CW: Genre-Typical Violence
Gareth’s cab rolled to a stop in front of a squat building off the public square. Though the rain had come and gone quickly, ending before he’d even made it home from the festival, he had to take care climbing out to avoid the mud puddled over uneven cobblestone. He couldn’t risk dirtying his new shoes. Of course, his cab driver didn’t care about that — as soon as Gareth stepped down to the street, he cracked his whip. The wheels of his carriage spun, spitting mud and rainwater all up Gareth’s trousers as the cab peeled off back into traffic.
Gareth swore, scrambling back, and stepped right into a puddle. He groaned. “Wonderful,” he said to himself, twisting to try to survey the damage. Moira wouldn’t be happy about this, but there was no time to go home and change. Gareth eyed the building in front of him. It reminded him of the small correctional facility on Unity’s Island, only with more windows. Really, what was Moira thinking, summoning him to a place like this at such a late hour?
He did his best to leave his annoyance at the door, which was opened for him by a helpful valet, and entered a dark foyer that smelled of leather, cologne, and wealth. It took him back to his father’s study, sitting in a corner entertaining himself with a book while Moira and his father worked. Here, the furniture was configured into some sort of waiting room, frosted-paneled doorways leading deeper into the building. A man stood behind a podium at one end, the emblem on his suit matching the one engraved into the wall.
He took in the state of Gareth’s trousers with a sour expression. “Are you a member here, sir?” he asked. Behind him stood a wide archway; when Gareth peered over his shoulder, all he could make out was a hazy hall full of dust particles dancing in and out of evening light. It was still and quiet, though Gareth thought he heard a woman’s laugh drift airily from deeper inside.
It gave him an idea of where he was, at least. “This is a social club,” he guessed.
“Yes, sir. If you’re not already a member—”
“I’m not, but my sister asked me to meet her here,” Gareth said. “I’m guessing she’s on the list.”
The host looked doubtful. He opened a leather-bound book. “And your sister’s name?”
“Moira Ranulf.”
The host stiffened. He didn’t bother to consult his book. “I see. Do you have any identification?”
Gareth fished out his – fortunately dry – Unity ID, then waited patiently as the host scrutinized it. Finally, the host handed it back with an apologetic grimace. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Ranulf,” he said. “I didn’t know to expect you.”
“That’s quite alright. Moira didn’t give me much notice, either.”
“Please, follow me.”
The host turned and led Gareth down the hallway at his back. Wide windows on one side overlooked the busy street, but the other was covered with portraits of serious-looking men — all, Gareth noticed, human. He stopped short when they passed a jarringly familiar face. It was his own father, sneering down at them over the top of his glasses. Gareth gawked at the word “Founder” beneath the name placard.
“He never told me about this place,” Gareth said to the host, who’d slowed when Gareth did. “What is this?”
“The Metharow Club, founded by your father and several others as a place for humans with Unity connections to gather, unwind, and form social connections. Your sister has been a member since she was first appointed as a Representative.”
Gareth frowned. “I see.”
Reluctantly, he followed the host down a few more hallways, then through a spacious, sunlit dining room, empty but for the well-dressed group playing billiards in the corner. As he passed, they eyed Gareth and his muddy clothes; Gareth did his best to ignore them, ducking his head sheepishly when the host ushered him through another door into a private dining room. There, Moira waited.
“Gareth!” she said, waving him over. “There you are. Come in, come in.”
She sat at an empty table. Gareth didn’t know how he’d expected Moira to look or act, after the day she’d had. Everything he’d overheard had seemed to momentous, the talk of war and kidnappings, but Moira only lazily waved the host over for more wine. Gareth sat across from his sister while the host finally excused himself, leaving them along.
“Your letter came as a surprise,” Gareth said while his sister drank. “I would have understood if you couldn’t make the time for me. I know how busy you are.”
Moira gave him a shrewd look. “That’s unlike you, Gareth,” she observed, lazily swirling her drink. “One of my clerks told me you came by the island today. The fact that you left without seeking me out tells me the gossip wheel must already be churning. What did you hear?”
“Not much,” Gareth said carefully, “Just enough to know I’d better leave you to your work. Something to do with Alfheim, right?”
Moira watched him a moment longer, then nodded. She looked far more than ten years Gareth’s senior, her hair already gray and exhaustion dragging at her features. “Gareth,” she began, slowly, “You’re loyal to Unity, aren’t you?”
Gareth’s stomach dropped. Had Moira seen him out in the hallway, after all? Had the Nochdvors told her about his eavesdropping? “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Moira ignored the question, instead following it with: “And you’ve visited Orean before, haven’t you?”
“Um,” Gareth said eloquently. As a rule, he tried not to discuss Orean with Moira. While he held a fondness for the city-state, Moira shared Unity’s view on things. Under his sister’s stare, though, he conceded, “We go in the winter, sometimes.”
“You know it well, then?”
“About as well as I know Gallontea. Moira, why are you asking me this?”
Before Moira could answer, a knock came at the door, a pair of servers entering carrying more wine and silver trays. “I know what you like, Gareth, so I took the liberty of ordering for you.”
“Ah. Thanks,” Gareth said. He was used to Moira’s abrupt changes – they happened whenever Gareth circled toward subjects she didn’t want to talk about – but this one left him uneasy. He kept quiet while a tray was set before him, the lid lifted to reveal a steak topped with fresh vegetables, then asked after they’d left, “Why did you never tell me about this place?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gareth, I’m sure I’ve invited you here before.”
“You haven’t.”
“It must have slipped my mind. You’re here now; what do you think? You’d be eligible for membership, you know.”
“It’s a bit old-fashioned for my taste.”
Moira sighed, the sharp sound letting him know exactly what she thought of that nonsense. “In a world that’s constantly changing and evolving, Gareth, it’s nice to have something that stays the same.”
Yes, Gareth felt certain this place hadn’t changed since its founding. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Everything about this club, this room, reminded him inextricably of his father, and that alone was enough to ensure he never stepped foot inside again. “I like a bit of change.”
“Let’s not squabble, Gareth,” Moira said. “I’ve a favor to ask of you. But first, would you like to hear about Alfheim?”
Surprised, Gareth nodded. Moira never shared secrets when she could just as easily keep them to herself.
“Then here’s the truth of it: King Nochdvor of Alfheim was visiting Illyon on a diplomatic trip when a team of orinians stole him out from under the noses of Illyon’s leaders.”
Gareth feigned surprise. “What! That’s impossible!” he cried. He seized the chance to ask the question that had been gnawing at him all day: “Surely, Orean wouldn’t risk—”
“And yet, surely they did. The Nochdvors’ eyewitness accounts were quite damning. Alfheim wants war, of course,” Moira said, in the same tone she’d used to discuss their dinner plans. “But fortunately, it’s not up to them. We plan to send a team of diplomats to Orean to negotiate Nochdvor’s return. If Orean has nothing to hide, then they will cooperate.”
“And if they don’t?”
Moira shrugged. “Then Alfheim may have its war. Rheamaren Nochdvor won’t be appeased until she has either her father back or has shed enough blood to account for it.”
Gareth tried to reconcile his sister’s account with the scared girl he’d seen that morning. “Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked.
Moira gave Gareth a long, searching look before continuing, her expression unreadable. “We would like you to be on the team, Gareth.”
This time, Gareth’s surprise was real. His hand slipped, his knife cutting across his glass plate with a loud screech. He stared dully at his sister. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“I know it took you fifty years to develop a sense of humor, Moira, but you need to work on your delivery.”
“I mean it, Gareth. This is no joke. You should consider this an honor.”
Gareth stood so fast his chair hit the ground behind him. He felt dizzy, his heart sinking to the soles of his shoes. “Why me? I’m not a diplomat! I can barely even navigate the conference season, Moira, let alone hostage negotiations!”
“Everyone on the team will bring different experiences,” Moira said. “You may not be the perfect politician, but you have your merits. Your knowledge of Orean and its customs will be invaluable, and the fact that we would send the brother of a Unity Magistrate on this mission shows we believe in its success.”
“So I’m a pawn.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Gareth. We’re extending this invitation because we have faith in you.”
“If it’s an invitation, I should be able to refuse.”
Moira pursed her lips. “You said you’re loyal to Unity. We need you for this.”
“But—”
“We all have duties we must perform, Gareth,” Moira said, not giving Gareth a chance to speak. “I’ve been doing mine since father died, while you’ve been off chasing folktales. Now it’s your turn. Think of it this way: you’ll get to be a part of the story for once, instead of just reading them in books. I know it will be difficult leaving Ofelia, believe me, but think of the tales you’ll get to tell her – you’ll prevent a war, rescue a King. You’ll be a real-life Egil.”
Gareth stared down at his hands on the table. That did still his shock, if just for a moment. He wanted to be someone Ofelia could look up to, and if he had an opportunity to prevent a war and passed on it out of fear, he wouldn’t be. But the fear was founded, wasn’t it? If this was all true, if Orean really kidnapped a Unity King, would it be so far a stretch to think they might also find use for the brother of a Unity Magistrate?
“I know what you’re thinking, but I wouldn’t send you if your safety wasn’t guaranteed. We’ll have people to handle the difficult negotiations, and the team will have heavy security. You’ll even have your own bodyguard. I need you for this, Gareth. The world needs to see Unity step up to solve this.”
Was this just about optics, then? Had Lord Nochdvor been right? Perhaps Gareth’s pawn analogy was more accurate than he’d thought – perhaps he was just a ploy, a publicity stunt to obfuscate ulterior motives. Gareth was loyal to Unity, yes. He had no other way to be. But that didn’t mean he didn’t see what Unity was.
“You can have time to think about it,” Moira said while Gareth stayed silent. “We still have the rest of the team to collect, so there’s no immediate rush.”
“How gracious of you,” Gareth said. Mechanically, he picked up and righted his chair. “Actually, Moira, I think I’ve lost my appetite.”
Moira sighed. “Gareth—”
“If you’re going to give me time to think, I need to use it to actually think. I’m going home to my wife and daughter. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Moira said. “Then let me call you a cab.”
Gareth was already backing away, feeling behind him for the doorknob. The smell of Moira’s tobacco, the same as his father’s, was too sweet in here and he couldn’t wait a moment longer. “No, I think I’ll walk. I need to clear my head.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s getting dark, and it’s three miles to your hotel. Do you even know the way?” Moira called, even as Gareth backed through the door.
“I’ll figure it out,” Gareth called, turning and leaving without another word. The club’s long, hazy hallways passed by in a blur, and soon Gareth was bursting through the front doors and gasping in the crisp, stormy outside air. The sun had set while he’d been inside and Gareth gazed at the dark sky, surprisingly clear in the absence of fog.
He left that awful place on foot, stumbling off in the direction he’d arrived from. It was a relief to leave the grand municipal buildings behind, to be surrounded instead by homes and shops and normal people going about normal days, threats of war the last thing on their minds. He kept walking, and soon manicured homes fell away to dull brick, shops to abandoned storefronts. As he walked further, he passed a tawdry public house, its music loud and crude, and told himself he was still on the right path, that he had to pass through such unfashionable neighborhoods to reach Main Street. It was just the way; he remembered it from the cab ride over.
So he walking on, past distrustful glances thrown his way, past grimy children yelling “Sweep! Sweep!”, past boarded windows and seedy taverns. His mind circled around Unity, around his sister, around the Nochdvors, and it made him so dizzy he didn’t immediately realize that this was not the way home. He slowed, then stopped, then really began to panic when he saw a sign that said, “Now Entering Greysdale.” He coughed; here, the aromas drifting over from the tavern across the street only barely covered the stench of smoke, rot, and human waste.
A small chimney sweep bumped into him and deposited a layer of soot onto his coat, the dusty ash standing out against the black wool. Gareth frowned down at the boy, who cast too pitiable a figure to be annoyed with. “Do you know the way to Kramer Street?” he asked, handing the boy a coin.
Mumbling his thanks, the boy only shook his head and ran off. Gareth coughed as he watched the boy go; the aromas drifting over from the tavern across the street only barely covered the stench of smoke, rot, and human waste. Two men huddled near the tavern door, one looking Gareth’s way. Perhaps they would know. He worked his way over to them, but before he could ask for directions one hurriedly took off, knocking his shoulder into Gareth’s in his haste to get away. He mumbled an apology before continuing down the street.
“You’re gonna wanna check that you still have your purse,” the remaining man suggested.
Gareth glanced over his shoulder to check that the man was speaking to him. There was no one else around. “Me? Why wouldn’t I?”
“That fellow didn’t accidentally slam into you. It’s a con,” he explained slowly, as if he was explaining math to a toddler. “A popular one.”
Gareth checked the inner pocket of his coat and breathed a sigh of relief at finding his pocketbook still in it. He inched closer to the man. “Thank you, I should’ve seen the trick for what it was. Could you help me? I’m afraid I’m lost.”
The corner of the man’s mouth turned up in contempt. “Are you?”
“I’m trying to get to Kramer Street?”
The man thought for a moment, then nodded. He pointed down the street. “Go on down that way and at the first chance, turn left. It’ll look like an alley, but don’t let that stop you. The other end opens up onto Main Street.”
Gareth thanked the man and followed his instructions, hesitating when he reached the mouth of the alley described. It was exactly the sort of place common sense told him to avoid: dark, with large objects obscuring the view to the other end. When he looked up, though, past the grimy buildings he could see the spires of a church he recognized. He held a handkerchief to his face to block the smell, so foul it brought tears to his eyes, then plowed into the alley, eager to get out of this place.
He’d only made it about a third of the way through when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump and hiss like a feral cat. He bit his own tongue to keep from shouting.
But it was only the man from before, the one who’d given him directions.
“Sorry to scare you.” He wiped a hand across his mouth to cover a smile. “You dropped this, I think,” he said, holding out Gareth’s cigarette case.
Gareth reached out to take it, but the man only pulled it closer to himself.
“You should be careful walking around this place at night, sir. With your clothes and your fancy way of speaking, you’re asking to get robbed.”
“Oh,” Gareth said, uncertain.
He wanted to give the man the benefit of the doubt, but it was impossible not to read the threat. He turned to run — he could replace the cigarette case, but the same could not be said of his life — but found himself face-to-face with a second stranger. The slivers of moonlight that fought their way into the alley fell on the man’s knife, glittering wicket silver.
It was the shopper that bumped into him earlier, Gareth realized. He looked so much like the man with his cigarette case that they had to be related, and Gareth cursed himself for not noticing it before. He glanced toward the mouth of the alley. It had been so dark from the street. No one would see them here.
Gareth had always imagined that, being well-educated and reasonably clever, he’d react rationally in emergencies. He hated stories where the hero froze at a crucial moment. But now, his mind shut down. He hadn’t understood, before, the paralyzing effects of fear, the way powerlessness chilled your bones, whistled through your blood with every beat of your heart. He understood it now, as the man’s knife danced along the back of his neck.
“Call for help and my brother will cut your throat faster than you can piss yourself,” said his first assailant.
Before Gareth could feel a fresh wave of fear, the one with the knife held Gareth’s arms behind his back while the other slammed his knee into Gareth’s groin. Gareth grunted, the air leaving his lungs in a staccato burst, and fell to the ground, barely registering the pain of his knees hitting the hard dirt.
“Take my money, just leave me be,” he gasped when his breath returned to him. He wondered what his father would think of him begging like this. This was not how Ranulfs behaved, even to save their own lives. Before the thought could go far, the assailant slammed his fist into Gareth’s face and Gareth flew back at the blow, his head hitting alley brick. Lights burst before his eyes.
No one would see him here. No one would hear. Gareth retrieved his pocketbook with shaking hands and threw it at the assailant’s feet. The man rifled through it, pulled out Gareth’s Unity identification, and held the laminated papers to the light. “What’s this?”
“Looks like junk,” the other suggested.
“What’s it say?” the first asked Gareth. He sneered when he saw Gareth trying to inch his way down the alley. “Tag, stop him.”
He returned to studying the papers while Tag pulled Gareth back by the collar. “That’s Unity’s seal, right there. I bet we can get a good price for whatever this is. Search him, see if he’s hiding anything else.”
It was now or never.
“Help!” Gareth shouted as loudly as he could. He thought he saw a shadow hesitate at the mouth of the alley, but knew it was only hallucination brought on by wishful thinking. No one could see him here.
He looked back at Tag in time to see a fist speeding toward his face, so fast he couldn’t even cringe before the blow struck. Pain radiated everywhere, sharp and agonizing. He fell back against the wall again, then everything faded to black.
The first big cliffhanger since the first chapter!
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