Crooked Streets, page 1
part #1 of The Travails of Kozef and Cainen Series
Crooked Streets
© 2019 R. J. Creaney.
All rights reserved.
Cover illustration by Miłek Jakubiec
Contents
Map – The Kingdom of Coerond and surrounds
Crooked Streets
1 – The Brawl at the Grotto Grouse
2 – The Battle at the Grotto Grouse
3 – The Tannery
4 – A Sound Working-Over
5 – The Hotelier’s Son
6 – The Guildhall
7 – Cainen’s Plan
8 – Overthrow
Illustration – Kozef and Cainen are met with strife in the streets of Thieudan
Grey Scourge
1 – The Lone Wolf
2 – Wolf-catcher
3 – The Hunt
4 – The Hunted
5 – Into the Den
6 – Presenting the Kill
7 – The Pack
8 – Aftermath
Illustration - Kozef and Cainen encounter the monstrous Beast of Vaudain
Thieves’ Boulevard
1 – Treasure Unearthed
2 – A Most Beguiling Harlot
3 – Caelummar’s Folly
4 – Criminal Underworld
5 – Breakout
6 – The Queen of Thieves
7 – The Princess of Thieves
Afterword
Crooked Streets
1 – The Brawl at the Grotto Grouse
It was an inn, of course – the place at which many tales have their beginnings. More accurately, it was a hotel; for that is what inns are called in that country. The Grotto Grouse hotel was its name. It was a modest but well-regarded eatery and drinking house with lodgings for the night available on the second and third floors. It was one of the foremost hotels of Thieudan, a generally small city as far as cities go, but nonetheless a significant market town of Coerond’s southern massif country.
Seated at finely-worked stools and benches about the centremost table of the hotel’s spacious common room there was a party of men, six altogether. All were clad in leather jerkins dyed a deep brown-red, and all were thoroughly enjoying themselves in their loud drinking and riotous merrymaking. While they enjoyed themselves, however, all the other people of the hotel did not, and could not hope to.
A lonesome old man, his mottled head bald but for a few white wisps of hair, had been trying unsuccessfully to enjoy his drink of cheap wine. Finally he rose and made his way to leave, walking carefully and with his gaze to the floor so as to not draw attention to himself. But it was to no avail – one of the leather-clad roisterers had taken notice. He was a reasonably young man – with short, fair hair and a neatly-trimmed beard about his mouth and chin, but with cheeks that were cleanly shaven. He promptly stood up and called out loudly to the old man:
“Good saigneur,” he said, sarcastically. Wine spilled from his pewter goblet as he gesticulated. “Are you leaving us so soon?”
The old man, suddenly frozen to where he stood, only mumbled something about an important appointment he needed to keep.
“You have had but one cupful of wine,” the young man said. “Please, sit down and have another. On my credit, of course.”
There were cheers and hoots from the man’s colleagues. There was amusement in them, but mixed in equal parts with derision. The old man shied away.
“Farice, show him his seat, if you please.”
One of the young man’s leather-clad fellows – a man tall and burly, with dark shaggy hair and a cruel head – rose up, and seized the old man under the arm. Roughly he escorted the elder to the nearest empty seat and pressed him down. He stood by as a serving girl carefully refilled the man’s cup with wine under the keen gaze of the leader.
As the serving girl backed away, Farice’s master examined the old man, who was fidgeting in his chair and trembling with fright. Feigning contemplation with a hand at his chin, the young man spoke again, just as loudly as before.
“Actually, Farice, I can see now that he does not wish to be among us any longer. Show him the road.”
“As you wish, Jague,” the ruffian replied in a soft, piping voice that belied his hulking appearance. He promptly lifted the elder from his seat and man-handled him over to the open door. At the doorway Farice gripped the old man by the back of his doublet and cast him over the threshold, sending him sprawling to the dusty cobblestones in the street outside.
There was an explosion of laughter amongst the leather-clad patrons – they threw their heads back and their hands up before slamming their fists and wine-cups and ale-tankards down onto the tabletops in front of them.
“And his wine, Farice! Do not forget his wine!” Jague said, between laughing snorts.
The bulky ruffian took up the full goblet, and returned to the hotel’s front door. He flung the contents out at the old man, splattering him across the back with red wine just as he was attempting to pick himself up from the ground. The cup itself followed quickly after, striking the man squarely in the back of the head.
The inn’s common room was filled with another uproar of mocking laughter. Farice, snickering and grinning widely, returned to his seat. One of his colleagues patted him, congratulatory, on the shoulder.
The Grotto Grouse’s hotelier – a balding, frumpy man with a florid nose and cheeks and a bushy pair of grey moustaches – seemed very interested in serving the men and keeping them satisfied as their roister continued throughout the afternoon. He accepted every rudeness, every mockery with staggering deference. He nodded and bowed at the men as if they were princely sons of the King of Coerond himself, ennobling his modest establishment with the gift of their patronage.
Serving women flittered about the common room; bringing out pitchers of wine and beer, carrying dishes of pork dumplings and bowls of vinegary stew back and forth, keeping well away from the ruffians unless absolutely necessary – which, for all their demands, was more often than the women cared for.
One server – the hotelier’s daughter, a tawny-haired young woman with bright eyes but a sober face – bore her pitcher of beer to a far corner of the inn common room. She found two men there, seated at a small table. They were talking quietly amongst themselves, but fell to silence and looked up at her as she approached.
The hotelier’s daughter had to stifle a frown upon looking on them. They seemed every bit as coarse as – or perhaps coarser than – the band of men who were antagonising her father’s common room.
She could not be certain when they had entered the hotel. They had not yet been served, but they seemed to be quite at home, as if they had been sitting there at the table for hours. The hotelier’s daughter could see that they were both dusty from the road – but that was all the two unusual men had in common.
One was large, with thick arms, sturdy shoulders and a chest like a barrel. She could see that he was not entirely hard muscle, however; the quilted and padded folds of his faded red doublet did not entirely disguise his protruding stomach. He appeared to be the about thirty to thirty five years of age.
The big man’s eyes were stark, bright blue and piercing. He had a nose that was long and aquiline, and below it there bristled a thick, black moustache. He was not quite bald: much of the hair at the top of his head had receded away, but the rest of it was cropped close, being little different to the coarse black stubble that shaded his heavy, square jaw.
The man sitting across from him was altogether smaller, several years younger, and more compactly built than his comrade. He too wore a padded garment – a dun, sleeveless tunic – over which he wore a blue hooded mantle about his shoulders. The hood hung at his back, revealing a head of shaggy, sandy coloured hair. His lean, angular face was also clad with stubble, and his dark brown eyes were full of life and movement. He wore no expression, but there were slight shadows – about his eyes and the corners of his mouth – that hinted at a roguish grin, ready to form at any moment.
“Good-day, saigneurs,” the hotelier’s daughter said. “Welcome to the Grotto Grouse. Helaire is my name. How might I assist? May I pour you some ale?”
“Good-day, maidamme,” the small one responded. Helaire was not sure about the man’s accent. “Ale would be grand, but we’re penniless at this moment. We’ve barely a centime between us.” The man put his hands out, in a beggar’s gesture.
Helaire could not help but frown. “Well, gentlemen,” she said, politely but firmly, “This is a hotel, not an almshouse. The door is over there, as you see. Thank you kindly and good-day.”
She gave a quick, sharp bow and turned, starting back for the kitchens.
“I think, maidamme, it is us that can assist you.” A deep, rolling voice. The big man. He had an eastern accent; he was from the easternmost Imperial circles, or further east still. Both of these men were a great distance from their homelands.
She turned back tentatively. “I beg your pardon, saigneur?”
“We will assist you, if you will permit us,” the big man said, loud enough for the words to carry to Helaire’s ears, but no further.
Helaire approached them again. “And with what, good saigneur, would you assist us?”
For the briefest of moments his keen blue gaze flickered past her, to the rowdy, leather-clad troop. Their bellowing and laughter was thunderous. One was standing up on a table – not his own table, but one at which other patrons were trying to dine – and another two were swaggering about in a vigorous mock-fight; they jostled into tables and other patrons as they grappled and exchanged blows and swo re at one another.
“I’m Cainen, a Fennishman,” the small man said, looking up at her with half-closed eyes. “And this big fellow is my comrade, Kozef. He’s from Kaszia, would you believe.”
“We are seekers of glory and adventure,” Kozef said. “When we can be, that is. Other times, we simply have to do what needs to be done in order to fill our purses and our bellies.”
“And what needs to be done here, gentlemen?” Helaire asked, curtly. “What is your offer?”
“You’ve a difficulty with rodents,” the small man – Cainen, of Fiannon – said. “Rodents clad in leather. We’ll sweep them away for you.”
Helaire raised an eyebrow at that. She could see, clearly enough, that they were well-armed. Set against the table the small man had a long-hafted axe, the large bit of which was clothed by a thick canvas cover. The big man, meanwhile, had a war hammer slotted through his belt – a weapon of war comprised of a solid striking head counterbalanced by a long, curved steel spike – and he had placed resting against the table-leg a wide, round shield, overworked with leather, with an iron boss in the centre.
“These vermin of ours are not the sort that is simply swept away,” she said. “Do not trifle with them. Looking at them askance is often bad enough. You gentlemen should take yourselves away from here before you come to grief. Good-day.”
“Our price is not excessive, maidamme,” the big one explained. “We are hungry men. Some ale and some of those delicious-looking dumplings will be good for us.”
“Sure, and a nice place to sleep for the night, don’t forget!” the small one added, pointing a finger upstairs for emphasis.
“I have given my answer, gentlemen, and my sincere advice.” Her mouth was stern. “Good-day!”
She turned and made her way towards the kitchens.
Not far from the raucous central table, a young girl of about sixteen years was serving a small group of patrons. A leather-garbed ruffian clicked at her and called out to her, striving to get her attention. After a time he stood up, and strode over to her.
“You’re quite pretty, girl,” he said, grinning cruelly. “Did you know that?”
A blush was her only reply.
The man laughed. “Has a man ever had you from behind?”
She took shocked exception to the query, but the other men found it highly amusing.
One of the leather-clad men had crept around the tables, and came up behind the girl. He seized her about the waist and pulled her body to his. She shrieked, and, with cheeks red from anger and embarrassment, struggled to break free as the man writhed about obscenely. A great chorus of laughter and hollering rose up. The first man put a rough, caressing hand to the girl’s face, and let it trail down to her breast.
“Saigneurs, if you please!” The hotelier was standing nearby, pleading helplessly. It was difficult to hear him amidst all the commotion. One of the men slapped him hard across the face as an answer to his entreaty, leaving a red palm-shaped welt.
Helaire strode in then, shouting and cursing vehemently. The reserved aspect with which she had dealt with the vagabonds was gone. The brute Farice stood up then, and seized her before she could reach the girl and her tormentor. He loudly declared his preference for her, and one of his fellows shouted in approval.
The tableau became frightful and chaotic. Tables were turned and broken cups and plates scattered across the floorboards. The few that remained of the inn’s patrons had fled.
The penniless vagabonds, however, remained seated. They were still seated calmly and quietly at their table, as if nothing at all were amiss.
Two of the men cast the young serving-girl down to the table, sending more plates and cups scattering to the floor. She kicked at them as she struggled, but it had almost no effect on the men.
Helaire tried to glance over to the vagabonds as she contended with the ruffians. “So be it!” she cried, just as they lifted her off her feet. “I agree to your price!” She hoped that they heard her over the great clamour.
They did.
The odd pair promptly rose up, and swaggered over to the band of ruffians.
Jague was the first to notice them.
“And who are these fools?” he scowled. Around him, the gang of ruffians had fallen quiet and still, and took to glaring wrathfully at the two men. The girl and Helaire were still held firm in their clutches.
“We’re in the employ of this fine establishment, good saigneur,” Cainen said. “Porters, if you will.”
“And we think that it is time that you all left,” Kozef said.
Jague stepped forward, putting himself directly before the two men. Just as his colleagues, he wore a finely-crafted jerkin of deep red leather. At his breast there was sewn a badge that resembled a star, strangely misshapen.
“Would you listen to those accents!” Jague exclaimed. “It is such a peculiar duo we have here, my friends.”
He glanced around to his comrades, to make sure they were all as amused at the foreigners as he was.
“The big one, I think, is from one end of the world and his friend, the small one, is from the other!” He let out a great laugh, but quickly stifled it, saying cruelly: “Do you know who I am, you fat hog? Do you know who we are?”
“I do not, good saigneur,” the big man said, raising his eyebrows. “And I do not very much care. But my comrade and I will cast you out all the same.”
It became obvious that Jague, by the set of his mouth and the angered gleam in his eye, had suddenly grown tired of deliberation. He unleashed a punch, aimed for Kozef’s nose. With a sweep of his left arm the Kaszian turned the strike aside; he promptly sent in an attack of his own, a swift right hook that connected hard with Jague’s throat and sent the man, gasping and convulsing, to the floorboards.
There was a roaring bellow from the leather-clad men as they rushed into the fight.
Cainen, the smaller vagabond, had already mounted the long table that ran through the centre of the room. He skittered across it, knocking about drinking cups and dishes of half-eaten food as he went. He came upon burly, dull-witted Farice and, with a bold leap, kicked the man square in the face with both feet.
The small man hit the tabletop hard as he fell. He tried to quickly right himself, but he was not quite quick enough. One of the thugs grasped him by his ankles and heaved him from the tabletop while another tried to seize him by the arm. Cainen evaded the lurching grab and swung in with both fists at once, rapping the first ruffian soundly about the ears, disorienting him.
The ruffians had lost interest in the girl and Helaire by that stage. They were released, and the girl rushed away to the relative safety of the kitchens. Helaire lingered with her father at the passageway between the kitchen and the common room, watching the unfolding scene with grave concern.
Kozef the Kaszian, meanwhile, was battling two ruffians of his own. He was ducking and weaving; his robust arms darted about surprisingly quick, blocking against blows coming in high and low and left and right. At one point, a hard fist slipped through his defences and connected soundly with his left cheek, but he did not allow it to disturb him. He parried a sequence of subsequent blows until a narrow window opened up, and he moved swiftly to exploit it. He stepped in, slamming his elbow into one face – and then followed with three punches, delivered in quick succession, to another face.
A number of the leather-clad men, by that stage, had drawn the slender-bladed daggers they kept at their belts. Farice came upon Kozef, with his weapon leading the way.
“You have had enough of fist-fighting, now?” the Kaszian asked, back-stepping out of the dagger-path. “If you prefer to fight with steel, that is fine by us!”
There was the rasp of metal against metal as the Kaszian readied his war hammer, just in time to deflect an incoming dagger-stroke.
Farice was soon joined by another knife fighter who came slashing in for the Kaszian’s face. Kozef dodged the swipes and then, swatting back and forth, struck the dagger from Farice’s hand and smashed the nose of the other man.
Cainen meanwhile was ducking in and about, striking left and right with his axe – he had not yet bothered to remove the bit’s canvas cover, and was using the weapon as if it were a blunt instrument. He moved low, striking one knife-wielding ruffian hard in the groin with the butt-end of the shaft, and then immediately rose, bringing his axe whipping up as he did and connecting solidly with the man’s face with the flat.
