The Descent: Chapter 3
The night was dark by the time Grantuck's train arrived in Storich, but the warm lights of the tavern shone like a beacon. All through the crisscrossing streets of the large town there was a restful silence, while cheery laughter and singing emitted from Grantuck's destination. The dragonnewt headed toward the light, like an insidious demon crawling out of the darkness, with a calm demeanor contradicting his grim mission.
He ignored the drinking and dancing denizens as he strode up to the bar. The centaur bartender's friendly grin disappeared as Grantuck stated simply: "I would like to see Mr. Donhort, please."
The bartend rubbed his red nose. "Donhort is listening."
Grantuck leaned forward. "Mr. Donhort, I've come on behalf of my client's son, Mageron. I'm sure you know the famous singer well. Now, we've heard that, due to some past grievances, you're determined to make things difficult for Mageron. My client would like to make up for his son's mistakes. He offers Mr. Donhort his undying friendship, if only Mr. Donhort would be forgiving and allow Mageron to perform here."
Donhort's wrinkled face twisted into a sneer when he heard Mageron's name. "So what favors would daddy grant if I was to forgive and forget?"
Grantuck glanced around at the people crowding the bar and raised his eyebrows. Somehow this only made Donhort angrier. "Go on and say it, you think I've anything to hide?"
The advisor cleared his throat. "Very well. You've been trying to expand your establishment, but there are a number of competitors. My client could convince them to run their businesses elsewhere. Also, rumor has it your late wife did not die from natural causes; they say she killed herself..."
Donhort reached forward and grabbed a fistful of Grantuck's silk tunic. The old centaur's grip was surprisingly strong. "You trying to muscle me?"
"Absolutely not," Grantuck assured him.
"Well you just listen to me you disgusting Lizard-Man. I will never let Mageron show his ugly face in my bar, or in this town for that matter. I'm gonna see that son of a bitch go down in disgrace—you can go tell daddy that!" Donhort's voice had nearly risen over the loud music and singing; his face was now every bit as red as his nose.
Grantuck smiled to put off the throng of curious onlookers, but his eyes were ice cold. "I'm a dragonnewt."
The bartend growled. "Tell ya what, I don't care. You come making those offers again, and I'm gonna make so much trouble for you, you won't know what hit ya!"
"Mr. Donhort, I'm a business counselor, trying to make a deal. I haven't threatened you."
"Yeah?" Donhort retorted. "I know just about every big business counselor, and I've never seen your ugly face. Who the hell are you anyway?"
"My name is Grantuck, and I handle only one special client. Now I'll be staying in the hotel by the station; you know how to contact me." With that, Grantuck turned and politely pushed his way out of the tavern, back into the lonely streets.
As he expected, the wait wasn't long. By the next evening a carriage had come, courtesy of Mr. Donhort, to invite him to dinner with the bartender.
The aged centaur was standing with a smile when Grantuck arrived at Donhort's private estate. He hastily shook Grantuck's hand the minute the advisor got off the carriage. His demeanor had changed overnight, from one of outrage to that of someone eager to please. Without waiting for the dragonnewt to speak, he began to show his guest around the beautiful estate.
Grantuck hid his triumphant grin behind a stolid, business-like mask. He knew Donhort would have had his men check out just who the client was, and anyone who had an inkling about who Don Domaric was would scramble to treat his underlings decently. Distantly Grantuck wondered why Mageron went to all that trouble to conceal his father's identity, when in the end he had to have Domaric get him out of trouble.
"It's all very nice, Mr. Donhort." He finally said politely, to interrupt the tavern boss's breathless tirade. "But, um, about the proposal we discussed yesterday..."
Donhort's grin shrank a bit around the edges. "We'll speak of it over dinner, Grantuck. Before we go in though, I'll pay my respects to my deceased wife, if you don't mind."
The dragonnewt followed his host to a small yard just behind the house. There, under the shade of elms and oaks, was a neat and tidy grave. Grantuck watched with slight bemusement as Donhort knelt before the grave, recalling in his mind the ugly rumors concerning how Donhort treated his late wife. Whether this was merely a display he did not know; but he was relieved when the centaur stood again, and said with a nod. "We can go in for dinner now. You must be famished."
"Please lead the way," replied the advisor. He cast one last look at the grave, then walked quickly after Donhort.
Grantuck explained everything again, very clearly and simply, over their food. By the end, though, he could tell from his host's gaze that the centaur was displeased. Donhort leaned closer. "I would treasure Don Domaric's friendship, Grantuck; but you must tell him, he will have to have his son perform elsewhere. I simply cannot grant this favor. However, if there is anything else I can help with, you have my assistance."
"The Don never asks a second favor once the first is refused," the advisor informed Donhort. "Whatever wrong Mageron did to you, we can amend, to our mutual benefit. If only you could forgive..."
Donhort struck the table angrily. "You don't understand. I have nothing against the Don, but I'm set on seeing Mageron go down in flames. Yes, if he is allowed to perform in Storich, he'll be even more famous and popular. And I'll never allow that. Mageron stole from me a singer, a songbird I trained for years, a human who was like my daughter. I wanted her to be a star, to be recognized and loved, just like that son of a bitch Mageron is. Then Mageron comes and makes love to the girl, runs off with her, then abandons her! He ditched her back into the gutters I fished her from!" The agitated centaur paced the room, his hooves stomping like hammers. "Mageron not only stole from me someone I treasured like a daughter, he made a mockery of all my pains and efforts! For this one reason, I will never tolerate his thriving in my territory. Ever. Now you get outta here, you dirty henchman, and you tell your precious Don that I don't care how many more of your kind he throws at me! I'm not afraid him; I'm not some simple Saraband bartend—yeah, I know that story, and I tell ya..."
Grantuck stopped his host by politely standing, leaving the rest of his dinner untouched. "I understand, Mr. Donhort. Now you must excuse me; I have a train to catch. Don Domaric insists on hearing bad news immediately." As he opened the door he added, "Thanks for the dinner, and the tour. I enjoyed it."
Donhort had trouble sleeping that night. The angry conversation with Domaric's goon lingered in his mind like salt on the open wound that was his hurt at being betrayed by his protégé. The look in the dragonnewt's eyes when he showed him his wife's grave annoyed him too: Grantuck seemed to recognize it as a ploy to dispel the rumors. Donhort told himself he could shake off whatever the crime lord threw at him; but alone in his room in the small hours, he didn't feel so confident.
Dreams came to him, but only for a while; presently, he felt something cold leaning against his side. He shifted uncomfortably, but the weight persisted. Finally he opened his eyes and looked.
It was the remains of his wife—or rather, the horse half of it. Even as Donhort shouted in horror and tried to get up, he saw the upper half—decomposed almost beyond recognition, it had been carefully sawed off, and was hanging by its neck right before him, arms stretched as if to embrace her husband.
The tavern owner's horrified screams echoed ceaselessly through the tranquil dawn.
Domaric regarded his adopted son with some concern. The dragonnewt looked weary and a bit tense—probably tired from his trip to Storich. He patted Grantuck on the shoulder. "You ok?"
"I'm fine," replied Grantuck. "I slept on the train." He looked up into the Don's probing gaze and added, "It's just the report Hagane and Hazuki gave me, about their handiwork. I bet it scared that Donhort. It sure shook me up."
"It's business, son," Domaric admonished. "You know I appreciate it, as does Mageron."
Arrawnt cleared his throat even as Grantuck nodded. "I have the dirt about Braff here, pops. His mother is none other than Don Basanda; he is her bastard child, by an old acquaintance of ours: Fafhard."
"The traitor who ran loose," murmured Mageron from his seat by the door.
"His father is none of our concern," the Don told them. "Go on, Arrawnt."
"Well, first of all, he's reputed to be even better at the killing business than his father. To date he has been involved in at least a dozen killings. But he's also cunning, like his mother. He runs protection rackets, imports prohibited stuff from eastern countries, and owns brothels. It's said Don Basanda will make him the next Don, regardless of what her relatives say." Arrawnt looked up with furrowed brows. "This is a guy who's been fighting both the law and members of his family, yet he's still alive and kicking. Definitely a worthy business partner, but also dangerous as hell."
"So what does he want with us?" Grantuck asked.
"It appears he's been doing business with a group of...foreigners that were previously shunned by us all." Arrawnt grunted and held up some papers. "He's a friend of the Vandals. And now he wants all the families to cooperate with the Vandals, in order to carry out some...master plan of his. Needless to say, Don Basanda is behind him, and the other Dons are also leaning in his direction."
The Don screwed up his face. "The Vandals? Those violent murderers...it would appear this Braff has found fitting companions. Yet, to imagine anybody would want to have anything to do with the Vandals is beyond me. I would have to consider listening to him this one time a favor I'm doing his mother; were he someone else's child I would have thrown him out the minute he entered my office."
"Well, I see him coming up the path now," commented Mageron. "I guess this would be a good chance to judge him for ourselves, pops."
The Don sat back and watched with shrewd eyes as his young visitor entered. Though Braff looked only about Medion's age, he carried himself with pride and confidence. He took with him no weapons, yet seemed totally fearless in the company of ruthless men every bit as capable of violence as he was. In a second his gaze had taken in the room and its inhabitants; just as quickly, his pose transformed from tense and prepared to relaxed and innocent. Domaric watched with some envy as his sons stood to greet Braff, for he recognized in a possible enemy potential not detected in his own heirs. If Braff really succeeded Don Basanda, Domaric wondered if Arrawnt and Grantuck would be capable of fending him off.
He waited until everyone has sat down before he spoke up: "Welcome, Mr. Braff. Now I'm sure you understand my, uh, views on the Vandals, and realize I'm seeing you out of my respect for your mother. So we'll skip the formalities—let's hear what you're asking, and what you'll offer for our assistance."
Braff nodded with a friendly smile that seemed to reach out to everyone at once. "Of course, Don Domaric. What I need...your support, first of all. I would not dare to go against the wishes of any old friend of my sires. Second, I'd like a loan of one million gold. Third, I would ask you to help convince those important officials that are your friends, those politicians you carry about in your pocket like so many gold coins, to persuade our fellow countrymen that we should welcome the Vandals into our society like any other elf or centaur..." He added with a nod in Grantuck's direction, "I'm sure you would agree with this, Don Domaric, seeing how you've adopted a non-human son yourself."
The Don ignored the last remark; his answer was short and simple. "How does this interest my family?"
"A fat share of our profits," Braff told him. "Once things get underway, you get thirty to forty percent—which I reckon will be a good three million gold in the first year. As time goes by, this number will go up."
Domaric saw Mageron and Grantuck raise their eyebrows. Arrawnt even whistled softly. Braff did not seem to hear, but a smile of triumph crept up onto his lips as he continued, "As for the family that's already backing me—I mean my mother, of course—I'll pay them separately. In fact, should you worry about my credit or anything like that, I can tell you right now, Don Basanda will guarantee everything. Even if I should fail, through no fault of mine, my mother's family will compensate you thrice of what you spend on my behalf."
This time Arranwt couldn't seem to contain himself. "Aw, you're telling us we'd make a profit of at least two million under any circumstances? Pops..."
Domaric forcefully kept his temper under check, saying only in a soft tone, "Wait a minute, Arrawnt. Mr. Braff," he continued, "Your generosity is unequaled. I see that Don Basanda taught her son well, unlike me: as you can see, I have spoiled my children, and they sometimes talk when they're supposed to listen. But one thing remains: you've not told me why you're paving the way for your friends, the Vandals."
Braff's smile, which had grown with Arrawnt's interruption, did not shrink the least bit. "I intend to use them, Don Domaric. Once they've been properly introduced to our society, they'll be bound to build their own communities, with their own customs and needs. Not only can we be their sole supplier of exotic goods, we can control them, since we were the ones who made it possible for them to thrive in our territory. And what's more, knowing the Vandal's bloodthirsty nature, we can recruit their young; they will become a wellspring of manpower. Ultimately, Don Domaric, we can build our own empire, a power that will rival any other republics, and live legitimately as the kings we are." Braff's eyes seemed to shine bright with reckless ambition, and for a moment the room was quiet.
The Don glanced at his sons. Grantuck seemed skeptical; Mageron intrigued. Arrawnt, though sulky for being reprimanded so openly, nonetheless was nodding to himself. Domaric looked at Braff, warier than ever of this youthful adversary. More wistful, too, when he thought of his own Medion.
He spoke finally. "Mr. Braff, I realize I must take back what I said earlier—seeing you today has been a pleasure, not a friendly favor, for you're a true businessman. Yet..." He locked eyes with each and every one of his children present, "I must say, I refuse your offer. I believe you are underestimating the Vandals. I think that working with them would be too dangerous, even for those of us whose line of work has always been hazardous. So I must refuse."
Braff's grin disappeared instantly. "Don Domaric..."
The older man did not allow him to continue. "You understand, Mr. Braff, I admire ambition in a young man. I myself understand danger, and how it leads to success for he who braves it. Now there are risks I am unwilling to take, but that doesn't mean I distrust he who takes it. So, reckless as your plan appears to me, I will not stop you; in fact, I wish you every bit of luck, so long as your interests don't, uh, conflict with mine. But that is all; thank you, and good day."
Basanda's son stood abruptly. His relaxed stance had changed back to that of a wary and calculating predator. "Very well, Don Domaric. I will not voice my disappointment, here in your office. Good day." Without a glance at the other three present, he turned and strode out the door.
Domaric waited for his children to comment. When they remained mute, he spoke up. "I suppose you all think I've just thrown away our family's future."
"Not that, father," replied Grantuck. "But you know this Braff is very likely to succeed. His own cunning aside, he can easily get one of the other Dons—if not all of them—to support him. And then there is the fact that, even some of the honest officials under no one's pay have been reconsidering the laws prohibiting Vandals from becoming a part of our society. If someday they are welcomed to live among us, what Braff just said: the building of Vandal communities, the trafficking of those goods they desire—this will all come true. Someone would definitely be controlling the market and reaping in the profit then, and that person would probably be Braff. Power goes with gold, and when a person has power the first thing he does is to eliminate potential enemies. By not cooperating with Braff now, pops, we might very well be risking everything we have in the long run."
"And if he fails—which might be for the best," Arrawnt interjected, "We get compensation from Don Basanda. It's win-win for us if we agree, pops." Beside him, Mageron nodded in agreement.
Domaric sighed heavily. "Arrawnt, Mageron, Grantuck—I know you're saying this for the good of the family. But still I must remain firm on this. The Vandals are not ones to be trifled with. They are cunning, ruthless, and evil. If it was in my power, I'd keep them from ever setting foot in our territory. Only because of my promise to Braff not to oppose him, though I disagree with him, do I refrain from sabotaging his efforts. Perhaps there will come a day when the Vandals live among us; but I would not want to have helped make it happen. I do not force you to act as I did today, when someday I retire. But, uh, for now, I will not change my opinion." Before anyone could reply, his eyes fastened on Arrawnt. "And what's wrong with you, eh? I think your brains have gone soft, playing with all those girls and all. Arrawnt, don't ever let anyone outside the family know what you think, understand? Now go get the guards in here."
Arrawnt nodded, red-faced, and left the room. In a minute he had returned with three of his father's oldest and most trusted henchmen—James, Campbell, and Fidelity. Expectantly they stood before their master.
The Don sat back in his seat. "Campbell, how was the job?"
The grizzled centaur smiled in grim satisfaction. "I didn't get to kill that abusive husband, but he hightailed outta Stamp so fast I reckon we'll never see his ugly face again. Mr. Hans, and his daughter Hedoba, are most grateful."
Fidelity stepped forward. "Don Domaric, while you were meeting with that young man Braff, a messenger brought this along." He showed them a crimson envelope. "Mageron is being invited to perform, for as long as he likes, at the Storich tavern and hotel."
The brothers exchanged winks. "Good luck bro." Arrawnt offered.
The singer breathed a sigh of relief, then looked at Grantuck. "Thanks," he said softly.
"You'd better prepare to go soon," instructed Domaric. He beckoned the third henchman. "James, come here. I have a mission for you." He waited until the burly human was standing before his desk before saying, "I am worried about this Braff. Even if I am not to affect his plans, I would want to know just what he is doing. I want you to go to him, and offer to join him. Tell him, uh, that you're unhappy working for me. Tell him I'm laying you off, after all your years of loyal service. Go aid him with his plans...and tell me what you learn."