The Descent: Chapter 12

Mageron waited eagerly at the gates of Saraband for his brothers' arrival. In the letter Medion had said that he was here to drop off Grantuck, who will be overseeing business in the port city. He also had some things to discuss with the owner of the main taverns and casinos, Steele. Since Mageron has mentioned that he knew Steele personally, Medion has asked him to arrange the meeting. Mageron had accepted the mission without hesitation. He was eager to show Medion that he was getting around just fine. Maybe he wasn't smart enough to succeed their father's business, but he could still help. He would prove that he'd never fail the Family again. Who knows, maybe once Medion saw how well he was doing, he'll let him manage things in Saraband. After all, he was no longer just a popular entertainer, but a casino manager as well. Grantuck could use his talents elsewhere; Saraband was truly Mageron's turf.

Right on time the carriage arrived. From its stuffy confines emerged Medion, Grantuck, and a red-haired bodyguard. Grinning widely, Mageron hastened to greet them. Grantuck appeared pleased to see him as well, though Medion only mumbled a half-hearted greeting. No matter, the kid must be tired. Talking gaily, Mageron welcomed them to Saraband with well-rehearsed lines, and prepared to show them around.

Medion stopped him with an annoyed look. "You'll have time to show Grantuck around after I leave. At the moment I just want to see this casino owner of yours."

Mageron frowned, disappointed at having his carefully arranged activities disrupted. But Medion was the boss now. Mageron supposed he'll just have show off his knowledge of the place to Grantuck, some time later. Still maintaining a cheerful front, he led them toward the center of the great port city, where the main hotels and casinos were located. He's arranged another little surprise for Medion there, so there was still a good chance to impress his little brother.

On the way he tried to convince his brothers of his merits as a business manager. He spoke of how he's helped run the casinos and taverns, under the patient instructions of his mentor, Steele. Grantuck listened good-naturedly and offered him advice from time to time, but still Medion commented little. Once again Mageron attributed this to Medion being tired from the journey. He must have been bored but unable to doze off. No matter—the pleasant surprise waiting in the suite Mageron has arranged for him will be sure to cheer him up.

Mageron couldn't have been more mistaken. Medion barely glanced at the busy hotel's extravagant facade when they arrived; when Mageron showed him to his room and, with great fanfare, opened the door to a gaggle of expectant entertainers and bar girls, he looked only more displeased.

Unaware of the guest's curt attitude, the musicians struck up a tune, and the girls flocked over. Medion ignored them all. He stared sternly at his older brother. "Who the hell are they?"

Mageron faltered, unable to comprehend the reason for Medion's foul mood. It was wholly unexpected, and ruining all his meticulous preparations. Everything meant to please and impress his brother have only backfired. He glanced pitifully at Grantuck, but the dragonnewt only shook his head disapprovingly in return. Mageron stuttered, "Why...well kid, they're here for you. I only thought—thought you'd enjoy some company."

Medion didn't show any gratitude at all. He ordered angrily, "Get them out of my room. I'm here to do business, and I leave tomorrow. I have no time for this nonsense."

Mageron could only stare, perplexed that Medion would be so ungracious. But his kid brother only glared back impatiently. Humbled, Mageron quickly interrupted the musicians, quieted the girls, and shooed the whole annoyed bunch out. He shut the door after them, then looked expectantly, like a fearful servant, at his brothers.

Medion asked, "So where's Steele?"

"He...said he'll be here, once the party started," Mageron told him. He shook his head. "Well, there'll be no party now, but I'm sure he'll be here shortly."

The young Don nodded approvingly, relaxed a bit. He looked about the spacious, luxurious room, then asked: "Mageron, are you still in the performing business?"

Mageron was a little surprised, as well as offended, that Medion saw him as only a singer. But he replied honestly that he still sang a little for the patrons, now and then. Medion nodded. "Good. You see, I figured that entertainment would draw more people to the casinos. After the hotels, bars, and casinos come under our control, I want you to not only do the managing, but also appear on stage, at least once a month. It might be a little tiring, but it will certainly make us more money."

"Huh?" Mageron wasn't sure if he should believe his ears and, if he did hear right, whether to be glad or incredulous. Medion was promising him a prominent position in the family business, a chance to really prove himself. The problem was, the job Medion was offering wasn't his to offer. The entertainment centers in Saraband did not belong to the family, but to Steele... He started as he realized his brothers' intentions. Hastily he tried to prevent a conflict between blood relatives and boss: "Um, Medion, you know Steele loves this business. He never said nothing about selling out..."

"No problem." Medion didn't look troubled in the least. "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."

At that moment Steele himself entered the hotel room. If he was surprised to see no sign of merry-making and only three grim-looking men, he didn't show it. With the flamboyant boisterousness that was common among men of wealth and power, he greeted them all, then immediately made himself at home. Mageron greeted his employer with mixed emotions. Steele's careless ways should've made the atmosphere more relaxed, but with Medion's ominous promise still echoing in his mind, Mageron could only watch and dread.

Steele appeared not to notice the tension. He grinned at his guests, displaying his wolfish teeth. "It's been a long time, fellows. Grantuck I know a little better, and Mageron is my bitch round this town." He laughed uproariously at his own little joke, before adding: "Don Medion I've hardly met, though. How ya doing, kid? Enjoying this place?"

Medion smiled politely, but his scorn remained unconcealed in his eyes. Mageron shuddered at his menacing reply. "So much I would like to own it myself."

Steele laughed again, a clown still fooling around in the lion pit. He obviously didn't think the young Don would be a threat, and wasn't taking him seriously. The tycoon spread his arms expansively, as if to take in the whole port city. "This is my kingdom, boy! I may not be the lord of Saraband, and I don't ask for no taxes, but Saraband is mine. I make more money than the officials, and they're on my payroll!" He chuckled merrily, basking in his power. "I treat friends visiting my turf well, I assure you. Come on, how about coming down to the gambling rooms for a few games? The Don's money is good, and if you lose too much I won't have to ask you to pay for your room." Steele stood and beckoned them to follow.

Mageron stood as well, but Medion remained seated. His piercing blue eyes bored through the boastful tycoon. His words were chilling and challenging. "I have no taste for the casinos, thank you. I'm much more interested in buying them from you."

The words echoed in the suddenly quiet room. Medion has set the tone of the game, loud and clear, and Steele has finally understood. He stood frozen, rooted by shock, squinting disbelievingly as if Medion was an ant that dared to charge an elephant. Mageron trembled, half expecting his employer to have men come in and dismember Medion on the spot. Yet Medion simply sat there, in one of Steele's best suites, and watched his host patiently. Seconds passed like hours. Finally Steele sat back down, and managed a strangled-sounding "What?"

"The casino, hotel, tavern—we're interested in buying you out. As you said, our money is good." Medion winked and leaned back masterfully.

Steele has by now recovered enough from his shock to be furious. His fur stood on end, and his tails shot up like chrome lances. The tycoon growled as if ready to tear his human adversary apart. "Hey now, just a minute you bastard—I'm the boss here. I buy you out, you don't buy me out!"

"Your casinos are losing money," replied Medion matter-of-factly. "Your luck is bad. A change in owners just might turn the tables..."

"You think I don't know how to do business?" The tycoon's eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets and nail Medion like bolts. The young Don merely smiled gamely: "Perhaps."

Steele kicked over the coffee table and let out an angry laugh. "You ungrateful humans, you really tickle me. I take in your brother when your head was a ticket to retirement for every hitman, and now you're in charge you try to muscle me out of business? You goddamn bastard!"

Medion's tone lowered several more degrees. "Let's not twist the facts, Steele. My father paid you handsomely to take in Mageron. It was not a favor you did us, it was strictly business. Same as this—this is business."

"Yeah, this is," agreed Steele with a disdainful sneer. "Lemme tell you what I know about your business, kid. Ever since you took over, your family's been bullied about by the other Dons. You don't have the power to defend yourselves, much less buy me out! You're getting chased out of Destonia by Desseheren, and everyone knows it. So you think you can turn on me, invade my turf and hide your cowardly ass here? Bah! I've talked to Fiale and Desseheren—both of them would be willing to help me out if you tried to fight me, and I'd still get to keep the place! Your family means zilch to me now, ya hear?"

The young Don's tone was now truly murderous. "Is that why you call my brother your bitch?"

Mageron couldn't keep still any longer. The way this was going, either Medion's or Steele's guts will soon be spilled on the carpet. He tried to intervene: "Aw that, Medion—Steele meant nothing by that. It's just the way he talks. But we're good friends, me and him—ain't that right Steele?"

Medion ignored him completely. His accusing gaze was locked on Steele. "I've heard plenty about you, too, Steele. I heard 'bout how you make my brother do servant's work as well as manage the place. The Family means nothing to you now, so you treat my brother like dirt?"

"Medion..." Mageron began, but Steele cut him off. He was all but shouting at Medion now. "I treat my employees any way I see fit, you bastard, and I don't give a damn whose brother he is! Now I've heard enough from you—get your sorry ass off my turf, and take the rest of your bloody kind with you! You'll be sorry if you stay here, I guarantee that."

"Then I'll just have to find somewhere else to stay the night," was Medion's unperturbed reply. His gave another easy smile, but it was every bit as frightening as his menacing snarl. "Think about a price, will you?"

Steele stormed out the room, shouting for his men. Medion and Grantuck got up calmly and picked up their bags. Mageron looked worriedly after the enraged Steele and tried to think of a way to make his brothers see reason. Conquering the goldmines of Saraband and giving him control over them was all good and well, but the way Medion was doing things he'll not have an ally left. He'd be hunted down and lynched in months. Arrawnt had been hotheaded and offensive as well, but Mageron never thought Medion would be like their big brother. Domaric would never have acted like this—hasn't their father taught Medion anything? Obviously the young Don needed some pointers before he ended up like Arrawnt. Mageron thought he has a pretty good understanding of the business as well, and this was not the way he believed it should be done. He looked at Medion's stony face; he turned to Grantuck instead and implored, "Come on, Grantuck, you're the counselor. You can talk to Pops, straighten this out..."

His adopted brother shook his head, looking just about as unworried as Medion. He beckoned: "Father's semi-retired now, Mageron—the kid's in charge of the family business. If you have anything to say, you should say it to him."

Mageron looked helplessly at the dragonnewt. Didn't Grantuck care if Medion messed things up? He faced his little brother, admonishing: "Medion, you don't come to Saraband and talk to someone like Steele like that!"

In answer Medion gripped him by the shoulders and glared into his eyes. Mageron trembled at the swirling wrath lurking beneath the icy pupils. His words were like steel blades. "Mageron, you're my brother, and I love you. But I warn you—don't side against the Family ever again. Ever."

He spoke no more, but left the room with Grantuck in tow and Mageron in shock at his transformation.

Synbios sat on a bench in the garden and waited for her husband to return from his meetings. In her arms she held their three year old son, little Algernon. The boy was lively and restless, so it was difficult to keep him from squirming off her lap. She sang snatches of songs to him, told him stories, and marveled at how much he resembled her. The same soft brown hair, the same curious green eyes, and the little puckered brows! So intent was she on studying her son's features—something she's probably done everyday since he was born, but still found indescribable joy in doing—she didn't notice Medion approaching until he was standing over them.

Her husband smiled affectionately and kissed them both. He seemed warm and joyful, nothing like his haughty demeanor when he was conducting business. He seemed to be the Medion she remembered from their academy years, not the mastermind of a criminal empire. But something in his eyes told Synbios, who was now apt at reading all the subtle signs revealing her husband's mental state, that his mind was elsewhere. He was playing the part of the loving husband and father for their sake, concealing the things troubling him so as not to mar their innocent pleasure. Problems with his associates again, perhaps—or, more likely, trouble with the law. Synbios has come to accept who her love has become, even if she didn't agree with his ways. Medion has told her it was the way things had to be, at the moment. The family business has always been tainted with crime; there was no way he'll be able to legitimize everything in a few years' time. Give him more time, he'd implored her, and he promised to make the family a suitable place for Algernon, and the siblings that were sure to come, to grow up in. He'd told her that he would do all this, if only out of his love for them, and once again she'd trusted him.

Yet sometimes Synbios had to wonder if he was indeed on the right path. The years were beginning to show on Medion, though he was still young. While he claimed he was making progress everyday, bringing the family out of the shadow of crime inch by inch, he still had henchmen patrolling the estate and acting as bodyguards. He himself did not look more carefree, as Synbios would have expected if he was indeed putting the underworld behind him, but only more distrusting and jaded. Were it not for peaceful interludes like these, when he still laughed and made them laugh with him, Synbios would have despaired of ever reviving the pure, guiltless side of Medion.

She jostled him slightly. "Ready to take us out to dinner now?"

Immediately his eyes clouded, and Synbios sensed his discomfort at having to break yet another promise. "I...have some things I need to discuss with Pops. I'm sorry Synbios." He shuffled his feet guiltily, but did not bow his head or avert his eyes. "Have dinner without me. Um, we'll eat together some other time, go see a show—I promise."

Synbios didn't put up a fuss, responding with only an irritated frown. This was hardly the first time he's taken a rain check, and of course his absent-mindedness had been a clear enough sign. She slid Algernon off her lap, stood to head indoors, then remembered she had something to tell Medion. "Honey, your sister was here a few hours ago. Isabella wants to ask you something..."

He grunted in a slightly unfriendly way, as if suspicious of why Isabella needed Synbios to convey the message. "She knows where to find me—let her ask."

"No honey, she's afraid to." For a minute Synbios studied him, trying to puzzle out why his own sister would fear him. When Medion shifted impatiently, she continued, "It's just that she and Crewart want you to be Godfather to their little boy..."

He seemed surprised at the request, but paused only an instant. "Oh, that. Well, we'll see."

Synbios frowned, displeased that he couldn't give a straight answer to such a simple question. "So will you, or will you not?"

Her husband turned away from her. "Maybe. We'll see."

Medion sat in the back garden with his father, and together they drank red wine for supper. The warm rays of the setting sun washed over the estate, dyeing everything the hue of their beverage. It was a splendid view, but neither spent too much time admiring it. The panorama was like the wine, or the countless wedding days, funerals, birthdays and gatherings during which the Don has discussed his business. For men like Domaric and Medion, life was certainly meant to be enjoyed, but their business was their life. Everything else was merely little extras to decorate the background with, to make things feel different when they're not—like desert flowers amidst barren sands, perhaps, or flickers of starlight through cold, lonely nights.

"Now Desseheren—she will certainly make a move against you." Domaric was saying. He sipped carefully, licked the dripping red liquid off his chin. "She'll set up a meeting through someone you thought you could trust, somewhere you thought you would be safe—and at the meeting, you'll be assassinated. Whoever comes to you with Desseheren's invitation, then, would be the traitor you have to eliminate." He breathed out softly, no more disturbed by the grim topic than his son. He tasted the wine again, before confessing: "I'm drinking more than I used to, you know. Always liked wine, but I'm drinking more now."

"It's good for you, Pops," Medion told him. His own glass had hardly been touched, so intent was his concentration on his father's instructions. But Domaric apparently felt like taking a break now, so Medion swallowed his entire share in quick mouthfuls. The liquor rejuvenated and relaxed him; it made him feel younger, steadier, more confident—yet also more cautious. Unlike most men, the seduction of letting down his guard only made Medion warier than ever. He knew his limits, and skirted them like an intelligent beast of prey. He was, without doubt, a born survivor.

His father poured himself another glassful, and asked, "Your wife and child—you happy with them?"

Medion smiled. He was happy with them, perhaps happier than they were with him. "Very happy, Pops."

"That's good." Domaric looked thoughtful for a moment, then said in a hesitant, even apologetic tone, "I hope you don't mind me going over this Desseheren business over and over again, Medion. It's, uh, just an old habit I have. I spent my life taking care not to be careless. Women and children, they can be careless—but not men. Not men." He sighed, weary with the conclusion of his life's philosophy, and looked over the blazing glory of dusk as if trying to enjoy it. For a few moments there was silence. Then Domaric continued, "And how's the boy?"

"He's perfect." Father and son chuckled, connected in the way two generations are when the younger finally experiences what his elder experienced decades ago. Medion grinned as he spoke of Algernon, as Domaric might have done once when he held little Medion. "He rather takes after me, I mean he's looking more like his mother every day." Domaric laughed, admitting that his own youngest son always looked more like Melinda than himself. "And he's smart—he can recognize my name in the papers."

"Recognize your name in the papers, that's good." They both laughed good-naturedly, taking in stride the guilty implications. The merriment could not last for Domaric, however. He drained his glass, poured himself some more, then reminded Medion, "Remember now, of all the Dons, Desseheren is most capable, and ready, to play rough. If she comes after you, she won't come alone. She'll have anyone you ever offended—Basanda, Steele—backing her up. If you're to deal with her, you must not give her the chance to strike back."

"You told me that, Father," Medion reminded him gently. When Domaric only nodded and continued to mutter to himself, Medion put a concerned hand on his father's arm. "Pops—what's bothering you? I told you I could handle things, and I will. What's wrong?"

Domaric didn't reply immediately. He just sat there, sipping red wine and watching the red skies. Medion waited patiently. Eventually Domaric dropped his hands to his lap, hung his head. The expression of pride mingled with regret—such a familiar expression now on the old man's face—returned. He spoke, as if to himself, "I knew...knew that Arrawnt was going to have to go through this. And Mageron—well, yes, though Mageron...even he, too, would have gone through this, had you been unwilling to, uh, succeed me. Grantuck would have made a fine Don as well, but of course he has always been more of a counselor, an advisor, than a master. I just...I just never wanted this for you, Medion. I worked my entire life, and I don't apologize, to take care of my family in the way I saw fit. I refused to be a common fool, dancing on the strings, manipulated by the kings, queens, lords and such. I've had my way, and I don't apologize, but I—it's just that—I've always thought, when it was your time, you would be the one to hold the strings. Lord Medion, even King Medion...something like that..." The weathered patriarch shook his head wearily, defeated by his private disappointment. He looked as if he has just realized that, for all his victories over countless forgotten foes, he was still a long way from his fulfilling his dream—and both men knew he would probably not live to see it fulfilled.

Medion thought of his own promise to his wife. He wondered if Domaric ever made such a promise to Melinda, and, if he did, what Melinda thought now. To think he once believed he was different from his father, and could find his own destiny! Medion was walking the very path his father chose at his age, and knew he could expect to encounter all the hardships and hurdles his father had to survive. They could have been mirror images of each other, but for the difference in years. Medion's hand found his father's; together they watched the last vestiges of the sinking sun disappear from sight.

Domaric sat by the tomato patch his wife kept, holding his lively grandson and basking in the waning heat of the late summer afternoon. More and more was he learning to forget about the business, and truly enjoy life. Medion's masterful way of handling things made it possible for him to relax—as did the humble realization that he was, for all his terrible might, not immortal, and slowly drawing near his end of days.

But as all aged mortals, he found joy and hope in the new generation that will live far longer than him, and keep his name remembered. Algernon was really the perfect little boy Medion described him to be. His brown hair was like fine silk; his green eyes sparkled like twin oases. He had a slim, quick body, and a treasure trove of expressions from which he randomly selected and displayed for his grandfather. Most of the times it was a happy smile, or innocent peals of laughter. But even when the boy became upset the storm never lasted long. He seemed a little angel born to be sunny. Domaric thought back to his own childhood, and was a bit surprised when he remembered that he, too, was once very much like Algernon.

He tried to teach Algernon how to water the plants. Medion's firstborn was smart, and picked up very quickly. Domaric marveled at that. Not one of his children—or himself for that matter—had been this clever! He chuckled with unconcealed pride, and Algernon laughed merrily with him. The boy was still blessed with the ability to be happy without apparent reason. Domaric watched him, wondering to himself how long this innocence could last. Another four years perhaps, seven at most. In his family innocence was always short-lived. For this, Domaric had his regrets. The irony of his protection ruining his loved ones' pure spirit haunted him. Perhaps, given enough time, Medion could really change things, and provide protection with a clear conscience. But how much time would Medion need? Domaric shook his head, told Algernon not to grow up yet—but the little boy only laughed back at his grandfather.

Toward dusk Algernon got hungry and asked for food. Domaric saw that it was still a few hours before dinner, but he didn't think a snack would hurt the boy's appetite. He picked a few oranges from Melinda's garden and peeled them. Algernon ate quietly and tidily, generously offering a large share to his grandpa. Domaric smiled at his grandson, then thought up a trick. He turned from the boy and secretly slid a slice of orange over his teeth. Then he turned back and began making monster noises while waving his arms.

Algernon jumped away, startled, and started to cry. Domaric laughed, pulled the orange slice off, showed the boy it was alright. Immediately Algernon squealed with delight, and ran through the garden. Domaric resumed his monster act and chased the boy. Together they ran through the patches, chasing each other as they played hide and seek.

After a while Domaric realized he was panting and needed to rest. He stood for a moment, back bent and hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. Little Algernon still raced around, giggling for his grandfather to find him if he can. But Domaric felt now that he could hardly breathe. A great pain erupted in his chest, jolting his every fiber, paralyzing his limbs. He tried to stand up, but his legs were useless, and he stumbled and fell. He tried to call out for help, but the agony locked his throat, reducing his cry to grunts and whimpers. He grabbed wildly at anything his bleary eyes could make out, tearing plants up by the root, but none could keep him to the shore of the living now. The last breath came as a wheezing gasp that thundered mercilessly through his ears; his eyes saw the setting sun, for one last time. Then his senses left him forever, and Domaric's life of cruelty ended in the tomato patch his wife tended.