The Infiltrators Page 13

  Zelven looked towards the top of the roof of the building across from the alley. At first, he saw nothing.

  Then, he saw it. A series of short, inconspicuous flashes could be seen emitting from a small hole at the side of the roof. They were plain language to him:

  “Lookouts still on roof.”

  More small flashes.

  “Engage?”

  He turned around in a full circle, answering no. Then, he again chucked his cookies, this time against the side of the wall.

  Thinking he had done enough vomiting for one evening, he downed another pill with the next swig of tea, this one a fragrant-smelling mint that immediately began to calm his tortured stomach.

  He walked out of the alley, turned right, and began walking north, no longer with such exaggerated drunkenness. He had played his part well enough for any thuggish eyes on him. He didn’t need to overdo it and find himself in an interview with a patrolman.

  He could see the tail end of Rob’s entourage if he squinted, but they were making ground and disappearing quickly.

  He quickened his pace, there already being enough people about that he would no longer be the sole object of scrutiny for any eyes that might still be watching him from the roofs.

  Already running ahead of him were multiple Varco agents, who had been placed several rooftops away from the meeting site. They were right now rappelling down a wall into an alley where several horses awaited them.

  Zelven put on a pair of telescopic spectacles that immediately brought Rob and his entourage into focus. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw several of his agents, dressed as businessmen, ride out of an alley on horseback slowly keeping a healthy distance from one another.

  He suddenly turned into a nearby alley, ducked behind a barrel, and pulled off his crumby jacket, revealing a shirt fit for any businessman enjoying a night out on the town. He removed his wig of long, dirty hair, revealing a respectable, short haircut. He turned the wig inside out and quickly folded it into a businessman’s hat.

  As he exited the alley, he sniffed violently several times, touching his nose repeatedly, and then let out a couple of good sneezes, appearing to be just another gentleman finishing up with a little green nose candy.

  He reached his horse several minutes later, hopped on, and began to follow his agents. He soon caught up with them enough that he could see the entourage they were tailing.

  Suddenly, the entourage went in three different directions, the carriage going straight on its original path while many of the toughs went left or right.

  Zelven admired Rob’s effort, but it didn’t fool him. He grabbed his glasses and rotated the right lens several times. Sure enough, he noticed the rascal headed right with just a few bodyguards with him.

  Feeling the heat, eh?

  Zelven let out a relaxing whistle from a popular local pub tune and punctuated it with a slight jab at the end, informing his agents to go right. They did so, also making a few adjustments to their spectacles as they permitted Rob more and more breathing room.

  The streets were getting less dense now. They were headed towards a nice neighborhood.

  By the time Zelven and his agents passed Rob’s mansion, they were traveling about ten minutes apart. Zelven admired Rob’s taste in style but lost some respect with regards to his discretion. Being the only house to have multiple armed guards pacing around in front, it was not a particularly difficult target to spot.

  Chapter 25

  Righty’s leisurely trip on horseback had now brought him to the outskirts of Pitkins’ shop, which was skirted by a small patch of forest.

  He almost found himself riding right up to the shop, glad for once to be able to proudly tie his horse in front like an ordinary man instead of risking yet again that Pitkins would ask how a man who lived in Selegania always managed to show up on time for his sword lessons in Sodorf City . . . on foot!

  But he quickly realized that showing up on horseback today would only invite unwanted questions on the subject.

  Hey, it’s about time you got an extra pair of legs to help you down here. You jog most other times?

  He wheeled his horse around and headed back into the forest. He quickly told the konulans with him that they were to bang against the shop if anything happened to his beloved appaloosa but that their first response should be to fly directly towards the eyes of any marauding snoopers.

  He invited a couple to sit on his shoulder until he made it to the edge of the forest. He took just one step out before seeing something that made him backpedal even quicker than he had moments earlier with his horse.

  It couldn’t be, and yet he simultaneously knew it was.

  It was none other than Rucifus, and she was standing there at the doorway talking to Pitkins and had someone with her.

  “What in the blazes of holy hell is she doing here?” he whispered under his breath.

  He checked his watch and saw his lesson was supposed to be starting in just one minute.

  “Curses!”

  “Go see what they’re talking about,” he told one of the konulans, and Dylan went to investigate.

  Righty’s hand went instinctively to his sword when he saw Rucifus’s hands waving up and down angrily.

  Choosing between killing a multi-billion-falon contact and letting his sword instructor fend for himself wasn’t exactly a dilemma he expected himself to face today, but he knew as soon as his fingers caressed the cold steel of his sword handle what choice he would make.

  “MISTAKE!” was the only word he could make out.

  Dylan came flying back as Rucifus and a large gorilla-like man got on their horses and started heading away.

  Dylan started to eagerly fill Righty in, but he responded softly, “Shhh, they’ll be plenty of time later. I’ve got to get going as soon as they’re out of sight.”

  He watched them carefully until they seemed to have made a good distance, and he noticed Pitkins was doing the same. Then Pitkins punched the door with what appeared to be a half-hearted effort, and yet Righty noticed a few splinters go flying off all the same.

  Righty left the cover of the woods and began walking quickly towards Pitkins, feeling awkward to be seen emerging from the woods on foot.

  Pitkins studied him closely as he approached.

  “First time you’ve ever been late.”

  “I saw you had company and thought it best not to intrude.”

  Pitkins’ eyes studied him closely. Too closely. Righty felt like a suspect in a lineup.

  “Well, I guess you thought right. Wasn’t exactly a pleasant conversation.”

  “My sword almost left its scabbard.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well . . . not that you would need any help, but it’s the principle of the thing. I wouldn’t stand there and let that guy attack you without heading over here just in case you needed help.”

  “So it was the guy you thought was the threat?”

  “Well—” Righty began confused, “he was almost two of you. I guess you mean the woman was the threat?”

  “She made a good impression on me the first time I met her, but as soon as I made it clear I wasn’t putting a sword into the hands of that guard dog she had at her side, I saw a viciousness I’ve never seen in a female—maybe not in any human being.”

  Righty raised his eyebrows but said nothing, though he wished he could concur, having shared Pitkins’ ominous perception of Rucifus.

  “Something tells me I haven’t seen the last of her. She says she runs most of the brothels in the city and has lots of power and that I’ve made a big mistake.”

  “Pardon me if I’m speaking out of line, but one can’t help hear things—I would think it mighty foolish of her to make such a threat when your wife’s father is one of the highest-ranking nobles.”

  “You do hear things,” Pitkins said with neither positive nor negative emotion in his voice, but a suspicious glint in his eye. “The nobles are a joke. They’re a fixture . . . a decoration. They do h
old legal power but not real power. That’s been seized by the drug barons in this city. It’s said that most of the nobles are addicted to Smokeless Green. They fatten their pockets without raising taxes by taking bribes from the largest drug barons in exchange for keeping the sheriff’s men off their tail.

  “She may be bluffing, since Donive’s father is a noble, but he’s lost considerable clout ever since the disastrous war with Dachwald. They say it was won for him, not by him, and many people blame him for the countless dead, since he was the head noble at the time. He’s now just one more empty suit filling a chair at their meetings.”

  Right was tempted to say, I’ll handle Rucifus, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

  “It’s the drug barons now who dictate policy to the nobles. And I’ve got a gut feeling Rucifus is somewhere way up there on the drug baron ladder.”

  Righty gulped nervously.

  “Where’s your horse?” Pitkins asked nosily without apology by word or tone.

  “I keep her tied up back there in the woods. She’s a real beauty, and I guess I figure if no one sees her, no one will steal her.”

  “Take me to her.”

  An awkward stare-down ensued.

  “Look, Mr. Simmers. I’m normally not a prier. But you come back and forth from Selegania several times per week without a horse, and you’ve come across a fellow at your ranch that reminds me of a people I consider my fiercest enemies. Take me to your horse, or never come back here.”

  Righty was surprised at the bite in Pitkins’ voice, but he figured it was reasonable, and he didn’t have particularly thin skin in such matters.

  “Come with,” Righty invited.

  They walked in awkward silence until reaching Susanna.

  “Well, I do apologize. That is a beauty.” Pitkins admired the animal for a long moment, then gently caressed her long snout.

  Pitkins then turned and faced Righty directly.

  “So, what’s the latest with Mr. Octopus?”

  “The grappler?”

  Pitkins nodded.

  “I haven’t talked to him since last time I was here. We usually don’t have combat training every day. I’m sure he’ll whip me next time too.”

  “And why all this combat training? What do you do, Mr. Simmers?”

  “I grow corn, coffee, apples, lots of things. The training was something you might say I inherited. When I bought the farm, I was informed by the ranch hands that they trained on a regular basis as part of a tradition. It all stems from wars—if that’s not an exaggeration—they used to have with criminals from the south. They would kidnap ranchers in the area and charge a mighty high fee to give them back.

  “They would demand a cut of all earnings from the farm. They said it was ‘for the people,’ whatever that meant. Anyway, it turned into a long-running struggle, and out of it the ranchers developed a love of the crossbow and sword. They eventually beat the bandits, and they stopped coming years—maybe decades—ago, but the combat heritage that came about never did die.

  “It fit like a glove for me. I was professional boxer for a short time, and I didn’t realize how much I could love the sword until I first felt one in my hands. Anyway, I’ve got a wife and a young one at home, and they need me in one piece.

  “Is there a reason for all these questions?”

  Pitkins seemed far more satisfied than Righty expected. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t told a single lie. Left out a few things, maybe. But that wasn’t exactly lying.

  “Come on, Mr. Simmers. We’ve got sword fighting to practice. I’ll tell you what—you’ve answered my questions without complaint. And I probably won’t pry like that again—but with one exception. I want regular updates on Mr. Octopus. Don’t trust him. I want a report on him every time we meet. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  They shook hands and headed to the shop.

  Chapter 26

  An hour or two after Mr. Simmers’ lesson was concluded, Pitkins was polishing up a sword for Felindurv, one of the few nobles Pitkins had a few grains of respect for and that, to the best of his knowledge, had refused to accept any drugs or drug money. It seemed to Pitkins it was more out of classist arrogance than genuine principle, but it still put him several notches above the rest in Pitkins’ mind.

  Something sour raced through Pitkins’ stomach, causing him to uncharacteristically break his usually impervious concentration when so close to completing the final touches on any project, particularly when involving swords.

  He paused for a moment, mentally checking his consumption that day to see if he had eaten anything out of the ordinary or in excess. He fleetingly considered he could be nervous due to the importance of his current sword he was working on but shot that idea down as ridiculous.

  Following a hunch that brought back memories he stubbornly forbade from rising to the conscious level, he first walked then ran to the door, not locking it in the process, and then hopped on his horse and slashed the tied reins with a sword stroke that would have taken a man’s head off.

  Before he had time to consider the prudence of any of his actions his knees were pressed against his horse’s side more vigorously than if twenty assassins had been on his heels.

  His mind was blank but sharp like the stainless steel of the sword he had so recklessly abandoned as he focused single-mindedly on clearing the distance between him and his objective.

  The sight of his peaceful house tried to placate his anxiety, its unblemished appearance—becoming closer and closer—urging calm and coolness, but he dismissed it like a rascal at his door seeking to talk his way in.

  As soon as his horse reached the house, he stood on top of him and then leaped into the air, kicking the door as soon as he reached it and went charging in like a marauding barbarian.

  The ridiculousness of his actions almost brought a smile to his face and relief to his heart, as he expected a righteous scolding from Donive at any second, and yet no reprimand from that golden voice was forthcoming.

  He charged up to the bedroom. Empty.

  He rushed into every other room of the house. Empty.

  As he passed through the family room and prepared to enter the kitchen and begin frantically running around outside, the slightest sound caught his attention. To call it a whimper would have been to exaggerate its volume. It sounded like a soft whistle from a half-mile away, perhaps the slight creaking of a rusty weathervane.

  He looked around closely, and there, behind a large footstool, was his beloved Mervin.

  Blood caked his head next to his left ear, and spatters were all over the surrounding area.

  Again, he heard the light whistle from handsome beast’s nostrils and saw his chest rise ever so slightly. Then, Pitkins noticed more blood on the downed animal, all emanating from his mouth, close to which lay several human fingers.

  Pitkins quickly crouched down and looked at them and saw they were from a man.

  Ever so gently, he squatted down and put his ear next to Mervin’s snout. A slight breeze caressed his ears.