The Descent: Chapter 10
Grantuck had no choice. The women were sobbing and holding each other, Mageron was sitting around looking ill, and most of the henchmen were patrolling the estate. He knew it was his responsibility then, just as it had been Arrawnt's responsibility to tell the Don about Medion.
Now it was his turn to reveal the bad news to his father. And this time it was much, much worse.
Alone he ascended the stairs. The weeping was quieter on the second floor, but still painfully audible. The Don would have heard it, then. He would not be asleep, as Grantuck hoped (so he could sneak away and delay the inevitable) but wide awake, wondering just what has happened. Grantuck did not look forward to entering the room and showing Domaric his own tear-stained face before confirming, yes, someone has died.
He paused outside the door, and took a deep drink from his glass of whisky. The wine steadied him a bit, but did nothing to dispel the dread in his gut. Nevertheless he boldly pushed open the door and entered the room. The Don was waiting for him alright. From the sickbed Domaric looked up with shrewd and worried eyes. Grantuck sat down next to his father, but was unable, for a moment, to speak.
His father held out his hand for the wine. "Give me a drop." Grantuck complied, wondering if Domaric has sensed his dread, and was also preparing himself for the news. He watched the Don's throat bob and tried to gather his emotional strength.
"Now," Domaric began, after emptying the glass. His voice was steady, but the tone quivered. "I hear my wife crying downstairs, and I hear carriages pulling up to the gate. My war advisor, I think it is nigh time you tell what everyone else seems to already know..."
"I—yes, I was just going to tell you now," Grantuck hedged. He gently took the glass from his father's frail hands and put it on a table.
"But you needed a drink first," observed Domaric.
Grantuck nodded, took a deep breath. "They killed Arrawnt, Pops. They ambushed him and shot him with arrows. He's, he's dead."
The bleak news hung in the still air for a moment, like a ghastly corpse on the end of fate's rope. Domaric closed his eyes tightly and did not say a word. Grantuck leaned over him, concerned that perhaps the revelation has been too much for his ailing father. Then the Don opened his eyes and Grantuck saw the sorrow and anguish that flowed from it. Domaric exhaled, and began to get up from the bed. Grantuck hurriedly admonished him, but grief seemed to have filled the Don with strength. He stood without assistance and ordered grimly:
"I want, I want all inquiries made. But I don't want any acts of vengeance, from anyone connected with the family. And, uh, I want you to arrange a meeting, with the four other Dons. This war stops, now."
Slowly Domaric tottered out the door to comfort his family. Grantuck watched, tears in his eyes, and thought of what his father said. Peace, at last. Peace, coming with Arrawnt's death. In his heart he cursed his reckless older brother, even as he wept for him—for ultimately, all that Arrawnt's stubbornness and bloodlust brought was his own death and the long-awaited truce. Death was what had started the war, and now death shall end it. And it was too expensive a price, for any father or brother to pay.
Medion and Hedoba sang and laughed like innocent woodland children on the top platform, where they first met months ago. The newlyweds were happy, without a care—just as Medion always envisioned for himself and his love. It was as if they were locked within a cocoon of private joy: no one could break in, or tear them apart. They were one and whole.
At noon they had a little picnic, in the solitude above the clouds. Medion felt as if he was in heaven, enjoying the nectar prepared by his divine love. The simple morsels of food never tasted so delicious. After the meal Hedoba dropped off to sleep, leaning against his arm. Medion smiled at her, tenderly kissed her petal-warm lips, then laid her down in the shade. She murmured peacefully and went on napping. Unable to sleep, but unwilling to disturb her, Medion watched her for a while before deciding to go check on his guards. He descended the bridge to his treehouse—only to find Mr. Hans waiting worriedly for him.
"Where's Hedoba?" He asked without preamble.
"I left her on the top platform," replied Medion, confused. The fear on his father-in-law's face reminded him only too clearly of the painful past he thought he's left behind. The shrapnel of dread that emitted from Hans's voice was piercing his joyous cocoon, marring the restful Medion and summoning to surface his older, more restless self. He felt an ugly premonition in his heart. "What's wrong?"
Hans took a deep breath, looked around, then leaned close. There was sweat on his brows. "A message was here for you. It was from your family. Your brother Arrawnt...they killed him, Medion."
Medion felt the blood rush from his head. "My god."
"It's not going to be safe for you here, anymore," Hans continued, looking just about as faint as Medion was feeling. "Your father wants you to return home, now. Your enemies know where you are. Assassins may already be on the way. You have to leave, as soon as possible."
Medion nodded numbly. Arrawnt...dead. Assassins here to kill him. He bit back a curse. Just when he was happy, when he had every reason to believe he could be happy for the rest of his life, the past has caught up with him. He realized now past sins will always find him, wherever he hid. There will never be any reprieve for him. There will never be a new Medion, but only the same old person, attempting in vain to hide his face, under one delusion after another.
Hans was mumbling incoherently about Medion being the scourge that would bring destruction to his village, that he'd been a fool to ever ask aid of Domaric. Medion clutched his father-in-law's arms and forced himself to speak calmly. "It's ok, it's ok. I'll pack my bags and leave this moment. Those assassins will have no reason to ever bother you."
The wood elf was still terrified. "My daughter..." He began.
"I'll leave her here, for the time being," Medion assured him. "She won't be in danger so long as she stays away from me. When everything's alright again, I'll take her with me. Or," he continued hastily, when he saw the objection rising to Hans's lips, "I'll come back and live here, as long as you don't mind. You'll just have to help convince her to stay put, for the time being."
Leaving Hans to his irrational fears, he ran into his house. Bernard and Garosh looked up expectantly; both were armed to the teeth. Obviously they've learned what happened. Medion gave them hasty instructions. "We have to leave in an hour or two. Bernard, help me pack. Leave Hedoba's stuff. Garosh, why don't you watch the door, alright?"
Bernard complied and hurried into the back. Garosh hesitated, then said, "Where's your wife, Medion?"
"On the top platform. She's asleep. I'll go up shortly and wake her myself, to say goodbye."
"She isn't coming with us?"
"No." Medion felt a pang. He didn't like the idea, not one bit, but knew it was for the best. Whoever remained near him will always be in danger. And he'll be damned if he placed the treasure of his heart in peril. "Um, go escort Mr. Hans home or something, alright? Keep your eyes open."
"Understood, boss." All the usual playfulness was gone from Garosh's voice. He obviously knew just how serious things were. Without another word he left the room.
Medion and Bernard made quick work of the few items Medion had to pack, and in ten minutes they were outside. Garosh was waiting for them. Hans was nowhere to be seen.
Carrying the baggage, Bernard began to carefully descend the bridge to a lower branch. As Medion looked after him, Garosh promoted, "Aren't you going to see your wife now, Medion?"
Medion nodded and began to ascend the crossing. Garosh was right behind him. Medion stopped in surprise, however, when he heard her call out to him. She was standing at the other end, looking irritated to have awoken alone. She began to trot toward him.
Out of the corner of his eye Medion saw a flurry of movement. He turned and saw Garosh climbing quickly, without an upward glance, down the long ladder that reached the ground far below. Medion felt a sudden twinge of dread with his confusion. "Garosh, where are you going?"
Garosh looked up once but didn't acknowledge his boss. There was fear and annoyance on his face; he just kept on climbing. Medion called his name again, then turned in horror, realization a sickening dagger in his gut. Hedoba was halfway across the bridge.
"NO! No, Hedoba!" He shouted, irrationally stepping onto the tampered bridge, hoping beyond hope to rescue her. Hedoba had stopped right in the middle, staring at him in puzzlement. That was the last expression Medion saw on her face.
The ropes suspending the bridge snapped. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Hedoba stumbled as if confused, screamed when she realized what has happened, then pummeled down toward the ground. Medion barely managed to leap away and cling to the edge of the platform. There he hung, scratching his way back to life, wishing against all his survival instincts that he, too, could die, when he heard her last scream followed by a sickening thud.
Grantuck tried unconsciously to melt into the background. It was both easy and difficult at the same time. The dimly-lit room was filled with serious-looking individuals, in dark robes or cloaks, speaking softly among themselves. Just as he was. The only problem was, they were nearly all human. As one of the very few non-humans, he stood out clearly. People noticed, whispered softly, never pointed, but confirmed all the same that he was Grantuck, the adopted dragonnewt that served as war counselor for Domaric, and Arrawnt, when the reckless and ill-fated young Don was alive.
He didn't want to stand out, of course. There was never any harm in keeping a low profile when in the company of men such as these. For Domaric has called a meeting of the Dons, just as he promised. Their goal today was to settle all their disputes, offer compromises, concede and apologize. They were here to do whatever it takes to finally end the underworld war.
When the last of the Dons have filed in their posse of advisors and assassins and taken their seats, Domaric stood to address the group. From the head of the table, Domaric looked powerful and in control, almost as he did before the attempt on his life. Only a slight trembling of his knees, now and then, revealed how physically weak he was; only his humble, plaintive words proved his fatigue and sorrow.
"I, uh, would first like to thank Don Desseheren for helping me arrange this meeting." He nodded toward the purple-haired black widow at the other end of the table, who smiled coldly in return. Grantuck noticed the girl beside her—secretary or killer?—looking about worriedly, her green mane wavering like a gentle waterfall. She was human, but her innocent and fearful composure made her stand out even more than Grantuck. The dragonnewt wondered, as he has heard several others do, why Desseheren would bring a girl who looked more like a scared little sister than an experienced aide to such a place.
Domaric continued: "And Don Basanda, of course, for agreeing to talk. And Don Goriate, Don Fiale..." He nodded at the respective rivals along the table. "I thank you all, for coming today—for giving me the chance to speak." Grantuck watched the varied responses and felt relieved. Most of them were haughty, but attentive—as he imagined, no one wanted the costly war to prolong any more than necessary. Everyone was exhausted, emotionally and financially. It was high time the silliness ended and business resumed.
Domaric sat down, wearied already by his short presentation. He words became sadder, but did not suffer in strength or volume. "How, how did things get this far? I don't know. It was, uh, so unnecessary, so unfortunate. Don Basanda lost a son, I lost a son...when will this end? I'm quits. So, uh, if Don Basanda agrees, I'm willing to let things go back...to as they were before."
Desseheren spoke up. Grantuck felt a chill at her mere voice, though her words sounded supportive. "We all thank Don Domaric for calling this meeting as well. We know he's a man of his word, and what's more, a man of reason. He's modest but frank—he'll listen to our demands and offers..."
The other female Don at the table interrupted her. Basanda's baleful glare with filled with scorn. "Yes, Don Desseheren, he's modest. Too modest. So modest that he won't acknowledge his own immense power and wealth, and refused to share them when we petitioned for aid. He would rather keep them all to himself, it seems—"
It was Domaric's turn to interrupt her. An edge came into the old man's voice, as if intent on reminding his fellows that, yes, he still held power, and if he wanted to he could still make them pay. Grantuck hid his smile when he saw Basanda flinch at Domaric's rebuttal: "Now, now, when did I ever refuse an accommodation? When did I refuse, except that one time? And this was not because it was Mr. Braff, your son, Don Basanda—it was not anything personal. It was just this, uh, Vandal business. I have never agreed with it, and I didn't intend to concede then. My reasons are simple: I believe this deal with the Vandals, it will only ruin us, in the long run. It's not like our other businesses—the smuggling, the gambling, the, uh, prostitution—those are businesses that deal direct profit, to both our customers and ourselves. The only one who stands to lose anything is the officials—and even they are agreeable, and willingly turn a blind eye, if we make a deal with them. But this deal with the Vandals—it's too risky, and not worth the risks. Why invite a potential rival into our territory? I could not agree to that then, and I disapprove now."
"Times are changing, now," Desseheren said. Her tone was almost silky, as if she was trying to be the one who patched things up. Grantuck felt only revulsion and distaste—for if her voice was silk, it was spun from a poisonous spider's web. "We can't stand to be stubborn about our personal likes and dislikes, as in the old days. A refusal is not an act of a friend. Don Domaric controls most of the politicians—even if he won't help us, he must let us use them. He must let us draw water from the well, so to speak, lest we die of thirst. Now, he may charge a hefty fee for the services—he certainly has that right—but he shouldn't deny us outright. It would make him unfit to own the officials."
Domaric slumped tiredly, causing Grantuck to involuntarily lay his hand on his father's shoulder, to offer whatever comfort he could. He knew that Domaric has been dreading this argument: it was one he was unable to counter. Had the Dons tried to convince him of the Vandal's harmlessness, or told him to surrender to the inevitability of time and tide, he'd have been able to firmly lecture them on being cautious and sticking to one's own guns, whatever the situation. They would not have been able to gainsay him. But Desseheren has presented the ultimate rebuttal—one that dealt directly with the foundation of the whole underworld game, with the Don's own beliefs; and as a man of reason, Domaric was unable to disagree. He wanted peace, perhaps more than anyone else—and that made him weaker than he's ever been.
Grantuck's eyes wandered over the other Dons. Fiale was nodding and looking pleased; Goriate reserved and slightly indifferent. Basanda was still glaring in Domaric's direction, but her look was one of triumph. She, too, understood that Domaric would have to accept their proposal if he wanted peace. The battle she's waged through her son was about to be won, and she didn't look as if she minded the price of blood as much as her rival did. Perhaps that was why victory was ultimately hers.
The dragonnewt's gaze fell upon the Don whose mere words have helped Basanda win—and an unpleasant feeling of realization coursed through him. Desseheren looked neither triumphant nor pleased; her expression remained neutral, but her eyes, fastened upon Domaric, were watching with the insidious intent of a calculating predator. It seemed that she was looking beyond the immediate profits, and was already scheming to counter Domaric's future stratagems. Grantuck has always loathed Desseheren, but only at that moment did he realize just how deadly an opponent she was. In his heart, he began to doubt whether Arrawnt waged the war against the right enemy.
Domaric shifted; Grantuck realized he has also been studying his rivals. Whether he noted what his adopted son noticed, he didn't show, but a sudden calm appeared to descend upon him. There was confidence, and strength, in Domaric's voice when he spoke the words of seemingly humble and helpless acceptance: "Then I must agree."
A sigh of relief passed through those assembled in the room. They expected Domaric to concede and pretended not to fear him, but it was obvious that they were frightened of the Don's wrath. Grantuck saw Desseheren's green-haired escort make a comment to her master; in reply the female Don laughed, loudly and mirthlessly. The advisor could tell from the younger woman's surprised expression that this was not the expected answer, and suspected that Desseheren was merely using the opportunity to taunt Domaric, to flaunt her success, and to dispel any remaining fear her followers had. Those near her laughed, for no apparent reason, as well. They were jeering as one at Domaric for his weakness. Grantuck clutched his leathery hands, unable to do anything in his father's defense but stare defiantly into space.
Yet support for Domaric came abruptly, from a least expected source. Don Goriate had risen. His face was still indifferent, but his voice carried a reprimanding note. "This is all good and well, but I insist we have some rules." His heavy hand slammed the table. "First of all, I don't want the Vandals interfering directly with our businesses. Let the officials welcome them into the slums, or the suburbs—where they'll be out of our way. We intend to use them, so I don't want them prospering or becoming a force to be reckoned with! And second, I want all dealings with them made known to all the Dons present. I agree with Don Domaric that we may well be hatching serpents in our own nests, so if it ever comes to war between them and us, I want to be prepared."
Domaric nodded in swift agreement, and stood as well. "Don Goriate is right. I am willing to accept this request, for the sake of peace, but we must not forget whom we're dealing with. We must, uh, not regret this in the future. Precautions must be taken."
For an instant deadly silence enveloped the room. The henchmen watched their masters and waited with hands on hilts; the Dons watched each other and spoke not a word. With the mandatory abruptness of underworld dealings, alliances have shifted, prodding what appeared to be mutual agreement back onto the brink of the plank of war. Basanda, furious at having her victory snatched away, stared jagged daggers at Goriate. Fiale followed suit. Goriate ignored them and continued glaring haughtily around the table. Grantuck knew, however, that the next move belonged to Desseheren; together with his father, he watched the true mastermind behind the whole business.
The purple-haired woman came quickly to her feet and spoke in tones so plaintive that it would have melted the hearts of those who didn't know her better: "Come, my friends, this is but a slight difference in opinion. Our goal has not changed. It is agreed then: the Vandals will be allowed into our territory, but will not be allowed to interfere with our business. We will agree upon how best we are to control and use them. Don Domaric will pave the way and offer protection—and we will have peace."
The other four Dons nodded and spoke their assents; their goons relaxed again. Grantuck watched Desseheren curiously, slightly surprised that she did not try to put up a fight. Perhaps she realized the whole situation could easily splinter the Families once more. A war in which Domaric had an ally would be even worse for her—it'd not only make all her efforts for naught, but possibly lead to her downfall. In retrospect, a compromise was indeed the best she could have hoped for.
Before the meeting could be concluded, however, Basanda had to put in a last word. There was a good deal of scorn in her voice; her baleful glare had lost none of its heat. She was scathing for having to concede a small portion of her victory, and she wanted Domaric to know it. "Before I leave, I want strict assurance from Don Domaric. I want him to swear that he will not seek vengeance, or go back on his promise, after time has passed and his position becomes stronger."
Desseheren cut in with a forced smile, edgy that her hard work might be undermined. "Look, we're all reasonable people. We don't have to act like warlords. If Don Domaric says he will maintain the peace, then I believe him..."
Domaric held up a hand to stop Desseheren. He addressed his challenger directly: "You speak of vengeance, Don Basanda. Would vengeance bring your son back to you? Or my son back to me? Vengeance would only lead to further bloodshed. So I'll forgo the vengeance of my son. I swear on the blood of my grandchildren that I will not be the one to break this peace." With a frail hand he threw on his cloak, and made his way toward the door, as if he was finished speaking. Before exiting, however, he turned and spoke once again, this time to all those assembled. His tone was stern, even harsh, and his words rumbled like concealed thunder. "Still, I will admit that I have selfish reasons for wanting peace. My youngest son Medion was forced to go into hiding, because of this ugly business. I have cleared his name, and arranged to bring him back. But I am, uh, a superstitious man. So if some unfortunate accident should happen to him—if unruly officials should hang him, or if—if his carriage should topple over a cliff, or, or if he should get struck dead by lightning—then I will blame some of the people here in this room. And that—that, I do not forgive."
They said nothing, but stared, secretly frightened by the ruthless will that has not been handicapped in the least by its vessel's frailness. Satisfied that he's left the image of his wrath and might imprinted on their minds, Domaric walked through the door. Quietly, Grantuck followed him out.
As they were climbing into their carriage, Grantuck thought it best to confirm his father's instructions on the Vandal business. Boldly he ventured, "I advise, Pops, that we insist on Basanda allowing us to examine her dealings with the Vandals at least once a month. She wasn't happy with the agreement—everyone could see that. I think we should monitor her actions."
In return the ailing Don gave his familiar, shrewd smirk. "You can mention it when you meet her people, but don't insist on it. Desseheren is a Don who knows what lines not to cross."
The dragonnewt faltered. "You mean Basanda..."
"No." Their eyes met. Grantuck understood abruptly that Domaric has indeed noticed everything, and has drawn his own conclusions. "Basanda isn't half as smart as her bastard son Braff. Yet I didn't realize, until today, that it was Desseheren all along..."