Death to the Grand Guild

2

A New Life

Bitters blacked out before the wagon turned the long bend around a huge jutting rock as their wagon approached Breeston.

Harwin felt his weight lean against his shoulder when he first saw the walls; they looked impressive, but the dwellings outside the walls were far from it as he could see the gates ahead.

Rows of small pathetic daub and wattle huts with the occasional stone structure where a tradesman or tavern stood above them. Bitters told him of the outer wards, slums he called them and Harwin agreed.

He was told they had farms north of the city, but they must have been a distance away. Looking around, he noticed none around the massive river that went for miles past the walled city. “The Guild had forbidden it,” his brother answered him when he muttered the question aloud.

Edmund, sensing his ignorance, filled him with a lecture on a few guild rules. “They don’t allow homesteading; no one without guild permission can use the river. No grazing livestock except the guild’s, and that was if you had the guild’s permission to have livestock.” His brother’s lecture went on and on as he yawned.

Now he knew why they had a fifteen thousand-man militia. They needed a huge army of people just to enforce the overbearing laws.

The road was distanced away from the wards, with a small rock and mortar wall surrounding them to ward off any that ventured out.

They passed by several wooden towers occupied by soldiers who were staring back in disbelief, raising a red banner to alert the gatehouse ahead that help was needed. The presence of the ghastly scene had disturbed them greatly as riders from the gates approached them.

Harwin was astonished when they were met rudely and made to halt with steel drawn upon them, demanding they get on their knees and touch the earth.

Edmund was quick to ask the sergeant to allow him to give him a parchment. The ignorant wretch was squinting his eyes as he looked at it; it was obvious to Harwin that he was illiterate.

He sent a rider back for further orders while the two of them stayed kneeling. Both pleaded to take Bitters to a healer, but the sergeant had no clue what a Bitters was. Harwin didn’t know his real name, he was just Bitters.

“Bartholomew Graham is his name,” Edmund answered.

That name got them scrambling as the sergeant sent another man with their wagon along with poor Bitters, so fast that a corpse tied to the back had fallen onto the hard soil. Its driver didn’t bother to look back as the wagon sped up under the portcullis and out of sight.

They waited as the first rider returned. During that time, Edmund kept telling the sergeant the same demand.

“We ask an audience with Arlo Withers, the captain of the constables,” he repeated.

“You mean the captain of the militia,” Harwin corrects him.

His brother stared at him like an owl. Telling him along the way, at least twenty times, to let him speak on their behalf. Bitters said the same thing, but he was delusional from that mace blow. Neither one of them wanted his opinion.

A cloud of dust came to them as the rider returned. Jumping off his mount, he whispered something in the sergeant’s ear. The sergeant whispered something back, and he galloped off again in haste. It was annoying to watch.

“Answer me these questions?” the sergeant commanded.

“Which one are you asking?” Harwin asked.

“Not you, this one here is in charge.” He pointed to Edmund, which angered Harwin.

I’m the soldier here, the captain’s second with six years under my belt. The man you think is in charge never slept in a barracks or did a patrol. He muttered.

“What’s the sigil of Hayston?” the sergeant asked.

“A thresh and a shock of wheat; the colours are gold and green,” his brother replied.

“What are the five villages of Hayston?”

“Greenbriar, Whitemeadows, Fincher, Barton’s Fork, and Parsons.”

The sergeant made a face at them like one of them had broken wind, annoyed with his brother, who looked like a rolling dandy when answering him. Edmund had a pompous way that annoyed most people.

“Let’s march to the gates, let the captain have a look at ya,” the sergeant ordered, escorting them like criminals in single file to the captain, Faraway Wintergarden, a bald portly old wanker who had the last name of nobility.

A distant cousin to a family from the Guild, Harwin knew about, with bitter brown eyes and a moustache so thick it seemed to swallow his chin. The man confidently thought being a captain of this sad militia deserved respect, looking down his nose at them as if they were peasants.

Harwin was surprised at how unmilitary the militia looked. Only old Faraway had a respectable set of armour, with a nice longsword as the rest were in patched gambesons, armed with crude dirks, and iron-tipped spears. They surely lacked forged steel.

“Let me peruse that parchment, lad,” Faraway declared in a gruff manner.

Edmund handed it over to him, and it angered Harwin as everyone had a look at this special item but him.

“I’ve been informed that you ask an audience with the captain of the constables?” Faraway said, rubbing his meek chin. “I am puzzled why? This isn’t a city problem but a Guild problem.”

“Our captain, Bartholomew Graham, suggested it. We are following his last orders before he lost consciousness.”

“Out on the road, we were ambushed by brigands. Dressed as soldiers. We have lost four of our men, and taken a prisoner as well,” Edmund explained to Faraway in his lordly voice, while the captain glanced as his men had dragged the corpse that fell from the horse earlier.

The sergeant whispered something in the captain’s ear. Faraway informs them that the head counts from the last several days have been short. He inspected the militia uniform on the corpse and instructed his sergeant to send patrols and look for carrion flying ahead.

“The ground is too rocky to dig holes, they dumped our missing brothers somewhere,” he tells them, annoyed at the problem that Bitters had wanted them to see.

“What shall we do with them, sir?” The sergeant asked, glaring up at Harwin.

“Confiscate their weapons and send them to the constables, have them open the second gate but watch them carefully in case they are lying,” Faraway directed while dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “Take that prisoner to the stockade. When he is alert, he will need to be questioned. Let Arlo Withers sort this out.”

Bitters was smart to have them lock all the weapons in the wagon’s lockbox. He knew that everything would be stolen, and it was a Guild rule that no noble coach be molested.

The militia escorted them on foot and through the curtain wall. The entire grounds between the two walls was the property of the militia, Bitters had told him.

Many barracks, stables, and even several taverns were present to keep the men from trouble from mingling in the wards. An entire street ran along the centre of it as far as he could see. “A city on the outside of the city,” Harwin remarked to his brother.

Even Edmund was lost in amazement, his head moving from side to side. His brother was veering up at the height of the walls in front of them, between it and the curtain wall behind them.

At first glance at the height, it felt like the walls were closing on top of him. “You didn’t read this in your book, did ya, brother?” Harwin chuckled.

The militia walked them through the second portcullis that took them through the main wall to a squad of constables who were posted near the entrance.

This lot was more pitiful than the militia that escorted them. They learned the jurisdiction of their new friend, Faraway, ended here. The new sergeant introduced himself as Sully Nickles, resuming command of their escort while peering at them both with a sharp sneer.

He was the typical commoner to Harwin. A black, mop of hair over tan or olive skin with a fondness for moustaches and sideburns. Sully had spared them the names of his men, the lot was scrawny under undyed patched jerkins and blue breeches.

The commoners gathered in bunched mobs to gawk at them, Harwin saw a sea of black hair, wearing dry, faded wares of blue and black tunics. They were chatting among themselves.

The rumours of corpses and wagons were feeding their curiosity, Harwin had noticed as many were impoverished as the common field worker back in Hayston.

Many were gaunt and wore desperation on their faces. He glanced at his brother, who was flabbergasted and felt lost wearing his clean simple linens in this city, saying with a huge, gaping mouth. “The gods have forsaken this place.”

The constables had them circled as they marched down the cobbled street for the wagons that brought in goods for the Guild.

The street was well maintained, wide enough to run three abreast, and wedged between a row of tenements, merchant houses, and inns butting against one another with narrow alleys spaced out beyond his sight.

The structures were square, with thatched roofs on top of thick timber and mortar nesting on stacked stone. Heavy wooden doors and big iron latches Harwin noticed, as he counted many constables stationed to dispel the citizens from disrupting an incoming wagon’s pace.

Commoners looked at him like he had a deformity, and the constables as well. Harwin was used to people gaping at his height, his brother towered by half a foot over them, and he stood a good hand over him.

Their red hair and pale skin attracted many eyes, and as they walked further several kids ran alongside them until they approached the entrance of the Old Wall, where other constables stopped them.

A conversation they were not invited to was had. Then Sully motioned them to follow him as he led them through the archway entrance, veering left alongside it until they were pointed into a long two-story dwelling, built into the wall’s face as other constables lingered nearby.

A narrow hallway met them and they entered passing by many doors that went into cramped barracks with bunks inside as Sully led them up a flight of stairs to another foyer that opened into a larger set of apartments.

Quarters for the sergeants, he guessed, flanking a centre hallway then ended where four small, butted iron cages sat mounted along the wall.

The sergeant pointed straight ahead as they passed a small ensemble of other squad sergeants, sitting around a large oaken table, playing a dice game. They looked up and smiled among themselves, as if privy to a big secret between them.

Harwin asked where the captain’s quarters were. “The last doorway on the right,” one answered.

“Will he be here soon to speak to us?” Edmund asked with a worried look.

“He will speak to you when he arrives.”

“Shall we wait here in his quarters?” his brother inquired.

“You will wait in there,” Sully replied while pointing to a cage. “You will be in holding until the captain is briefed on your incident.”

“This is outrageous!” Edmund remarks, raising his voice.

“Oh, Shut your gob, Edmund,” Harwin growled. “He is doing what he is told. Get in the stockade and wait for this damn captain you are aching to see.”

A long kerrang sounded as the cage door shut behind them. His brother was standing there, looking out at the other sergeants like a desperate dog. When his brother grew bored with his angry stares, he sat on the bunk next to Harwin

“We did what Bitters said, brother. He told us we’d be detained, but I never imagined in a cell,” Edmund whispered in bitterness.

“You were a fool to believe otherwise.” Harwin scoffs.

“The parchment that Argyle gave me will acquit us,” Edmund assures him.

“You mean that thing you have been waving to every fool since we got here? That’s another thing that baffles me,” Harwin quipped. “Yeah, it has brought us far, brother, right into an iron cell. I’ll tell you what will acquit us. Bitters awakening and demanding they release us!”

Edmund pulled out the parchment and handed it to him. “My pardons,” he says in spite.

Harwin opened the parchment and studied it. The big seal of Hayston was bold in the upper right corner. He could see it was written by Argyle’s hand, not one of his scribes whose letters were more detailed.

Dear Masters,

I present to you my two wards. They had the misfortune of being orphaned at a young age, so I took it upon myself to raise them in my household. They are from the lands of Nuhr, and their father gave his life to protect mine in a heinous attempt upon me.

The lads have been educated nobly. They are humble and eager to gain a position within your grand city. Edmund, the youngest, is a gifted young man, who is proficient in numbers and balancing accounts. He has been engaged in many positions in our counting houses and has excelled in his duties.

Harwin, the oldest, is a good soldier.

Please honour me with any aid you can offer. You will not be disappointed.

Your eternal servant,

Argyle Parsons

First Lord of Hayston

“What a load of rubbish!” Harwin spat.

“It is a huge favour,” Edmund protests in defence.

“Well, considering the praise he heaped upon you. ‘Harwin is a good soldier.’” He looked up in disgust. “Is that the best he could do? Bitters could’ve scratched out a better recommendation! He might as well have told me to bugger off.”

Sully quickly returned to interrupt their heated discussion, pushing a small cart bearing two bowls on its top. An odour permeated, reminding Harwin how famished he was.

The bowl contained a soup of fish bits, in a broth a shade darker than water with a lone carrot floating in it. A heel of barley bread came with it. It was chewy, so he let it sit in the broth to soften it.

“I might as well commit a crime and get myself hanged. This swill is a sad tragedy,” Harwin swore as he drank the soup.

Edmund was sipping it and bemoaning. He gagged himself and stopped. “Sully, any word from the captain?” Edmund asked nicely.

His reply was silence, while he stood frozen with a stern look until both brothers finished their food. The sour look never left his face as took the empty bowls from them and put them back on his cart to leave them.

“Well, this is going well,” Edmund sighed, shaking his head. “You think he is coming? It is late. The sun has gone down.”

“He isn’t coming. They never come this late.” Harwin answered while tossing Edmund a threadbare blanket. “I’m taking the bunk, you can have your choice of which piece of floor you want.”

His brother returned a bitter glare, then walked away, circling their small cell. Peering around to decide where to bunk. He took the corner far away from the chamberpot and lay down.

Harwin could hear his measured breaths, short torments to annoy him as he laid down on the small cot, uncomfortable at first, but soon he drifted asleep, arising to a different sergeant feeling stiff from being curled up on the cot.

His yawning awoke Edmund, who looked up from the floor at a different face peering at them. “What is your name, sir?” his brother anxiously asked.

His reply was silence also while he pushed along his cart with a few bowls. Handing one to each of them a porridge of wheat and a piece of black bacon. It looked and tasted more appetizing than the stew. Harwin engulfed it while his brother kept pestering the sergeant.

“Your name again, sir?”

“He will not answer you, just finish your wretched food so he will bring me a bowl,” a voice barked beside them.

Harwin looked over at the cell next to them, remembering it was empty last night. Looking harder at him, it was the brigand they brought with them. The one he had crowned yesterday.

“Hey, brother.” He tapped Edmund as he handed his empty bowl to the sergeant. Edmund looked over and paled.

The brigand was slurping his porridge fast. The ear he nearly severed off was bandaged and he was wearing a blue tunic that was lent to him. His feet were manacled with a two-foot chain between them.

“What you gawking at, pup? You think you were the only one with a meeting with the captain?” the man snarled back to Edmund.

“What is your name?” Harwin asked him.

“Who cares what his name is?” Edmund interrupts. “He’s a hanged man as far as I’m concerned.”

Licking his lips, the brigand smiled at Edmund. “You think you are my better, don’t you, youngsters? privileged little snobs, who think little of poor men.” The man was having fun goading his brother, his face a full grin between a thick beard as he mocked his brother.

“You are scum, you can spare me the pauper’s plight,” Edmund spat back. “You helped murder four men and nearly killed our captain. You’re a robber and a coward, too.” His brother had his arms crossed, standing straight to look down on the man.

“I am no robber; I wasn’t interested in your gold,” the brigand answered while picking at his teeth. “My men would’ve looted your corpse, that I don’t deny. My wants are different.”

“You wanted to kill us, display us so the Guild would be terrified,” Harwin said. “I know you would’ve attacked any wagon. You must have licked your lips when you saw that seal on the side of our coach.”

“This big one here understands me. It doesn’t surprise me. He’s a warrior and you cower behind your bow’s distance.” A cruel smile flashed across the man’s face. “I go by Gaston since you asked.”

“Gaston, you look to be flying the banner of a crusader.” Harwin interrupts, clearing his throat. “Our captain mentioned your lot, the Yellow Hand. Sounds like a fitting name for a pack of common thugs.”

“I’ve never heard of this Yellow Hand,” Gaston replied, feigning ignorance.

“Harwin, he’s just toying with us. That is all he has left until his execution,” his brother interrupted.

“This is your little brother, Harwin? If I can call you that?”

“I don’t care what you call me,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “This name you hear on everyone’s lips, the Yellow Hand. It has a good ring to it, sparks fear among the rubes.”

“Bitters told us to keep our mouths shut. I’m beginning now to see his point,” Edmund butts in again, annoying Harwin.

“Now you want to be the good little boy, brother? A minute ago, you were trading insults with this low life.” Harwin answers rudely.

“He is just trying to trick us into revealing something,” his brother smugly replied. “He is a good liar, fooling Wintergarden with deceit in some way I bet. He plans to do the same here. Deny he is a part of this plague.”

“There is nothing to reveal, you idiot!” Harwin retorts, raising his voice in anger. “He attacked us. Turned the coward and chose to be arrested. We have a parchment that legitimizes us. He has a ragged tunic from the militia. We have a captain that will back up that parchment. He has nothing but corpses for witnesses.”

Gaston laughs out loud mocking them, while he rubs his fingers through his unkempt beard. “I have heard these same accusations, this plague, your captain told you? This Yellow Hand is a bunch of thieves, rapists, and murderers. I don’t care what the gossip of weak men says.” He breathes deeply and exhales, pointing a crooked finger at them.

“The Yellow Hand was named by the real criminals, the Guild itself. They steal in plain sight with writs and armed soldiers. Call every wrongful act, the act of the Yellow Hand. If a merchant is beaten up and robbed, an act of the Yellow Hand. A prostitute gets her head bashed in, an act of the Yellow Hand.”

“I get your point!” Harwin stopped him. “When they put your head in that noose, will that be an act of the Yellow Hand?” Harwin laughs so loud it gets the attention of their tending sergeant.

Armed with a cudgel, the sergeant approaches. His face was not as dour when he brought the bowls of porridge earlier. Hitting the iron cage with his cudgel with threats.

“If you three become heard again. I will get my fellow men, come in there and sing you a bloody lullaby.”

“Our apologies,” Edmund responds with his hands raised in a surrendering gesture.

The sergeant’s face was flush as they stood quiet while he collected himself, turning back to his mates who were laughing at him, returning a bitter glance or two their way.

Edmund sighs and shakes his head. “Will you be quiet for a spell? Those constables want to beat us up, brother.”

“I guess we can call that an act of the Yellow Hand too,” Harwin whispers. “Why the bollox not?”

Throwing up his hands in disgust. His brother sits on the bunk beside him, peering over at Gaston. The brigand is standing up, his hands resting on the iron bars that separate the cells. He is looking at Harwin in disdain, his eyes were hollow black pools with hate in them.

“You!” he directs his voice at him.

Edmund coils in the bunk. Knowing this fool is about to provoke a beating from the constables. His tone was sharp, his look was menacing.

“You think it’s a big jape! You don’t know these lands, and you don’t know me! You and that cocky brother of yours are in for a rude awakening if you linger here.” Gaston spat. “You best be back on the first coach to Hayston. I have friends in town, they will be seeing you later. I will be seeing you later.”

“Oh, you will?” Harwin laughs. “Is your execution going to be public, so I can watch?”

“The people are fed up with the Guild and a reckoning will come to them soon!” Gaston says in a rage. “It will not be any of your concern how nasty the Guild is anyway. You are the ones who are going to be hanged, not me”

“When I get time with the captain, he will side with me. You will see. That captain of yours is going to die. His wound has festered and soon he will be feeding the worms in Hayston.”

“Yeah, I saw it with my own eyes when the militia had me last night. He was as pale as a fish’s belly! He will be a fresh corpse in the morning! You two Panheads, no one likes your kind here. They will think you are the brigands. You wait and see, you two bastards!”

They heard the sound of a table being turned over as the sergeant had heard enough. In haste, he was coming with seven of his mates behind him. Cudgels in their hands and a scowl on their face.

“Well, here comes our beating, brother.” Harwin laughed.

Springing from the bed, his brother tried to pick it up to use as a shield, but it was fastened to the floor. Noticing this, he laughed aloud, causing Edmund to shout at him.

”You think this is funny? Bitters told us to keep our mouths shut,” he yelled back in a panic.

“That’s enough, Erik, you stand down at this instance!” The commanding gruff sound came from the open door of the captain’s quarters. A half-breed man with red and brown hair was its owner. His head leaned out. An irate face was looking at the pack of men, who shrank at the sight of him.

“Yes, Captain!” Erik shouted back. Scurrying like rats, the constables went back to whence they came. His brother had lost his breath. Panic-stricken and unable to speak, collapsing on the bunk, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Bring that Gaston to me.” The captain then took a piercing look at Harwin. “You two raise your voices again, and I will let my boys have their fun on ya. Got it?”

“Yes, captain,” Harwin replied with a wry smile.

“You will get your turn next.”

“Eww-, guess who gets to tell their story first,” Gaston said while tittering at Harwin as Erik opened his cage, escorting the crazed brigand to the captain’s quarters. The arrogant goon was winking at them as he shuffled his feet past their cell. Still tittering as Erik followed him to the captain’s door.

“Harwin, do you think Bitters was wrong?” Edmund spoke morbidly. The events had him nearly soiling his linens.

“Bitters thought it was worth the risk to let him live,” Harwin calmly told his brother. “So, he was wrong, now you know. You were just being dutiful as always. He should have let me kill him and this would have gone much easier.”

Edmund glared up at him astounded. “How can you be so callous? This isn’t the time to gloat. We are about to be judged, Harwin. This isn’t even our home, we’re not known here.”

“That guy is a lunatic. I will wager a gold falcon that by nightfall, we will sleep in an inn,” Harwin boasted to his brother.

“This isn’t time for a wager. How do you expect me to answer that?” Edmund shook his head at him. “I bet you that by nightfall, I will sleep in a dungeon to be hanged later. You are the lunatic.”

“It’s just words, you know what I’m trying to say,” Harwin replied.

“Just quit talking, let’s wait. I don’t think I can take more from you.”

Turning away from him in disgust. Harwin had seen this many times from his brother. Tempting as it was to prod him more, he decided to heed this.

He stood and waited, glanced over at his brother. Then stared out of the cell, his thoughts in a fog at that moment. It was a tense silence, and they could hear the wild ranting of Gaston behind the captain’s door. Piling lies upon lies as they waited to be summoned.

It felt like an hour had passed when the door opened to Captain Withers’ quarters. Still fettered, the sergeants were bringing Gaston back to the neighbouring cell. His feet shuffled and his smile ecstatic.

His brother was in knots as Harwin scoffed at the brigand. Erik then closed the cell, approaching theirs and opening it. Looking sternly at his brother, whose face was a bewildered glare.

“The captain will see you now,” he announced.

Holding his brother by the arm, Harwin led him inside. His face was turning a shade lighter than its normal colour. Sitting in a chair facing the captain. He was looking them up and down like most Westerners always had.

Harwin could see the Nuhrish in him. His hair was a dark red and a mix of brown. His face was a shade redder than the men he had lived among. With a faint moustache and hair on his arms. Something most Nuhrish men lacked.

He was broader in the shoulders than most. Neatly groomed with the wax the westerners loved. His deep blue doublet had the white falcon of Breeston sewn onto his breast. The first man he had seen that deserved to be called a soldier.

The captain kept his eyes fixed as they were facing him. His brother regained his composure, his eyes gripped with dire suspense.

“The parchment. Which one has the parchment that Wintergarden mentioned?”

“I have it. We had hoped to present it to you much earlier.” Edmund stutters out, bowing his head. Producing the document, it was comical as Harwin watched him.

“I have been here long before you awoke, with little sleep so let’s keep this short,” the captain replied. “I bet you are wondering why you have been detained so long? Very well,” he said while unravelling Argyle’s pandering document and studying it.

He had spent the entire evening trying to solicit the best healer he could find for Bitters. The militia had such men, but their skill was rudimentary, he explained, elaborating on one that dwelled in the ward of Butcher’s Wail that many commoners gloated could do miracles.

He’d been met by his apprentice, a Nuhrish girl as white as them. Telling him to bugger off, never laying eyes on this man. His next two from the Horn ward were drunk and in no shape to help, the next was worse, he had been dead for a month.

“We found one past midnight in the Widows Ward, long after they were asleep, rushing back to Bitters with this healer. His highest obligation was Captain Graham’s survival.”

“I took a short nap while you two slept and have been looking over the reports from Captain Wintergarden,” he said while shaking his head.

Faraway gave him a stack of parchments, he told them. He had spoken to Bitters. Positive news: he was recovering from a broken shoulder.

The bone was put back in his flesh, and sutured. His fever had broken and he’d even stomached a bowl of broth before being given a tonic to ease his pain.

“That is fortunate news — we are both in your debt,” Edmund replied. Harwin felt delighted, too, but he still had a few grievances to tell the old man that were sticking in his craw.

“Can we go now?” Harwin inquired as Edmund looked at him in disbelief. “The man has the parchment, he can read, what else does he need?”

Captain Withers looked to his sergeant, who had been standing in the doorway, lifting a finger as Erik shouted down the hall. A group of men returned and peered in the doorway at them.

The Captain then ordered them to take Gaston to the dungeon, while Withers was rereading the parchment. A slight smile appeared on his face as his hazel eyes deduced Argyle’s words.

“My pardon for such treatment. Captain Wintergarden saw fit to dump that refuse upon me ever since you requested that I handle this inquiry, may I ask why you circumvented his attention?”

“It was Captain Graham’s request,” Edmund replied.

“Let’s not be so formal anymore,” Withers remarked. “I am surprised old Bitters even remembered my name. We only met once I can recall, and he was an unpleasant man. He only grunted at me when I introduced myself.”

Captain Withers rolled up the parchment and handed it back to Edmund. “I have to ask a silly question. Why is it that two wards of the richest man in Hayston come to live here? From what you have noted so far, this place is less than impressive. It makes no sense to me.”

Edmund was about to answer him. Harwin knew he had a rehearsed answer. He always had a rehearsed answer.

“Let me interrupt my brother, if I may?”

The captain gazed upon him. He even looked surprised that Harwin could speak.

“My brother is about to bore you with a long-winded fib, so I would like to spare you a bunch of grief.” Harwin stood up and towered over the captain.

“I am a fellow soldier, just like you. Second man under Bitters for the past several years. Probably got paid more than you and that is not meant as an insult.”

“I dishonoured my uncle, my father, my captain, and my brother by sorting in behaviour unfitting my station. I’ve been stripped of that privilege and exiled here until they see fit to recall me,” he responds, lying, he was exiled for good according to Bitters.

He received a long look from Withers, who then leaned back in his chair with his feet on his table. He broke into a laugh, shaking his head in amusement.

“I am at a loss for words. I truly needed that chuckle, I don’t believe a word of it.” The captain remarks in sarcasm, turning to address Edmund. “So, lad, are you going to tell me why you’re here? Are you a little deviant as well?”

“I am just guilty of being his brother,” Edmund muttered, his brother was speechless for once.

“Well, they gave you the shaft.” Arlo laughs then apologises for the slight before continuing. “You both will be relieved that you will be in a city that condones sordid behaviour. I am assuming you seek to gain a position in the counting houses?” he asked Edmund.

“It will be four weeks when the lists are opened. I’m confident you’ll be selected. You work in two four-month periods, one in the autumn and one in the spring.” Withers then smiled at him mockingly. “Take your parchment to the Harbormaster as soon as you can but never show it to another.”

“He will be expecting a bribe, so get used to it. I think two silver oaks will get his attention, four will get you on the list, and a falcon will get you your choice of jobs.”

“You.” The captain looked at Harwin. “Your uncle narrowed your choices down to two.”

“You can get on the lists with Wintergarden, spend your days on a garron transporting prisoners to the mines, patrolling the lands for lawbreakers, and searching for this Yellow Hand we are plagued with.” The captain sighed, shaking his head at the parchment again as he gazed long at them.

“I have to give you my congratulations. You two have been the first to capture one. They have eluded Wintergarden’s efforts for months now.”

“The other choice is to work for you?” Harwin asked.

“Yes, you can get on the lists.” The captain pulled out his parchment folded within his logbook, unravelling it so Harwin could lay eyes on it.

“You would be number forty-nine. When I lose a man, I go to the first man on the list, and if he is willing, then he gets the job. You see, a couple of names have been scratched; I had taken the liberty of updating it, and I don’t take bribes.”

“So it can take months. How long will it take for me to gain a commission with the militia?” Harwin asked.

“Maybe a week. Who knows with Wintergarden? You will not get a commission. You will be among the lower ranks. The pay is the same as here: four silver oaks a week.”

It was a hit in the stomach. He had earned twenty-five back in Hayston. The luxury of a free roof and as much food as he could eat. The reality was sinking in fast. He could imagine hearing his uncle laughing at him from Hayston. They rubbed your nose in it good this time, Harwin.

“I’m very interested in your ability. Bitters told Faraway that you killed three men, disarming that brigand I hauled away. Is that true?” Arlo asked, his eyebrow raised as he pondered Harwin’s toughness.

Harwin nodded in a bragging way.

“The way Gaston boasted about himself. You would have thought he was the second coming of Arturo Breeston.” The captain said with a smirk then quickly changed the subject to Harwin’s prospects.

“Wintergarden would readily take a bribe. Put you over a long list of people that need a wage. He would expect that bribe because that is what this city has become.”

“You want me to wait? I can’t wait that long and I need the money, too.” Harwin responds admiring his honesty. Sadly, he knew he had to do what Withers suggested. Go bribe the fat Wintergarden and pay the dues for his actions.

“You are to be rewarded, both of you, I guess. Seven Yellow Handers you brought us, one that can be interrogated, which pays double. I owe you eight gold falcons,” the captain remarked with a sly smile.

“The Guild had just offered bounties for official termination upon confirmation. However, you split it, that can get you far here. You can live in the horn for months on that if you live like a spinster. Your brother will earn fourteen silvers a week when the harvest period begins if that helps the matter.”

A tired look had gripped Wither’s face, as he detailed a tragedy two mornings ago, at the ward called Butcher’s Wail. It was littered with multiple corpses in yellow sashes. Three were wounded, he thought, killed by their own to escape interrogation.

“Commoners are in an uproar and you add your story on top of that. We may head into a riot if the Guild keeps sitting on their arse, ignoring it,” Withers said while rubbing his forehead.

“You can come back in a few weeks, lad, my list will always be here,” he added with a shrug, then pointing toward his door.

“You are free to go. There are several inns to find quarters in the Horn. Don’t bother with Old Street, they are likely filled and if you find one, they’ll expect a bribe for it. Accommodations won’t be what you are used to, but they’re better than the outer wards.”

Harwin requested to be added to his parchment. Arlo stopped him, throwing him a grey tunic as Harwin had forgotten that he never changed.

Captain Withers stood to see them out. A smile reached his face as he looked up at him. “I will send word when your name comes up. Until then, no more trouble, please?”

They were allowed to straighten up, and wash in a basin, then led out by Erik and another. A man barely over five feet named Smithers.

Harwin was amused by him, a talker, much more than the solemn Erik, who looked aggravated at being given the task of escorting them as they passed by several streets.

They did as Arlo ordered them, taking them to inns or boarding tenements as they needed a room so Wintergarden could have a place to send their things.

“This is a nice ward, you will see. What is your name, big fellow? You look like you could frighten a bear. Somebody told me you added your name to the lists — is that true?” On Smithers went. He had bug eyes and a scruffy beard that framed a huge grin.

“Harwin is my name, this is my younger brother Edmund.” His brother paid the conversation no mind.

“Ain’t he the pole?” Smithers remarked while looking at him.

“His arms look to be as big around as this cudgel,” Smithers said while showing it to Harwin, a whittled wagon spoke with small nails hammered in it.

“You don’t have a dirk?” Harwin asked him, noticing only a few since they arrived, mostly sergeants, and made of low-grade iron.

“Not the funds for that. A good dirk will run ya ten silver and I got a wife and kid to feed.” Smithers pointed out. “I just got on board here, haven’t confiscated me one like the others. Most times, when the boys get one, they sell it. Heck, you can get six or seven silver, and that can go a long way.”

“You know a good place, Smithers? We have had little luck with Erik, he likes to keep his thoughts to himself.” Harwin could see an annoyed look upon the sergeant as he kept leading them in silence.

“He’s a good sergeant. Most of the sergeants don’t like to talk. They don’t even like to talk to me, and I talk to everyone,” Smithers rambled out, and Harwin could believe that.

“There’s a few around the middle of the ward, I heard. Borrowing money from the bank. Fixed them up properly from what the boys that live here say. The Moosehorn is nice, I heard. Never been in it. My little home with the miss is in the Bollox ward.”

“Is that the ward you patrol?” Edmund asked, feeling curious.

“Ah, no, lad, they don’t like tossers in that ward. I change my tunic after duty, so I don’t get a good whack on my cap.”

“I work in Tanner’s Square. I like it ’cause it smells like home there,” he said, laughing, a joke he shared with himself. “The captain doesn’t like for us to work in our native wards, says we can’t play fair with our neighbors.”

“Maybe if I’m lucky, they will put me with you,” Harwin told him to amuse himself. The gesture put a smile on Smither’s face. He barely had a tooth to call his own.

“I would like that. They deal with me hard in that ward. The lads take my hat — I’ve lost three hats. I will freeze come wintertime. They see you with me, and they’re gonna soil their breeches.”

The pitiful man had Harwin laughing out loud as Erik led them to one place called the Swallow, which was full, but the Yellow Frog had a vacancy. The second-story room the owner showed them was as foul as a stable that needed mucking, but his brother declined. And when they returned to the streets, their escorts had abandoned them.

What is it with these immoral people?” Edmund said, getting livid.

“Maybe we should have given them a copper to wait,” Harwin suggests with sarcasm.

“I’m not getting into the practice of having to bribe everyone for simple courtesies.”

“Look around you Edmund, this is the nicer ward. I think courtesy was put in a grave around here decades ago,” Harwin replied, glancing down the busy streets. It was well past midday. He had been starving since they had left Hayston.

“We need to find a place, and I don’t think we should have high expectations, brother. If we can find a bunk that is a decent length and lacking fleas, I can live with it until we can find better quarters.”