The Infiltrators Page 9

  “Harold?”

  “Something tells me you have a question about Pitkins.”

  “Kasani! Today everyone’s ahead of me. Yes! As a matter of fact I do. Just who the hell is this man anyway?”

  Harold let out a short squawk, and the hitchhiking konulans scattered quickly, just barely staying within eyesight but being far out of earshot.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  “Do you want real answers? If so, you don’t want the konulans within earshot.”

  “What’s your beef with them? Is there a conspiracy afoot?”

  “No. Let’s just say I consider them to be on a need-to-know basis, and this isn’t something that interests them.”

  Righty’s day seemed to have been cursed from the moment he opened his eyes. Even the unexpected peace and minimal police presence in Sivingdel now seemed to take on a sinister light, as if all the police had traded their uniforms for plain clothes and were closely on his tail. He had been whipped in front of his men, barked at suspiciously by his usually calm combat instructor, and was now being made aware of distrust amongst Harold and the konulans—the one realm he thought free of secrecy, jealousy, and conspiracy.

  “Do you trust them?” Righty asked directly. “After all, you brought them to me.”

  “Look, Mr. Simmers,” Harold said, with unaccustomed formality, “let’s get something straight. The hierarchy is not simply you, then me, then the konulans. I brought them here. I can take them out anytime I want. I can leave anytime I want. I’m not your slave. I’m with you because your life is exciting, and I’d have little to do otherwise. Plus, I see you as a friend.”

  “Of course—you’re my best friend!” Righty said sincerely.

  “Good—then let’s just set a boundary. Managing men is your territory. I’ll advise you but never attempt to overrule you. Managing the konulans is my territory. You can advise me, but I have the final say. That clear?!”

  “It is,” Righty said flatly, wondering whether he would be bucked off this flying bronco at two hundred miles per hour if he asked another improper question.

  “Look,” said Harold, far more softly, “managing konulans is not like managing men and vice versa. You know mankind far better than I ever could. But I know konulans.”

  “You got it.”

  With a calm voice, showing the conflict was behind them, Harold began, “There are many rumors, but separating them from fact is no easy task. He’s from Sogolia. He used to be a general. Little more is known than that. I used to work for—” (for some reason, the word “wizard” just couldn’t quite make it out of his beak, even though it was a simple fact) “a man who was very interested in a prophecy.

  “The first man in Sodorf to be knighted for a deed of heroism, and not for possessing noble blood, signified the opportune time to set in motion a plan for Dachwald to attack Sodorf.”

  “What?!!!” Righty asked in genuine bewilderment.

  “Before you get all worked up, just remember you’ve never deigned to ask about my past. But I’ve never held it from you either.”

  “Maybe I was afraid to know,” Righty conceded. “So how in the hell did a Sogolian general end up in a small sword smith shop in Sodorf City?”

  “The best I can reconcile the contradictory rumors, he had a falling out while general in Sogolia and was banished, just narrowly escaping execution. My former master had him kidnapped, thinking that was vital to the prophecy. He planned on killing him once Sodorf was vanquished. Sodorf had been pummeled to the point only a small fraction of their army remained, and it was cornered in Sodorf City.

  “Pitkins escaped with the help of a pholung, convinced the Sogolian king to lend him his army, and he came in and knocked the hell out of the Dachwaldians, killing them almost to a man. Then, he went back to his sword shop and his wife. That’s pretty much it.”

  “Pretty much it?! You couldn’t make this stuff up!”

  “Now, if you wanted to know more, you’d need to talk to the pholung who rescued him. His name was Istus.”

  Righty felt a camaraderie with his enigmatic instructor, as he realized the two of them would have quite a contest proving which had the most bizarre past, and also from realizing that Pitkins too knew the thrill of flying through the air without the limitations of foot or horse.

  But what does this do to advance your understanding of his bizarre reaction today?

  “Do you know of any people he might hate, and I mean really hate? He said the guy who cleaned the grass with me today was likely from a group of people that are ‘wicked beyond imagination.’”

  “Well, the Sogolians hate the Metinvurs even worse than the Dachwaldians hate the Sodorfians, but as for any personal beef Pitkins might hold towards a group of people, I couldn’t guess.”

  “The Metin—who?!”

  “The Metinvurs. The nation of Metinvur borders Sogolia to the north. They have no diplomatic ties with any known country on the face of the earth. They’re reclusive. They make a statue look gregarious. They don’t allow anyone to visit their country. Anyone entering would be greeted with as much hostility as an invading army.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Oh . . . my former master used to talk from time to time. Not necessarily to me . . . but I heard things.”

  “Where is your former master?”

  A tear came rushing towards Harold’s right eye but was shot down right before it reached the surface. A knot entered his throat, and he was silent for a while before answering, “I don’t like to talk about it.”

  Righty felt a sudden pang of anxiety at the thought Harold’s loyalties could be torn to pieces at a second’s notice by the arrival of his former master, yet he dared not ask a follow-up question.

  “I can research this matter for you, you know.”

  Righty was tempted to respond by telling him the konulans would be far better for a mission of that sort, but Harold’s newfound assertiveness caused him to hold his tongue.

  “I’d be most grateful, sir,” Righty said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Chapter 15

  Righty decided the best way to alter the course of his rocky day was a little nature and a little sword practice. He surveyed the mountains below, searching for a spot no human could reach without difficulty, if at all. He soon settled on a large mountain below that had a broad section with a smooth rock surface at a very slight angle.

  Both sides approached it steeply, leaving it out of reach to all but the most avid hiker with spikes and climbing rope. He sent the konulans below to scour the area for any humans or large beasts, and when they reported the area was clear, he had Harold set him down.

  The sun was shining brightly, and he welcomed the rays as he took off his shirt, his skin soaking up the warmth eagerly.

  “I’ve got a mission, and I need twenty volunteers,” he said, looking eagerly at the twenty konulans before him.

  Their current number escaped their awareness, as they began vying eagerly for the task.

  Righty sent them to go inspect all of Tats’ mansions and usual haunts to locate and then watch him and make sure he was okay and to report back in a few hours.

  Harold announced he was going to go hunt, and after a flurry of wings and feathers in various directions, Righty found himself all alone atop the mountain.

  Though the loneliness in a spot from which he most likely could not extricate himself did cause some distress, it simultaneously provided a degree of exhilaration, perhaps serving as a metaphor for combat, in which survival was never certain.

  Breathing slowly in the manner Pitkins had taught him, he pulled his sword from its sheath in unison with his breath. Just when it seemed he would exhale until the end of time while moving in slow motion like a man waking up from a hangover, he brought the sword down in a quick chopping motion, crouched low to avoid a slice to the head, inverted his grip on the blade, and thrust the tip straight into the midsection of the warrior approaching him in
an apparent moment of weakness.

  “HAAAAA!!” he exhaled sharply, springing to his feet and sticking the sword deeper into his opponent before pivoting around with the precision of a first-class dancer and combining the withdrawal of his blade from the man’s stomach with a brisk upward slash to an advancing opponent’s groin, cutting him up to his navel.

  His breathing slowed again as three attackers circled him. He was building up his oxygen levels for the flurry that was about to come. On the count of five, he charged, unwilling to wait for their attack.

  Pitkins would have remarked that the performance was as good if not better than the already flawless execution Righty had given earlier that day. Righty felt there was something magical about this height. The exhilaration of knowing other men’s feet could not even touch where he currently tread, nature having provided him with both an excellent platform for his practice and a view whose beauty defied description.

  The cool wind soothed the heat on his back and chest from the stinging sun, as did the sweat which, by now, three hours into his practice, was cascading down his body.

  Just as evening began to throw the first hints of it arrival, Harold returned, sitting before him, his beak ominously red from his recent dinner.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “Hopefully, we’ll go say hello to Tats.”

  Harold was silent.

  They waited about twenty minutes, and then the konulans arrived.

  “We found him!!” one of them said, in a welcome eagerness that offset Harold’s overly gloomy disposition today.

  Righty went and mounted Harold without saying a word, sensing correctly that it was lack of action that had his avian friend somber, and he sensed his mood improving as his wings beat violently through the air.

  Chapter 16

  Since this wasn’t a planned meeting, Righty’s arrival required a little discretion.

  After the konulans assured him a grove of trees in a yard near Tats’ house was unwatched, he was set down there and then walked quickly to the street, hoping he didn’t hear shouts of “THIEF!” or “CALL THE POLICE!!”

  This was a day he was hoping to wrap up soon, ended by some long, warm cuddling with Janie and maybe even a little lovemaking to boot.

  Calm reigned as he reached the street and then approached Tats’ house.

  He viewed with a mixture of approval and fury the sight of several large guards mulling around the perimeter of Tats’ house. He would have probably cursed Tats for not having them, yet at this particular moment he wasn’t in the mood for obstacles or introductions.

  He walked up confidently to the house, and, as he expected, the large cavemen quickly eyed and then approached him with keen interest.

  “What do you want?!” one asked gruffly, looking at the only slightly smaller Mr. Simmers, but whose body packed three times the strength.

  “I’m here for Tats,” Righty said calmly.

  “He expectin’ you?” the man asked suspiciously.

  “No.”

  “Then why you think he wanna see you?”

  “Bosses don’t have to make dates with their employees, friend,” Righty said with a hardness in his eyes that softened the man like butter exposed to fire.

  “Let me check for you, sir,” he said softly, his friends looking at him with hard eyes and then back at Righty cautiously, sensing there was something special about their guest.

  Tats soon appeared at the doorway and quickly beckoned Righty forward.

  “Mr.—” Tats began, censoring the word “Brass” awkwardly upon realizing he might not want his identity known.

  Tats’ thugs seemed intrigued about the missing word and as though they were attempting to guess it themselves.

  “What he asks for he gets, you hear?” Tats said sharply.

  “Yes, sir,” they quickly replied.

  Righty felt worried his day might not be as close to ending as he had hoped when he noticed to his surprise Tats was walking rather quickly towards his basement and urging him along all the while.

  Once they reached the basement, Tats sent four more bodyguards packing, all of whom seemed as interested as their counterparts above regarding the identity of their unexpected guest.

  Tats handed Righty an ice-cold lemonade while he took a shot of brandy for himself.

  “What’s up, Tats? Police heat back? I went to town earlier today, and everything seemed back to normal.”

  “On the police side, yes.”

  “On the police side?” Righty inquired with a curiosity now far greater than that of the hulking bodyguards whose footsteps had now faded away.

  “We’ve got problems, Mr. Brass. Maybe not as bad as I’m thinkin’, but bad enough I was hopin’ you’d drop by.”

  Chapter 17

  At 10:50 p.m., as Rob strode into the alley next to Georgie’s Pub, ten bodyguards leading the way, five bodyguards on either side, and around thirty toughs scouring a block in each direction from the entrance to the alley, looking for sign of any faces that spelled trouble, Rob told himself he shouldn’t feel particularly vulnerable.

  He had ten men on top of each building adjacent to the alley, and though he suspected it to be overkill, he had even sent ten men on top of the building on the opposite side of the street. All men on top of the buildings had searched every nook and cranny starting an hour before he even began heading this way, and they gave an “all’s clear” whistle as he approached the entrance of the alley.

  They were all armed with crossbows, and while they were no crack shots, he had only selected them for the mission after they demonstrated reasonable proficiency shooting melons at around twenty yards. Nonetheless, he had warned them not to shoot at anyone closer than three feet to him. He would rather die by an assassin’s knife than a crossbow bolt from one of his underlings.

  But in spite of all these precautions, he felt butterflies he hadn’t felt since he had ambushed Fred Pfeiffer, the man who used to hold his current position. These guys Thin Tim had described seemed like something from a campfire ghost story. But having seen the slashed throats and the entry wounds of some sharp projectiles in the vitals of the numerous guards in his stash house, passing it all off as a ghost story wouldn’t fly.

  And yet the fact the men had stolen none of the several hundred pounds of Smokeless Green stashed there seemed to pull the story back into the realm of fantasy, as no thugs he could imagine would have left that much wealth untouched.

  He had a lot more men with him than there had been guarding the stash house, and all of his crew tonight was primed for action. He looked in disgust at a man passed out drunk lying next to the wall. Vomit surrounded his head, and a nearly finished bottle of rum was still clutched in his hand, like a toy clutched by a baby. He had long hair and looked around sixty years old.

  “What’s this place comin’ to?” Rob piped self-righteously. He had spent his share of nights passed out drunk on the street in his teenage years and even a few times in his twenties, but he had found his calling in life with the passage of SISA and had gotten serious about his future.

  He had cut his alcohol consumption to a shadow of its former glory, and he sure as hell didn’t plan on spending the rest of his life with a couple minor wholesalers underneath him. He was looking to move up in the world. He was pulling in over a million falons per month, but he knew he hadn’t reached the ceiling yet.