Chapter Three
With Wyatt and Rison hustling off to unload the wagon, Elgee spent a few moments gloating about his victory over the Raman trader. He couldn't begin to imagine why the talk around Cairo painted them as duplicitous and conniving. Trading away a worthless old crate that had been languishing in the vault for centuries in return for one thousand pounds of crystals was so easy and so lucrative it ought to be illegal.
Well, technically it was illegal but he allowed himself a rare smile anyway. Amazing, he thought. That crate's been gathering dust for centuries--it was clear his father had not opened it--and suddenly it was worth untold riches! He folded his arms across his chest and paced the shop, pausing at each window and gazing out but not really seeing anything. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back and his hair--what little remained--plastered itself to his head like it had been painted on.
Somehow that trader knew. He knew everything. Boss pushed it away, knowing if he continued to dwell on it he would move from curiosity to worry, then from worry to fear. And it shouldn't bother him. I knew it was coming. I knew one day that door would open and someone would be coming for that crate. But he always thought it would be in the future, somewhere down the line.
For the thousandth time, the contents of the crate and the import behind the dire warnings left by his father nagged at him. Why couldn't you just tell me what was in it? Why the mystery? It was frustrating, even after all these years to realize his father had never once discussed the crate, or even the existence of the safe. Only after his death when the bloodsucking lawyer handed him a sealed envelope did Elgee realize all was not as it seemed down in Cairo. The note and its message plagued him for years, curiosity eating away like a cancer.
You remember the old code I taught you as a child? It was his father's handwriting but it wasn't really a question. The day will come when you discover its use and when you do, you will discover your birthright. Resist with all your might the urge to open it or disturb the contents. What is inside will bring certain death.
Disgust filled him, as it did every time he thought of the note and its cryptic warning. What kind of a father leaves a box of death as a birthright for his son? Why not gold? Or better yet, a trove of crystals, certainly worth far more than gold. The message continued, provoking even greater irritation. A man will come, he will know of the crate and you will give it to him.
In the five long years since the death of his father, the crate tormented him. With the words and symbols void of meaning, it had nagged at him like a rash he could never scratch. Birthright! He did his best to push the thought of the useless crate to the back of his mind, to forget about it and move on. Useless until today, that is. But why was the Raman trader was so willing to part with untold riches for old tech that had been languishing for centuries? If he knew the words, why now? The trader could have claimed the crate during any of the previous five trading seasons since he had inherited the shop. It just didn't add up.
But oh, the crystals! And one thousand pounds of them, enough for a thousand lifetimes of luxury and excess. The thought of his pending riches chased away any concern about this deal and he allowed himself to wallow in a gilded fantasy of life back in Chicago. People would puzzle over his newfound wealth, of course. His life would be filled beautiful things, fine food and clothes, and women. Women who had previously been too highborn and proud to consider a dalliance with someone so beneath their station but would now flock to him like pigs at the slop. Men who had never paid him enough attention, who snubbed him or worse, shook their heads in mock pity when he passed by; these same men would now welcome him with open arms. They'd pat him on the back and speak to him as though he were a long lost friend, all the while seeking ways to finagle as much of his horde as they could. Eventually, they would begin to wonder how he came into such riches, and then the whispering would start. Soon, the whispers would evolve into demands, those demands into accusations. They would believe he had been conducting unauthorized trade and soon the Guild would become involved.
Accusations equaled the Guild. The Guild equaled a trial. A trial meant witnesses. And witnesses could be put to the test. It would be far better should there be no witnesses, he thought. Only the Speck could attest to the source and he realized the Speck had to go. He had to disappear, and soon, to be forever silenced. There would be no repercussions or barely a raised eyebrow should his Speck meet with an untimely death. No one cared about Specks
Through the window he caught movement out on the street leaving him with just enough time to register the thought he was about to have a visitor before the door burst open.
"Elgee. So good to see you." It was Graht, the Guildmaster of Cairo. He glanced about the shop as if he would be soiled merely by setting foot inside.
"What do you want Graht? Got things to do, can't be sitting around chewing the fat," Elgee said, acting bored and disinterested.
Graht huffed a bit and stuck out his chin. "It would appear that sitting around was exactly what you were doing. Perhaps you could be a sport and tell me why Caddo was here?"
Of all the people in the world who could happen to visit, it had to be this pompous fool. But I am rich. Or at least I will be by this time tomorrow. He realized he no longer had any reason to suck up to this guy, or anyone else for that matter.
"I suppose I could if I had any idea who Caddo was."
"Elgee, are you being intentionally obtuse?" Elgee barely hid a smirk as he watched Graht redden and bristle. "Caddo. The chief trader of the Rama, you thick headed oaf. Please don't bother with an attempt to portray yourself an innocent or I'll have the Commandant down here before you can blink."
Until just an hour ago, Elgee would have been felt compelled to coddle and mollify Graht but much had changed.
"Oh, gotcha. Was that the chief trader? He didn't say." Elgee mustered every bit of self control he possessed. "But I suppose he knew where he could strike a good deal."
"So!" exclaimed Graht. "You admit it without an accusation being proffered. You know the law. It would appear you have forgotten the penalty for trading with the Rama outside the Guild, does it not?"
"Yes, yes. I know all about your precious Guild. And your penalties. You haven't forgotten my father was Guildmaster before you were even born, have you?" Elgee was on dangerous ground here but felt emboldened by his forthcoming riches. It was worth the risk knowing it would infuriate Graht.
"He was worthless and he sired worthless heirs. It's fortunate the Guild had the foresight to realize a new direction was needed after his untimely death." Graht's chest swelled as Elgee smoldered.
"Murder. You mean murder, his untimely murder."
Graht shook his head in pity. "It really is of no consequence now, is it? He's long dead and you'll be heading to the labor gang for the crime of unauthorized trading."
Elgee stood his ground. "Unauthorized trading? I may not be in the Guild, but I am pretty certain for a transaction to be considered 'unauthorized' there would have to be a transfer of crystals included somewhere in there. Wouldn't you think, Graht?"
Graht stared at Elgee with a look of pure hatred. "The Rama have nothing to trade other than crystals, you dolt. So quit trying to pretend otherwise. You've already confessed anyway."
"Dolt? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to ruffle my feathers, Graht." Elgee felt exhilarated by the freedom afforded by his pending wealth. "But I hate to disappoint you. Not a single crystal traded hands today."
He was quite proud of himself. Technically, he had told the truth. For it was a group of crystals in the leather pouch, and they weren't even an official part of the deal. Furthermore, the actual trade would occur tonight. He hid a smirk behind his hand.
Graht's eyes narrowed. "So what did he want? You expect me to believe the chief trader of the Rama dropped by for a chat? Or perhaps he got lost and needed directions back to the bridge?"
"Well, I guess that shows even a Guildmaster can run the risk of jumping to conclusions, eh?"
Graht folded his arms across his chest. "Be very careful Elgee. You are close to crossing the line. I will not tolerate impertinence."
Elgee's mirth faded as the fun in rattling Graht's cage evaporated in an instant. "Fine. Have it your way." He pointed toward the warehouse. "I am the proud owner of a brand new Speck. Only gonna cost me a couple cases of good cunuck apple preserves."
"A Speck?" Graht shook his head and raised one eyebrow. "You've acquired another Speck? Of what use would an additional Speck be to you? I doubt you have enough trade to justify the maintenance your existing one. You truly are an imbecile, Elgee. And it reaffirms our decision to reject your Guild application yet again."
Elgee hung his head, doing his best to appear sheepish and contrite. He picked up the empty jar left on the counter by the trader and gave it a forlorn look. "Maybe you're right, Graht. Maybe, you're right. I'll just have to find a buyer for an extra Speck."
"You idiot! What buffoon would actually purchase a Speck? They're worthless, almost as worthless as you and your moronic father!" Graht shoved past Elgee and headed back to the warehouse. It was a breach of etiquette but one Elgee was willing to overlook, all things considered.
He hated Graht. Hated him with an intense desire to see him suffer. And why shouldn't he? If Graht wasn't the one who killed his father, he was certainly involved. At the very least, he was the beneficiary of the murder. His father had been Guildmaster of Cairo, murdered in his sleep but the killer never apprehended. There were no suspects and little effort to investigate. The whole ordeal rankled Elgee but Cairo was a remote and isolated outpost, left to enforce its own laws and punish its troublemakers in whatever way seemed fitting. No official investigation ever occurred and repeated appeals for help from the authorities in Chicago got nowhere. The indignation and frustration Elgee had felt at the time never dissipated but had festered over the years, ripening to a poisonous brew of loathing and vengeance.
It was he who should be Guildmaster, not Graht. The position was his by birth and it had been stolen from him. Graht was the interloper, a thief. It was Graht who had usurped his position as heir. He was a cheat, now insulated from repercussions by his position and wealth.
Graht would pay and pay dearly. Retribution would be sweet. Guildmaster should have been his! And it would have been if not for the duplicitous machinations of Graht.
"Indeed, Elgee," said Graht returning from the warehouse. "You do possess yet another Speck. The two of them seem to be doing little more than goggling around back there with nothing to do. Perhaps they're on holiday. Do your Specks merit a holiday, Elgee? If you are quite through coddling them, it might become apparent your efforts to succeed in business are sorely lacking. I suspect your demise to be imminent, given your proclivity for waste. We at the Guild will realize the inevitability of it all but I doubt a tear will be shed at your passing."
Graht glided to the front door of the shop before turning and adding with a sneer, "Heed my words, Elgee. You will discover illicit trading a direct route to a labor gang, regardless of your family's former stature."
The door slammed behind him leaving Elgee trembling with frustration and pent up rage. Hatred coursed through him and he hurled the empty jar against the door sending a spray of glass cascading over the floor Wyatt had just swept. Wyatt. If there were anybody in the world who could infuriate him more than Graht, it was Wyatt. The lazy Speck had made him look like a fool once again. He grabbed the stick and stalked back to the warehouse. And if Wyatt had been standing around just taking up space, then the stick needed to get busy.
He burst through the door to the warehouse and sure enough, there Wyatt stood with the little Raman lad, leaning against the wagon rail as if it were in danger of floating away should they leave it alone. His eyes noticed her curves and now obvious femininity but it would be hours later before those facts registered in his mind that Rison was actually a girl. Because the stick was itching to get busy.
Without a word Elgee strode toward his Speck and raised the stick.
Now the stick would sometimes dole out a gentle tap as if to do nothing more than catch Wyatt's attention or point out some small detail that had been overlooked. Or sometimes the stick would jab into his ribs if the overlooked detail were of sufficient importance to Boss or if Boss was a bit off his feed that day or if Boss's gout was raging. And of course, sometimes the stick came raining down in a cascade of blows leaving Wyatt unable to do anything other than curl into a ball.
This was one of those times. Rison watched in mute horror as Elgee pummeled Wyatt in a furious flurry of blows.
"Stop it! You're gonna kill him!"
Wyatt struggled to drag himself under the wagon searching for a semblance of protection. His hands trembled as he clutched at the wheels but Elgee grabbed him by the ankle and yanked him back into the open continuing his relentless assault. Blow after blow hammered down as Elgee spent his rage.
Rison looked on in horror, unable to comprehend the spectacle. She raced to the pile of scrap and dug through it searching for a steel bar she remembered unloading earlier. She pulled it free from the heap and hefted it in both hands. It was good and solid, about as thick as a man's thumb. She spun to face Elgee who continued to batter Wyatt, oblivious to her, so focused was he on inflicting damage. His initial fury had transitioned into a methodical and systematic beating. His lips moved silently and a faint smirk appeared after each blow.
Without hesitation, Rison swung the rod at his back. It connected with a solid thud right at kidney height, dropping him to his knees with a grunt of pain. Rison backed away as he grabbed the rail of the wagon to haul himself to his feet. He turned on her with a murderous look in his eye, brandishing the stick as though it weighed nothing at all.
"Oh my. That was unwise." He arched his back knowing he'd have blood in his urine for the next week. "And now you're going to pay dearly for that act of stupidity."
He rushed toward her, swinging the stick down in a chopping motion. She sidestepped and drove the steel rod into his gut as he passed. Pain exploded in his abdomen as air burst from his lungs, doubling him over and dropping him to his knees once again. The stick fell from his limp hand and clattered to the floor.
"I ain't paying for nothing Mr. Elgee. And if you know what's good for you, you leave that stick right where she lays."
A new wave of anger washed over Elgee. This was his shop and his Speck. He could do whatever he wanted and nobody could tell him otherwise. His hand reached for the stick and he levered himself to his feet once again. This time he would proceed with more caution. So the little Raman kid has some skills, eh? Well, Old Elgee didn't just roll off the turnip wagon last night!
He held the stick with both hands, warily eyeing Rison who stood without moving. He circled to her left realizing the attacks had come from her right side. He continued to move, the stick bobbing with each step. Then he spun with the speed of a striking snake, the stick leading the way and aimed at her skull. But she was gone!
A sharp crack and an instant of searing pain shot through his kneecap. It was followed almost instantly by an equal bolt of agony across his forearm. Again the stick fell to the floor, he was unable to feel it drop from his lifeless fingers.
"I warned you, now didn't I? The next time I see you going for that stick, I'm gonna bend this rod over that thick head of yours. We clear on that?"
All he could do was nod.
Rison... you go girl! I gotta tell you: I wrote this thinking of everybody who has ever had a "Boss" who was a real jerk! Can you relate?
Hey! While you're sitting there, why don't you go ahead and vote!
NEW: I wanted to dedicate this chapter to @MNJGreenhill who has written the very successful werewolf/romance story "Masked." If you're into werewolves (and really, who isn't?) then check it out... it's a great read! The best of its genre on the w-pad.