Iron Quill - The Reaping - "The futile precaution"

[Mako]

Well, i had time in my breaks to write this. Probably a bit random, but I managed to enter another round at last!

I used the reaping, and the barber (in a sneaky way). I also got hte chance to write a bit more about my favourite psychopathic smuggler and his gang (The old stuff is linked in my signature if you want to torture yourself with it).

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The Futile Precaution

L'inutile precauzione, 16^th. Front balcony, centre, visible from gantries.

The note had been terse and not very descriptive, but Newell had ordered his men into action instantly. Lom was still a policeman at heart, and balked when they told him its meaning; the man Newell had loathed for years would be accessible, albeit briefly, while a guest at the opera. They would get in, do what they could, and get out. The look on Newell’s face had warned Lom not object if he wanted to survive the day.

Doraine, Tobin and Lom, as the least dubious looking members of the crew, had made a scouting trip to the opera house. They kept to the other side of the street, away from the guards on the entrances, and swung round the side of the building without ever stopping. Sensible folk never watched the guards too closely. Lom’s practiced eye could tell that the guards were more a show of force than an actual lockdown. Somewhat reluctantly he pointed out the weaknesses in their coverage, more from fear of Newell than out of any loyalty. On Lom’s advice they had quietly worked their way into the rear yard, hiding amongst the scrap materials used for sets. As the second act had begun, they had used a grapnel attached to a narrow rope ladder to get into a vent hatch amongst the gantries.

The gang had settled into position noiselessly, hidden amongst the piles of canvas and rope so that even looking straight at them, the audience below would see nothing. Doraine had been spotting for Newell initially, but was now sprawled languidly on the planks watching for any stagehands that might climb up to the gantries. They didn’t expect any; no one came here during a performance. Newell lay motionless, his pistol wrapped in a piece of sacking to prevent it glinting in the light from the small crowd lamps. His eyes were focussed unwaveringly on the lower balcony and the man seated five seats in, one row back. So far he’d been assessing his shot for what seemed like forever.

Lom, still unconvinced about being party to a murder, had stayed near the hatch. Since they had arrived, Lom had listened to numerous songs in a language he didn’t understand and was getting increasingly bored and uncomfortable with the whole thing. Alexei was crouched atop a few steps on the other side of the hatch, watching both the crowd beneath them and Lom.

The hollow thunk of a ladder against the hatch startled Lom from his boredom. He and Alexei stared at each other in surprise, the latter quietly slipping a lampblacked knife from under his shirt. They watched incredulously as someone shoved a bundle of strange looking equipment through the hatch and made to follow it. Lom snatched the equipment to one side deftly as Alexei yanked the shadowy figure through the hatch and pinned him face first onto the planks with a knee. Newell glanced at them in irritation, but on seeing the intruder silently eased himself back to crouch in the cramped hatch area. Lom held up a few bits of equipment, including a glass ball with dark mist swirling inside it. Newell took the ball and gestured for Alexei to let the newcomer up.

“Ah, we see I not be the only servant of whispers. We can this make be a perfect night, if do we work together. I have the name Morin” the scrawny, pallid man whispered. Lom and Alexei shared another look in the dim light, Lom confused and Alexei shaking his head ruefully. Newell held the globe in front of Morin, and spoke quietly.

“What do you intend to do with this?”

“It will be wonder; the grave gifted it of me to reap all who be here tonight, for my glory of him.” While his speech made little sense to Lom, Newell seemed to be able to follow the vague rambling thread through it.

“One of these men is mine, and mine alone. As for the rest, I do not care. Whatever you intend, I will have mine first.” Newell spoke softly. Lom stared at him, aghast.

“You can’t let him murder a bunch of innocent people as a trade for him letting you murder your enemy!” He hissed. Alexei flinched slightly and Newell’s shoulders stiffened at this muted outburst.

“These people aren’t innocent. Everyone here either works for, or was invited by, the Guild. Die, live, I don’t care. But,” Newell leaned down to stare point blank into Morin’s eyes, “one of them dies by my hand. Mine, alone.” Morin’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“You not be here for the reaping? Then be these lives all mine, and I will be reaping of them as the grave whispers did tell of me.” His voice rose to a shout as he spoke. “I am Morin, and I…” Newell struck like a snake, knuckles slamming into Morin’s throat. Morin’s mouth still shaped words, but nothing more than a quiet gurgle escaped his lips.

“…and you make too much damn noise.” Newell finished, muttering it just loud enough for Morin and Lom to hear. They waited, perfectly still in the cramped, dimly lit area, in case anyone had heard. From his position half-hidden by coils of rope on a nearby gantry, Doraine muttered a sotto voce curse but didn’t move even slightly when he spoke again.

“Boss. He’s tipped ‘em. We got to move.”

“We don’t leave while I still have my shot at that bastard.”

“Shot’s gone too boss. They killed the crowd lamps.” Fury etched its way into every line on Newell’s face as he turned to face Morin who stared back, eyes widening with slowly dawning fear.

“You miserable, stupid little…” his voice trailed off into a low snarl as he stamped hard on Morin’s leg. Even though he couldn’t make any sound, the agony was clear on Morin’s pale face until Newell grabbed the side of his head and slammed it into a support beam. “Years of work… One damn chance… Ruined…” he almost wept with rage as he snarled, punctuating his words with brutal assaults on Morin’s scrawny form. Snatching up Morin’s bundle of equipment he shoved it into Morin’s arms, leant back in the cramped space, and kicked out hard. Glass crunched in the bag as his boot connected, and Morin was flung half-conscious through the hatchway, plunging two stories down to the stone floor of the yard.

Tomas shuffled his feet nervously at the yard gates, watching the damp streets for anyone coming. He was nervous, and getting more so the longer he waited for Morin to reappear so they could leave. A loud crash in the yard shocked him and he yelped, clutching the gate pillar next to him. Peering inside the gateway, he saw a familiar pair of legs tangled in a heap of scrap wood. Eyes wide in shock, he ran over to find the broken body of Morin. A whimper escaped his throat and he backed away, intending to run. As he turned, he ended up staring straight into the twinned barrels of Newell’s pistol. Behind the dark holes of metal, Tomas saw a man whose face showed no emotion at all. He also seemed to be keeping one ear on the faint strains of music still audible through the open vent. A malicious smile played at one side of his mouth for a moment before he spoke.

“Here is your choice – you can take this money,” he said, holding up a bundle of scrip for Tomas to see, “and bear witness to a would-be murderer accidentally falling to his death. Or you can receive two bullets to the head.”

“T-that’s a pretty easy choice” stammered Tomas, still frozen in place. The tiny smile twitched at the man’s mouth again.

“Indeed it is” he said softly. Standing behind Newell, Lom steeled himself for the twin shots. He was surprised to see Newell hand the trembling Tomas the scrip. The rest of the group had already begun to vanish into the night as Tomas pocketed the bundle. As he looked back up Newell flattened him with one blow, then hustled Lom out the yard and into the streets. Behind them, the faint sounds of guards finding the two necromancers faded into nothing. Eventually, Lom had to ask.

“Much as I prefer it, it doesn’t seem like you to leave a witness who’s pretty likely to tell the guards everything he knows.”

“Of course he will. But he knows next to nothing, and they won’t look for anyone else – they have a dead idiot, a pile of necromantic equipment, and inside that scrip they’ll find the note I had telling me when and where we’d be able to get to a certain guild official. They’ll torture him until they get bored, and then hang him.” The bitter, demonic smile lit up Newell’s face in the lamplight. “He’ll pay me back in blood for their stupidity.”