Lair of Killers (5 page)

The opposite side of the inlet was a tall cliff, stretching high enough to dwarf the surrounding countryside. Muldor had once, as a child, climbed up through the twisting path of switchbacks and foothills around those mountains. He had gotten lost and cried before a group of travelers ran into him and helped him get back to the city. At the time, he had been trying to escape the orphanage and thought to live in the mountains forever, living off the land, although he had no idea how to grow food or what to eat. His punishment upon return to the orphanage was severe.

From the front, glancing up at the cathedral made it appear as if the building grew from the rock of the cliff face behind it, giving the impression Tranquility’s Palace was a piece of the mountain’s foundation, the first step one would take to ascend to the heavens. Many people believed it to be the truth, that going to listen to the sermon made one more holy. The fact that so many people fell for the trick did not surprise him.

There was no reason to blame them. Their lives were filled with so much drudgery and toil, the need to believe in some sort of eternal salvation was understandable. Some might’ve thought his position to be Arc Lector’s counterpart in the real world. The Guild provided the people of the city with so many jobs and accommodations that would eliminate much of their pain. But what Morlin promised was much greater in theory.

Utter nonsense.

Muldor was privy to dozens of religions the world over, many of his favorite books during his youth were accounts of miracles and dogmas many foreigners lived their lives by. Some of the origins of these religions boggled his mind. One in particular he always found fascinating involved a group of beings that were immortal. They lived throughout time before civilization was civilized, before any kingdom in the world had been founded.

These immortals disguised themselves as normal men, changing their appearance, as they spent time in one land so as to not arouse suspicion to their nature. They could control the form of their bodies, chameleons that shifted and morphed as they desired. They would travel from town to town, helping men create the world, spreading the word of their god.

No one knew for certain how many members numbered among the supernatural cult, but it was said they were very few. However, Muldor had read a passage in one book that the immortals had the ability to transform a person into one of them through a very long and involved ritual. It took years, even decades it was said, and nine hundred, ninety-nine out of a thousand men were not worthy of the rite and failed to complete the tests involved. It was a ridiculous story.

A large crowd surrounded the huge double door entrance to the cathedral. Massive stained glass windows flanked the side of this door, and somehow, Muldor was unaware of the engineering trick involved. It streamed the sunlight
out
of the inner rooms and onto the ground near a cobblestoned pathway leading in. No doubt it was some easy trick using mirrors, an easy thing for any trumped up magician.

Muldor found himself swallowed up by the milling, anticipating crowd as if he were back at the docks during the final hour of work, when the main shifts were over and only the specialty workers had to remain. The common workers were always excited to leave, and the church goers in front of the church acted the same, cheerful and bubbling with enthusiasm. 

Many of the city council were there, including Lord Cassius and Lord Damour, his toady, and some of their personal staff. Maury Stewart, the seldom seen head of Commerce, was a sleazy looking man with bad skin. He had fought to become a permanent member of the council for years, and maybe his ploy was to suck up to Cassius outside of official meetings.

Raul Parkins’ replacement on City Watch was a young man named Hark Williamson. Handsome and thick boned, with a heavy forehead and a dull look on his face, he stood by the others. Williamson was someone dense enough for Cassius to control and nothing more. Earlier, the man had been a member of the City Watch, with little intelligence and much drive, a valuable but dangerous combination in Sea Haven.

The new appointment to the city, in fact, was a new position altogether. It was embodied by a man Muldor new little of. The position of city treasurer had never been official; the gold was controlled by Lord Cassius. But men like Castellan had long battled to create a separate position, so the balance of power could shift away from the permanent members. The king had been the one to create the position after last year’s tax collection, and a man named Royce Haller took over the city’s money.

Muldor liked the bald headed man so far. He seemed, and it was difficult to accept, nice but too friendly to be from Sea Haven. Muldor didn’t trust him. He was the king’s man, but since Muldor didn’t care much about the treasury, so long as they paid their dues when The Guild needed it, Haller could have done whatever.

No one from the police department’s leadership came to church as far as Muldor knew. They were not as dumb as many believed. Muldor wondered about where Cubbins was and if the man would ever return.

Nicoli Peterson, former head of the royal guard, murdered by Castellan’s goon Jerrod, had never been replaced. Cassius used his own hired men for protection; they were less connected with the king and more loyal to coin, much like Castellan’s mercenaries. But then that left one less person on the council, and the majority had shifted.

Muldor didn’t care either way as long as The Guild got their due.

“Good morning,” Muldor said to Cassius and Damour, nodding to the two men. Haller and Williamson stood to either side, each engaged in conversation with others but turned to look at Muldor when Cassius regarded him.

“Guild Master Muldor,” Royce Haller said and smiled. He had a careworn face and kind eyes. Despite his age and lack of hair, he was a handsome and pleasant looking man. “A very impressive launch this last week, I mean to congratulate you on it. Those are some nice looking ships you’ve built. Well done.”

Muldor gave a slight nod, wondering about the man’s sincerity. “My thanks, Treasurer Haller. But you should be extolling the skills of the craftsmen responsible for the construction of the fleet. It was not I who built them.”

Haller chuckled, the corners of his eyes showing wrinkles that were somehow endearing. “Quite right. Yes, I should give them my respect. They have done a wonderful job.”

Muldor gave him a slight nod and regarded the others.

Damour looked bored and ready to leave, sighing and looking around, never making eye contact with Muldor. Williamson fidgeted, looking at Muldor with suspicion, which might’ve been understandable considering Muldor was responsible for his predecessor’s demise.

Lord Cassius looked at Muldor with a mixture of amusement, and a slight sliver of smugness that was so annoying. “Tell me, Master Muldor, what brings you here this morning? Is it Guild business? Why, I had no idea. I have never seen you here before. Unless I’m mistaken.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you were, Lord Cassius.”

Cassius gave a casual snort of snide amusement. Then he flashed that condescending smile of his.

A bell sounded somewhere behind them, and they all glanced up at the bell tower at the top of the middle spire. Cassius glanced around at the men closest to him.

“It is time for us to go in. Let us not be late for the Arc Lector’s sermon.”

They all filed in together. Attendants in red robes, acolytes to the Arc Lector and various other regular Lectors, Muldor was not sure how many of each there were, they stood at the sides of the aisles and waved them on down the rows of benches. There were hundreds of benches lined up inside, and Muldor marveled at the beautiful arches that spanned the ceiling above him.

It really was awe-inspiring. Who else but god could inspire them to create these wondrous walls? Well over one thousand men could fit inside the cathedral’s vast open hall, and as Muldor walked down the aisle, he had no idea what to expect from the sermon and the people with him. Would they dance together with no clothes on, chanting like some at the asylum were said to?

“Please sir, right this way,” said one of the acolytes, and Muldor felt his skin crawl when the young boy smiled. He had the glassy eyed look of the insane. Asylum indeed.

Muldor walked by and sat near the front middle, somehow passing beyond many of the others. The attendants directed him.

The pew was very comfortable and would have been acceptable in Madam Dreary’s best lounge. No wonder the common people came here. The furnishings were better than they were accustomed to at their homes.

Others shuffled in behind him, and the hubbub of conversation grew in volume and intensity as the hour drew closer to when the Arc Lector would arrive. There were rich and poor alike filing in, and Muldor recognized many of both classes, though the latter far outnumbered the former in this city.

There were looks from folks that ranged from joy to looks of disdain, and Muldor took them all in with stoicism. Here was a place where the schism between classes was less abrupt or non-existent. Everyone was equal in the eyes of the creator. Fair enough. It was a nice sentiment. But it also proved nothing in regards to the Arc Lector’s words. It was nice to see people coming together as a community, but most of them should’ve been out working to feed their families. Being here was a waste of time. Muldor had work to do and only wanted to see the Arc Lector in person.

A few minutes later he got his chance.

A few acolytes stood on stage while a couple more came from behind the back stage area. Then a regular lector came behind them, a middle aged man with dark skin and fleshy jowls. At the podium, a slight smile played at his lips. His eyes looked glassy, and Muldor tried to peer closer, deeper into that singular visage. He looked sedated under some kind of opiate.

The lector waited for the crowd noise to die down. It took a few seconds, and he stood there with that same gleaming mask of serenity.

“Thank you all for coming today. Perhaps some of you will notice that one of our initiates is no longer with us. It was found he was murdered by thieves and cutthroats this past week, the second of our flock to fall prey to the petty viciousness rampant in the city of late.”

A murmur of dismay rippled through the crowd at the news.

Muldor narrowed his eyes. It was the first he had heard of it. The fact that he had not heard about it was more shocking than someone murdering a no-name initiate. Thieves did not murder penniless boys. An acolyte perhaps or a full-fledged lector, someone that was worth something made much more sense to kidnap than kill.

Several years ago, a man named Lector Bahansu, the Arc Lector’s highest ranking subordinate, was kidnapped and ransomed. In the ensuing altercation, he was killed. It was rare but it happened. But there was more to this boy’s story, but the lector at the podium gave no further details.

“So in honor of the poor departed boy, let us observe a moment of silence and towards our heads skywards to the Almighty God, who in his wisdom has taken our charge into his embrace.”

Everyone looked up except Muldor, for he continued to stare at the lector. The man took a deep breath and then walked away from the podium. Everyone continued to be silent, even after it was not appropriate to do so, in anticipation of Arc Lector Morlin’s appearance.

Whenever a person spoke his name at all, it was spoken with awe and reverence. The holy man stepped into sight and passed by the other lector on his way to the stage. The crowd held its breath, for here was God’s chosen vessel, the man responsible for bringing the Word to humanity.

The man looked near to sixty, and when he gazed out to the crowd, he smiled. This unsettled Muldor, for the look of benevolence appeared genuine. The Arc Lector was clean-shaven and platinum haired, cut short but with slight wavy around the top. He wore no hat but had a sort of tiara encircling his head. It was similar to what the other lector’s wore but much more elaborate.

The arc lector glanced around the vast room again, and when he spoke, his rich voice was powerful and engaging, personal yet sonorous. It was if he spoke to each person there face to face. His visage turned sad when he spoke of the boy killed.

“Let us not weep for the fallen but rather rejoice in a life that was both chaste and committed to proliferation of the One True Word. Ryan was a soldier of good fortune, a shining light, now dimmed in this dark world.” His demeanor changed at that moment and became fiercer. “Let us join together here and now, stronger than ever before! Let your faith and belief in the One True Word bind together your thoughts, your families, your everyday activities. Let the One True Word guild you in these days of strife, let it fill your vessels, your bodies as the Word fills your ears.”

The Arc Lector paused for a moment to let the idea sink in. His thick silk robe, white mixed with elaborate red trimming, hung on his wiry frame. His gaze swept the crowd, stern and hopeful, passing over them like a bird of prey. Muldor glanced around and saw people nodding. Husbands and wives held hands and smiled at one another. Some were covering their mouths and shaking their heads. Slavish animals, sheep being led, nothing more.

“There has been unrest in this city for decades,” Morlin said. “There is a turbulent element at work here, a group of individuals that flaunt the law and live lives of debauchery. I do not judge but rather question the bellicosity and the danger their ilk present for you common, well-meaning folk.”