12
Beyond the
human cattle pen that was the Ma’arnar Railway terminal, the world was
relatively calm. No longer did the group of Black Hoods have to elbow their way
through the crowds, forcing open gaps through which their number had to spill
through swiftly for fear of it closing and separating them from the pack. Out
here on the streets, there was room to move; Jordan could even feel the air
freeze nervous sweat to his back.
“Is it normally this chaotic?” he
wondered aloud, not expecting anyone to hear him over the general hubbub.
“It gets worse,” someone replied.
“Much worse,” another concurred.
“You should see when the militia
have been called out during a bread riot,” a third added.
“Bread riot?”
“Yes. When the markets run out of
food to sell... not necessarily bread... the people tend to get a tiny bit
militant...”
“Run out of food? How can a city run
out of food?”
“Let’s just say,” the first Black
Hood said, “that the reality does not in any way match the expectation.”
“...meaning?”
The trio exchanged sly glances and
wry smiles before the first answered. “There are simply too many mouths to feed
in the city... and not enough food being provided for them. The population of
the city has trebled in less than a decade. And the means to provide for them
haven’t been able to meet their demand... and so, we have food riots, housing
shortages, mass unemployment... and so, to combat this, the Powers That Be—or,
let’s face it... his Royal Highness, King Julian—decides to make war on our
neighbours. A pleasant distraction to remove our focus from our empty
bellies...”
“Surely things aren’t that simplistic?”
Jordan offered, eliciting guffaws from his escorts.
“Maybe not if you wanted to write
the history books, but for the purposes of the task at hand, it’s enough.”
Briefly, their eyes met. Jordan saw a
maelstrom of mixed emotions. There was anger, disillusionment and bitterness,
mixed together in a veritable cauldron. Doubtless, Jordan would see the same
emotions in the eyes of all of his companions, or even any of the citizens had
been shoving his way past since disembarking from the locomotive. It was the
smouldering rage of the disenfranchised and the powerless, those enslaved by
the drive of the market forces and the belligerence of out of touch lawmakers. King
Julian and his ilk would rely on those sentiments to encourage volunteers to
enlist in the army, where they’d be kitted out with the most basic weapons, given
rudimentary training, before being shipped off abroad to scream frustration at
their enemy. Inevitably, the volunteers are mere fodder, the meat in the
grinder. And in the eyes of their monarch, if they are dying in the service of
their realm, then they’re not dying from starvation or disease; the crisis is
averted.
“I guess we don’t see this side of
things from Tor,” Jordan admitted.
“Give it time,” a voice from out
front said.
Jordan was so deeply entrenched in
his private thoughts that he failed to notice that not only had Belsair and his
companion stopped, but it was the latter of the two who now spoke to him. “Give
it time and this whole accursed realm will be ferreted off to all points of the
compass, fighting these trumped up wars. Fighting a fictitious enemy offshore,
rather than the real enemy in the Palace.”
The man was smiling, but the smile
touched his lips only. His eyes were cold and fierce. If ever Jordan was asked
what the eyes of a killer looked like, he’d only have to recall this man in his
mind.
“But now is not the time for such
talk,” he said. “Not out here in the proximity of so many ears.” He rolled his
eyes around to illustrate his point. Even though the crowd had thinned
somewhat, there was still a significant number of people present, some of whom
might disapprove of such seditious banter. Then, without skipping a beat, he
closed the gap between himself and Jordan, thrust out a hand. “Never too late
for introductions, though you can understand why it couldn’t happen at the
station. The name’s Aldernon. Though I am certain you’d have guessed that
already, Maurice.”
“Maurice Jordan,” Jordan replied,
taking the calloused hand of Belsair’s lieutenant in his own hand and shaking
it firmly. “Well met.”
“Well met, indeed,” Aldernon said.
But before he could so much as take
his next breath, there was a commotion at Jordan’s side, followed by that
annoying nasal voice that had dogged him from one side of the country to the
other. Melvin pressed forward, his hand extended towards Aldernon in the same
manner he had attempted when first meeting Jordan. “What about me?” he bawled.
“Do I not feature in this meet and greet session?”
The flicker of annoyance that
flashed across Aldernon’s face was brief, but telling. Jordan saw it in all its
glory for the few seconds of its existence. He saw the eyes crystallise, the
pupils draw to pinpoints, fixing Melvin to the spot as sure as nails would have
fixed him to a crucifixion post. Melvin, though, naïve to these developments, simply
kept his hand thrust out towards Aldernon, unaware of the faux pas he was
committing. Melvin closed the gap between them in long, confident strides, a
cloud of sweat-stained cologne hanging about him.
As they closed, Jordan saw
Aldernon’s mouth curve into a sneer, watched as he shot his hand out, grasped
Melvin’s hand. Then, with the precision of someone long used to playing the
game, he stepped forward, tipping Melvin slightly off balance and turning his
hand and wrist out of its former superior position. This he did with nary a
pause, controlling the dark clouds that reigned briefly inside his eyes. He
even managed to invert his scowl into a quasi-smile, not warm, but neutral,
while once more offering his name. “My name is Aldernon,” he said.
And then, Melvin dropped the
bombshell.
“Just Aldernon?” he enquired, an
exact mimic of what Jordan had said those long days ago. He even went as far as
to raise an eyebrow in mock bewilderment. Surely,
one such as you would know the complete protocol?
To his credit, Aldernon did nothing.
But Jordan supposed someone of Aldernon’s calibre faced insignificant little
shits like Melvin all too often in their lives. To give them the time of day
was to give them the power they desperately craved. But in this instance,
Jordan could see that he was holding back from reaction, be it a verbal spar or
worse, Jordan couldn’t tell.
With painful seconds bleeding out
and Melvin not getting the reaction he desired, he gave up. “Well met,
Aldernon,” he said, saving face somewhat, if not entirely. “My name is Melvin...”
When he turned away, slight touches
of crimson staining his cheeks, Jordan saw and heard the pent up breath that
Aldernon had been holding since the farce began. He was afforded a quick image
of that scowl reforming, and Aldernon’s lips moving around silent words. While
Jordan didn’t catch the entire sentence, he was well enough practiced to know
what the words “kill you” looked like on someone’s whispering lips. However,
before anything could eventuate, Felipe Belsair interposed himself between them.
He glanced from Aldernon to Melvin, who thankfully had his back to them and
didn’t see the look they exchanged. Jordan did, though. Saw it and catalogued
it, knowing all too well what it meant.
“Enough of this idle chat,” Belsair
said. He pointed across the street. “Just over there is the safe house. This is
as far as I shall go with you this day. My mission shall be to put a nose to
the ground and an ear to as many walls as possible. In the morning, I will bring
tidings of whether we set out for sightseeing or not. Until then, you’re free
to do whatever you wish. But keep in mind that discretion is the order of the
day, so try and keep a low profile.”
With that, Belsair nodded to Jordan
and Melvin, shook hands once more with Aldernon, then turned and ambled away. Jordan
watched him go, utterly amazed at the apparent contradictions the man
presented. Here was one of the feared three, whose reputation for the dealing
of death was enough to make even the bravest of men tremble in their boots. Yet,
he stooped over his suitcase, shuffling more than walking, an old man made
older through a life of stealth, of shedding blood and prematurely ending lives
before slipping away like a shadow.
Jordan watched him traipse back the
way they had come. He didn’t stop; kept his head down, eyes focussed out front
of him. In a matter of moments, he was around the corner and out of sight. With
his being gone, Jordan felt the first teasing fingers of doubt and fear flicker
across the nape of his neck. It was not an uncommon feeling on the eve of a
mission. Only this time, the feeling carried with it a sense of foreboding
hitherto unknown to Jordan.
Was he scared?
His initial reaction
was—surprisingly—yes. And the admission of fear made it more poignant. Made it
more real. Sure, the enormity of the
task was enough to make his blood run cold at any given moment, but through
years of experience, he was able to control enough variables to put much of the
trivial fears on a backburner. Only now, the mission was out of his control and
the variables too many and too varied to rein in. Furthermore, there were now
outside agencies to factor into the equation, least of which was the Bounty
Hunters and their tenacious leader. As much as Jordan would relish locking
horns with the infamous Darellion Kraithé, it would have to be on his terms and
not as it was now, with him playing the part of the petty thief trying to lose
the local militia. But would Kraithé see Jordan as being a worthy enough adversary
to deal with in any other manner than that? In Kraithé’s eyes, was Jordan just
another piece of shit to sweep off the cobbles?
Before Jordan had any chance to chase
that thought down, his introspection was broken by Aldernon. “We best make a
move.”
It was then that he noticed that Melvin
and the three other guides had advanced across the street and that Jordan and
Aldernon were alone. As if he could read part of Jordan’s mind, he said, “It
would be best to keep your consternation somewhat private. While I doubt your
esteemed travelling companion is adept at reading faces, we cannot take any
chances.”
He was staring into Jordan’s eyes,
holding him in place. While the eyes were still those of a killer, there was a
faint touch of warmth there. Empathy, perhaps. It was enough for Jordan to
recognise a possible kindred spirit.
Maybe.
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