Rogues Gallery Read Online Free Page A

question the man if possible.
    That was not what garnered the majority of his anxiety at the moment. Dealing with the merchants abandoning their memberships, and the theft of their goods was paramount. Becket was also put in charge of recruiting new Dock Masters and was in the process of choosing men to place in positions of great influence and wealth.
    There were a lot of good people, including his highest ranking Pier Supervisor, Pierce Johnson. But Becket liked the man where he was and had some other candidates in mind instead.
    It was strange being in Dollenger’s office. He had moved forward along the Western Dock’s scale into the first position while Crocker moved up behind him in second. Dollenger’s tastes were rather pedestrian, and thus Becket kept rearranging the space. Dead men left behind a trail of problems that never ended.
    His old office was better. So was the former position; less wok, less responsibility, and less stress. How easy it was to pass along problems to the persons above him in the chain of command. Now there was only Muldor above him, and the man was too stubborn to deal with.
    Becket knew what the Guild Master would have told him. “You’re the senior Dock Master now. Deal with it.” If Becket were to question him, Muldor would not answer except with a stare from those dead fish eyes.
    Becket sighed. He began rearranging the paintings and sculptures in the foyer in his mind. This one, with its rolling hills and gentle river in the background, would anchor the right side below his stairs, the center of a trio of paintings in his home. Similar rivers ran through them all, and that might’ve been a nice idea to string three together in the same space next to each other. That would tie that wall together well.
    Another set of images ran through his mind as well, one of numbers, money bags, and his bank vault growing sparser as his profits shrank. He would find no more sanctuary behind his walls in the wealthy section then. Nothing would protect him from the vile scum of Sea Haven’s dank bottom dwellers then.
    Becket shivered and set about thinking of a way to stop it from happening.
     
    * * * * *
     
    During most nights at the arena, the sheer volume of noise and mass of people was almost overwhelming. The spectators stomped so hard, it threatened to break the wooden bleachers upon which they stood. Nobody sat. They screamed and cursed so loud it would make sailors blush. The fighters fought and bled so much on the wide open floor it looked like an abattoir’s lair.
    The punishing force of violence surrounded them all. Every single living soul in the cramped space added their heat and energy to create a miasma of chaos. The regular, beaten down citizens of what outsiders referred to as “Murder” Haven, yelled for blood and mayhem, and none were disappointed. And it happened every night.
    The only ones who went home dispirited were those that lost money on their bets. Yet they came back as often as they could. Zandor knew repeat business was the key to success in any venture of this nature. Sure, the place was loud and drunks got obnoxious and annoying, but they couldn’t get enough of it. He stood near the lower reaches of the south side bleachers and crossed his arms, watching, trying to filter out much of the hubbub.
    After years of practice, the foreign provocateur was able to cut away the nonsense and listen to scraps and pieces of information that might have proved valuable. People spoke on things when they were drunk when they might not otherwise. Every so often he would catch a bit of a rumor or even a slid fact. It took time, but the shifty man was patient enough to wait.
    Dark garbed and always with his maroon hood hovering over his eyes, he stood with practiced patience. The multitude of knives strapped to his tight waist spoke of his deadly intentions, and the compact nature of his wiry frame brokered no argument to his physical readiness.
    Something happened on the floor,