Sexton Spice (Sexton Chronicles, vol. 2)

By David J. Steele

When Tom, John, and Andy learn that simple herbs and spices are illegal in Sexton, they decide the people deserve food that tastes good. They "invent" fried chicken, and start smuggling herbs. They're already under a death sentence, so why not? ...Their actions bring Sexton and Crescens one step closer to war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David J. Steele
• Release date: Oct 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452315010

David J. Steele

Born and raised in Kalamazoo, MI. David attended Eureka College as a Ronald Reagan Fellow. He served as a professional with a major not-for-profit from 1988-2005. Dave and his wife reside in Michigan.

Book preview

Chapter One

Andy looked at the chicken frying in the pan and grinned. Not only was it browning nicely, it smelled great. The potatoes were boiling and would be ready to mash about the time the chicken was done. This was as close to an American meal as they had seen in more than five years, and if Tom and John were late, he would eat it without them. Every bite. …And run them through with a sword if they groused about it.

He grabbed the bundle of sticks they called a broom and swept the floorboards again. With no screens on the windows and the door open to vent the heat from their stove, the city dirt came in nonstop even on the third floor. If he thought about it, he might have realized he was contributing to the problem when he swept the dirt out the door and let it fall over the rickety stairs and down to the street, but he didn't think about it. He glanced at the stove and saw that the chicken was down. Stove, he thought. That's a kind name for it.

John came through the door and laughed at Andy. You've got to be the ugliest housewife I've ever seen.

Ever had a housewife bend, fold, mutilate, and staple you?

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. It's the apron.

How else am I supposed to keep the grease off my shirt?

Ah. The Betty Crocker defense.

Andy stuck a fork in one of the potatoes and flipped it John's direction. Hot potato!

John didn't disappoint him. When he saw the white object come flying at him, he caught it by reflex. He howled and tossed it from one hand to the other. It looked ridiculous--the big guy hopping from one foot to another, his chiseled face twisted in a wince, bouncing the soft potato over his fingers. Finally, he put it down on the table. What'd you do that for?

Andy stuck the long fork in a chicken leg and transferred it to a towel on a shelf on the wall to drain. To see if you're dumb enough to catch it, even after I warned you.

Shouting something's hot when you throw it at a guy isn't a warning.

Next time I'll write a memo. He flicked another potato over his shoulder.

Ow, ow, ow!

It was hard to talk and snicker at the same time, but Andy managed. Without looking, he said, Caught that one too, didn't ya?

Now you're just wasting food…ya bastard.

I'll bet I didn't. You put it on the table, didn't you? He spun to look and cackled when he saw John reach to knock it to the floor. Too late! Ha! I knew you wouldn't drop it.

It's food!

It was a weapon. He winked. That you can eat. That's how the Irish invented mashed potatoes--they ran out of rocks and put boiled potatoes in their slings. When they hit the enemy, they burned, and smashed, and tasted good.

You're making that up.

How could you tell?

The question, Tom said from the doorway, is when can we eat? He walked into the room and looked at John, who was blowing on his fingers. Andy looked ridiculous--sweat on his face, his thin black hair sticking up, wearing a dirty apron over a cotton blouse--grease stained with spatters from the frying chicken. I have to admit, he said as he sat on one of the rough chairs at the table, that smells great. I can't remember the last time I had fried chicken, but it sure wasn't in this world. What's in the breading?

Andy grinned and started transferring the rest of the pieces onto the towel. Stuff I got on the street. A little bit of red pepper, some leafy stuff that might be tarragon, a few miscellaneous powders with names I can't pronounce…

Tom arched an eyebrow over a blue eye. Somehow, his lopsided grin made his face look thoughtful. Spices?

Yeah. He took off his apron and bunched it in his hand so he could lift the pot of water from the stove, carried it over to the window, and lifted it. Looking out and down, he shouted, Hot water! None of the potatoes fell to the street, and he didn't hear any screams from below. What's wrong with spices?

Wood creaked on wood as John pulled back a chair and sat down. Feed me!

Andy grabbed the potato from the table--the one on the floor was too far past the three-second rule--and tossed it in the pot with the others. He mashed the ones in the pot with the back of the wooden spoon and threw in a dollop of butter and a pinch of salt, some milk purchased that morning, and a dash of pepper. He slopped the mashed potatoes on three plates at the table. Dinner is served, he said with a bow.

Tom took the first bit of a leg, chewed, and sighed. "After all this time, fried chicken. Man this is good!" John pinched skin and meat from a breast and shoved it in his mouth. The look on his face showed his agreement with Tom. Andy, busy with a spoonful of mashed potatoes, didn't miss their expressions. It was good. Especially after years of bland Sexton food.

So answer the question, Tom said.

What question?

Where did you get the spices?

Actually, Andy said through his food, you didn't ask the question. A glance at Tom's face took away his mirth. I know a guy.

You know the purchase, use, or sale of foreign spices is illegal.

"They're spices, not heroin…or cocaine, or mara-gee-wanna."

John looked worried. He leaned toward Tom and met his eyes. You're not a protector anymore, Tom. …Are you?

The hard look passed from Tom's eyes, and his face relaxed to its normal grin. No. I'm an outlaw with the same price on his head as you. But you need to understand… He pointed at the plate of chicken. The protectors guild looks at illegally imported herbs and spices the same way cops on Earth look at illegal drugs.

Andy sucked the meat off a wing and tossed the bone on his plate. "So, let me see if I have this right. The government of this ass-backward, police state, kingdom will kill me for preparing a decent meal of fried chicken, the guy who sold me the stuff that made it a decent meal, and anyone who ate the decent meal? I should worry if they smell mustard on my breath?"

Sorry, pal. It's not a decent meal of fried chicken.

Oh?

It's a great meal of fried chicken. Tom pushed his chair away from the table, put his hands together behind his head, and--to Andy's consternation--put his booted feet on the table. In fact, I think we owe it to the people of Sexton to reproduce this meal in a low key, off the beaten path, restaurant.

I like where you're going with this, John said.

But I don't have that much of any of the spices.

Tom shrugged. So we have a little supply problem, and one or two minor problems with the law.

Minor problems? John coughed.

They already want us dead, Andy said with a grin. It can't get much worse.

It can't?

Tom looked at each of them and winked at Andy. It seems to me, gentlemen, that we are about to move from a life of crime, to a career of crime. They were in; he could feel it. So…what's for dessert?

Chapter Two

Corporal Cliomet brushed a piece of lint from his black cloak while another man changed the bandage on his face. Sistelli looked over their shoulders at the steps in front of the temple he was standing in. Soon he would be decorated with the Order of Sexton--the first such decorated officer in this generation of the reign of Rolof the First. It was a singular honor he felt he richly deserved. And Clio, good man that he was--the man who dragged him out of the inferno and tended his wounds until help arrived--would be decorated as well, though to a lesser extent.

A man wearing the purple mantle of high office over his shoulders made his way to them. In a few moments, he said without preamble, the crowd will be quieted and I will go to the front and call you gentlemen out. I shall read the commendation and present you with your medals.

What do we do after that? Clio asked.

Resume your duties and assist with the tax collection.

Sistelli winked at the corporal. After that, I will buy you an ale and we can celebrate.

I'm sorry sir, but I will pass on your offer…for now. With your permission, I would like to go home.

Bells in the tower rang. The King's man walked out and raised his arms to the crowd. The sun shined in his face, but he could still see three lines of commoners stretching yards down the street. The were there to pay their taxes and, if given a choice, would probably rather just pay them and leave than watch a guild officer receive praise, but they were not going to be offered a choice.

There were two protectors standing behind each of three tables at the top of the stairs. Behind each were chests full of coins: taxes. They came to attention as he stepped to the center. His voice rang loud and clear in the morning air. Good citizens of Sexton, I come before you to hail two heroes of the realm. Raise your voices and hearts and cheer the presence of Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet!

Sistelli and Clio stepped into the sun. The crowd applauded, and a few managed to shout. Although no announcement was made, most knew of the fire in the warehouse, and that many died before it fell into the Bay of Sexton. Some believed the blaze was caused by renegade magic, others thought it was the wrath of one of the gods, and still others heard from those who heard from those who claimed they were there, that it was an explosion of mundane cause.

The King's man raised his long-fingered hands until the crowd quieted. His majesty sent me to award these good men--your protectors--high honors for their deeds of two weeks ago. Allow me to introduce the noble heroes of the day…Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet! Applause rose as the two protectors joined him at the top of the stairs. Clio wasn't sure what to do with his hands; they sat at his sides and twitched. He stood at stiff attention and suddenly wished he was somewhere else.

Sistelli beamed. He stood with his legs spaced to shoulder width, grinning, and raised both hands to the crowd. They responded with a cheer. His thigh ached--the wound from Viper's thrown dagger had yet to knit. He suffered a deep cut from the point of the little bastard's sword just before the warehouse fell. His smile almost faded when he remembered the moment he discovered that his former roommate at The Protectors Guild Academy at Misticuf was the outlaw known as Viper. Of all those present, only he knew that Tom Benton was Viper--and that Tom Benton did not perish in the blaze. That will change, he thought, when I find him and reveal him for what he is. Until then…let these fools believe him to be a fallen hero. It costs me nothing.

The King's man's voice was deep and carried easily up the street. "…discovered the thieves known as John and Andy--who had the audacity to rob the coffers of your hard-earned taxes--were hiding in an unused warehouse on the wharf. He and the deceased Lieutenant Benton led two patrols to the warehouse to retrieve the taxes and execute the criminals.

The criminals were clever, diabolical, and not working alone. A wizard…unauthorized by the kingdom, and evil, known to some of you who may have utilized his tavern as Ambrose Bierce, assisted them. In spite of the danger, Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet, accompanied by Lieutenant Benton, faced fire and explosion. It is obvious from his wounds that Lieutenant Sistelli suffered much to protect you. We are assured, happily, that his wounds will heal! He waited for the crowd to cheer. It took a moment but they complied…if with somewhat less enthusiasm than he hoped to see.

It gives me great pleasure, on behalf of the Grandfather of Protectors and the King of our nation, to confer upon Corporal Cliomet the rank of sergeant! Cheers went up. Those who knew Cliomet thought him to be as honorable as members of the guild could be.

Clio broke into a grin. He knew he was going to receive a medal, but never dared dream he would be a sergeant. If only his men were there to see such a thing. A few were--he could see their faces in the glare and was happy to see them smile. In spite of the pain in his chest--he was kicked by a mule in the attack--he stood up a little straighter.

"…and know, good people of Sexton Proper, that Lieutenant Sistelli is now Captain Sistelli! A man of unquestionable, indisputable character, Captain Sistelli was gravely injured in the fight with John and Andy. He vanquished both while the wizard Bierce worked his magic to the destruction of the building. That he was unable to save the life of Lieutenant Benton is no reflection upon his skill as a fighter--Captain Sistelli, as you can see, sustained terrible wounds before emerging victorious. We take greatest pleasure and honor in recognizing these two heroes."

He stuck out his hand and two boys came out. Each carried a shining medallion resting on a pillow of the finest purple fabric. The King's man picked up the first medal and held it in the sun for the crowd to see. Sergeant Cliomet has been conferred the King's medal of Noble Service. Clio snapped to attention with only a slight wince at the pain in his ribs, and bowed his head slightly to receive the medal.

And good Captain Sistelli, for facing two of the greatest villains of our day…and killing a rogue wizard at great personal expense, it is my singular honor to recognize you with the highest award conferred in the king's name--the Order of Sexton!

At that, the crowd cheered in earnest. The Order of Sexton was rare, almost unheard of. They would be able to brag for generations that they were there to see a brave man accept it.

Sistelli lowered his head and relished the shine on the medallion as it passed before his eyes, the weight of it on his chest when he straightened. The increase in status as well as pay almost overcame the stabbing pain in his leg and the dull throb of his face. He looked noble and strong, the picture of a model protector in spite of, and perhaps because of, his wounds.

These wounds will heal, Tom the Viper. They will heal, and when they do, I will find you and kill you. Until then, and probably after, he would use his status as a hero and protector to increase his wealth by whatever means he could. Duty did not have to be synonymous with poverty. It was a lesson he learned years before.

No one noticed when a bent man with a cane and a brown cloak with the hood pulled over his head turned away from the end of one of the lines and moved slowly up the hill. Under the hood, Andy shook his head.

Chapter Three

It was not the heat of the day that bothered him, but the dampness of the air. The stench of the bay reached into his shop and almost overwhelmed the pleasant odors of his wares. He knew some passersby on the street would disagree with him. Their barbaric noses were not refined enough to enjoy the spirit of Crescens--his homeland to the south. That was fine with him. He catered to a more adventurous clientèle: those who appreciated his fine rugs, his tobaccos, his water pipes, and other parts of his culture he was allowed to sell in this backward land.

He was about to close his shop for the afternoon and go to the bazaar and see if his younger brother was making any sales. Someone walked through the door just as he was about to lock the money box and take it upstairs. Raj tried not to watch him overtly, but kept an eye on the man while he dusted a water pipe on the counter.

The man was small and well dressed in blue trousers and a pale blouse. His black hair was clean and cut short, as was his beard. He looked with an appraising eye at the variety, and seemed to admire the roots and herbs in the barrels by the window. When he caught Raj looking at him, he nodded and went back to looking.

Andy bounced into the shop and shoved the open door against the wall to jangle the bell. He grinned at the startled look on the face of the proprietor and was relieved to see the look change to a happy one. What teeth he had were startling white in his shaved, olive-skinned face. He wondered if Tom knew what country the man was from based on his long white robe and brimless white cap. Probably not, he thought. The protectors guild doesn't worry about anything outside the borders--that's the army's problem.

Good afternoon, my friend! Raj boomed. What does your wife think of your newly found cooking skills?

You mean the ones with food?

Raj laughed, but his eyes flitted to the stranger behind his friend--who's name he did not now. Something struck him as odd and he did not like it. In light of the moment, he regretted selling this man spices against the law of this land, and was certain the fire at the warehouse--which resulted in death several times over--was caused, at least in part, by the barrels he sold to this man. I am sorry sirs, I was about to close for the afternoon. Perhaps you could return some other time?

Tom walked over and closed the door. He smiled at the shopkeeper and bowed his head slightly. Relax. We're here to discuss a business arrangement that will result in more money than you will ever see from the sale of even your finest rugs.

He reached under the counter and put his fingers around the handle of a long dagger. You have my attention, but first I must know your names. He gave the a long look. Names your mothers would recognize.

Andy looked at Tom and shrugged. He trusted me with contraband spices and illegal explosives. The least we can do is trust him with our real names. He turned and reached out to shake the shopkeeper's hand. Ringo Starr, he said. It might have worked if Tom wasn't laughing so hard.

…And he has a screen door on his yellow submarine, Tom said. The shopkeeper looked confused. His name is Andy, and mine is Tom. As long as we're friends… I ask that you let go of that weapon in your hand.

Raj let go of the dagger and brought both hands to the countertop. How did you know?

It's what I would have done.

He arched an eyebrow. You have the mark of the protectors guild on you. The stench of it, I mean to say.

Andy decided to intervene. He's not with the guild. Not anymore…I mean…uh…

Tom walked to the counter and shook hands with the shopkeeper. My name really is Tom. You have a good eye. I was a protector for a while, but no longer. Now I'm afraid you have me at a slight disadvantage.

How so?

I don't know your name.

Raj. He shook the proffered hand. Are you the one known as Viper? The grip on his hand tightened, and the little man's eyes narrowed, but only for a fraction of a second.

How do you know that name?

He laughed and winked at Andy. When one makes a living selling foreign goods, and a better living selling foreign goods that are contraband, one does well to pay very close attention to whispers in dark streets. His eyes turned back to Tom. Why do you with to speak with me?

To propose a partnership.

I am listening. The little man's face did not change; his eyes pierced his. You can be assured I will keep this conversation in the strictest confidence. Call it a matter of mutual respect. As I see it, you are wanted by the protectors guild…and I make more money in the spice trade than any other way. A slip of the tongue, a word placed in the wrong ear, and neither of us lives for long. I have but one question.

What's your question? Andy stepped next to Tom. He sensed tension without knowing exactly why.

What happens if I do not accept your proposal?

Tom smiled without a trace of anything but satisfaction. Nothing. You stated the situation very well, which is one of the reasons I think we're going to get along. I can't give you up to the guild--not that I would anyway. If I had a problem of any sort with spices, I would never have set foot in this shop…as a civilian. And you won't give us up to the guild.

I think I like you as well.

But time will tell.

Yes.

Tom accepted the equivocation with a nod. My friends and I are going to open a restaurant, and we're going to use spices to make food a man with a palate can enjoy.

That is not a crime.

Andy dove in. Would you sell us the spices?

No. That would be a crime.

Exactly, Tom agreed; his grin was back. We need to supply ourselves.

Raj toyed with the mouthpiece of the water pipe. I suppose, if it is done quietly and the price is right, I can supply you with enough for your restaurant.

Thanks, but it's not enough. The restaurant is a distraction. Tom tapped a finger on the counter and waited until Raj looked him in the eye. What we want to do is change the economy of this country. If people get used to food that tastes good, and we can sell it in quantity…the guild will not be able to stop its widespread use.

You seek to make something illegal, legal through popular use? The pipe fell from his hand and bounced on the counter. To what end?

A little piece of freedom. Tom smiled. That's the ultimate goal. Do you pay enough in taxes? Or do you pay too much--rather, are you expected to pay too much? We seek to get ahead of the guild's ability to enforce the law. In the interim, there's a lot of money to be made for all concerned. Like the sound of this so far?

Raj grinned. I do, sir. I like it very much.

There are details we'll have to work out; procurement of the spices, transportation from Crescens to Sexton… We'll need good men with courage and tight lips. And we'll need a mechanism for distribution. Are you with us?

Oh yes!

Chapter Four

Plans came easily to Tom, but the pieces took a while to assemble. He needed good men from the seedy side of life, and they weren't easy to find. …Unless you looked on a ship. The wharf was out of his element, as it was for nearly all protectors. As seafarers from all nations, their protection and law enforcement came from the Army of Sexton under the leadership of officers who graduated from Sisticuf--the academy on the point on the other side of the Bay of Sexton from the Protectors Guild Academy at Misticuf.

He sat at a table in the sun outside a tavern overlooking the harbor. There were few clouds in the sky, a mild breeze, and the sun was high overhead. From his table he could see the ships in the harbor and some of the crews on the smaller boats closer in. Their flags meant nothing to him; he couldn't tell which was from what country, and even if one of them happened to fly the Jolly Roger--unheard of in this world--he would have ruled it out. He didn't want a pirate. He wanted an honest captain who wasn't opposed to smuggling.

A serving girl came out the door and approached him. She smiled easily at the patrons between him and her, swishing her hips slightly when she saw he was watching. She was pretty, and busty. Her dirty blond hair rested on her tanned shoulders and touched the top of her bodice. Tom felt lucky she wasn't his type. But flirtation could be used by either sex: she would use it to get good tips, and he would use it to get information.

She bent down farther than she needed to when she spoke to him. Can I get you some bread to start, sir? Perhaps something to drink?

He moved his eyes away from her breasts and glanced over her shoulder. John was walking up the street toward them and froze in his tracks when he saw them. Tom met her eyes and said, Bread would be great, and I'd like strong tea.

Yea, dear? On a hot day like this? She smiled and flashed her eyes. Perhaps some rum in the cup?

No, thank you. He pulled a silver coin from the purse on his belt and put it on the table to save her the trouble of asking if he could pay. And if there's a bit of butter available… Behind her, John was waving his arms madly. Tom couldn't be sure what he was trying to tell him.

She saw him looking at something other than her and turned. John must have seen it coming, because he busied himself staring at the ships, with his arm blocking his face and his hand making a visor over his eyes. She shrugged and walked into the building. Tom made the connection--the girl was Aemilia. John's one-night stand, who was in the warehouse at the start of things.

Oh grow up, he muttered under his breath. He caught John's eye and indicated his thoughts with a gesture. John shook his head and looked like he wanted to run. Tom repeated the gesture. John's shoulders sagged and he walked toward the table.

What do you need me for? John asked as he pulled back the other chair. If she likes you, you're in.

I take it that's Aemilia?

Yeah.

You could've done a lot worse.

John grinned in spite of his nervousness. Thanks.

I guess lady luck is blind, isn't she?

"Huh? …Hey!"

Tom watched Aemilia come out the door and caught a look of mild surprise on her face when she saw another customer with him. Her face changed only slightly when she recognized him. Got him from the back of his head and fifteen feet away, he thought. Sharp girl, he whispered. She recognizes you.

Uh-oh.

Relax. She's smiling.

Great…

Aemilia put the plate with the bread and a small bowl of butter and a spoon down on the table between them. She lifted the clay pot with Tom's tea and put a mug in front of him. Then she turned a brilliant smile to John without a hint of recognition in her eyes. She tucked the tray under her arm and said, May I get you something to drink, sir?

John looked disarmed, but managed to return her smile. Some tea, please.

Certainly sir. Only a moment. She turned on heel and started to walk away."

You were wrong. She didn't recognize me.

Tom didn't warn him that she was holding the tray in both hands over his head. He might have, if he knew she was going to bring it down hard enough to bounce John's eyeballs, but probably not. Oh, I think she did.

You could've said something!

Could've. He could have said something a minute later, when she came out of the building at a fast clip and with a pot of tea in her hands. He didn't. It was more fun to wait until she finished dumping the hot water over his head and watch his face perform gymnastic tricks. Watch out.

John leaped to his feet and spun on her. "What are you doing?"

I am so sorry, sir who is an utter stranger to me! she cried. She held a hand to her chest--the one not holding the pot--and managed to look distraught. I do not know what happened.

Sit down, John. Tom looked at Aemilia and winked. I think she's done her worst. Haven't you?

Her smile was back and more than a little frightening. Not…by…half, she snarled between her teeth. But enough for now.

"That water is hot!"

Sit down, sir. I am so sorry for my mistake. She put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him into his chair. What can I get you to eat?

I really would like some tea, John said.

Don't press your luck. Tom looked at her and saw that her anger was gone, at least for now. We'll have whatever is roasting. He pulled a gold coin from his purse and slid it over the table to her. She made it disappear into her apron and looked at him with an eyebrow arched. He kept his voice low so it wouldn't carry to the other tables. When you come back, I'd like to ask you about the boat captains who dine here.

She looked both ways and bent down. Here is a hanky for you, sir, she said loudly to John. To Tom she whispered, Are you gentlemen up to no good?

Of course. And you, dear lady, are just what we need.

Her grin revealed dimples and made her eyes flash bright blue in the sunlight. She straightened and said, Wait right here, gentlemen. I will be back shortly with your roast of beef.

John waited several seconds and proved he learned a lesson about keeping quiet until it was safe to talk. What the hell are you up to?

Enlisting help.

"From her?"

Chapter Five

They hadn't been in their former employer's tavern in six months and it felt strange to be there, especially after the old man died saving their lives in the warehouse. The old man was none other than Ambrose Bierce, a fellow American and a Civil War veteran, distinguished misanthrope and writer, who disappeared in 1919 and was never heard from again…until John and Andy met him on the streets of Sexton Proper in what, in their world, was 1983.

Andy tried to relax, but it wasn't easy. He leaned his chair against the wall and looked over the room: the small tables, the open fireplace in the corner with meat roasting on a spit, the shuttered windows, and patrons that would have made a professional wrestler nervous. No one looked familiar, which was good, but it might not mean anything--he hoped they didn't look familiar either. The beard probably helped. That, and their earlier status as cook and dishwasher.

You look cool and comfortable, John said, for a wanted man in one of the first places the guild will look.

And you look uncomfortable enough to get us caught. Luckily, they probably looked her a couple of months ago and didn't find us. Drink up. It'll help. Slouch a little…and stop gripping the mug like it's a handle on a roller coaster. There's a waitress on her way over here--don't freeze! When she goes to pour more ale in your mug, I want you to ogle her breasts.

Why?

Because they're there, ya moron!

Well, at least something you said makes sense. He did as he was told with pleasure when she poured, and continued to watch her as she wended her way back to the bar. Now what?

"Now comes the easy part for you, and the hard part for me. I'm going up to the old man's room and open the secret vault. You stay here and drool over the waitress--without picking her up. We don't need another Aemilia episode."

Don't remind me.

…After a while, pay our bill and walk out. If anyone wants to know where I went, do what comes naturally.

What comes naturally?

Play dumb. Andy got up and hurried to the back with an exaggerated stagger, like every other patron who had or would use the alley for a bathroom. He was about to take the back stairs and changed his mind. He went to the alley and completed the task he set out to imitate.

It had been a while since Bierce showed him how to open the hidden door to the stairs. The cagey old fart must've known his time was near, he thought, or he wouldn't have shown me how to do this. He wouldn't have seen it if he didn't know exactly where to look--a square of wood, unpainted and aged like the rest of the building, but with the grain running up and down instead of left and right. He pushed the side of his foot against it, then pushed against the wall. A long panel, two feet wide and six feet pushed through the rest of the wall and stopped after two feet. He slipped through and went behind the panel. He pushed it back in place and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

It seemed like it took forever, but just as he wished for a flashlight or at least a candle and Bic lighter, he noticed small holes in the outer wall. They looked like they were punched out with a hammer or pick, and they let in just enough light to show him where the stairs were. You were a clever old fart. I knew you wouldn't let me down.

He felt along the wall that wasn't a wall at the top of the stairs. There was a latch in place of a doorknob and he laughed when he found it. Why hide anything on the inside of a secret door? He wasn't surprised to hear nothing from the other side; the owner was tending bar, and might not live in the room anyway.

He flipped the latch and pulled the door open. It was the back of the wardrobe--a great big, heavy thing that barely fit in the room. It was an unusual piece of furniture in a world where a man had few changes of clothing. If there was anyone living in the room, he wasn't using the wardrobe. He stood inside it for several seconds and heard nothing. A little light shined through the edges of the doors, but it was silvery, not yellow.

Compared to the darkness of the stairs and wardrobe, the moonlight in the room was a lot of light. Rumpled blankets covered the feather mattress and the dark wood of the poster bed gleamed. He got on his hands and knees and pushed aside the dust ruffle, then pushed along the floor with the flat of his hands, wrinkling his nose at what he hoped were dust bunnies brushing his fingers. If some of them hadn't skittered away, he would have been able to do a better job of maintaining the hope.

His fingers found what they were looking for--the sharp edge of a square cut into the floorboards. He couldn't get a fingernail under it, so he pulled a knife from his boot and pried it up. Inside, he felt a box about eight inches on a side and four inches deep.

It was like being a kid at Christmas. He slid out from under the bed and gritted his teeth. One eye at a time, he opened his lids. His heart pounded and he wondered if anyone else saw the flash. Probably not--no one was rushing the door. All he could hear were sounds of the bar below: voices, laughter, muted shuffling.

When his vision cleared--a process that took a lot longer than he wanted it to, given he was lying under another man's bed without the benefit of a cheating wife on the mattress--he looked in the box with high hopes…and saw a book. A leather bound book with an elaborate B embossed on the cover. Gee, he whispered, imagine that. Ambrose Bierce had a secret book…

Chapter Six

She left the tavern with nothing more in mind than going home for the night. Her head spun pleasantly and the cobbles were a bit more uneven than usual, but she told herself she was not drunk. There was an aura around the wizard lights, and some of the poles appeared to be wobbling, the alley she was walking toward appeared to get smaller and farther away, but she was not drunk. When she finally made it to the alley, she laughed and leaned against a wall to catch her breath.

The men following her were not the picture of sobriety either, but they were sober enough to recognize a drunk woman--particularly a woman with bright red hair and a skirt that showed her ankles and, if one caught sight of a lucky swish, a calf. The four of them walked abreast of each other across the square in silence. They agreed to see her safely home and return to the bar, preferably without being seen, and never tell her what they did.

She thought she was humming to herself as she walked down the alley toward the stairs that would lead her to her apartment, but was quite loud and off-key. The humming stopped when a black-clad man appeared from the shadows and blocked her way. His presence startled her. She squealed and backed up half a step, almost stumbling, and clutched her chest. Oh my! You startled me, sir!

He was tall and looked strong and brave in his black uniform. She found her footing and smiled at him. I thank you for pertectin' me, sir pro-tector, sir. Would ye mind helping a poor gal up the stairs? They're kind of moving…

Harlot.

She started to smile, for surely he must be joking. She was alone! Beg your pardon, sir?

He called out to someone, but she saw no one else. A noise on the stairs made her look up, and she saw another protector descend the stairs. He tugged on the cuff of his glove, then folded his hands in front of his gut. Do you think this woman has been selling herself?

Aye, said the man in front of her. No woman of good reputation is on the streets at this hour of the night, sir. Especially a woman as fine to look at as this harlot.

Perhaps we should escort her to her quarters, said the man on the stairs.

I am quite culpable of walking on my own, she slurred. Something was not right, and she shook her head. …Capable.

The man behind her slipped a hand around her waist and the man on the stairs took her arm in his hand. We will take you home, young lady.

I can do it on my own! She did not like the way this was happening. These men were not here to protect her! She tried to break away, but they squeezed her, shoved her, and pulled her. Leave me go!

†

Tom was out for a walk, trying to make himself tired enough to sleep. The damp air made the wound on his right shoulder--a result of a near miss from Sistelli's dagger in the warehouse--burn and the muscle ache. He saw a woman lurch her way to an alley, and men following her in silence. His training kicked in and he stopped to watch. Four men walking abreast of