Chapter 10

It was a narrow room at the top of the uneven staircase, at the end of the long corridor and in the shanty-like inn that the local drunks and low-lives claimed as their own. The place was generally avoided by the majority of the populace with its porch sloping downhill and broken sign. Glass shards were a minor hazard in a place where the food was stale and entertainment was comprised only of the stage harlots dressed to show more skin than was decent. The only thing genuine in this mar on the city landscape was the pure alcohol and the coin required to purchase it. As such, the Dusty Rose was the perfect hole-up point for the poor bloke whose luck wouldn’t hold and those on the outside of the law. The barkeep had a notoriously short memory and few words to communicate. Long ago the law enforcement had learned the futility in asking the burly, heavy-set man anything.

The bed taunted him from across the room with its singular thin blanket folded and the barley stuffed sack pillow sitting on top of it. He hadn’t slept all night, or rather; he hadn’t felt the need to. Thoughts he could not refute and knowledge he could not deny fought back and forth in his mind. The need to see his family drove his gaze to the door while the demand of responsibility pulled his hand toward his pack. It ate at him, the idea of Elena and the kids so close to this dark spot on the outskirts of Fairweather.

Ringing the city was the Freeman’s quarter where any family or individual could buy a place to live as long as they had no debts to the noble houses. Parallel to Trader’s Street, the cobbled road lead to a circle of houses. He had saved every spare coin possible over the year of their courtship to buy the home outright and present it as proof of his ability to take care of the strong-willed blonde woman he sought. Now, ten years and two children later, the draw of a wool stuffed pallet with warm blankets and floors that did not bow under his weight, became impossible to resist.

He stopped pacing and picked up the black mask from its place on the rickety wooden chair. The seamstress may have been irritated with him, but her pride would not allow a shoddy product to be associated with her business. The dye had completely blotted out any trace of red and the loops had been reinforced with leather at the joints.

He caught his reflection in the mirror, the slash of white against his tanned face reminding him of the unusual wound. Bending over the chest of drawers, he peeled away the square patch. It was festering with a deep infection. The cuts had long since swelled and blended together, looking like a long oval of red skin that periodically oozed. Just seeing it made his nose wrinkle in distaste.

There was no reason for it to not be healing. It just made no sense to him. He fished out the small glass bottle that Mira had given him as he left and removed the stopper. Taking the outside of the bandage, he dabbed onto it a small amount of the clear astringent, breathed deep, and pressed it to his cheek. The initial sting of pain was less this time than in previous attempts. Aiden took this as a good sign that perhaps the skin was numbing. He could give Mira that, her products worked wonders. The area cleaned up nicely and he hoped that it would stay that way. Another patch of gauze on his cheek and he was ready.

The Abbot’s threats stopped him at the door. If he left here now without the mask and someone recognized him, word would be swift in reaching the ruthless clergyman. At least the damn thing is light. Aiden thought as he fitted the straps behind his ears and adjusted the fit of the mask. A few heavy breaths confirmed what he already suspected: the mask’s designer had a warrior in mind when he placed the slats precisely where air could easily pass through the leather and cotton interior.

When he left the room, every scrap of his possessions left with him. It would mark him as a newcomer to the town and as such curious eyes would be on him. He risked so much but the thought of at least seeing her from afar, knowing that she was well, would spur him through the Abbot’s task.

The path leading to the market twisted through this seedier part of town with twists and turns that could lead a foreigner astray. Having already navigated the alleyways, finding the row of warehouses would be the easy part. The Chemist had given him precise instructions on which building to enter and whom to talk to. The hard part would be convincing the man to give him more than just fuel.

A trapper was what he professed to be but that meant more than just snares for rabbits or constructing elaborate cages for the more feral creatures. With the trapping grounds off limits in this fife, and not enough money to pack up his family and escape to another, he was quickly learning the value of ingenuity. There was a loose plan forming in his mind about how best to kill these undead creatures and the slow burning oil was swiftly being replaced with using the chemicals he saw in the Chemist’s lab. He could only hope that the volatile substances would be stored here as well.

The warehouses loomed darkly with the early sunlight still too weak to reach over the roof and illuminate the street below. As such he traveled with his shoulders and head low, keeping a low profile and giving other travelers a wide birth. Who knew what kind of cutthroats and pickpockets roved these streets?

The peeling ambiguous sign reading, “Marthor’s Storage,” caught his eye and he made his way to the entrance. Aiden’s hand paused on the tall door’s handle. There was no room to falter once he passed underneath that sign.

***

Marthor, the proprietor of a private warehouse and owner of the small storefront where he sold specialty goods, had a good feeling about that morning. Up before the sun, he had already summed up the accounts from the previous day and restocked the shop. The warehouse entrance door’s small bell jingled in the quiet and he regretted letting his only employee go home early. The back access was where his more discrete customers picked up their shipments. With somewhat questionable goods passing into and out of his possession, he preferred to let someone deal with the handling of those goods. Ignorance made it easier to gloss over the details when the local investigators pounded on his door. Left with no other choice, he wrote down a final count on the stack of books waiting to be put up for sale and made his way to help what he hoped was his last warehouse customer.

The heavy blue curtain was used to separate his shop and living quarters above it. He shoved it aside, stirring up the layer of dust on the floorboards and came to a halt behind the waist-level countertop. Though he may not deal with these people on a regular basis, he could spot them anywhere. They were the ones that stood alone in a crowd of people. Detached and strictly business, these people exuded confidence backed by a powerful employer.

His last customer turned as he walked through the curtain, watching him from the corner of his vision as if tracking his movements. Male and tall, at least five foot seven or more, the man walked to the counter with slow, purposeful steps. Shadow had cloaked most of his features beyond the basic outline, the candle lamps having gone low in the later hours and it wasn’t until he stepped into the orange glow of Marthor’s personal lamp that the shop keeper saw it.

His eyes grew wide and his breath caught halfway in his throat. Chills overtook him as little voices whispered, “You should have slept in today, Marthor.” In all his years dealing with dangerous characters, only the Protectors could make him wish he had stayed in only legitimate business.

“Are you Marthor?” the Protector said, the mask muffling his words.

He nodded, feeling rooted in place. Normally he would take the lead in such conversations but with one of the church’s secret warrior standing in front of him, Marthor was inclined to let the gentleman speak.

Instead of words, the man produced a tightly rolled scroll and placed it on the counter, the dark red wax stamped with the six-pointed star symbol of the goddess confirming the legitimacy of the document and its bearer. His reluctant hand took the scroll and broke the seal, pealing it open to reveal the words within.

“You work for Master Rosen. I wasn’t aware he had Protectors in his employ.” He stated, somewhat impressed that the man most referred to as “the Chemist”, had enough power to command a Protector to do his bidding. The only other encounter with the warrior’s had ended with him being intimidated into giving space in his warehouse to the church for free. At first he had been angry at the methods used, but the influx of weekly patrons associated with the church had made up for the loss in profit.

“I hope that he has found his last shipment in good order.” Marthor attempted to goad the man into polite conversation but he remained silent, his green eyes cold with disinterest. “Right then, allow me a moment.” Scanning the shipment logs, he found the scheduled daily pick-up.

The oil was kept in kegs on the highest shelf in order to prevent any accidental spillage. Marthor took pride in having designed the pulley system himself. Two industrial strength pulleys, the kind used to lift small boats from the water, were screwed into the ceiling, allowing the thick rope to be pulled taut by the hand crank on the floor level. The keg of oil was drilled onto a wooden platform, allowing the entire setup to be lowered down. It prevented the risk of the keg slipping from a rope harness and crashing to the ground.

The Protector watched this with what looked like a spark of interest, his eyes following the keg’s journey.

“And here I thought you had barrels for that kind of thing.” The man said quietly.

His sudden words caught Marthor off guard but soon he warmed up to the prospect of conversation. “Well we had them in barrels at first on the ground but as my inventory grew I needed to move them up higher. Then it became a matter of minor spills here and there when the lid came off and dripped down the side, so the keg was substituted. See there?” He pointed to the large sealed opening on the top of the keg. “That’s the only thing I need to glue when I refill it. The tap makes for a more precise measurement too and that means less mess and happier customers.”

The man nodded along with him. “Less of a fire hazard then too.” He added and Marthor smiled. The Protector seemed impressed with the contraption!

“Now to get your supply.” Marthor plucked one of the large bottles from the lower shelves and filled it with the opaque amber liquid.

“There you are. I’ll put this on next month’s bill.” He smiled, relieved to have avoided an unpleasant encounter. The man took the bottle and stored it in his pack but when he straightened again, an expectant look crossed what little of his face could be seen.

“Something wrong?” Marthor asked, drumming his fingertips on the countertop nervously.

“The ___ and the ___?”

He could only faintly remember the unusual names and was forced to look them up in the logbook as well. “It says here you aren’t due for that installment until three weeks from now.”

“The Master has need of the substances now.”

“It is expensive stuff and already the church’s bill is over its limit. If I give them to you now, I may not get paid for those.” Marthor stated boldly, not having exaggerated. It was becoming a common practice for the church to demand products and then fight with him over the unbudgeted expenses.

“I sympathize, but it is not my problem. These things are crucial to his projects and must therefore be available in abundance.”

“Well if Master Rosen is in need of something then he must speak with the church’s financiers and make it known. I’m afraid I cannot allow the items to go without some sort of compensation.”

The Protector’s eyes darkened and Marthor shrank from it, remembering the last time he had gone against one of them. Then he sighed and the dangerous look left his face. The man put both hands on the counter and leaned against it. “Come now, Marthor. If you are as smart with your business as you are with that contraption, then you will not lose coin on these deals.”

“If you have any ideas then out with them, I have exhausted myself going against the church on these matters.”

“Think about the effects of the plague. With major roads closing, it becomes more difficult to get your wares, right? So present to them an inflated estimate of cost to get things like those fine cheeses and specialty foods that you import.”

“But those items haven’t become hard to come by yet.”

“Bear with me, Marthor, you need the coin and I need the goods for my Master. I like you and I’d like to keep this relationship with you friendly.”

“Of course..”

“Threaten their luxuries and watch how willing they become in raising the budget. You and I both know that the church has a dizzying amount of money stored away. You just have to make them spend it.”

Marthor took this proposition in with careful consideration. Having done business with the church for years, the financial advisors didn’t even ask for his logbooks at the end of the year, relying on that trust to keep the shopkeeper honest. It would be an ugly scene to see if the church found out he was lying to them but after all, they were the ones forcing him to take a loss on his profits! If nothing else he could say he had been coerced into it by this Protector and let him take the blame.

“Alright then, I have only a small amount of it left but it will have to do.” At the Protector’s nod, he left to retrieve the two chemicals.

Aiden couldn’t believe his luck. Since the moment he had walked into the store and saw the way the proprietor stared at him, he had a feeling there was something he could use in this situation. Then when he was mistaken for a Protector, Aiden found the leverage he could use. It wasn’t difficult to keep quiet and let the man come to his own conclusions.

While the shopkeeper disappeared behind the blue curtain, Aiden took a better look at the box of goods yet to be put on the shelves. Side by side, one container held small flasks no bigger than a cup and the other thin test tubes. He plucked one from each box and inserted the tube into the narrow neck of the flask, a clever grin spreading on his face as it fit with just enough room for a rag to keep the tube from breaking. This would work as a delivery system for the two explosive chemicals. His mood fell, remembering how difficult it was to get the man to agree to giving him the substances for free. Working quickly, he slipped three of each container into his pack. He dismissed the temporary twinge of guilt and returned to the other side of the counter.

The man came through the curtain not a moment later, carrying the sealed jars. While Marthor may have thought it wasn’t much of the products, Aiden knew there was more than enough for what he planned on using them for.