Death's Reckoning Read Online Free Page B

shared. The city knew about the Guild’s activities and did nothing to curtail them. Thus you all are culpable.”
    Cassius pursed his lips, and Muldor felt a tension among the others save Lord Damour who looked bored. The foppish man twirled a lock of his dark hair in one fattish finger and yawned. Cubbins looked attentive for the first time, curious even. Raul looked serious. His mind twisted as if he had thought of something not considered a moment before.
    Muldor wished for the return of the missing council members, for their replacements were unknown to him. Peterson had been an ally, Stewart a known associate he worked with all the time. The Guild and commerce department had obvious ties on a day to day basis. But they were gone.
    Cassius looked at Muldor, and the others followed, making the new Guild Master uncomfortable. This was not his element. He wasn’t a politician. Castellan was. Lord Falston had been. And Cassius was the epitome of the term. Smooth and congenial, likable and smart.
    And now Muldor was the object of his attention. The Acting Lord Governor smiled, an almost paternal countenance taking over his features, and inclined his head.
    “A most noble attitude, Master Muldor, but I believe your sentiments are misplaced. The Guild is as much a part of the city, and we will face this situation together as a united front.” He made a point to look at Lautner. “We have a greater strength together, facing foreign challenges as they come.”
    And there it was. Muldor felt suspicious. They continued their discussion, finalizing the details of the condition of surrender. Several of the Janisberg officials became involved, yet Muldor found himself a patient yet nervous listener. His mind churned at the implications, what it meant for himself and The Guild.
    There was a sickening in his heart that was troubling.

 
     
    Chapter Three
    The bar top felt wet and sticky. Too many spills, too many drunken unconcerned hands toppling their drinks. No matter how often the bartender wiped away the grime and gunk of alcohol, it returned to trouble no one but himself.
    And even though rain punished the city, wracking the dock workers on and off duty, the tavern dwellers kept the windows open, much to the dismay of the employees. The barkeep ran around, shouting orders at the floor sweeps to clean up spills and spots of water that dribbled over the window sills. One serving wench slipped, and one brawny tough, part of Marko’s brigade, swept her up in his arms and set her right on the ground. Her laughter was shrill and good natured.
    Others shouted at the tough.
    “That’s the only way you can get a girl, Bruno!”
    “Why’d you let her go? You pluck off the floor right!”
    Bruno smiled and made an exaggerated bow, very theatrical, much to the delight of those watching. Others were grim faced and sullen as they sipped their drinks. Perhaps one or two rounds of ale were all they could afford that night. Those tight lipped men stayed as far from the windows, where this other, free-wheeling portion of the crowd reveled in the wetness and potential danger. The treacherous flooring gave rise to more incidents of falling.
    This younger crowd, compared to the older beaten men and women, comprised of spirits desiring to live without a care, unconcerned with their station. They toiled during the day, working their battered bodies into exhaustion. The people considered it their due to enjoy themselves when they could.
    The older crowd, so beaten down after the weight of years, had worn their backs and knees to creaking and constant pain. They considered it their due to be left alone with their suffering and drink. The young folk would learn. Someday they would sit right where the old fogies sat and do the same. The older ones knew this because they had been similar in their younger days.
    A lone tavern denizen opted out of all activity, curmudgeon or otherwise. Giorgio sat by a window level with his chin. He didn’t mind