyone at once. "Of course, Don Domaric. What I need...your support, first of all. I would not dare to go against the wishes of any old friend of my sires. Second, I'd like a loan of one million gold. Third, I would ask you to help convince those important officials that are your friends, those politicians you carry about in your pocket like so many gold coins, to persuade our fellow countrymen that we should welcome the Vandals into our society like any other elves or centaurs..." He added with a nod in Grantuck's direction, "I'm sure you would agree with this, Don Domaric, seeing how you've adopted a non-human son yourself."
The Don ignored the last remark; his answer was short and simple. "What are the interests for my family?"
"A share of our profits," Braff told him. "Once things get underway, you get thirty to forty percent--which I reckon would be a good three million gold in the first year. As time goes by, this number will go up."
Domaric saw Mageron and Grantuck raise their eyebrows. Arrawnt even whistled softly. Braff did not seem to hear, but a smile of triumphant crept up onto his lips as he continued, "As for the family that's already backing me--I mean my mother, of course--I'll pay them separately. In fact, should you worry about my credit or anything like that, I can tell you right now Don Basanda will guarantee everything. Even if I should fail, through no fault of mine, my mother's family will compensate you thrice of what you spent on my behalf."
This time Arrawnt couldn't seem to contain himself. "Aw, you're telling us we'd make a profit of at least two million under any circumstances? Pops..."
Domaric forcefully kept his temper under check, saying only in a soft tone, "Wait a minute, Arrawnt. Mr. Braff," he continued, "Your generosity is unequaled. I see that Don Basanda taught her son well, unlike me: as you can see, I have spoiled my children, and they sometimes talk when they're supposed to listen. But one thing remains: you've not told me why you're paving the way for your friends, the Vandals."
Braff's smile, which had grew with Arrawnt's interruption, did not shrink the least bit. "I intend to use them, Don Domaric. Once they've been properly introduced to our society, they'd be bound to build their own communities, with their own customs and needs. Not only can we be their sole supplier of exotic goods, we can control them, since we made it possible for them to thrive in our territory. And what's more, knowing the Vandal's bloodthirsty nature, we can recruit their young; they would become a well of manpower. Ultimately, Don Domaric, we can build our own empire, a power that would rival any other republics, and live legitimately like as kings we are." Braff's eyes seemed to shine bright with reckless ambition, and for a moment the room was quiet.
The Don glanced at his sons. Grantuck seemed skeptical; Mageron intrigued. Arrawnt, though sulky for being reprimanded so openly, nonetheless was nodding to himself. Domaric looked at Braff, more wary than ever of this youthful adversary. More wistful, too, when he thought of his own Medion.
He spoke finally. "Mr. Braff, I realize I must take back what I said earlier--seeing you today has been a pleasure, not a friendly favor, for you're a true businessman. Yet..." He locked eyes with each and everyone of his children present, "I must say, I refuse your offer. I believe you are underestimating the Vandals. I think that working with them would be too dangerous, even for those of us whose line of work has always been hazardous. So I must refuse."
Braff's grin disappeared instantly. "Don Domaric..."
The older man did not allow him to continue. "You understand, Mr. Braff, I admire ambition in a young man. I myself understand danger, and how it leads to success for he who braves it. Now there are risks I am unwilling to take, but that doesn't mean I distrust he who does take it. So, reckless as your plan appears to me, I would not stop you; in fact, I wish you every bit of luck, so long as your interests don't, uh, conflict with mine. But that is all; thank you, and good day."
Basanda's son stood abruptly. His relaxed stance had changed back to that of a wary and calculating predator. "Very well, Don Domaric. I would not voice my disappointment, here in your office. Good day." Without a glance at the other three present, he turned and strode out the door.
Domaric waited for his children to comment. When they remained mute, he spoke up. "I suppose you all think I've just thrown away our family's future."
"Not that, father," replied Grantuck. "But you know this Braff is very likely to succeed. His own cunning aside, he'd easily get one of the other Dons--if not all the other Dons--to support him. And then there is the fact that, even some of the honest officials under no one's pay have been reconsidering the laws prohibiting Vandals from becoming a part of our society. If someday they are welcomed to live among us, what Braff just said: the building of Vandal communities, the trafficking of those goods they desire--this will all come true. Someone would definitely be controlling the market and reaping in profit then, and that person would probably be Braff. Power goes with gold, and when a person has power the first thing he does is to eliminate potential enemies. By not cooperating with Braff now, pops, we might very well be risking everything we have in the long run."
"And if he fails--which might be for the best," Arrawnt interjected, "We get compensation from Don Basanda. It's win-win for us if we agree, pops." Beside him, Mageron nodded in agreement.
Domaric sighed heavily. "Arrawnt, Mageron, Grantuck--I know you're saying this for the good of the family. But still I must remain firm on this. The Vandals are not ones to be trifled with. They are cunning, ruthless, and evil. If it were in my power, I'd keep them from ever setting foot in our territory. Only because of my promise to Braff not to oppose him, though I disagree with him, do I refrain from sabotaging his efforts. Perhaps there will come a day when the Vandals will live among us; but I would not want to have helped make it happen. I do not force you to act as I did today, when someday I retire. But, uh, for now, I will not change my opinion." Before anyone could reply, his eyes fastened on Arrawnt. "And what's wrong with you, eh? I think your brains have gone soft, playing with all those girls and all. Arrawnt, don't ever let anyone outside the family know what you think, understand? Now go get the guards in here."
Arrawnt nodded, red-faced, and left the room. In a minute he'd returned with three of his father's oldest and most trusted henchmen--James, Campbell, and Fidelity. Expectantly they stood before their master.
The Don sat back in his seat. "Campbell, how was the job?"
The centaur smiled in grim satisfaction. "I didn't get to kill that abusive groom, but he hightailed outta Stamp so fast I reckon we'd never see his ugly face again. Mr. Hans, and his daughter Hedoba, are most grateful."
Fidelity stepped forward. "Don Domaric, while you were meeting with that young man Braff, a messenger brought this along." He showed them a crimson envelope. "Mageron is being invited to perform, for as long as he likes, at the Storich tavern and hotel."
The brothers exchanged winks. "Good luck bro." Arrawnt offered.
The singer breathed a sigh of relief, then looked at Grantuck. "Thanks," he said softly.
"You'd better prepare to go soon," instructed Domaric. He beckoned the third henchman. "James, come here. I have a mission for you." He waited until the burly human was standing before his desk before saying, "I am worried about this Braff. Even if I were not to affect his plans, I would want to know just what he is doing. I want you to go to him, and offer to join him. Tell him, uh, that you're unhappy working for me. Tell him I'm firing you, after all your years of loyal service. Go aid him with his plans...and tell me what you learn."
************
Holding hands, Medion and Synbios walked through the busy market of Aspinia. All around, merchants held up their wares, shouting their best offers and haggling whenever a potential customer complained. Shoppers pushed to get to their destinations, or held up traffic by stooping to examine the goods with no regards to people behind them. The laughter of children combined with the demands and pleas of their bargaining parents; livestock contributed to the rambunctious chorus with their own unique grunts and shrieks. To anyone else, it was just another chaotic day in one of the busiest sections of the great city. But to Medion and Synbios, the mayhem meant little. For they were in love.
Synbios was chattering gaily. "Next time we visit your family, I want to bring everyone a present from my hometown. I think I'll get a new cape for Arrawnt, maybe some skin lotion for Grantuck, and a few special Aspinian silk gowns for Isabella. As for Mageron...I don't know what to give him. I bet fans shower him with gifts all the time." She looked up teasingly at Medion. "Do you think he'd like a kiss from me?"
"I'd like one," replied he with a chuckle. He looked about at all the stuff being peddled and sold, asking with shyness he never felt before. "Um, can I get you anything?"
She clutched his arm tighter. "All I want is you," Synbios told him.
They spent the night on the other side of town, in a cheap but classy inn. There was only one bed in their room, but that was just fine.
A few hours before dawn, Medion surprised a passing night man by poking his head out and asking when he'd be able to send a letter to Destonia. After learning he'd have to wait till after breakfast, he promptly crawled back into bed, where a sleepy Synbios snuggled up next to him.
"What was that for?" She wanted to know.
He laughed softly. "I told Father I'd be back today. Now I've changed my mind."
She giggled and hugged him. "I'm very persuasive, huh?"
"Very," he agreed.
Synbios propped herself up on one elbow and regarded him seriously. Her voice took on a teasing tone, but Medion heard the underlying fear and anticipation. "Then can I persuade you to marry me today?"
He arched his eyebrow and pretended to give it careful thought. She waited, then slapped him playfully on the arm. "Don't fall asleep!"
Medion kissed her. "Of course I'll marry you, but first I'll need your father's consent. Then my father and yours would have a hearty argument about where the ceremony should be held, and there'd be guests to invite, old flames to be notified..."
She sighed and laid back. "Can't we just run away, and marry quietly, without any of this fuss?"
He shook his head. "We run away, both of our fathers would send entire armies to search for us. Conrad would think someone kidnapped you, and Pops would assume someone assassinated me..."
"That's why I want us to run away," Synbios told him. In the dim light she looked both fragile and determined, like a dove awaiting dawn before she took flight. "I can steer you away from the violent ways of your family."
Medion groped for her hand, found it, and gripped it tightly. "Synbios, I promised you I wouldn't become like my father. My family means a lot to me, but that doesn't mean I'll ever act like them." Instinctively he hugged her to his chest. "Sleep now, honey. We have a big day before us."
************
Mageron spent a whole hour in front of the mirror before he felt ready to set out for Storich. Without doubt, the long train ride would force him to preen again when he arrived; but as a famous performer he had to make sure he looked like a star, wherever he went.
He ran into his father in the hall. The Don was looking about, seemingly irritated. Concerned, he asked what was wrong.
"Nothing, son," answered Domaric. "It's just that I can't find, uh, Franz. He was supposed to drive me to the market for some fruit, and now he's not here."
Mageron thought back and remembered Grantuck telling him that the centaur had called in sick early that morning. He informed the Don, then offered to drive his father himself.
The Don smiled warmly. "But you have a train to catch, Mageron. You must not let us down."
"It's ok, pops," Mageron told him. "I like doing the driving for a change. I can still get to the station in plenty of time."
Together, father and son stepped out the door.
James clutched his blade tightly as he trudged down the empty hallway of the abandoned chapel. Braff, upon hearing his petition, had arranged to meet him, and now he was here to keep the appointment.
The aged mercenary knew he did not have the brains his master possessed--that was the reason Domaric had been his boss all these years, ever since they started working together. James did not mind, for Domaric treated him fairly, and was often more like a friend than a boss. He knew Domaric often sent him on the most dangerous of errands, but took this as a show of confidence in his abilities. For he trusted his master: he was sure Domaric would do everything humanly possible to see his henchman return unharmed. What's more, he knew his job, and realized very well the dangers involved. His son did too, yet eagerly learned his father's trade. James knew that in Domaric's hands, Julian would be as safe as a soldier of fortune could ever be.
This did not keep him from feeling a bit of fear and trepidation, however, as he ventured into the ruins. According to Domaric, Braff was a sly youth who would almost certainly become the family's most dangerous rival someday. The master didn't wish to have him killed outright, for he respected the boy's mother, Don Basanda. Nonetheless he wanted to know exactly what Braff was up to. It was up to James to find out, and the mercenary felt every bit the urgency his master must be experiencing. After all, Julian would be serving the Don's heir. The future of Domaric's family, then, was the future of James’s family.
He turned a corner, and saw up ahead Braff waiting for him with a single bodyguard. James began to breathe easier. Two opponents he could handle, should this be a trap. The halls were uncluttered and straight; there would be no room for hidden assassins to conceal themselves.
Braff greeted him with a welcoming smile as James closed. The younger man offered his hand, and, when James declined to shake it, spoke with the blandest voice imaginable, "It's good to see you, Mr. James."
The mercenary dismissed the pleasantries with a grunt. Braff continued smoothly, "I'm Braff, son of Don Basanda."
"I know who you are," James told him.
Braff held up a keg. "You drink?"
James did drink, like a fish, and so did his son. But he'd be damned if he drank now. "No thanks."
"Well then..." Braff leaned forward. "I've heard about you, Mr. James, and about the unfairness with which Don Domaric has been treating you lately. Perhaps this is your chance to start a new career, as my aide. I could use your knowledge of Domaric's family and business. What do you say?"
"What's in it for me?" James rehearsed.
The younger man's eyes twinkled. "Fifty thousand gold, right from the start."
James tried not to look surprised. Even Don Domaric hadn't predicted this much. Nonetheless he kept up his act as the arrogant turncoat. "Not bad."
"It's a deal then?" Braff once again offered his hand. "Thank you, Mr. James."
"Thank you," replied James. He reached out to take the proffered hand--
Quick as a spring, Braff grabbed his arm and slammed it down onto the table. Before James could even utter his surprise, Braff had rammed a knife straight through his palm, immobilizing him. The aged henchman opened his mouth to roar his rage at being betrayed; his free hand groped desperately for his weapon--
He barely sensed the presence of the assassin appearing behind him. His voice died stillborn as a bar was jammed into his throat, choking out his cry, his anger and fear, choking out, bit by bit, his life...
Grantuck had hardly left the restaurant when he ran headlong into Braff. The young man greeted him in a friendly way, but the advisor could only stare at him suspiciously. If Grantuck remembered right, the henchman James was supposed to meet him, less than an hour ago...
Braff indicated to a waiting carriage. "Come on Mr. Grantuck, let me take you for a ride, eh?"
Grantuck took a step away and replied coldly, "I don't have the time."
"Well make the time, my friend," said Braff. All pretence was abandoned now, and his voice carried a commanding tone much like the Don's. Grantuck met his eyes, and felt a shiver through his spine when he saw the malice lurking there. He remembered James’s appointment, and suddenly felt a profound dread for the mercenary's fate.
Braff seemed to have read his mind, for he said then, "Oh go on, get in. Don't worry--if I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now." He took the dragonnewt's arm in a grip of iron. "Come on, get in."
Mageron waited and watched patiently from the carriage as his father strolled through the fruit stalls, taking his time. Mageron was glad to be here, for his father, today. For more times than he could remember, he'd had to seek his father for aid. His success today was based almost solely on his father's assistance. It was only right for him to help his father, in whichever way he could, when he had the chance.
As he waited, he thought of his brother Medion, and felt a faint pang. Domaric fussed almost constantly over his children, but worried the most about his youngest son. Mageron knew Medion was both his father's pride and disappointment. Pride, because the kid was so brave and smart. Disappointment, because he used his courage and wisdom to serve his country, not his family. Mageron did not like to ponder whether it was his father or brother who was correct in his way of thinking; he only hoped he would never disappoint his father, like Medion did.
All of the sudden he heard cries of fear and pounding steps. Jumping up, he spotted to his horror two men dressed almost entirely in black pushing through the crowd. In their hands they carried razor-sharp katanas, and attached to their wrists were wicked-looking missiles.
They were going straight for Domaric.
The Don noticed them at the same time Mageron did. Dropping the items he'd purchased, he cried out for his son and ran for the carriage. Mageron drew his sword, but hesitated from leaping to his father's aid. Instead he remain rooted to the carriage seat in his fear, praying his father would make it into the carriage before the assassins reached him, so they could gallop away from danger.
He realized too late that his prayers were in vain. Swift-footed and sure, the twin assassins gained on their elderly target, delivering quick strokes with their weapons. Domaric screamed, stumbled a few more steps, then toppled against the carriage wheel. The sight of his father's blood spraying onto the dusty road finally jolted Mageron into action: with a furious shout he leapt before the assassins, brandishing his sword. Denied of the finishing blow, the killers drew back, then simultaneously hurtled shurikens at him. Mageron managed to block one, but the other shot past him--and embedded itself in the Don's back.
Crying in rage and grief, Mageron charged toward his opponents. The assassins, however, assured that their mission had been accomplished, retreated quickly. With astounding agility they leapt over the cowering crowd, and then, just as silently as they'd appeared, vanished into the dark alleys, leaving only terror and bloodshed in their wake.
Mageron stumbled a few more steps in futile pursuit, then dropped his weapon and threw himself beside his father. The Don lay silently between the carriage wheels, eyes shut tightly. His breathing came in shallow, painful gasps. A pool of blood was spreading slowly beneath his prone form, mingling like red wine with the swirling dust.
With the heart-wrenching realization of how badly he had failed his father, Mageron wept as he tried to raise Domaric. "Father, no--I couldn't, I...Papa!!!!!!"
************
The play was lousy, just as Medion predicted. Nevertheless, they were laughing when they left the theater.
Medion screwed up his face and pretended to be the jilted lover in the play. "Julio, Julio, where are you?" Synbios giggled until her face was a delicate pink, and Medion needed several minutes to catch his breath.
"Medion..." She leaned against him. "Would you want me to be a spoiled but terribly popular girl like in the play?"
"Nah," replied Medion, chuckling. "I wouldn't be able to tell a difference."
She grinned and pinched his arm. "Then would you like it better if I was that famous actress?"
Medion put up a show of considering the idea. "Hmm...maybe." Caught up in teasing her, he didn't notice she'd stopped walking and was staring horrified at someone sitting on a bench.
"Medion, look."
"No, I would still like you as yourself," he decided, looking up. Only then did he realize she was behind him. He turned, and almost immediately saw what stopped Synbios.
It was the paper a man was reading. The headlines stood out like granite blocks: "Don Domaric Feared Murdered"
************
Arrawnt paced within the confines of his house, agitated like a caged tiger. Ever since hearing about the attack he'd wanted to rush to his father's place, to check on Domaric and Mageron. But he understood that no assassination attempt was ever accidental--when one was planned, chances are others were prepared as well. As the direct heir to his father's wealth and power, he could very well be the next target.
In the living room, his wife, Sandra, had just put their baby son to sleep. She walked softly up to him, and buried her face in his chest. "Oh, my god..."
Arrawnt hugged her lightly, his mind elsewhere. "Damn, I just hope everyone else is ok. Grantuck should be here by now."
They both jerked up their heads at a crash outside their door. Immediately Arrawnt pushed his wife away and picked up his blade. "Get back, now!" As Sandra picked up little Arrawnt Jr and ran to the back room, he leaned by the door and demanded in a harsh whisper, "Who is it?"
"It's me, Campbell. Open up."
Arrawnt let out a tense sigh and unbolted the door. The centaur was in within a second, and the door locked back up just as fast. Domaric's eldest son regarded Campbell with a steely glint in his eyes. "Well?"
"You ain't safe here," Campbell said. "In half an hour one of our carriages will be here to pick you all up. Everyone would be safer if we stayed at the Don's."
"Tell me something I don't know," growled Arrawnt. "How's my father?"
"Bad, very bad." The burly centaur shook his head. "Some of the men are saying he's already gone."
Arrawnt gritted his teeth. "Watch your mouth." Then: "Where the hell was Franz?"
"Sent a note, said he was sick," Campbell told him. "His wife Spiriel wasn't at her post today either."
Arrawnt swore violently. "Goddam traitor, he knew about this. I want him dead, you hear? I want him and his wife both dead. Go get him yourself soon as you can, and send someone after that red-haired broad."
"Alright," the centaur nodded, then exited as quickly as he entered.
Campbell hadn't been gone two minutes, however, when someone rapped on the door again. Cursing, Arrawnt took a firmer grip on his weapon and opened the door.
Outside stood a young, blue-feathered birdman. He blinked in bewilderment at Arrawnt's bloodshot eyes and ready blade, then held out a letter. "Mr. Arrawnt?"
The human tore the piece of paper from his grasp and slammed the door in his face. Dread trickled like icy water through his body as Arrawnt tore into the unmarked envelope. He realized this could be anything--from a letter requesting he paid some long-forgotten debt to more ill news concerning his family.
It was associated with the latter, just as he'd expected. As he leaned against the doorframe Arrawnt marveled at the guts and genius of the enemy. Guts, for daring to try to kill his father, then offer to make peace with him; genius, for putting it in a way he could hardly refuse. He wondered now about Domaric's warning regarding Braff. As usual, the Don had sensed danger before the rest of the family.
But he hadn't been able to save himself from it.
Arrawnt was glad his son was still too young to understand anything. The obscenities he shouted as he tore the letter into shreds were not pretty.
Braff did not sit far from his captive, yet for some reason would not sit at the same table. In the darkened tavern where he was held prisoner, Grantuck watched his kidnapper curiously, and waited.
Finally the youth dismissed the henchman he'd been conversing with and spoke bluntly. "I've just received word. Your boss is dead, Mr. Grantuck. My men carried out their missions flawlessly."
The advisor stared disbelievingly at him. His first thought was to deny it, though the idea left his mind as soon as it was formed. He knew Braff would not bluff about something like this. His next impulse was to throw himself at Braff, to extract whatever vengeance he could before they killed him. This thought was equally fleeting--Grantuck was an extremely reasonable person, and knew how futile any violence from him would be. So he sat, mute and shocked, waiting for Braff to continue.
His captor seemed to have noted the brief struggle in his mind, for he smirked approvingly and moved to sit opposite Grantuck. "I knew I picked up the right guy. You're not the muscle end of your family, or someone out of control like Arrawnt. You'll listen to reason."
Grantuck glared hatefully at him. "Arrawnt would be after your hide the minute he learns what you've done. You'll never know what hit you."
Braff gave him an unperturbed wink. "Oh, he knows alright. But he won't come after me yet, much as he'd like to. I had a message delivered to him, informing him that you're my captive. He wouldn't dare try anything."
Grantuck replied with a sharp laugh. "If you think a hostage would hold off my brother for long..."
"Only for a couple of hours," Braff assured him. "What I did was buy your hotheaded brother time to calm down and think. No one wants an all-out war. He'll realize this, given time, and you'll help me convince him peace is the only solution."
The captive could not believe his ears. "If you think I could be bought..."
"My tongue is more persuasive than gold," Braff interrupted, "Because I speak the words of reason. Now you listen to me, Grantuck. First of all you know I'm right about the violence--everyone wants to avoid bloodshed. All we want is the smooth running of businesses and the reaping of profits. What I had to do to your father--it just had to be done. Don Domaric was losing his touch; he didn't have what it takes to be a successful crime lord anymore. It was time for him to retire, to let his son take over the business. Arrawnt was all for my plan, wasn't he? He would have agreed to help out. I just made things happen a bit before their time." He saw Grantuck's rage, and added quietly. "Come on, think about it. Ten years ago, could I have gotten to your father so easily? I don't think so."
Grantuck shook his head. "And now you're trying to act like a friend..."
"Look," Braff said impatiently, "What's done is done. Nothing can bring the old man back. What you must do now, is to convince Arrawnt we don't need any more bloodshed. You must convince him, and those two goons Fidelity and Campbell, that a truce is the best for all of us. OK?"
Wearily, the dragonnewt nodded. He hated the idea with every fiber of his being, but his mind knew it was for the best. The thirst for vengeance and prolonged fighting would only mean more loved ones lost. If they could forgive such a heinous crime...there would be hope, for them all. "I might be able to call off Campbell and Fidelity, even Arrawnt. But I don't think I'd be able to stop James if he decides to come after you..."
A sinister look flickered through Braff's remorseless eyes. "Don't worry about James."
If you killed him, there'd be another person I wouldn't be able to stop, thought Grantuck. He nodded silently.
Braff stood, seemingly satisfied that the business was concluded for the day. "You may leave now. Don't try to follow me though--I'm sure you needn't be told twice." He turned his back on Grantuck and headed for the door.
The dragonnewt sat back in his seat, unable for a moment to stand. The Don had been killed that day by the same man who'd just walked out the door, the same man who'd just entrusted to him, like an errand, the keeping of peace. Fury and shame burned in his heart, but he knew what he had to do. Slowly, he tried to get up.
The slamming of the door as Braff suddenly reentered the tavern threw Grantuck back into his seat. The human slammed his fist violently on the bar. "Dammit, they say the Don is still alive! Goddamit the old bastard is hard to kill!" He pointed at the stunned Grantuck and growled, his words nearly incoherent with frustration: "This is bad luck for me, but it'll be worse luck for you all if you can't convince your brother!"
Much to Campbell and Arthur's surprise, they found that, a day after the attempt, Franz was still holed up in his house. The traitor's wife was nowhere to be seen--maybe she was smarter, and had cleaned out first.
Campbell could smell Franz's suspicion and fear, but he kept his tone light. His wife had asked him to go buy some food for the weekend; would Franz like to come along? They'd definitely stop at a bar somewhere along the way. Campbell cursed his nagging mate like a Lizard-Man, calling her a whore and vowing not to take orders from her, ever. At his side, Arthur watched and smiled at the act.
It was obvious that Franz wanted to refuse, but it was also obvious he did not have the guts to. Campbell wondered why he stayed behind at all. He should've known Arrawnt was shrewd enough to realize his part in the betrayal, and that retribution would be swift as lightning. Perhaps he hoped to quiet the suspicions by not fleeing--if so, his wife was definitely smarter than him, if not a bit heartless.
The three centaurs left for the market, with Franz between them like a trapped dog. They chatted casually--or at least Campbell and Arthur did--about everything there was to talk about. They did not avoid mentioning the assassination attempt, for it'd be unnatural not to speak of it. They cursed at that damn SOB Braff, and agreed Mageron should've acted sooner. They wondered why Domaric left the house with only his son to guard him. In all their chatter, they did not mention Franz's absence that fateful day.
They picked up the grocery--a mere loaf of wheat bread. Campbell did not look at Franz, but he knew the traitor was quaking inside. The poor excuse was a dead giveaway; Franz would realize that, just as Campbell wanted him to. He wanted Franz to know what hit him before he died. For a moment he wondered if the coward would try to flee, and shot a quick glance at Arthur. The white centaur nodded calmly: he was prepared for anything.
Franz missed his chance there in the crowded market, choosing instead to follow the other two on their way back. Campbell couldn't figure out whether the guy was simply stupid or hoping that playing innocent would save him. It didn't matter: either way he was a fool, a fool who'd soon be dead as well.
He stopped at the entrance to a bar. He and Arthur had chosen this place earlier, for the quiet streets and secluded spot. Arthur had even planted an unmarked weapon in the shrubs. "Come on guys, let's go drink to the health of my ugly whore so I'll have a story to tell her when I get home."
Franz laughed weakly. Perhaps he too recognized the place of his execution. "You know what, I'm still a bit ill. Why don't you two boys go ahead, and I'll go on home. We'll have a drink together some other day."
Campbell shrugged. "OK, whatever you say." He paused, as if pondering something, then stuffed the bit of grocery into Franz's hands. "Take this to my place then, OK? Since you're set on going before us..."
The second Franz's hands were occupied, Arthur reared up behind him, halberd ready. Franz turned and managed to squawk in terror before the heavy weapon came crashing down. The body toppled unceremoniously over the threshold and into the tavern, shocking the patrons and triggering the expected screams.
Campbell ignored the frightened flock, glowered down at the corpse. He turned to calmly instruct Arthur: "Leave the halberd. Take the bread."
************
Medion jumped from his carriage before it came to a complete halt, and raced toward the mansion. Recognizing him, the guards at the gate stepped quickly aside.
His heart pounding, threatening to burst, Medion charged through the front door, into the waiting arms of his big brother. Arrawnt clutched him tightly for a second, then stepped back to look him up and down. "Thank God you're unharmed."
Medion looked around wildly. Just about everybody was crowded in the living room. Everybody, that is, besides Domaric. He whole body quivered so much he had trouble speaking at first. Finally he croaked out, "Where's Father?"
"Don't worry, he's alive," replied Arrawnt grimly. His voice made it clear there was plenty to worry about. "Mageron didn't think Pops would be able to make it back here, so he and some others managed to get him to Vagabond--the place happened to be parked right by the market, thank God. The healers there say it'd be dangerous to move him, so that's where he'll stay for the time being. I have half the guards down there protecting him. Uryudo is there too, helping the healers in any way he can..."
Medion shook his head. "But I want to see Pops."
"You'll see him in a few days," assured Arrawnt. "But not now. I don't care what Braff says; I don't trust that SOB to just call it quits. I want everyone here, together, for a few days."
Medion had to agree. As he entered the living room, however, he noticed an absence, and asked his brother, "But where's Mageron?"
"On his way to Storich," answered Arrawnt firmly. "He's not doing any good around here, and I didn't want those idiots at Storich to think we'll concede territory just because Father was hit bad. In any case, even Braff wouldn't touch Mageron. He's a civilian, and Braff knows it." He breathed tiredly. "It's not like Braff would be afraid of witnesses..."
Medion sat down besides Melinda. His mother smiled sadly at him and took his hand, but said nothing. To Medion it seemed like she had become ten years older since last they met. The anguish in her beautiful eyes was such that Medion felt his own eyes burn. He bowed his head, searching for some words of comfort, but none came.
Near him, his brothers began discussing Braff's proposal with Campbell. Medion did not look in their direction, but listened intently all the same.
"...no way we can do that, that's just too many." Grantuck was saying to Arrawnt.
"I agree." It was Campbell. "It's just too much bad blood. Braff, Basanda, Desseheren..."
Arrawnt grunted angrily. Grantuck continued, "We can't make this too personal. The key is Braff--he's leading others around by the nose. Everything will fall in line if we kill him..."
Medion turned to them at that. "Who'll do the killing?"
He felt Melinda squeeze his hand. The trio stared at him, surprised, then chuckled. Arrawnt shook his head. "I don't want you to get involved, ok Medion?"
He nodded, and resumed staring at his feet.
Grantuck went on: "I'm worried about James. Anyone has any idea where he might be?"
"Maybe he's sleeping over at some slut's place," mumbled Campbell.
"No. My father wouldn't do that." The new voice clearly surprised everyone. Medion turned to see a young, red-haired teen. The boy was even younger than him, but wore the armor and weapons of a mercenary. His gaze was bold, even challenging--quite unlike any goon Medion knew. Medion could not remember his name, but the image of himself dressed like the boy flashed through his mind. The image was chilling, yet frighteningly fitting...
Arrawnt cleared his throat awkwardly. Obviously James' son possessed a quality even his intimidating father lacked. "OK then Julian...we'll just have to wait." He turned back to Grantuck. "Go on."
"If Father should die, heaven forbid, a lot of our power would go with him. The other Dons would almost certainly wind up on Braff's side then, just to prevent all-out war. Nobody wants bloodshed, Arrawnt. We have to avoid it no matter what, and let the others realize we'd rather have peace. So if Father dies...you make the deal, Arrawnt."
Medion could feel the heat in his brother's response. "That's easy for you to say, he ain't your father!"
Grantuck's answer was calm and sad. "You know he's as much a father to me as he's to you."
In the silence that followed, Campbell spoke up. "Me and Arthur took care of Franz by the way. Won't see his ugly face no more."
Arrawnt nodded his approval. The door opened suddenly behind them, and everyone turned.
It was Fidelity. Looking uncomfortable, he stepped forward clutching something to his chest. "This was just delivered to the gate..." He dumped it on the coffee table.
Medion recognized James' blade, wrapped in a dripping cloak. Arrawnt unwrapped the garment, and a few dead fish spilled out onto the carpet. "What the hell is this?"
Campbell cleared his throat, looked at Fidelity. Neither seemed eager to explain. Julian's voice rang out again, rough and deadly. "It's an old mercenary code. It means...it means my father sleeps with the fishes."
Medion didn't want to remain within the house, where his brothers discussed the business with their posse of henchmen. Though the tension clung to the entire estate like a heavy mist, he managed to find temporary refuge by sitting on a bench, by himself, outside in the garden. He thought about his father, about the good times they'd share in his innocent childhood, and tried not to envision Domaric lying in some strange building fighting for his life.
A voice called his name. He looked up and saw Campbell poking his head out a window, waving an envelope at him. Reluctantly, Medion got up and headed back into the house.
The letter was from Synbios, asking how he was, how his father was. Medion considered writing back, then decided against it. A strange idea was growing inside him, a notion he wasn't even sure of yet. It was as if all the recent disturbances had awakened something buried within, and that something was taking form even as it clawed its way toward surface. He didn't know just what the results may be; he wanted to see Synbios one more time before this twisted infant burst free--so he'd go see Synbios tonight, and answer all her questions in person. In any case, he'd wanted to visit his father too.
He looked up and around, only to catch Campbell reading the letter over his shoulder. The centaur wore an impish grin as Medion hastily hid the piece of paper. "Hey Medion, why don't you write back and tell that nice girl you love her?" When the boy murmured sheepishly and tried to escape, he continued in an exaggerated opera voice, "I love you with allll my heart! If I don't see you again, I'm gonna die!"
Medion couldn't hide his grin, but a trace of sadness tinted his every expression now. "Perhaps I will tell her." He caught Arrawnt's eye, and said, "I'd like to go see Pops today. I won't be long."
Arrawnt frowned. "It's still dangerous...but alright, just let me send someone with you, OK?"
"It should be OK," Campbell piped up. "Braff knows he's a civilian too."
Arrawnt sighed. "OK, Medion, go ahead. Don't come back too late."
Medion nodded and opened the front door. As he stepped out into the morning sun, he heard Arrawnt murmur to Campbell: "Send someone with him anyway."
************
Dinner with Synbios was tense and uncomfortable. Medion knew in his hearts of hearts that this might be the last time they met, but couldn't bring himself to be cheerful for her sake. There was just too much on his mind.
They ate nearly in silence. Synbios kept stealing glances at him with big, worried eyes, but would not say anything. Medion knew they were both thinking about Domaric, but also realized she didn't want to talk about it anymore than he did.
Finally he stood up. "I have to go..."
"Can I go with you?"
Medion knew she meant well. He wanted her to go with him, actually. He wished they could go away together from this mess, just as she proposed in that hotel room, seemingly a lifetime ago. But no. Fate had dealt him a cruel card, and he had to play the hand. There was little neither of them could do.
"There'll be all sorts of people there," he replied. "Goons, town guards--it'll be dangerous. I'll go alone."
"I'll stay in the carriage," she promised. "Please."
He wouldn't look at her. "Go back to your father's place, in Aspinia. I'll write you."
Synbios did not protest this time--perhaps she knew it was for the best. But she had one last question: "Will I ever see you again?"
"Goodbye Synbios."
The minute his ride dropped him off in Vagabond, he sensed something was wrong. There wasn't a soul in the streets. Medion's unease grew as he walked, unchallenged, into the healer's tent.
He looked about and saw, to his dismay, not a single healer or guard. There didn't even seem to be any patients. Worried, he checked room after room, before finally discovering his father lying motionless in bed.
Medion leaned over Domaric, fearing the worst. Then the Don gave a weary sigh in his sleep, and Medion slumped with relief.
A gentle hand tapped his shoulder. He jumped half a meter, turned around. He stared into the serene face of a Kyantaur healer in flowing robes.
Her voice was melodious but stern. "Please. You'll have to leave."
Medion swallowed. "My name is Medion; I'm Domaric's son." He fidgeted under her scrutiny, then spoke in a voice every bit as steely: "Where are the guards?"
She regarded him a moment. "I made them all leave. There were just too many visitors, and they were disturbing your father's rest." She pushed him gently. "And now you must leave too."
Medion was incredulous. "You ordered all the bodyguards to leave and they just left?"
"No," she explained. "The captain of town guards was here. He suggested it, and I agreed. He used his authority to chase everyone away."
"But who'd be left to guard my father?"
For the first time a hint of confusion clouded her clear eyes. "He promised to have his men come take over. They must be late..."
"No," Medion told her. "It's not that simple. Do you have a messenger of some sort? Someone who can get a message to my family really fast?"
She nodded, and left the room. Medion found a piece of paper and scribbled a note to Arrawnt. In a few minutes she returned with a young birdman. "This is the messenger."
Medion stuffed the note and a few coins into the birdman's hands, instructing him to make haste. After the messenger had gone, the Kyantaur once again plucked at Medion's sleeve. "You should leave now."
He looked at her. "What's your name?"
"Grace."
"Listen Grace, I need you to help move my father to another room."
Her tone became stern again. "That's out of question."
Medion gripped her shoulders impatiently. "Look, you know who my father is? Men are coming to kill him. Now please, help me move him."
There was no surprise or fear on her calm face; she merely paused, considered. Then without a word, she bent over the prone figure, and lifted the gravely injured man with startling strength and gentleness.
Together they found another unused room and laid Domaric down. Medion glanced about nervously, expecting any minute to hear the footsteps of approaching assassins. He bent over his father, realizing in his heart that he'll have to shield the Don with whatever power he possessed. It was his duty, and wish, to protect Domaric.
He kissed his father's cheek, whispering, "Don't worry Pops. I'm with you now...I'm with you."
A slight smile formed on Domaric's face; from beneath his tightly shut eyelids, a single tear emerged.
Medion made some hasty preparations, then looked nervously out the door. Grace appeared behind him again. "I don't think your men will arrive in time."
Medion agreed. "Look, I know this is asking a lot of you, but you must help me stop them."
She raised her eyebrows. "How?"
He explained quickly, adding at the end, "This might cost both of us our lives."
Grace seemed undaunted. "My job is to protect my patients."
Together they stood at the entrance. Grace had taken off her robes and wore a simple leather attire; in her hand she held her ankh. Medion clutched a crossbow someone had left in the tent, his eyes darting as he surveyed the empty street. He had been unable to find arrows to go with the bow, and wondered how they were going to pull this off.
Five minutes had hardly passed when they heard, in the distance, the rapid pounding of hooves. In a minute an unmarked carriage had appeared, making a beeline for the healers' tent. It slowed as it neared--the driver was obviously surprised to see the pair at the door. It stopped not ten feet from the entrance. Baleful eyes glared out at Medion and Grace from behind darkened glass.
His heart pounded, but his hands, surprisingly, did not shake. While Grace stared back at the confused assailants, Medion calmly lifted the bow and made as if to draw a bolt from underneath his cloak. The eyes disappeared; muted oaths and orders were heard; in a minute, the carriage had thundered off into the darkness.
The Kyantaur leaned against her staff. Medion himself felt his knees go rubbery with relief, and once again found the strength to look stolidly about, as if welcoming new challengers. There were none--until, a few moments later, another larger carriage barged down the street and stopped right in front of them.
This one was clearly marked. It belonged to the Vagabond guards.
Medion stuffed the bow into Grace's hands and shooed her away as he stepped forward to meet the guards. The one in command took one look at Medion and ordered: "Lock him up!"
He did not struggle as the guards grabbed him, though he wanted to rip the captain's head off. It was obvious whose payroll the corrupt official was on. "What happened to the men protecting my father, captain?"
The man stared at him. "You little bastard...what the hell are you doing, trying to teach me my business? I pulled them out of here! How the hell you slipped through I have no idea, but I want you away from this place!"
This time Medion did struggle. He refused to be pulled onto the carriage, and stood as if rooted before the entrance. "I'm not leaving until you get guards to protect my father!"
The captain's eyes glowered with impotent rage. Medion wondered just how much he was missing for failing to clear the way for Braff. "Boys, take him in!"
The guards holding Medion hesitated. Finally one of them said, "Sir...he's unarmed. We can't just grab him like this."
The captain spat on the ground. "I don't give a damn! Get him in the carriage, now!"
"But sir...he's a war hero. A lotta people are gonna be furious if they learn how we're treating him..."
"Goddamn it, don't give me excuses. Take him in--that's an order!"
Medion sensed the cowering guards were about to give in. He raised his voice. "How much is Braff paying you to set my father up, huh?"
The captain lost control. His fist came hard and fast, impacting upon Medion's jaw with a sickening crunch. Medion's head snapped up, and he nearly lost conscious.
Dimly he heard the sound of more carriages charging up. He shook his head to clear the stars. Grantuck had arrived with at least a dozen of their men, in three separate carriages. Ten of the goons immediately set about to secure the area, while Grantuck strode arrogantly up with two men in tow. "That's enough, captain. We've come to take care of the business. Now let my brother go."
The captain looked as if he wanted to punch Grantuck as well. He glanced at the squad of henchmen and clearly had second thoughts. With an animal snarl he ordered: "Let him go."
Medion almost fell, but clung on to Grantuck's arm. Together they watched the guards climb back into their ride, the captain cursing nonstop. In the distant horizon, pale fingers of light were showing. It would soon be dawn.
************
Campbell, Fidelity, and the three brothers ate their breakfast in silence. Outside, henchmen milled about, patrolling the vast estate. The mansion felt like a fortress, the dining room a war council.
Finally Grantuck spoke up. "I didn't recognize a number of the men."
"New guys," explained Arrawnt. "We'll need the protection, since I had a number of Basanda's people wasted before you and Medion got back. I want them to know we're ready to play rough."
He looked at the silent Medion. "I have another hundred on the streets, with orders to waste Braff the minute he shows his face. We'll get him."
Grantuck nodded. Arrawnt studied Medion's bruised face till he looked at him. The older brother grinned. "Look at you. Beautiful!"
Medion grunted. "Yeah."
"Guess what--Braff contacted me. He wants to talk. Can you believe this guy? Made another attempt, failed, then offers to talk. The bastard..."
"What did he want?" Grantuck wanted to know.
"Peace," snorted Arrawnt. He indicated to his youngest brother. "He wants us to send Medion, to negotiate. Guess he got tired of our faces..."
"He doesn't think Medion will try anything funny," Campbell said.
"But what about Don Basanda?" Fidelity asked.
"He promises that Basanda will call a truce too, if we make a deal with him."
Grantuck nodded slowly. "Arrawnt, we ought to listen to him..."
Arrawnt slammed his palm on the table. Everyone except Medion jumped. "No! No way am I going to let that SOB go this time. Playing nice didn't help any, and you all know it. Grantuck, tell them they deliver Braff's head, we call a truce. Otherwise we'll slug it out..."
Grantuck rolled his eyes. "The other Dons won't just watch us fight, you know. They won't sit still for this!"
"Then hand me Braff!"
"Arrawnt, even Pops wouldn't agree to this! You're taking it too personal. It's all part of business."
He glowered at his adopted brother. "They tried to kill Father and you call this business?"
Grantuck said carefully, "Even the assassination attempt was part of business, Arrawnt. You know that's how all this works."
Arrawnt knew Grantuck was right. But he wasn't ready to concede. "Then business stops now, alright? I don't want to make up--just help me win this, OK?"
Grantuck didn't promise anything. He simply changed the subject. "I found out about the Vagabond captain."
Medion looked up.
"His name is Garzel. He's crooked alright, in fact he's more or less like Braff's bodyguard. The problem is, Arrawnt, we can't start killing people like Garzel just to get to Braff. Garzel's an official, the head of the Vagabond guards. We kill him, the people of Vagabond would be against us. How long do you think the family will survive if we alienate so many people, Arrawnt? Even the old man's politicians would abandon us! It'd be absolutely disastrous. So do us a favor...wait a while, think things over."
The two centaurs nodded in agreement. Arrawnt sighed heavily. "Alright, alright we'll wait..."
"No." Medion's voice startled them all. He faced them now, with a calm face and steady voice. "We can't afford to wait, and we can't trust Braff. He'll go after Pops again, I know it. We have to kill him."
Arrawnt shook his in disbelief. The transformation of his little brother from pacifist to mastermind was just too sudden for him. "So Medion, what would we do about this Garzel character?"
"They want me to negotiate, right? Fine. Tell them we want a meeting, and insist on a public place, like a restaurant. For my safety. They won't tell us where it'd be, of course, so we'll get our informers to find out. Also they'll search me when I show up, so I can't go armed. Somebody would have to plant a weapon there. We meet, we talk, and I'll kill them both."
The others burst into surprised laughter. Arrawnt shook his head again. "I thought you wanted us to send an assassin. And I thought you said you don't wanna get mixed up with the family business. Listen Medion, you know everyone will be hollering for your head if you do this? Do you think this is gonna be like fighting off bandits, when you outnumber them ten to one and all they do is run? You're gonna have to do it up close, and get blood all over your nice clothes. Come on Medion, that captain hit you once and you're taking this more personal than I am!" He looked at Medion's determined face and patted his head. "The kid..."
"Who said we couldn’t kill an official like Garzel?" Medion asked stubbornly.
Grantuck grimaced. "Medion..."
"No listen," continued Medion earnestly. "We're talking about a captain who's working for a crook. An official that no one would miss. Why can't we kill him, then release the story? The people of Vagabond might even be grateful, you know."
The others looked at each other, then murmured their assents. Arrawnt looked carefully at his brother and saw both careless confidence and meticulous planning. Medion threw him a wink. "It's not personal, bro; it's strictly business."
Medion listened carefully as Campbell explained to him how to assemble the weapon. The experienced centaur had designed a rapier that could be taken apart into three pieces; with a coat of rust-colored paint they'd look like ordinary pokers. Once correctly put together, it'd be as deadly as any weapon. Campbell promised to have the pieces near the fireplace of the restaurant where they'd meet--wherever that was.
As Medion tested the rapier, Campbell coached him. "OK, so you've killed them. What do you do next?"
Medion jabbed viciously at the air and replied nonchalantly, "Sit down and finish my dinner."
"Don't fool around. What you do is walk quickly out the door. Don't run, just walk fast. Don't stare at anyone, but don't be afraid to look at anyone either. Remember, they'd be frightened of you. Before leaving, drop the rapier. It doesn't matter--I have dozens of them--and they're impossible to trace." Campbell breathed deeply. "After that, you'll take a long vacation, and wait till everything blows over."
"How bad will it be?"
Campbell's eyes became glassy as he thought back. "Ten years ago something similar happened...and it was really bad. But no matter, this is what we have to do. We don't stop Braff now, it'd be too late." He patted Medion's shoulder. "We're proud of you, you know. Proud of you for joining the army and all. Even your father was proud, though he wouldn't admit it."
Medion nodded, and plodded back into the living room after Campbell.
It was an hour before the meeting, but their informers hadn't contacted them yet. The bunch of them sat around the living room, their meals untouched, waiting, just waiting. The pressure was unbearable.
Campbell ventured, "Maybe we can hire a birdman to tail Braff's carriage."
"The kid's a suspicious one. It wouldn't work." Grantuck told him.
Arrawnt grunted. "Why don't we just butcher whoever's in the carriage?"
"Braff might not even be inside, Arrawnt!"
"This is just too risky," said Campbell. "Maybe we should call it off..."
"No," Medion piped up. He'd been silent all the while, brooding over what he's about to do. A part of him wished he didn't volunteer for the job--but that voice was a small one, nearly unheard next to his newfound confidence. He knew what had to be done, and was actually glad he'd been able to figure out a way. "Braff would suspect something. I have to go, no matter what."
Julian strode in then. He glowered at Medion, as if he resented having someone else help avenge his father. The boy dropped a piece of paper on the table. "Got the location."
They bent over to look. Medion felt a thrill of regret as he recognized the name--a restaurant near Aspinia, where he and Synbios once dated. But almost instantly, the sentimental side was shoved to the back by the calculating side. He smiled. "I know the place. It's got a quiet atmosphere, and most of the customers are family with kids. The lighting is dim, and there is an unused fireplace. It's perfect."
Campbell stood. "I'll go plant the weapon this minute. Now Medion, remember: you find an excuse to leave the table, quickly assemble the rapier, and kill them. No heroics, no mercy. And make sure they're dead, OK?"
Arrawnt ordered, "Fidelity, you'll pick up Medion after he wastes them. Medion--don't forget to drop the weapon, alright?"
Medion nodded calmly to the instructions he'd heard hundreds of times. He waited until the centaurs and Julian had gone, then asked: "How long will I be in hiding?"
Arrawnt shrugged. "Um...about a year, a year at least, I reckon." Awkwardly he embraced Medion. "Listen, I'll explain to Mom and Isabella why you had to leave like this, OK? And I'll have a letter sent to your girl, when the time is right..."
Grantuck patted Medion's shoulder. "Take care."
Medion shook hands with his brothers, then walked into the night.
************
Braff's carriage picked up Medion at the gate, then sped off. As Medion's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was relieved to see only Braff and Garzel, with the latter driving. He'd feared a throng of guards. Either Braff wasn't as shrewd as he thought, or he didn't trust all of his men.
Or he really thought Medion wasn't capable of killing him. If so, he was in for a fatal surprise.
Braff gave him a smile. "Our first meeting, Medion. I'm glad you came. We can straighten out this whole mess, this mess that never should have happened..."
Medion didn't return the smile, answering instead, "Yes, we'll straighten everything tonight. I don't want my father bothered again."
"He won't be, long as you keep an open mind when we talk," Braff told him. "I promise on the blood of my family. We just have to make a deal. I know you're not a hothead like that Arrawnt; you just can't talk business with him. Now," the young killer continued, "I hope you don't mind, but I'll have to frisk you for weapons."
Cautious to a degree, then. But Medion had expected this. He nodded and kept still as Braff searched him, wondering if he should ask to frisk them as well. He was positive Braff and Garzel were armed, though he spotted no weapons. Not that it would matter if he took them by surprise.
Braff nodded to himself and said to Garzel, "He's clean."
Garzel looked back and shot Medion a grin. The ill-tempered captain from the night before seemed to be in an absurdly light mood. Obviously Braff had been generous with him in light of his failure. "Hey Medion. Sorry about yesterday. I must've been doing this job too long--can't stand nobody talking back to me."
Medion said nothing and kept his eyes glued to the street. He noticed they were going in the direction of Storich instead of Aspinia. "We going to Storich?"
"Maybe," was Braff's reply. A moment later, as they entered a dark alley, Braff suddenly grabbed Medion and pulled him out of the carriage. Medion started to struggle, but then noticed another waiting carriage. The three of them hastily boarded it in the dark. Garzel climbed into the front seat, and drove them off in the direction of Aspinia. Medion breathed a mental sigh of relief.
Braff winked at him confidently. "Hope we didn't surprise you."
They pulled up at the restaurant and hurried in. Medion looked quickly about, his mind both remembering pleasant memories and planning the killings in a few seconds. Braff found them a table at the center of the establishment, away from the few other patrons, and invited them to sit.
Garzel busied himself ordering food, but Braff immediately began the negotiation. "Listen Medion, I'm sorry about what happened to your father. I didn't want it to happen, but it's business. Your father's ideas were old-fashioned. You must realize that, and understand why I had to do that."
Medion nodded, his expression neutral. He was reviewing in his mind the minute details of the plan he's about to carry out, but managed to look interested and intent on reaching an agreement. "I understand."
Braff smiled. The arrogance and carelessness with which he spoke of the assassination attempt made Medion relish the thought of getting to kill him. "Then let's start from there..."
"What's important to me," Medion said, "Is that my father's never bothered again. Can you guarantee me that?"
Braff frowned. "What guarantees could I give you? I'm the one your brother's hunting; I'm the wanted one. I made a mistake, you see. Medion, you must realize I'm not too different from you, and I'm not as clever as you think. Now what I want, is a truce."
Medion knew Braff was lying through that insincere smile, but something he said made him pause. Yes, perhaps they were not so different. The thought disgusted Medion, but didn't stop him from saying lightly, "I have to go to the toilet. Is that ok?"
Braff glanced at Garzel, who began to frisk Medion again. But then Braff said, "No, it's alright, I already searched him. Go ahead."
Medion got up, and walked as causally as he could toward the rear of the restaurant. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the fireplace, with its stack of pokers, but he didn't dare make a move yet. Their eyes were bound to be on him. Medion entered the stall, closed the door, then waited with his ear to the door.
In a minute he heard Braff's and Garzel's voices as their food arrived. This was the perfect chance. Yet for a second Medion hesitated, his steps faltering as he neared the brink of the chasm he'd chosen. He knew there would be no going back. Anguish flooded his mind as he thought, once again, of Synbios and his own lost innocence.
In the next second he'd sneaked expertly out the door, creeping quickly to the fireplace. From Garzel's and Braff's voices it was apparent they were still complimenting the cooking. Medion's hands danced over the pokers, trying not to succumb to panic as he searched. Why did they have to have so many pokers! Then he noticed the three pieces, with their distinctive shade of rust, hidden underneath the others.
His fingers worked with inhuman speed as he assembled the weapon. As soon as he was sure it was ready, he bolted from his hiding place and charged toward their table.
If they'd expected an attack, they certainly didn't expect it from the direction of the fireplace. The looks of terror on their faces as Medion neared seared his mind like heated iron, but he didn't pause. With a swift stroke he pierced Garzel neatly in the throat. The Vagabond captain clutched his windpipe, gurgling and choking on his own blood, and toppled across the table. His weight brought the table crashing down with him, sprinkling on him a gruesome confetti of food mingled with blood.
Patrons screamed and scattered. Medion turned toward his next target.
Braff had jumped back. The young killer was fast, and though his eyes stilled burned with disbelief and rage he was prepared to defend himself. A knife appeared from beneath his cloak. With a snarl he hurtled it at Medion.
Medion dodged as the blade whistled past his ear. Pain erupted in his left shoulder, but he didn't pause to inspect the wound. Doggedly, mercilessly, he cornered the man who'd cause his family so much grief.
Braff picked up a chair and tried to block Medion's attack. The heavy piece of furniture crashed down, nearly snapping the rapier in two, but Medion feinted beautifully. The point shot in, cutting Braff's wrists. With a shout of pain Braff dropped his weapon.
Their eyes met. Braff spat, and said hatefully, "You bastard, this was supposed to be a negotiation! This was not supposed to be personal!"
Medion smiled grimly. "This is business. I don't hate you, but..."
With lightning quick jabs he impaled Braff again and again. The victim screamed, cursed, then dropped into his own pool of blood. There he thrashed like a drowning man before becoming still.
Medion tossed the bloodied rapier on Braff's body. He paid the gapping waiters no mind as he walked hastily out into the streets, climbed onto Fidelity's waiting carriage, and rode off.
************
Arrawnt watched patiently from the front door of the mansion as a parade of carriages rumbled up to the gate. Henchmen scurried about under Fidelity's orders, guarding against possible assailants; behind Arrawnt and Campbell assembled the rest of the family, whispering quietly among themselves as they watched the controlled chaos. It was a big day indeed: the Don was coming home.
As the new head of the family watched healers unload his father from the center carriage, he reflected on how miraculous it was that Domaric was still alive. The days after Braff's slaying had been utter mayhem. Don Basanda had openly sworn to avenge her son, and the three other families had sympathized with her. The people of Vagabond were also furious when they learned their captain of guards had been cold-bloodedly murdered. It was one family against everyone else, with few rules and little restraint. Arrawnt was surprised not a single family member had been killed yet.
The man everyone wanted his hands on was, of course, Medion. Basanda demanded his head, and had told Arrawnt she'd consider peace only when the murderer of her favorite son was dead. Arrawnt had told her to go to hell. Braff started the whole mess and deserved to die. Everyone in the family was proud of Medion, even if they didn't appreciate the violence. They were determined to see him elude retribution from their enemies. Arrawnt and Grantuck had shipped him off to a safe haven in secret; no one else was supposed to know where he was. Arrawnt wondered how his little brother was coping with having a bigger price on his head than anyone else at the moment. He wondered when they'd be able to welcome Medion back home.
But for all the casualties, Medion's gambit seemed to have paid off. The Dons were as ruthless as Braff, but they had respect for their old nemesis. Not a single assassination attempt was made on the ailing Domaric. Most of the deaths on both sides were limited to henchmen and the occasional business associate. The people of Vagabond, whose anger was initially every bit as terrible as Basanda's, gradually became pacified as Grantuck had the stories about Garzel's corruption released into the papers. The popular sentiment in Vagabond now was that Garzel got what he deserved for betraying the public's trust and working for a gangster. Basanda's fury could not vanish as easily, but as time went by the other Dons began to withdraw their support and mind their own businesses. It seemed that Domaric's family had indeed rode out the storm. Soon, Arrawnt knew, it would simply be Basanda versus them. And given Braff's popularity with his own relatives, Basanda could not hope to prevail alone. She'd have to concede and sue for peace.
Arrawnt and the others moved aside as Uryudo and a Kyantaur healer carried Domaric into the house. Grantuck directed them to the Don's bedroom on second floor. Grim and silent, the procession made its way up the stairs. That Domaric was stable enough to be moved home didn't mean he was out of danger; the aged body still needed plenty of rest to recover from the horrible injuries.
After the Vagabond healers have been paid, thanked, and shown the way out, the family gathered around their patriarch. Domaric was tired but fully conscious. Arrawnt watched as the kids read get-well cards to their grandpa, then shooed the women and children downstairs to prepare lunch for the family. There was still business to discuss for those who ran the gangster empire.
"Things have been bad since Garzel and Braff's killing," began Grantuck. He played the role of the war counselor flawlessly, to both Domaric and Arrawnt. It was his way to put business before everything else. "Governors and mayors in every city and town are being pressured to crack down on our operations. We can't do business--and neither can the other families--while things are like this."
Arrawnt attempted to justify their decision to waste Braff. "They hit us, so we had to hit them back."
Domaric nodded weakly at his eldest son, then motioned for Grantuck to continue. The dragonnewt said, "Thankfully, our contacts with the newspaper companies were very cooperative. They released just about every bit of dirt on Garzel. The Vagabond folks are feeling forgiving now, and so are those big officials. The pressure is letting up, Pops. Things would be back to normal, soon."
Mageron piped up. "I'm leaving Storich and going back to Saraband, Pops. I'm thinking of giving up the performing career and learning to run a hotel, or a casino. There's a lotta money in that, and I'd be able to contribute to the family business more."
Domaric acknowledged that with a faint smile, and for a moment seemed to be drifting off. Arrawnt was about to lead his brothers and Campbell and Fidelity out when his father's voice asked worriedly, "Where's Medion?"
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Arrawnt looked about, and saw no one eager to break the news. He sighed, realizing his responsibility, and told his father, "It was Medion...who killed Braff and Garzel."
Domaric's eyes fluttered angrily. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head, as if in despair. A strange sorrow and understanding seemed to pass over his face. Arrawnt took the chance to escape, and the others followed him.
Arrawnt stopped Grantuck before the advisor entered the dining room. "We can make this end quicker, you know. Just find out where that whore Basanda is hiding, and waste her too."
Grantuck stared at him. Disbelief and impatience seeped into his voice. "Arrawnt, things are just starting to loosen up. You kill Basanda now everyone will be after us again! Just, just let Father recover, so he can make the deal with the other Dons. It'd be better this way."
Arrawnt disagreed. "Pops can't do nothing till he gets better! And during that time Basanda'll still be messing with us! I say we take care of this now. I don't believe she had nothing to do with Braff's decision to take out Pops. You know, the same trick with Braff might work on her. Some of her own people would love to see her gone."
"We kill her too, the other families will realize what we're up to! No one's going to cooperate with us again; in fact they'd be more eager than ever to eliminate us. Arrawnt, you're giving us a very nasty reputation, which isn't helping, you know that?"
"Isn't helping what?" Arrawnt demanded.
"The business! We're running out of money fast, you know. This war of yours is costing us too much. We can't go on like this!"
"Well don't worry about it, the other families aren't doing business either! We have always been more powerful--that's how we survived the days since Braff was wasted. We can hold out."
Grantuck rolled his eyes. "Our power and resources came from Father's years of maintaining peace between the families and doing good business. We've wasted enough of it already. Any more we'd be broke. Even if we take out Basanda, she'd drag us down with her!"
Arrawnt had depleted his small reserve of patience. "Look, stop telling me it can't be done, just do it! Goddamn it, if I had a real war counselor, a human, we wouldn't be in this mess! Father had Rogan--who did I get?"
His adopted brother glowered and said nothing. Arrawnt realized he'd stepped over a line and tried to reconcile. "Look...I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Um, mom's made lunch. Let's go eat, eh?"
Grantuck walked past him. "Alright."
Melinda, Isabella, and Arrawnt's wife Sandra had prepared a wonderful feast. The family sat around the table, enjoying the first family meal in a long, long time. Without the presence of guards in the room, the atmosphere was relaxed, even cheerful.
Isabella and Sandra chattered about recipes while Melinda fed little Arrawnt Jr. Arrawnt mentioned to Grantuck, "You know it's ironic that the Vandals are actually having a pretty good time with the big officials now that everyone's attention's on us..."
Crewart sneered. "Those damn brutes. They don't seem too broken up over their buddy Braff's death."
Arrawnt was about to agree when Isabella looked up resentfully. "Pops never discussed business at the table."
Crewart glared at his wife. "Hey, shut up, don't you interrupt Arrawnt when he's talking."
Arrawnt glowered at his brother-in-law. His voice was filled with menace. "Don't you ever tell my sister to shut up."
Isabella looked worriedly at her big brother. "It's no big deal..."
Melinda shook her head at Arrawnt. "Don't interfere, dear."
He nodded sullenly and went back to his food. The tension slowly melted away, and everyone began gossiping again.
Then Crewart said, "Hey Arrawnt--I could be helping out a lot more with the family business, you know. Maybe we oughta talk about that..."
Arrawnt didn't even look at him. "We don't discuss business at the table."
************
Medion may have been hundreds of miles away from all the chaos, but his mind was in such turmoil it was as if he never left Destonia. Sitting alone in his room, high up between the branches of the ancient, massive trees of Stamp village, he brooded over the past and mused worriedly about the future.
Just outside his door sat his two bodyguards, Garosh and Bernard. Not far from his abode lived Mr. Hans. Medion knew his father had helped Mr. Hans before, and rea |
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