What price is honour? Chapter one

In the southern reaches of Gardena, where the grass is less lush and
green than elsewhere in the realm and the wind rarely blows to cool down
the many hot days, stands the spired city of Luchelle. The closest
settlement to the border of Simsillia, a land of vibrant villages and
strong hearted chiefs, Luchelle is not a place for a quiet life and easy
retirement. It is bustling, wild, and more than a little dangerous.

Rich from trade, its walls are tall and proud, and its governor’s
palace golden gates are said to shine as bright as a gemstone. Its
markets never seem to close, as all day and well into the night crowds
of shoppers flow through the wide main streets, buying and selling
anything one can think of. Poets, players and all kinds of artistic
minds come here to find patronage, and many fall into good fortune. The
Maxeme theatre is famous throughout the known world, and gilded
galleries display and sell art from the finest talents.

The grand arena is also renowned, hosting all types of martial events
from horse races to brawls between prize fighters. Thousands risk their
hard earned coin in bets every week, and with it comes either fortune
or despair. The city’s fountain district, with its charming streams
leading to the titular landmark, with its proud statue of the historical
founder of the city, fair Luchelle herself, standing tall in front of
the city’s hall of justice, is known for its many fine restaurants.
Those who truly prosper in this city make their homes in the northern
quarter, with fine townhouses hugging the walls.

Yet for all the outward wealth, there is no lack of vice and poverty
if you know where to look. To the city’s southern quarter lies the
Raggere district, where those who undertake the hard labour in the mines
and factories dotted around the city’s outer limits live. Their
families do their best to get by with what paltry wages their hard
working mothers and fathers bring home.

However, few can resist the temptations of the district due west of
the Raggere, even if their wages are stretched to breaking point.
Acheirone district, known by all as “the Ache”, is home to whorehouses,
gambling halls, rowdy inns (where to order food is to place your life in
your hands), and any of the other distractions without the gloss and
glamour of other parts of the city. Here, the poets are the beggars,
trading paltry song for stale bread. Artists and players cater to those
who lust for the satisfaction of the flesh rather than the soul, with
erotic drawings being traded for coin, and play’s which are short on
plot, but high on fair men and women in minimal costume, for which one
can become better acquainted with after curtain call, for the right
price.

. The criminal gangs of the Ache have long made this place
their undisputed home, with the governor’s guards avoiding it like the
plague. Anyone who breaks the unwritten rules of the ache is dealt with
by the toughs that enforce the law laid down by their paymasters.
Miserable for being on duty rather than being drunk, they show no pity
for those they deal with, and the punishments are left entirely up to
their discretion, with often brutal results.

The Ache is a place for sinners, lost souls, and those who want to
forget and not be noticed. This is what makes it the perfect place for
the man who now sat in the corner of the inn/brothel known as “The pink
lace”.

Faultner Varmus remembered when he was a better man, one who he could
look in the looking glass every morning. He had once been a soldier, of
Gardena’s proud army. A member of the elite scouts, who went ahead of
the army with naught but bows and daggers, he had distinguished himself
as a deadly archer, an excellent tracker who could move silently in any
terrain, and as a god man, who always looked out for his comrades. He
had saved countless lives due to his skills, and without the
intelligence he had gathered from the enemy, the battle of Waveway may
have been lost. For this they gave him honours, and raised his pay.

But honours and gold cannot make one stand the sight of a supply
column, in which women and children had travelled with the wagons, being
burnt to nothingness by a crazed teenager wearing a collar. No sense of
duty could make the smell of burnt flesh not linger in the air, carried
by the wind straight to him, making him practically taste it. The
memory of glory cannot blot out the memory of all the death he had
caused, all the innocents slaughtered because of what he had been made
to do.

But what made him grip his mug tightly, as if to shatter it with his
own hands, was that no amount of cheap ale could dull the hatred that
filled his heart. That hatred was tied to one, truly terrible memory.
One of screams heard as his heart pounded in his chest, running in vain
to stop what was happening. Of smoke in his lungs, heat scorching him as
he broke down the door. Of lifeless eyes staring at him, as if asking
him “Why?”

Of that memory, what most endured was a face. The face of one whom
all but he still called a hero, now in his mind wearing the mask of a
monster, of the type who should never be known in this world.

“Steffanes…” Faultner angrily whispered the name under his breath,
his grip on the mug loosening. He never regretted his desertion from the
army as long as he remembered that name. He was glad to be hated, to be
forced to become a criminal to get by. It was “good” people, after all,
who laid honours on men like Steffanes Ingriade. He didn’t even care
that the man he knew the true nature of now had the cushy job of Guard
captain of Elleden tower, minding after clumsy young prodigies who might
throw an errant fireball here and there. His chance to let all of
Gardena know the truth had come and gone, none would believe him now.
Besides, he was no child, who believed in the slightest that there was
any true justice in the world.

No, all that counted was money, and that’s why he was here tonight,
twiddling his thumbs as he waited for those who would be his partners in
what promised to be a most profitable venture for all of them, provided
everyone kept their heads. This was to be his most challenging task in
his fledgling criminal career, but yet it did not fill him with any kind
of fear. Disgraced or not, a Gardenan scout does not scare easily.

Over the din of the crowded room, Faultner heard the dim chime of the
Charity bell, which came from the clock tower of the hall of stars at
the centre of the ache. The chimes told him the hour was eleven, which
meant one thing. He was either early, or all the others where late.

Cursing under his breath, Faultner looked about the room, straining
his eyes for a glimpse of someone he recognized. Alas, all he could see
where the same tables filled to breaking with drunks, some in large
groups, some in pairs, pawing over each other in view of the common
crowd while waiting for one of the private rooms to open up. The odour
of ale, sweat and all manner of things associated with your common ache
establishment began to irritate him now, as it reminded him of all the
fun he could be having. Instead, Faultner was waiting, and if he were
made to wait much longer he’d go home, money be damned.

His thoughts were sharply interrupted by the touch of a large, firm
hand upon his shoulder. He turned his head around quickly, looking up at
the hands owner. He was reassured when he saw the face of Glarren
Khartovic, the brawn of their temporary group of associates. With a
height and set of muscles that justified his reputation as a terrifying
giant, Glarren, a former mineworker, was of rough, tanned complexion,
his face bearing the mark of a fist or two. Bald, with no beard to speak
of, he was not a man one said no to if one valued their life,
especially when they caught a glimpse of the great broadsword strapped
to his back.

“Your late”, Said Faultner, without trying to hide his annoyance.
He’d dealt with brutes like Glarren before, who relied too much on
looking scary to win an argument. Glarren knew that Faultner wasn’t the
least bit scared of him, so he simply nodded.

Turning his head back to the table, Faultner could see that the other
two members of their group had sat down at the table, mugs in front of
both of them. Brill, a born native of the Ache, had brought the party
together. With a handsome face that suggested a more homely background
than a life as a cutpurse, Brill was fair haired, with the keen eyes of a
man who always looked for his next score. Despite lacking bulk, he was
no slouch in a fight, and Faultner had seen first-hand the things Brill
could do with the short sword at his hip.

Beside him sat Tisza, who Brill referred to as their “Ace in the
hole”. A raven haired young woman, who had come to Luchelle from
Nikralka, she was not known for being talkative. Her soft features meant
she was often pawed at upon her arrival in the ache, but a quick dagger
in the ribs of one man had made any sensible pleasure seeker know to
look elsewhere for their satisfaction. Brill had talked a great deal
about her unique talents, but Tisza seemed not too interested in what
people thought of her. In fact, she rarely looked interested in
anything, even now looking idly away from the group, chin resting in her
hand, a faraway expression in her lilac eyes.

Glarren sat beside Faultner, his mass taking up considerable space on
the bench. Now that the group was here, business could finally begin.
Brill reached into his cloak, and produced two rolled up sheets of
parchment.

“Apologies for the delay, Faultner my good man” said Brill, with his
typical laidback manner. “Something came up; or rather a few things came
up, if you catch my meaning.”

Tisza seemed to tsk at that, at which Brill’s looks turned sheepish.
Brill could resist anything it seemed, except temptation. Faultner
supposed it had been Tisza who had had to drag him to this meeting, from
where He could only guess.

“We don’t need to do small talk tonight Brill, we all know why we’re
here” Faultner said bluntly. “You’ve got the maps, I assume, unless
those things are just for show?”

Brill undid the binding on the two sheets, and swiftly laid them out
on the table. Sure enough, they were the promised maps of the Ismail
family bank. The first was of the main area, the public concourse, staff
office, and so on. The second, and most vital, was one of the inner
workings of the bank, the basement, and of course, the great vault.

“Now then”, said Brill, his tone becoming more business-like, his
finger pointing downward at the maps. “This is the last time we will go
over this plan. I’m sure you all don’t really need reminding, but for
the sake of my nerves, we’ll have one final look before tomorrow.”

“Well get on with it then Brill, I’m getting bored here” Glarren
growled. He was not a patient man, as Brill had found out to his cost.

“Of course, you’re quite right Glarren. We want to take every bit of
coin in this bank, and that means what they’ve got behind the front desk
as well as what’s in the vault. We meet up in the alley behind The Hall
of Stars at the ten o’ clock bell. From there we head towards the
bankers quarter, keeping to the back streets. It should take us about an
hour to get to the square outside the bank.”

“From there”, Brill continued, pointing to different parts of the map
as he spoke, “We split up.” Glarren, you and me barge in through the
front door and cause as big a scene as we can. With the help of
Cropland, my man on the inside, who’ll be taking a small cut, we’ll bar
the front door, making sure no one gets in or out. From there we give
everyone inside a big scare, especially the clerks. If their smart,
they’ll give us the money, no arguments needed. ”

“Meanwhile, Faultner, you go with Tisza. Head straight for the
manhole we marked out, and get down it quick. From there, it’s a short
crawl to the sewer entrance to the bank’s lower level. Tisza will know
what to do once you reach it. Once you’re in, head straight for the
vault. Glarren and I should have everyone’s attention upstairs, but if
anyone is down there, kill them.”

“When you get to the vault, Tisza will do what she does best.
Faultner, she’ll need all her concentration to get the vault open, so
you keep a look-out. Once she’s done, you blow your whistle. We should
hear that from upstairs, and by then we’ll have got the money we want.
We’ll run down, and all five of us will bag up everything in there. Once
that’s done, we head back upstairs, and take the bars of the door. By
then, my man Wude should be outside with the cart.”

“If all’s gone as it should, then the guards won’t catch on to what’s
happening until we’ve got the cart loaded up and we’re well clear. We
head to the graveyard, and there we toss the loot into the open pit, and
cover it up. We head back to the ache separately, and spend the night
in different places. In the morning, we all head back to the graveyard,
all of us with our own way to carry a load. We split everything five
ways evenly as can be, and do what we all want from there.”

At that, Brill leaned back, taking a deep breath as he finished
outlining his plan. He was very proud of it; after all it had taken two
months for him to work out every detail. From acquiring maps to getting
the personnel he needed to carry out the job, he had poured all of his
effort into what he had called his “Master-Stroke.” Now that the fated
day was upon him, he seemed to be more susceptible to signs of
nervousness, much more than had ever been seen of him before.

“This is your last chance to back out, or ask any questions my
friends. From here, there is no turning back and no getting cold feet
before we’ve got the money.”

“This Cropland,” asked Faultner, “You’re sure we can count on him? He is a guard at the bank, after all.”

Brill gave a sardonic smile. “He is, but being made to work the
nightshift on his wedding anniversary has rather soured his professional
ethics. He’s got his eye on buying a farm in the heartlands and moving
his family there, so he’s as up for this as any of us.”

“Just how much is gonna be down there”, demanded Glarren, his eyes narrowing at Brill.

“It’ll be about fifty thousand Garand’s worth, give or take. If a
large deposit has come through in the last two days, it’ll likely be
more, but we’ll have more than enough room on the cart. If there’s any
paintings or sculptures in there, leave them. You know as well as I do
that no fence in the ache will give you any kind of fair price.”

Brill turned to Tisza, as if to ask her if she had any questions, but
she ignored him. Clearly she needed no further reassurances about what
they were doing, and was finding all of this fairly tedious.

With a look of satisfaction, Brill addressed the whole group, rasing
his mug. “If all that is settled, may I propose a toast, to-“

“We’re not doing any toasts” Faultner interrupted firmly, getting the
whole tables attention. “No toasts, no oaths, no promises, and no
rousing words. We aren’t friends, what we’re doing isn’t noble or grand,
and we won’t be telling any jolly tales afterward. This is a job where
we all need to stay focused on what we each need to do. After it’s done,
I have no plans to see any of your faces again, and that doesn’t make
me the least bit sad. “

At that, Brill’s face again became grave. Getting up from his bench, he said softly “Well that’s all. See you tomorrow.”

Brill promptly left, heading for the front door. Glarren followed
behind him, pushing people aside as he passed. Tisza did not go with
them, instead heading towards the bar, Faultner soon losing sight of her
as she melted into the crowd.

Faultner stayed where he was for a moment, thinking over what he had
just said. It was harsh on Brill, whom Faultner really had nothing
against, but he had meant every word he had said. He hated The Ache,
more than he ever thought he could hate a place. Poor circumstances kept
him here, and with this job he saw his ticket out. He would get to
Nikralka, and from there buy a ship. He could do well as a merchant, and
may even find some far off island to settle on. As long as he was in
Gardena, he knew he had no chance of forgetting all he had seen, and all
he had done.

He finished of his ale, and headed towards the door, refusing the
tempting offers he got along the way. Once out into the street, he took a
moment to look up into the sky.

The moon was shining, and the night wind blew cold. Wrapping his
cloak tight around him, he sighed. Were you able to simply throw
memories away, like bones from food? Or did they have to stay with you, no matter what you did?

Banishing this idle philosophy from his mind, Faultner started for
his home, hoping to get a decent night’s sleep before tomorrow, when his fortune would take a truly drastic turn.