The Descent: Chapter 5
The play was lousy, just as Medion predicted. Nevertheless, they were laughing when they left the theater.
Medion screwed up his face and pretended to be the jilted lover in the play. "Julio, Julio, where are you?" Synbios giggled until her face was a delicate pink, and Medion needed several minutes to catch his breath.
"Medion..." She leaned against him. "Would you want me to be a spoiled but terribly popular girl like in the play?"
"Nah," replied Medion, chuckling. "I wouldn't be able to tell the difference."
She grinned and pinched his arm. "Then would you like it better if I was that famous actress?"
Medion put up a show of considering the idea. "Hmm...maybe." Caught up in teasing her, he didn't notice she'd stopped walking and was staring horrified at someone sitting on a bench.
"Medion, look."
"No, I would still like you as yourself," he decided, looking up. Only then did he realize she was behind him. He turned, and almost immediately saw what stopped Synbios.
It was the paper a man was reading. The headlines stood out like granite blocks: "Don Domaric Feared Murdered"
Arrawnt paced within the confines of his house, agitated like a caged tiger. Ever since hearing about the attack he's wanted to rush to his father's place, to check on Domaric and Mageron. But he understood that no assassination attempt was ever accidental—when one was planned, chances were that others were prepared as well. As the direct heir to his father's wealth and power, he could very well be the next target.
In the living room, his wife, Sandra, had just put their baby son to sleep. She walked timidly up to him, and buried her face in his chest. "Oh, my god..."
Arrawnt hugged her lightly, his mind elsewhere. "Damn, I just hope everyone else is ok. Grantuck should be here by now."
They both jerked up their heads at a crash outside their door. Immediately Arrawnt pushed his wife away and picked up his blade. "Get back, now!" As Sandra picked up little Arrawnt Jr. and ran to the back room, he leaned by the door and demanded in a harsh whisper, "Who is it?"
"It's me, Campbell. Open up."
Arrawnt let out a tense sigh and unbolted the door. The centaur was in within a second, and the door locked back up just as fast. Domaric's eldest son regarded Campbell with a steely glint in his eyes. "Well?"
"You ain't safe here," Campbell said. "In half an hour one of our carriages will be here to pick you all up. Everyone will be safer if we stayed at the Don's."
"Tell me something I don't know," growled Arrawnt. "How's my father?"
"Bad, very bad." The rugged centaur shook his head. "Some of the men are saying he's already gone."
Arrawnt gritted his teeth. "Watch your mouth." Then: "Where the hell was Franz?"
"Sent a note, said he was sick," Campbell told him. "His wife Spiriel wasn't at her post today either."
Arrawnt swore violently. "Goddamn traitor, he knew about this. I want him dead, you hear? I want him and his wife both dead. Go get him yourself as soon as you can, and send someone after that red-haired broad."
"Alright," the centaur nodded, then exited as quickly as he'd entered.
Campbell hadn't been gone two minutes, however, when someone rapped on the door again. Cursing, Arrawnt took a firmer grip on his weapon and opened the door.
Outside stood a young, blue-feathered birdman. He blinked in bewilderment at Arrawnt's bloodshot eyes and ready blade, then held out a letter. "Mr. Arrawnt?"
The human ripped the piece of paper from his grasp and slammed the door in his face. Dread trickled like icy water through his body as Arrawnt tore into the unmarked envelope. He realized this could be anything—from a letter requesting he paid some long-forgotten debt to more ill news concerning his family.
It was associated with the latter, just as he'd expected. As he leaned against the door frame Arrawnt marveled at the guts and genius of the enemy. Guts, for daring to try to kill his father, then offering to make peace with him; genius, for putting it in a way he could hardly refuse. He wondered now about Domaric's warning regarding Braff. As usual, the Don had sensed danger before the rest of the family.
But he hadn't been able to save himself from it.
Arrawnt was glad his son was still too young to understand anything. The obscenities he shouted as he tore the letter into shreds were not pretty.
Braff did not sit far from his captive, yet for some reason would not sit at the same table. In the darkened tavern where he was held prisoner, Grantuck watched his kidnapper curiously, and waited.
Finally the youth dismissed the henchman he'd been conversing with and spoke bluntly. "I've just received word. Your boss is dead, Mr. Grantuck. My men carried out their mission flawlessly."
The advisor stared disbelievingly at him. His first thought was to deny it, though the idea left his mind as soon as it was formed. He knew Braff would not bluff about something like this. His next impulse was to throw himself at Braff, to extract whatever vengeance he could before they killed him. This thought was equally fleeting—Grantuck was an extremely rational person, and knew how futile any violence from him would be. So he sat, mute and shocked, waiting for Braff to continue.
His captor seemed to have noted the brief struggle in his mind, for he smirked approvingly and moved to sit opposite Grantuck. "I knew I picked up the right guy. You're not the muscle end of your family, or someone out of control like Arrawnt. You'll listen to reason."
Grantuck glared hatefully at him. "Arrawnt will be after your hide the minute he learns what you've done. You'll never know what hit you."
Braff gave him an unperturbed wink. "Oh, he knows alright. But he won't come after me yet, much as he'd like to. I had a message delivered to him, informing him that you're my captive. He wouldn't dare try anything."
Grantuck replied with a sharp laugh. "If you think a hostage would hold off my brother for long..."
"Only for a couple of hours," Braff assured him. "What I did was buy your hotheaded brother time to calm down and think. No one wants an all-out war. He'll realize this, given time, and you'll help me convince him peace is the only solution."
The captive could not believe his ears. "If you think I could be bought..."
"My tongue is more persuasive than gold," Braff interrupted, "Because I speak the words of reason. Now you listen to me, Grantuck. First of all you know I'm right about the violence—everyone wants to avoid bloodshed. All we want is the smooth running of businesses and the reaping of profits. What I had to do to your father—it just had to be done. Don Domaric was losing his touch; he didn't have what it takes to be a successful crime lord anymore. It was time for him to retire, to let his son take over the business. Arrawnt was all for my plan, wasn't he? He would have agreed to help out. I just made things happen a bit before their time." He saw Grantuck's rage, and added quietly. "Come on, think about it. Ten years ago, could I have gotten to your father so easily? I don't think so."
Grantuck shook his head. "And now you're trying to act like a friend..."
"Look," Braff said impatiently, "What's done is done. Nothing can bring the old man back. What you must do now, is to convince Arrawnt we don't need any more bloodshed. You must convince him, and those two goons Fidelity and Campbell, that a truce is the best for all of us. OK?"
Wearily, the dragonnewt nodded. He hated the idea with every fiber of his being, but his mind knew it was for the best. The thrist for vengeance and prolonged fighting would only mean more loved ones lost. If they could forgive such a heinous crime...there would be hope, for them all. "I might be able to call off Campbell and Fidelity, even Arrawnt. But I don't think I'll be able to stop James if he decides to come after you..."
A sinister look flickered through Braff's remorseless eyes. "Don't worry about James."
If you've killed him, there'll be another person I wouldn't be able to call off, thought Grantuck. He nodded silently.
Braff stood, seemingly satisfied that the business was concluded for the day. "You may leave now. Don't try to follow me though—I'm sure you needn't be told twice." He turned his back on Grantuck and headed for the door.
The dragonnewt sat back in his seat, unable for a moment to stand. The Don had been killed that day by the same man who'd just walked out the door, the same man who'd just entrusted to him, like an errand, the keeping of peace. Fury and shame burned in his heart, but he knew what he had to do. Slowly, he tried to get up.
The slamming of the door as Braff suddenly reentered the tavern threw Grantuck back into his seat. The human slammed his fist violently on the bar. "Dammit, they say the Don is still alive! Goddamit the old bastard is hard to kill!" He pointed at the stunned Grantuck and growled, his words nearly incoherent with frustration: "This changes nothing. It might be bad luck for me, but it'll be worse luck for you all if you can't convince your brother!"
Much to Campbell and Arthur's surprise, they found that, a day after the attempt, Franz was still holed up in his house. The traitor's wife was nowhere to be seen—maybe she was smarter, and had cleaned out first.
Campbell could smell Franz's suspicion and fear, but he kept his tone light. His wife had asked him to go buy some food for the weekend; would Franz like to come along? They'll definitely stop at a bar somewhere along the way. Campbell cursed his nagging mate like a Lizard-Man, calling her a whore and vowing not to take orders from her, ever. At his side, Arthur watched and smiled at the act.
It was obvious that Franz wanted to refuse, but it was also obvious he did not have the guts to. Campbell wondered why he stayed behind at all. He should've known Arrawnt was shrewd enough to realize his part in the betrayal, and that retribution would be swift as lightning. Perhaps he hoped to quiet the suspicions by not fleeing—if so, his wife was definitely smarter than him, if not a bit heartless.
The three centaurs left for the market, with Franz between them like a trapped dog. They chatted casually—or at least Campbell and Arthur did—about everything there was to talk about. They did not avoid mentioning the assassination attempt, for it'd be unnatural not to speak of it. They cursed that damn son of a bitch Braff, and agreed Mageron should've acted sooner. They wondered why Domaric left the house with only his son to guard him. In all their chatter, they did not mention Franz's absence that fateful day.
They picked up the grocery—a mere loaf of wheat bread. Campbell did not look at Franz, but he knew the traitor was quaking inside. The poor excuse was a dead giveaway; Franz would realize that, just as Campbell wanted him to. He wanted Franz to know what hit him before he died. For a moment he wondered if the coward would try to flee, and shot a quick glance at Arthur. The white centaur nodded calmly: he was prepared for anything.
Franz missed his chance there in the crowded market, choosing instead to follow the other two on their way back. Campbell couldn't figure out whether the guy was simply stupid or hoping that playing innocent would save him. It didn't matter: either way he was a fool, a fool who'll soon be dead as well.
He stopped at the entrance to a bar. He and Arthur had chosen this place earlier, for the quiet streets and secluded spot. Arthur had even planted an unmarked weapon in the shrubs. "Come on guys, let's go drink to the health of my ugly whore so I'll have a story to tell her when I get home."
Franz laughed weakly. Perhaps he too recognized the place of his execution. "You know what, I'm still a bit ill. Why don't you two boys go ahead, and I'll go on home. We'll have a drink together some other day."
Campbell shrugged. "OK, whatever you say." He paused, as if pondering something, then stuffed the bit of grocery into Franz's hands. "Take this to my place then, OK? Since you're set on going before us..."
The second Franz's hands were occupied, Arthur reared up behind him, halberd ready. Franz turned and managed to squawk in terror before the heavy weapon came crashing down. The body toppled unceremoniously over the threshold and into the tavern, shocking the patrons and triggering the expected screams.
Campbell ignored the frightened flock, glowered down at the corpse. He turned to calmly instruct Arthur: "Leave the halberd. Take the bread."