The
Blackguards
The Smuggler
Wells
awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in his iron cot, cold water dripping
from his face and his tunic soaked. He
finished the curse he’d started before he’d even woken up, and sat blinking in
the flickering torchlight of his cell.
Across from him, the jailer – a large man as ugly on the inside as he
was on the outside – stood holding a recently emptied bucket, and with a piggy
grin of satisfaction on his boil-encrusted face.
“Ah
good, you’re awake,” said the other occupant of the cell, a man that Wells had
not realised was there until he spoke.
“You
know me, I hate to waste the day by sleeping,” replied Wells, as nonchalantly
as he could muster so soon after such an abrupt awakening.
“Quite. The model prisoner, one could say. But enough inane banter; do you know who I
am?” Wells looked across to the man
seated on the cell’s other bed; he shrugged.
“Should
I?”
“Not if
I was any good at my job.” Smiling
thinly, Well’s visitor turned to the jailor and dismissed him with a wave. “I work for your host, Lord Mowbray.”
“Host?”
replied Wells, chuckling, “That’s not the word I use when I think of him.” He paused, looking to one side for a moment,
“Same number of letters, mind.”
“Indeed. More accurate to say, I work for the man to
whom even Lord Mowbray is answerable, though his lordship is unaware of this
matter.” Wells’ brow furrowed, and he
opened his mouth to speak before being silenced by a raised hand, “I shall save
you the effort of thought; I work for King Octavius. Please, stop trying to speak,” he said, as
Wells opened his mouth again, “the expression you pull while you try to marshal
your thoughts is quite grotesque. You,
Wells de Hanivel, are due to be hanged in less than a month, for a variety of
crimes that range from the petty to the vile.”
“I thank
you for reminding me,” muttered Wells, bitterly.
“Fortunately
for you, the King has granted me leave to make a proposition to you. To wit, that you will embark upon a small
undertaking at his bequest, in exchange for which your past sins will all be
forgiven, as will any fresh sins that are necessitated in the successful
carrying out of your end of the bargain.
I take it from your raised eyebrow that I have your interest.”
“Not
getting hanged definitely appeals,” agreed Wells, sitting forward on his iron
bed, “But what in the Hells can I do for dear King Two-Ways that he’d be
willing to let me free from the hangman’s noose?”
“A
number of His Majesty’s, ah, beloved,
subjects in the eastern realms have been disappearing over recent months. All evidence points to our dear neighbours in
Orthond but our agents have, as yet, been unable to find anything sufficiently
clear and compelling to justify us declaring war.
“And
the fat fool’s not in the least bit soiling his breeches about Orthond being
able to crush us without a second thought?”
“I am
perfectly sure that particular concern has not even entered King Octavius’
brilliant mind.” Wells was actually
mildly impressed – not even the slightest flicker had passed across the man’s
face when he’d said that. Truly, the
theatre had lost the most convincing actor of the age when he’d started doing
whatever it was he did for the King.
“So why
me? I’m a murderer, a smuggler, a thief,
and more besides. How useless are King
Fatguts’ agents that he has to resort to freeing condemned men to get the
answers he’s after?”
“As a
smuggler, you are beneath suspicion, and you are completely expendable. Should you be killed while serving your King,
or captured by agents of Orthond, nobody in our kingdom would be any worse-off
for it, and there would be nothing to connect you to King Octavius or the
Empire of Hangelond. You are also more
adept at blending in with the criminal underworld than even our most skilled of
spies, being a native as it were.”
“I feel
so wanted,” replied Wells, without conviction.
“Now how are you expecting me, on my own, to succeed where the King’s
own spymasters have failed? And what’s
to stop me waving two fingers at Hangelond and starting a new life elsewhere?”
“Quite
simply, you won’t be on your own. We
shall, of course, be issuing you with a retainer; someone who can keep an eye
on you, as well as report your progress back to us. Furthermore, we will be providing you with
sufficient funds to see you on your way.
You are free to use your skills to ‘earn’ more, and welcome to keep
whatever profit you make.”
“All I
have to do is find out who’s taking our people, and presumably ‘why’?” The stranger nodded. “And my past sins are forgiven,” another nod,
“as well as any I make during this investigation?” Grinning now, Wells glanced pointedly in the
direction the jailer had headed after leaving his cell. “You know, on good days he spits in my
food. On bad days... well, I don’t tend
to feel like eating on bad days.” Across
from him, the King’s messenger sighed,
“Oh, very well. But be quick about it.” If Wells’ grin had grown any further, the top
half of his head would have fallen off.
A sparkle in his eye, he leapt up from his sodden bed and ran out of the
open door to his cell. Moments later the
jailer could be heard calling out in surprise and anger, then fear and
pain. A little longer after that and
Wells returned to his cell, blood spattered on his tunic, and still grinning
inanely.
“Alright. When do I start?”
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