Current WIP - Fantasy/Action Novel
copyright 2023-2024 C.B. Hoffman, All rights reserved
Feel free to read and, hopefully, enjoy. All comments welcome.
Jorric paused when he reached the rutted street leading through the Mud Gate and into the East End, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. God, but he was tired. It had been a long night and his ankle had grown more stiff and sore with each passing hour. He wanted nothing more than to get his boot off and get out of his wet clothes. His home wasn’t far—a few minutes’ walk down the maze of muddy streets and alleys that comprised the East End—but first things first. He needed to to be paid for his night’s work.
The hour was still too early, however, and the shops were not yet open. With a sigh, he moved with a slight limp to cross the threshold of the White Bull as the early-summer sun began painting the river gold. The tavern was old and as rough as the district that housed it. Though it smelled of food already, it was early and the public room was empty. He went to his favorite table, which stood in perpetual gloom in the back corner. There, he settled onto the battered wooden bench and pulled Ashleigh’s book free of his pack before tucking his belongings between his feet.
In addition to being a collector of art, Ashleigh had apparently been a collector of books, and Jorric had taken one, Ancient Myths and Artifacts. He didn’t know if it held any value, but he had thought immediately of Martan when he saw it, and such a book might contain information of interest for future work. Artifacts, he’d discovered, held a certain allure for the wealthy.
Shifting to find a comfortable position for his aching ankle, Jorric waited impatiently for the hap’ench. Not that anyone ever called the alewives or serving-girls that gutter term to their faces, no matter how commonly it was used. Not unless he wanted to have his ears boxed. Or find himself taking a hearty swallow of vinegar or rat poison, even though many of them truly had been the “half-penny wenches”—cheap whores—to which the term referred. More than a few of them still were.
A short, thick woman a dozen years his elder eventually appeared. She was the proprietor’s wife and Jorric was no stranger to her. She had little use for him, it seemed, whether it was his face or his demeanor. There were plenty of thers who shared her view of him: With his slight, wiry build and sharp features, he had been called weasel-faced more than once, and he had never been much interested in friends. He was surly enough sober, and moreso on the rare occasions when he was drunk. He made it a point to not stir the pot with her, though, because she was only an inch or two shorter than he was, she probably outweighed him by half, and she was just as capable of putting a halt to any mischief as was her massive bear of a husband. Now she greeted him with a censorious frown. “It’s unholy hours you keep, Jorric,”
“Fitting enough,” he replied. “Farsian. Half, not a quarter.”
A moment later, she brought it and set it down without a word. He settled back to enjoy it. He had a great appreciation for Farsian Ale, an ironically mild name for a drink that was no kin to ale. A liquid with only the faintest amber tint, it lit a fire in one’s throat that burned all the way down. For the uninitiated, Farsian Ale also kicked harder than a tin-miner’s sledge-horse. Like brinna, it was served in a quarter-glass rather than a mug or tankard, since most drinking a full mug of either would find themselves on the floor.
Even without Samuel’s preaching, Jorric had quickly realized that drunkenness was a liability for a fellow in his trade, so it was a vice he seldom indulged. He preferred being sober and free to being drunk and in chains. The burn was welcome now, though, for he had spent the better part of the night in wet clothes. The trip back across town had been a slow one, courtesy of his ankle. He had taken pains to remain completely unseen rather than let himself be spotted and forced to outrun the Nabs.
Another couple of swallows, and the clamminess of his leather jerkin and breeches started to fade a little. The tail of his brown hair, turned black now that it was thoroughly wet, had fallen over his shoulder to drip down his chest. He pulled it free of the leather cord and shook it back, hoping it would dry faster. Time to cut it.
His gaze drifted across the empty room, still dark and shadowed despite the early morning. He purposely sat with the wall at his back and with a clear view of the door. The Nabs weren’t the only ones around with reason to dislike him. The Old Quarter and East End fell within the area in which the Red Hand thieves’ guild operated. The head of the guild was a man named Durmond, a squat stump of a man with a foul temper who had taken Jorric in a for a bit when he was was younger.
In his head, Jorric scoffed. At the time, he hadn’t known he was jumping off the hook and into the pot. He had fled the chimney sweep not long after his ninth birthday, only to be approached by the Sentires, a shadowy society that acted as the guardian of some mystical “Balance” in Creation, a balance between the "conuming fire of light" and the "drowning evil of darkness." Founded by a handful of serious, religious zealots, it supposedly guarded the world from destruction by angels infuriated by the rebellion of God's creations and the demons eager to speed those creations along the path of corruption.
He had cared little enough about that, but had cared considerably about keeping food in his stomach. They offered bed and board in return for him joining their adherents, and he had willingly done so. He had stayed with them for just over two years—enough time to learn to read and write, and to decide that he had no interest in their strictures or their cause.
Only weeks later he had been recruited by Durmond. His time with the Sentires had caused him to forget just how grim life on the street could be. For two years he'd had a bed and regular meals, but he had thrown that away. One morning he had awakened hungry, not having had an actual meal in three or four days. Hunger had made him careless, which led to him being caught stealing pickled eggs in the market square. The man selling them had snagged a thick fist in Jorric’s tunic, his mustache bristling as he had literally dragged Jorric across the square to an oblivious Watchman. The merchant had verbally eviscerated the Nab for his inattentiveness, shaking his fist for emphasis so that Jorric had been shaken like a rat by a terrier. He had then thrust Jorric under the Nab’s nose and stalked back to his stall.
Jorric had spent a few days in the watchhouse, only to find himself suddenly released one afternoon with a rough shove and the words, “I see you back here again and I’ll split your skull.”
Jorric had scurried away from the watchhouse, amazed at his unexpected good fortune. Durmond had come up to him a block away, and had told Jorric that he’d slipped the watchman a few coins to release him, because, “It was just bad luck, and I could use someone like you, my boy.”
Fresh out of gaol, less than a dozen years old, Jorric had been easily convinced to let himself be taken under Durmond’s wing. He readily admitted that he’d learned a bit, and the Red Hand’s “guild hall” had provided a place to sleep out of the weather, and regular meals, too, as long as one never grew tired of mutton stew that was mostly broth with a few tired vegetables and the occasional, token piece of mutton. However, he had barely even started growing a beard when Durmond had tasked him with killing a man. Though a thief-lord presiding mostly over a group of burglars, cutpurses, and pick-pockets, Durmond also had a reputation for having little aversion to anything that put coin in his purse.
For his part, though Jorric had no qualms about helping items find new owners, he found he did have a few when it came to murder for hire. He was old enough and smart enough to know that bodies tended to draw a great deal of attention. Apart from that, he knew some of those more willing fellows, and didn’t like what he saw. It made no sense to Jorric to risk the notoriety of killing a man, often for little more coin than he would get for far more petty—and far less visible—efforts. He certainly hadn't been willing to embrace that level of risk for Durmond. Besides, Jorric had come to realize that every time he gained his freedom—from his father, the sweep, from the Sentires—he kept surrendering it back up, this last time to Durmond. Jorric was questioning why he was risking his neck to put gold in another man’s purse.
He had refused the job. Durmond’s attempt to punish this challenge to his authority by thwoing his fist in Jorric's face, as he'd done countless times before, was thwarted. He had actually been shocked when Jorric had planted the toe of his boot firmly in Durmond’s stones.
Jorric had found it necessary to move about a bit after that, for he knew Durmond wouldn’t let it go unanswered. He had even left one of Durmond’s new favorites, who apparently did not draw the line at murder—or at least, at Jorric’s—dead in the street. It was no surprise, then, that Durmond had made it clear to his Red Hand lackeys that anyone who stuck a knife in Jorric would be rewarded.
He gave a mental shrug. There was nothing he could do about it, now. He flipped open the book, the leather binding stiff with age, and skimmed through it. After just a moment, it becaome clear that the book was mostly useless drivel, dressed up in a scholarly tone. Most of it dealt with the origin of a handful of legends, most surrounding the early Church, the Isles of Porthia, and the Old World demi-human races of Gottlings, Sylvans, and Steddards. Only one artifact was mentioned in any detail: the Staff of Danos.
According to the volume he held, no doubt highly-reliable, the staff had been given directly by God to one of the most important figures of the early Church—Saint Danos. It was, Jorric read, imbued with, “the power to purify” and showed “the misguided” the proper path by, apparently, “turning the hearts of the utter wicked to dust.” The staff was fashioned, supposedly, from the heartwood of a Blood Oak, a rare tree that figured prominently in early-Church lore. Jorric read:
The wood, striated red and honey gold, represents the blood of life and the radiance of God,” he read. “Six feet in length, with three bands of gold evenly-spaced, the foot tipped with silver, and the short, narrow crook weighted with a large ignas gem to represent the very eye of God.
He slid the book back into his pack, as Martan would still likely find it of interest. He emptied his glass and stretched, wincing as the movement served to remind him that he had skinned down what had seemed like a furlong of slate. The hap’ench was nowhere in sight, and he gave a short, piercing whistle through his teeth. “Here now!”
She appeared, scowling. “What, then?”
“James’ll be draggin’ you out to the alley.”
“You’ve got my coin, and none of your affair how many it will be, and if you’re that worried over it, you can add a plate of your shepherd’s hash, then.”
She rolled her eyes as she went to comply.
He had awakened in alleys once or twice, but he was nowhere near that point. And he didn’t really want another, but it was still too early to pay a visit to Connor. He was Jorric’s fence, a fellow who knew a lot of folks who looked to discreetly buy, along with those who looked to discreetly sell. His biggest customer was Durmond, but he did a quiet and careful business with the very few independent thieves in the city, as well. Connor’s shop stood on the edge of the Old Quarter, perhaps a stone’s-throw from the gate into East End.
Jorric’s glass was about half full when a couple of local tradesmen came in and took a seat halfway down the room. A moment or two later, another man entered. He wore a charcoal-colored, sleeveless jerkin over a faded red shirt, and his breeches, once black, were faded to grey. The hood of a black chaperon fell down his back, leaving his greasy, light brown hair to fall almost to his shoulders. He had a good-sized knife at his belt, but then, so did Jorric. Given the district, so did just about everyone else. Jorric knew the man, and studied him from the corner of his eye, watching him hesitate when he spotted Jorric before moving casually toward him.
The man’s name was Keenan, and they had both come of age under Durmond. They had become friends of a sort, frequently working together, with one of them serving as a distraction as the other cut someone’s purse, or purloined items from a merchant’s stall. Their paths had crossed several times in the years since Jorric had left the Red Hand, though they’d exchanged words a handful of times. He had seemed willing enough to live and let live, but Jorric still kept a careful eye on his approach. As Keenan drew near the table next to him, Jorric, his tone deliberately casual, asked, “Are we right and tight?”
Keenan’s expression was smooth as he gave a slight shrug and said, “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Jorric also shrugged. “Things change. Durmond’s still sore, and most of his fellows aren’t too friendly where I’m concerned. You still with him?”
“Aye,” Keenan scooted the bench out with his foot and sat down at the table next to Jorric’s, facing him. “Why?”
Keenan gave his order to the ha’pench and leaned back. He ran dark eyes over Jorric and said, “You worried? We’ve never had a problem.”
“Maybe not, but Durmond does, and Durmond’s problems have a way of becoming every Red Hand’s problem.”
With a faint, wry smile, Keenan admitted, “He’s pushed me pretty hard on occasion—figured I could get closer to you than some o’ the others—but I wasn’t up for that.”
The ha’pench set Jorric’s food down in front of him with a thump. After she had departed, Jorric asked with mild curiosity, “Heard anything lately?”
Keenan snorted quietly through his nose and said wryly, “Really? You expect me to take coin out of my purse and put it in yours?”
“Bah. You and I don’t go for the same jobs. Just wondering if you’ve heard anything of interest lately is all.”
“Nothing really, though I expect you’ve heard about the traders from Vethri.”
“A word here and there. Not much. Why?”
Keenan pursed his lips as he looked at Jorric for a few seconds, then finally replied, “Word is, they were attacked by bandits at the border between Calandra and Numis. Fended them off, mostly, I heard. They almost turned back to Vethri after, but decided t’ sail from Bismuth to Hebris.”
Jorric scoffed.“That’s a cartload of shit! Everyone knows Vethrians are afraid of water and don’t get on boats.”
“You know Vethrians! They’re more afraid of not chasing down every last copper t’ be had. Came down to choosing whether to turn back with most o’ their goods and lose out on the coin they’d have brought, risking being robbed along the road coming south, or avoiding the bandits entirely by going by boat. They were so worried about missing out on some coin that they decided to sail down. Supposedly they’ll be coming the same way from Hebris down here to Ketrick, with whatever they’ve got left to sell.”
“Hard to say what of worth they’ll have left, if anything.” Jorric dismissed. But he knew that if they continued on to Ketrick, they would have at least some items of worth. “Have they made it to Hebris yet?”
Keenan shrugged, one corner of his mouth compressing as he replied, “Hard to say. There’s no way of knowing how long it took ‘em to find a boat willing t’ bring ‘em, for no doubt they haggled the price of passage down to bone and marrow.” He ran an assessing eye over Jorric’s damp clothes and hair and commented, “You were out last night.”
Jorric returned his look. It seemed Keenan was in a hurry to change the subject, no doubt regretting having mentioned the traders at all. Jorric answered, “You weren’t.” Keenan’s clothes were dry and, while not overly clean, he’d obviously not been out in the streets overnight. With casual curiosity, Jorric asked, “Aren’t you tired of having your nose up Durmond’s arse?”
Keenan’s lips stretched in a flat smile, his eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s easier.” With a barely noticeable shrug he continued, “He’s always got jobs, and tosses a few coins in the Nabs’ purses so they don’t bother us much. If we do get pinched, then he tosses ‘em a few more coins for our freedom.”
“Easier. Hmph. Those coins he tosses to the Nabs could be in your purse, you know.”
Keenan rubbed the back of his hand over the dark stubble that was only a day or two away from being a proper beard. “My belly’s full. I have a place to stay, and I've nothin’ much to worry about.”
“Mm-hmm. Your belly’s full now, maybe. When you walk out of here this morning, what’ll you be walking out with? I wager you’ll be going to Durmond looking for a job, and that, if he doesn’t have one, by the week’s end you won’t be eating.”
Keenan’s face tightened. There was an edge to his voice when he replied, “I can take care of myself, Jorric! Besides, you know there’s always a pot o’ somethin’ on at The Black Pony. I do all right, and at least I don’t have to worry about Hempstead. Or Grimelthdane.”
“Sure. Just wondering if you’ve asked yourself what’ll happen when you get too old or too busted up to bring in the gold Durmond expects. You think he’ll still be throwing coins to the Nabs for you then?”
“Hmph. And what about you?” Keenan asked harshly. “At least Durmond’s all I have t’ worry about, while you’re worryin’ about him and trying not t’ wind up stewing in your own piss in a cell somewhere.”
Jorric leaned on an elbow and, with a bite of food halfway to his mouth, shrugged and said, “Well, it’s your own business Keenan, and surely not my cow to milk. But I’m planning on the day when any job I take is because I want to, not because I need to.”
Keenan’s face reddened slightly as he focused narrowed eyes on Jorric’s face and said, “You always were a bit a bastard, Jorric. Hope all that works out for you.”
Jorric smiled. “Always did put a twist in your tail whenever I was right.”
“Hmph! You’ve always been so damned sure you’re right! And you’re not always!”
Jorric emptied the final swallow from his glass, and the bench scraped loudly against the floor as he pushed back from the table. As he got to his feet, he said with faint irony, “Well, thanks for the pleasant chat and all, but I’m off.”
“Aye, sure,” Keenan muttered.
With Keenan watching, Jorric fought to not favor his ankle as he strode through the room and out into the street. Keenan had always been easy-going, a fellow unburdened by any great ambition or wit. Jorric thought that it really wasn’t his affair how Keenan chose to conduct his business. Still, it was a shame for him to spend his life as one of Durmond’s faithful dogs, waiting for the occasional bone tossed his way, and spending the rest of his time with tail between his legs.
Jorric scratched at a jaw that always seemed to sport only a couple day’s growth no matter how long since he’d last applied a razor. A grin twitched his lips. If he could stir up trouble between Durmond and some of his boys by poking a hand in, that was fine, too. The grin faded. Best not to be so foolish as to think that things won’t ever get hard enough for Keenan that he wouldn’t serve me up on a plate for Durmond.
