A Tale of Rum Town

By K.W. Jackson

Crottle the burglar is being hunted. The vicious smuggler Jenk Sonner and his half-ogre enforcer want revenge. Crottle has one last mystery job before he can rescue the street-urchin Meeze from the walled-in squalor of Rum Town. When the brutal actions of a thug give Jenk a clue how to find Crottle, the burglar's struggles have only started.

Low-magic adventure in the alleyways and slums.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.W. Jackson
• Release date: Mar 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458081032

K.W. Jackson

K.W. Jackson is a IT professional from Melbourne, Australia. He is married with one son and lives in the eastern suburbs under the shadow of a long extinct volcano. Guitar, drawing, RPGs, computer games, vegetable gardening, organic food, cooking and of course reading are his many hobbies in between writing and drinking italian coffee. K.W. Jackson struggled for over 17 years to complete his first book but that opened the gates for all the rest. For anyone reading this know that: "Do not ever, ever, give up on achieving your dreams. Life is too short."

Book preview

A TALE OF RUM TOWN

A Tale of Khara Thel

By K.W. Jackson

Copyright, © 2011, K.W. Jackson. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition.

http://kharathel.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

Crottle stepped quietly through the shadows of Mastview Alley. Once upon a time, he supposed, you could see the masts on the wharves of Ferris. Now the buildings were all at least three stories high and so close together many parts of Rum Town were in permanent shadow. If only he was like Patchwork and could traverse Rum Town from end to end without touching the ground - leaping from rooftop to wall to rooftop. That would be the way to travel. No risk from gangs, beggars, cutpurses and footpads. If he could do that he could operate at any other time except the dead of night - like where he was now.

Parkey said that Patchwork never goes to the surface except for a contract. Patchwork even sleeps in a place that you can't get to unless you jump from a six-storey tenement. Anyway, what does Parkey know except the bottom of a jug of rum. This night Parkey was probably slumped in an alley full of rubbish so drunk he'd filled his pants with his own nightsoil. Rats would be nibbling off what was left of his ears.

No, Parkey was not to be worried about. Crottle's days of having to pay Parkey with coin or booze just to learn about Rum Town, without having his pocket picked or his throat slit, would be over after this. When he completed this job he would be out of Rum Town and down to East Freeport where he'd finally see daylight anytime he wanted. That and he'd work for The Cartel. Harkett had made him a good offer and Harkett was the collector for the leader of The Cartel - Medesca. That was a man to respect and fear. Crottle hadn't seen him but he'd heard a lot about him - oh yes. A genius at plotting and getting away with all kinds of heists, burglaries, thefts and selling contraband. In Crottle's mind Medesca was going to take over all the underworld of Ferris.

Slick black cobblestone led into the blind alley. It was narrow enough that he could touch both walls by just bending his arms at the elbows. Two people would touch if they tried to pass. Crottle looked up to check his position relative to the window he was going to enter. He moved forward half a step and at that point Crottle started to climb. He pressed his back against one side, toes of his supple boots against the other, and then lifted and braced his way upwards.

In a few dozen accelerating heartbeats he reached the shutter and braced in position like a plank across the alleyway to check the stiff guard on his wrist. To open the shutters he would have to hold the position between house walls with only one hand while he worked the shutters open with the other. Crottle had trained for four weeks to build his endurance but his wrist wasn't strong enough. He still fell on the mats and rags until the idea of a wrist brace occurred to Crottle. He built one out of old boots and an archer's vambrace and that made the difference. With the brace he could maintain the position long enough to get open the shutters with one hand and he never fell once training in the little courtyard.

Carefully he slid out his tools. The probes and hooks were long and of steel stored in a buckram roll with each tool in its own firm pocket. All Crottle needed was one of those tools now. With all the practice he was surprised that the latch of the shutters came open so easily. A small tin flask of oil with a pointed nozzle was the next device and he used it to deliver lubricant to the hinges. They opened with very little sound.

This was going well, Crottle thought.

Meeze, the street rat, had kept an eye on Murchison's house for at least the last week. All Crottle had to do was feed Meeze, and give her the lure of a half-dozen bronze shillings at the end of it all. Those shillings were costly but Crottle thought it worthwhile. Meeze was only about nine or ten years old but a tough little rat of a street urchin. She was also very smart. Crottle thought of her as like his niece or perhaps even his little sister. If this went well he would offer her a place to live and run errands for him once he was out in East Freeport. Murchison had left today with traveling bags and Meeze was quick to report. It was too good an opportunity to let go.

Crottle braced again and sorted his gear. He worked the oil-paper window with his probes then oiled the hinges just like with the shutters. With great care Crottle eased into the window, gripping the top of its frame with a steely fingers.

It was so dark he could see nothing of use. Just block-like shadows amongst pitch-black. Closing the window and the shutters he set about lighting his tiny shuttered hand-lantern, purely by well-rehearsed feel, and the brief flashes of light from flint striking steel. Outside he heard voices.

'Thought I saw 'im go in here. I'm sure it was Crottle - stinking rat-turd thief,' a nasal whining voice said.

'Could have been a rat,' said the other, deeper voice.

'It weren't no rat, hare-brain,' said the first.

Crottle's neck grew cold and he quickly hid against the wall of the room that faced the alley then shuttered his lantern.

'Where are we?' asked the deeper voice.

'I think we're near that money-lender - Murchison's house,' said the nasal voice.

Who were these two? Crottle asked himself. He heard their feet scuff through the detritus of old shingles, potsherds, and smashed tiles. They stopped almost right under the window.

'I smell'im,' said the nasal voice.

A deep laughter came out, 'You can't smell anything since Harkett broke your nose. You said so yourself!' mocked the deeper voice.

Now Crottle knew who it was. Jenk Sonner the smuggler and his bodyguard, Hurmgaal - the half-ogre. Even though he was up in Murchison's house and there was no way either of them would climb up he felt afraid. Ever since Crottle had scouted Jenk's stash of grapeleaf-nectar, and stole it for Harkett, Jenk had been after him for revenge. It didn't matter that Harkett kicked Hurmgaal in the groin then broke Jenk's nose they still wanted to catch him - perhaps even more so, now that he was looked out for by Harkett.

'He ain't here,' Hurmgaal said, plainly indicating he thought they were wasting their own time.

'Well not now but he was. I swear,' Jenk was begrudgingly ready to go.

'Sure. Let's go where we's meant to be,' Hurmgaal said.

The two in the alley made their way back out. Boots scraping and kicking shards of broken tiles as they went. Completely careless of how much noise they made.

Crottle slowly relaxed and opened the shutters of his lantern. The room was quite sparse. A trunk and a chest of drawers near a bed-frame. It looked like it hadn't been used in years and Crottle could plainly see that he was leaving tracks in the dust. He silently cursed and decided he'd have to clean the whole room since he couldn't put the dust back where it was meant to be. The trunk held old woman's clothes and smelled strongly of camphor sticks.

Creeping through the dark house interior Crottle finally found a locked door. After deftly bypassing the lock and the pathetic needle trap he found a small room that contained a large trunk strapped with iron bands. Listening carefully he picked his way over the floor to the trunk deftly checking each floorboard with pressure from his toes before committing his weight. The lantern guttered as it ran out of oil and started to fade. Crottle let out a hiss of frustration and the pointy bottle of oil was used to top up the lantern's small reservoir.

The chest posed a problem. Its lock was sophisticated and held a tiny trap for those who'd try to force the lock. Crottle had to get out most of his tools and carefully apply pressure in three ways to pop the lock and not the dart-trap. He lifted the chest's lid and looked down on a dozen or more small buckram sacks that looked to be filled with coin. Crottle carefully checked them and realised after a few they held a small fortune in shillings and silver florins. He started stuffing his chest-pack and kidney-bag then slowed down. Time was his. Murchison wouldn't be back at least until tomorrow. Crottle picked the bags that held silver and took the shilling filled bags last. If he felt up to it he could come back. No, he wouldn't, on second thoughts. Crottle locked the chest with careful twisting on the picks and also the small room. He dusted off the floor where he entered Murchison's house and fought a spate of sneezing attacks. With burning muscles, and a dripping nose, he braced on one arm and managed to latch the window and shutters before the shakes set in and he had to drop heavily to the alley surface with its piles of ankle-threatening detritus.

The sun was just beginning to light the east into a grey line when he returned to his back-lot tenement bolt hole. Some bread he'd left behind from his evening meal was eaten and a nearly sour goblet of wine washed it down. Within minutes of shedding his loot and hiding it behind the wall panel he was asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Meeze slept under a pile of rags in an old coal cellar. The cellar was under what was once a smithy but now it was a doss house. She was cold and hungry again. So Meeze unravelled herself from the rags and picked her way past the other urchins who slept there.

A hand snatched her ankle and a sibilant voice said, 'Where's you going, Meeze?'

Meeze would have jumped if she wasn't being held fast.

'Going to find some food,' she replied, voice quite steady considering she nearly screamed.

'Don't be trying to steal my stuff,' the voice said and the hand let go.

Meeze finally realised it was Thom Pinney. The poor boy had been hit so many times and had his stuff taken almost as often that he was cracked in the brain. Meeze felt sorry for him because in her opinion Thom was going to burst in anger and get himself killed at the hands of some lout or watchman.

Blinking out of the crawlspace she set foot in the alley. It was misty again. All this fog was making it harder to see where there might be food to be had. Meeze clutched her almost threadbare coat against her and scuffed off in her too large boots. The racket of mornings was drowned by the fog and it seemed eerily quiet until a wagon carrying a hogshead of ale or lager thundered past her. There were at least eight guards swarming over the huge barrel and before it was out of Meeze's sight three people had tried to jump on the sides or back - only to be swiftly clubbed about the arms.

Those guards were pretty nice, Meeze thought. Mostly they just split heads because they could get away with it in Rum Town. She slinked along the edge of the road, not getting too close to anyone, which was difficult. She'd hate for someone to falsely accuse her of trying to pickpocket. Young Limmo had been kidnapped under that pretense. He was too pretty, Meeze thought, and by now was probably on some ship sailing south to an exotic slave market. Brindle-Eyes thought he saw Limmo being dragged into a box by two of Breyshiir's guards. That would be bad because Breyshiir was a necromancer and a Morranzo to boot. Weren't all Morranzo necromancers? Limmo would be dead any time now.

Meeze shook herself from these grim musings and paid more attention to her surroundings. As she closed on the southern square, with its vine tattered fountain head and lumps of rubble blocking the centre for a camp of beggars, she saw a family labouring under the weight of produce they'd brought to sell. Most of it was past fresh or on the edge of rotting. Three children and their parents all bowed under the sacks of onions, potatoes, apples and pears.

The youngest one slipped and the sack spilled open underneath him. Meeze ducked in like a scampering rodent, snatched an apple and a pear, and dashed off with her breakfast. Footsteps began to pursue but the mother yelled that they needed to protect what they had. Meeze quietly blessed the woman and took quick turns off the road to a narrow alley. She squatted near a rain barrel and devoured the fruit then washed her face and hands with the cold water.

She sighed in a relaxed way. One meal down for the day. It was likely she could make it through today on just that fruit but she really needed a proper meal soon. Maybe Crottle had finished ransacking Murchison's by now and he would buy her a fresh stew pie. That would be marvellous. With that thought Meeze scuffed her way deeper into Rum Town to find out if Crottle was home. Maybe she would see something important on the way.

In Meeze's mind she went over the things she knew Crottle was interested in and then tried to think of anything that might be related to those things. It was a hard exercise for a young girl and it seemed to make her