Seven: Remorse Plays a Fickle Game With Minds

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There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance.

--Gilbert Parker

Dreamer clutched at the cart's edge, steadying himself as it bounced over the rocky path. Someone, somewhere, he reasoned, had forgotten to add this roadway to the long list of things that needed fixing.

One of the two horses dragging them along whinnied, shaking its head and mane against the humid, cold air of that afternoon. "Yeah, it's a dreary one," said the driver, uttering his first words since Dreamer had boarded half-a-dozen blocks ago.

The younger man chose to stay quiet, preferring to leave action for later when they would arrive. Instead, he adjusted the edges of his clothes. The cheap and dingy outfit dug into all the wrong places, making him want to scratch himself. If this is what the Lucrum wear, it's no wonder that they're a group of angry masochists.

The cart lumbered onward. The dozens of boxes piled in its back thudded against one another with their contents rattling louder than the transport's loose wheels. Within the boxes was enough food to feed an army's worth of lackeys. The food was periodically brought to the same place from the same trusted source--it was food that he could not tamper with.

He glared at the non-descriptive containers, then carried his eyes and thoughts back to the mist-covered roads ahead. The Lucrums, of course, had decided to place this particular refuge in one of the shadier parts of the city. It wasn't the slums, per se, but it was certainly not the quaint neighbourhoods where one could trust his or her acquaintances.

Water from the previous night's showers was stagnating in the over-filled gutters, attracting a panoply of insects that landed on the floating mounds of trash. The cart's wheels sliced through the tepid liquid, sending splashing onto the cracked sidewalks. Dreamer took in the stench and cringed. It's going to be far worse in there than it is out here.

The driver quietly led his underfed animals around a corner and into a broad alleyway, one mercifully cleared of detritus. At the end of it, half-hidden amongst the shadows were a group of young men, chatting, laughing, and playfully fighting with one another before a wide set of double doors.

And here we are, Dreamer thought, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. If things go according to plan, it shouldn't take long. Go in, find out who's in charge, get out. He released a long, slow breath, one that emptied out along with his tension.

"You get them boys," the driver said. "They deserve what's coming."

Dreamer and the driver shared a nod. When their eyes met, they were filled with a certain understanding; one in which two victims of the same crime could understand.

"Hey, the grub's here!" one of the Lucrum Boys shouted before clapping his hands. His comrades rose up and moved along the road, making room for the cart and its contents.

The horses plodded forth at a depressed rate with their heads held low. Their master tugged at their harnesses until they coasted to a stop. The cart lurched and the contents of one of the sacks spilled out, toppling a few fat potatoes along the wooden surface.

"Knowing what to do, the Lucrum lackeys jumped to work. One slid the double doors open as the others looted the fallen goods and carried them inside. They marched like ants burdened with provisions for their colony.

Dreamer hopped out of his seat and climbed into the cart's back, gingerly avoiding the crates before he began passing some of the lighter ones down to the Lucrum men milling about. Eyes devoid of any recognition looked up at him, then the men picked up the packages and carried them into their warehouse.

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