- 4 -
The Price of Justice
The boys woke up raring to go. It was only early afternoon, but the tavern's location meant it was already abuzz with activity. Matthew had never experienced this sort of atmosphere. It made sense now why his father had made only a slight protest to let him go. As much as he was caught up in the frenzy, he could tell that Tom was doing his best to appear as though he was in his element.
Struggling to exit the densely packed establishment, they made their way to a street vendor to eat. The square outside was packed even tighter with patrons sitting on wooden benches making merry and preparing for their night ahead, echoing the bustle inside. In the background, there was constant noise and activity from within the walls of the night gates. All were closed on both sides, and if not for the laughter and shouting of all the people surrounding him, he could easily have forgotten he was in the city. The crowds here exuded an eerie sense of camaraderie, fostered by everyone's awareness of the vampire population's proximity.
However great the temptation might become, he was determined to honour his promise to his mother and remain in the human part of the city. It seemed possible they might be the only two souls left on this side come nightfall, he thought.
"Where shall we go?" asked Matthew, attempting to head off any of Tom's wild ideas.
"I'd like to see as much as we can before dark, and then we can head back here. If I could just witness the vampire district at night, even just through the gates, I'd feel a lot better."
Tom stepped onto a small space on the edge of a nearby bench to try and get a good look above the crowds. An older gentleman, who, inconveniently for Tom, was using it for its intended purpose, looked him up and down dismissively before going back to his drink.
"Well, the docks aren't too far away. I bet you won't have seen ships like this in your life! We can watch them come in as the sun begins to set, then we can come back to the main square and drink ourselves stupid."
"But you're already at such an advantage."
Matthew held out his hand to help Tom down, but instead of gratitude, Tom mimicked the look he had just learnt from the man on the bench as he swatted it away. They set off up the street parallel to the night gates, and the crowds began to thin. For as long as the wall extended, there was a continuation of gates. Seemingly far less important than the ones at the heart of the city. But no less secure.
When the docks finally came into view in the distance, the gates stopped. Where the wall met the sea, not too far out, was a magnificent lighthouse. Judging from where the docks were sitting, he could tell that it was situated on a large outcrop of rocks that formed a small island not far from shore. The style of the building speaking to a much older origin. Old stone, made to outlast memory.
Despite the city no longer making use of it, they could clearly see activity at the top. The minuscule silhouette of at least one figure cast itself against the horizon. Just imagining what it must have been like to be that high up conjured a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.
They walked down to the harbour, where they could see ships starting to enter the bay. There were already a few ships docked and unloading. The people here seemed different from those they had just left. They felt more familiar, like the type of people he was accustomed to seeing in his village.
Some of the smells that the sea air brought in were worse than those of the carcasses from the caravans. The buildings here matched the roughness of the workers, as though the tides had slowly eroded everything's soft exterior. Screeching from birds above intermittently pierced the constant rhythm of the waves crashing against the sea wall. There was a great peace to be found amongst it–
"Ha ha! Look at that place. That's the sort of place your mum and dad would stay!" Tom gesticulated towards a nearby tavern. He squinted his eyes at the wooden sign swinging in the sea breeze. "Hmm, 'The Blessed Beggar' pffft."
"You can read?"
Tom nodded. "Father made me learn." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal large welts on his arm. "It took me a long time."
Despite Tom not being particularly thrilled, it was an impressive achievement. Equally astounding was the fact that he had managed to keep it a secret. Matthew could count the number of people he knew who could read on one hand. The art of deciphering lines and shapes on paper, among other symbols, appeared as magical as his father's ability to navigate by the stars.
He tried to figure out what was wrong with the tavern Tom was ridiculing. It was similar to the places they had just left in the centre of the city. It had everything they had—people, alcohol, and entertainment. The only thing it lacked was an unmistakable air of danger. The patrons inside looked like they'd have more trouble fighting sleep than they would each other.
Perhaps that was what Tom and everyone else were looking for; perhaps some part of him needed the excitement. Maybe this was a feeling all 'normal' people sought out. It was a desire that completely eluded him. At least it gave everyone's desperation to visit the vampire district some semblance of logic, even if he himself couldn't quite grasp it. In this regard, he was jealous of Tom. How much happier would he be if he could just enjoy the same things as everyone else?
His jaw dropped when he saw the first giant wooden behemoth. It rocked gently on the waves, giving the impression that it was alive. Shuffling restlessly, frustrated at being restrained.
"I didn't know we could build boats like this." Matthew marvelled at the large ships docked in the harbour.
"We didn't do it on our own; we had some help."
"Fenrir builds ships as well?" Matthew asked with raised eyebrows.
"No, a different one. He goes by Mace. An articifer with over a century's experience. His engineering went into improving the city's fortifications, and he undertakes special projects too. He rebuilt the lighthouse as it stands today, and many of the other ancient buildings that remain standing owe that fact to him. The buildings he works on will last longer than any you see being built today."
Matthew heard little of what Tom said beyond the word 'artificer'. Whenever Tom was passionate about something he would often come alive with unusual words. There was an undeclared intelligence present beneath Tom's rough-around-the-edges exterior. Another reason for Matthew to feel a little jealous of his best friend.
"So they're not all bad."
"They get to live here; they have to pay something back."
That's certainly one way to look at it, Matthew reasoned.
"We should head back now. The sun's about to go down, and we don't want to miss the show," said Tom, with a suspiciously large grin on his face.
"What show?"
"You'll see."
They made their way back up the road, Tom almost skipping as he went. The crowds were now even larger, as the gates had finally opened and people were slowly filtering through. Tom grabbed him tightly by the shoulders and pushed him through the crowds. Matthew realised they were now back at their starting point. Continuing down the street, they came to a large marble complex, similar to a stage, with stepped seating all around a central platform. The amphitheatre connected to a much more modern-looking building. Tom pointed out that they were looking at what constituted the courthouse. The marble section predated both the city and the building it now affixed to, making it much older. This ancient section appeared entirely ornamental, seemingly preserved solely for posterity. Matthew was about to find out that this was not the case.
It was the only time he saw people turn away from the night gates willingly—the thrill of what was about to transpire possessing the necessary gravity to pull individuals away from the lure of the vampire district.
As the sun descended, the two great fires on either side of the platform cast monstrous, dancing shadows on the marble walls behind them. Growing in stature as the sun slowly set. In the centre of the stage, three raised marble slabs took pride of place.
Matthew sneaked a glance over his shoulder back towards the gates, conscious of the fact that the infamous residents of the vampire district would imminently be rousing from their slumber. The small window of relative safety quickly closing before true dark took hold.
Turning back, he gasped as a man in black robes stepped onto the platform from the courthouse via an entrance connecting the two. If someone had asked him to draw a vampire, the visage in front of him is what he'd produce.
His garb was ceremonial and appeared appropriate given the location's ancientness. As he spoke, another group entered the stage. Four hooded men escorted a group of three prisoners, who were trussed, blindfolded, and gagged. They did not appear to be putting up too much of a fight. Two had their feet bent awkwardly, trailing behind them as they were dragged across the stage. One by one, they were each laid on a slab. The first two appeared resigned to whatever fate lay in store for them, but the third had to be wrestled into position.
Neat piles of sticks were formed around each of the bases. It suddenly dawned on Matthew what was about to take place.
Surely not?
He turned to Tom as the noise of his surroundings came back into focus.
"Burn the bastards!"
"Three's not enough!"
People were now jostling him in the crowd, trying their best to launch objects at the platform. The men on the steps behind almost fell on top of him as they spat and shouted abuse. A line of Guards preventing those at the front from rushing the stage.
"Cook 'em slow!"
Tom had simply melted into part of the crowd. Matthew felt as though he were in a raging sea, alone, hoping for the waves to calm. He was truly afraid that the baying mob around him would swallow him up.
The Justiciar raised his arms to the crowd, and there was the most incredible, instantaneous hush.
"Do you confess?" It was just above a whisper, but everyone heard it. Some even mouthed the words along with the Justiciar.
They unbound and ungagged the first prisoner. There was no specific crime put against him, though Matthew knew what everyone considered him guilty of. These people were accused of drinking human blood.
Without hesitation, he cried out, "Yes!". One of the hooded attendants behind the slabs struck him on the head, and he finished moving.
The Justiciar set fire to the kindling beneath.
"Do you confess?" This time the question was slightly louder.
As before, this prisoner was also untethered and, after a short breath, choking on the smoke emanating from the blaze beside him, cried out a reluctant "yes!".
Like the other, he took a blow to the head and stopped moving.
The Justiciar set fire to the kindling beneath.
"Do you confess?"
The third man's reaction was immediately different. This time, the prisoner began struggling and cried out, "No, wait, I'm not..."
The hooded assistant re-inserted the gag. The man continued to struggle. The Justiciar set fire to the kindling beneath.
The Justiciar pointed and shouted as he turned toward the night gates, eager to make an example of the prisoner who wouldn't go along with the proceedings.
"Woe betide any transgressors who prey in the night. Lest they meet their just end!"
The first body exploded with almost exquisite timing, sending viscous black liquid into the air and all around. Like clockwork, the second body followed suit. The third body, the occupant of it now screaming in tortured agony, did not keep up the grotesque pattern.
Showing mild frustration, the Justiciar turned to look at the now-soaring flames. Still, the body did not burst. The screaming, however, faded away. After a few seconds more, when his mistake had been fully realised, the justiciar turned back to the crowd once more.
"Sometimes the price of justice is innocence."
The crowd erupted into cheering and applause.
Matthew raised his hands to his ears and closed his eyes. Something he had been unable to do for the duration of the executions.
When the crowd had quieted, he opened them to find Tom grinning from ear to ear in a most sinister fashion.
"That's what they get." Tom spat, screwing up his face in hatred as he spoke.
"For what?"
"For being what they are." Tom replied, never averting his gaze from the horrible aftermath of the scene in front of them.
People began making their way back towards the night gates. Chatting as though discussing a night out at the theatre. That what had just happened was inconsequential.
As the stepped seating began to empty, it became very apparent just how late it had become. The spaces vacated by spectators filled only with darkness. The place would have been completely black if not for the two large fires on either side of the stage and the remaining embers beneath the slabs.
Matthew realised he was clinging on to Tom's coat, struggling to reconcile himself with what had just transpired. Tom pushed him away, looking to all the world as though he were ready for a fight. But as Tom looked back at him, his face softened, and the dark cloud that had descended over him seemed to clear.
"I need a drink Matty."
***
The drab colours of the confining walls were out of focus as Yaro awoke from his restless sleep. He struggled to reconcile how long he had been out. The last thing he could remember was staring at the ceiling, his thoughts ruminating on how he might bring his unknown quarry to justice.
He sat up in bed, pressing his back against the hard wall. After a few heavy breaths, he stood in the centre of his small room and stretched out his arms, touching the walls on either side. While it seemed small, his private room was undeniably a luxury. Especially as his sleeping arrangements prior to his promotion saw him bedding down in the communal barracks with his brothers in arms. Being a captain came with its perks, and having this small space to call his own was certainly one of them.
He remembered what he had planned to do before his tired mind had betrayed him. He scrambled… as much as the limited space permitted, to get up and out of his room.
Reaching for his boots at the foot of the bed, he realised he was already wearing them… along with the rest of his kit. He could be strung up for such an infraction.
If I caught a guard like this, there would be serious consequences.
He rushed along the corridor and down the stairs to the armoury to be met with a sympathetic smile.
"Not like you to go against regulations," the armourer said, anticipating his arrival.
"I know. Would you believe I fell asleep?"
"In full gear? Quite a task." Replied the armourer, placing Yaro's paperwork on the counter.
The armourer turned his back on Yaro to fiddle gratuitously with some equipment. "Was worried something had happened to you." he remarked, over his shoulder.
Yaro moved to make his mark in order to sign the gear back out, noticing that the section for signing it in had been completed with an obvious forgery.
"I wouldn't do it for anyone else." The armourer whispered. Yaro could tell he meant it.
As he climbed the stairs back to the surface, he realised he would have to ensure his patrols were set up for the evening. He was loath to admit it, but it was a wholly unnecessary task, almost a ritual for him at this point. Vampires were experts at routine and duty. If he marked the postings on the wall, they would follow them to the letter without him having to say a word.
The only reason he even bothered looking anymore was to see what changes the night commander had made to them. Every so often, Magnus would move someone here, tweak a squad there. The changes very often made no sense to him, seemingly at odds with common sense. Deploying the most irritable and easily provoked vampire guards into the most heated patches of the vampire district.
His insistence on assigning the best human fighters to guard Fenrir's villa stood in stark contrast to these otherwise outlandish decisions. It was odd that Rothrock had nothing to say about Magnus' use of human guards, but the day commander treated the night commander almost as though he were human.
Magnus never consulted Yaro about the changes. Magnus never even so much as acknowledged his being. It was by far the best relationship he had with a member of the Vampire Guard outside of his own squad.
Behind him were the rows of empty chairs of the briefing room. Even if he remained to give that evening's briefing, not many more of them would be occupied. He reasoned that he wouldn't be missed by the few that still graced him with their presence for just one night. The only small guilt he had was not being able to apologise to his squad for leaving them short-handed again this evening. There were always five members in a squad, regardless of whether one of them was a captain or even the night commander himself. Holt and the others would have to patrol as a team of four.
It was obvious where military operations ended and the bureaucracy began. Grimy walls transitioned into finely polished stone and well-lit hallways. Facts and numbers instead of people and responsibilities. The Guard had always done a good job of protecting the city, but for some reason it seemed to be appreciated more when these people quantified and documented it. He felt like he was dirtying up the place just by being there.
You know what sounds more impressive than one guard catching one criminal? One hundred guards catching one hundred criminals. Such a simple trick. The only downside is that it takes away the individual's glory and gives it to the organisation. The gestalt wins out. Maybe that's the way it should be.
It was obvious no defensive considerations went into the design of this place. It was tacked on to look good. Much like the reports and stories it churned out. It wasn't designed for physical battles; instead, it was built for a war of the spirit. 'Hearts and minds' was what they called it. A purpose-built solution to the drain on recruits that occurred when the vampires were first allowed to participate in the Guard.
Sitting in the single point of the defensive star fort of the citadel that rested in the vampire district, the Guard had leaned into vampire recruitment after the short-lived but explosive outrage. Propaganda claimed that its proximity to the strip made it easier for newly turned vampires to enlist. The truth was that it made it much easier for drunk humans to stumble from the strip into service.
In fact, anyone could wander in. If someone was planning some sort of attack, this would be the place to strike. The citadel's soft underbelly.
As the corridor opened up into the immaculate courtyard, an impressive fountain adorned the central area. In front of it were the permanently manned recruiter tables, bringing in little to no interest at this time of day. The walls housed offices and other administrative spaces. To his immediate right, tucked away in a secluded corner, was the obituary office.
A group of young men in ill-fitting black suits loitered around outside, misbehaving, waiting for their workday to come to an end, disregarding entirely any small modicum of decorum that ought be attached to their duties.
One of them nudged another as he approached, causing a chain reaction of demeanor changes. As he breezed past them, they stood to something approximating attention.
People looked down on them, mostly youngsters who couldn't find work or hold down a job anywhere else. It was as though the shame of being a vampire somehow rubbed off on them, simply by association. No one wanted to see the comisery men turn up at their door. More specifically, they didn't want their neighbours to witness it.
Still, better to be inside the cart pissing out, than outside trying to piss in.
They had a tenuous connection to the guard that afforded them a little protection. The same principle should have applied to himself, but he daren't be that optimistic.
As he entered the office, the youngsters behind him returned to sharing mirth and pleasantries. As he pushed through the door, the gentle tinkle of a bell above alerted the lone occupant to his arrival. Sebastien could be seen behind his counter, sorting through rolled-up documents, studying them intently before filing them into wooden compartments on the wall.
It wasn't easy to look that good in a suit, further evidenced by his subordinates outside. Sebastien wore his like a proverbial second skin. A fine black top hat lay atop the counter, a white ribbon tied around the center, ending with a knot and two tails at the rear. Next to the hat was an unattended list of unfortunates who had suffered unexpected endings. Lists of vampires, marked with headings such as 'cause of death' and 'profession.' Yaro traced quickly over the sheet for anything resembling 'trader' or 'merchant,' but the list was surprisingly short - comisery men potentially going out of business short.
There were hundreds of deaths in the city, though here they only kept track of the tiny percentage that ended with the decedent becoming a vampire. Further reducing that particular number, were the cases of newly transformed vampires that had the bad luck to turn on the human side of the night gates. Being transported to the vampire district by human guards had an abnormally high casualty rate. The sort of thing that was probably encouraged by Rothrock, who would consider a second, and final death, a small mercy.
"Can I help you, captain?" Sebastien smiled as he went to and fro, proceeding with his filing.
"Call me Yaro, Seb."
"Very well, Yaro." Sebastien turned around to take in his guest. As he did so, he made an exaggerated wince. "You look like a vampire that's been left out in the sun too long."
"The old ones definitely are the best," said Yaro, keeping to himself that he had slept in his clothes. "Dealing in death still as profitable as ever?"
"Careful now. My clients aren't actually dead. But yes, there's always money to be made." Sebastien dragged a small wooden box along the counter and propped open the lid. "Here's the latest money spinner, rings containing a single droplet of blood from the newly deceased. Red to prove they remained human after death... not entirely sure most of it is actually human to be honest."
"Still as concerned with integrity, I see." Yaro pretended to be impressed by the blatantly cheap trinkets.
"About as much as some of your guards." Sebastian quipped back instantly.
Yaro didn't know how to respond. He wouldn't get the chance to, Sebastien keen to gush about his other illicit activities, to a captain of the Guard no less.
"A lot of families are paying to cover up the fact that their kin has turned."
"And foregoing the tax relief?"
Sebastian could be trusted in so far as he wouldn't allow anyone else to benefit from his schemes. The tax relief didn't fit within his remit anyway. There was no money being collected to skim from. For Fenrir's part in it, he wasn't losing any money either, just allowing others to keep theirs. A drop in the ocean for someone such as himself.
"Shame is at an all-time high. Apparently some things are more important than money." Seb leaned across the table, looking dramatically to his left and right. "I shouldn't tell you this... but one very famous family even paid to have records falsified that the head of a rival family had turned."
"And you were only happy to facilitate?"
"What sort of world would it be if no one could buy a favour? …You should know that better than most." Sebastian peered through Yaro, who was quick to change the subject.
"And of course he hadn't turned?"
"Dunno... Got him buried out back." The statement implied that Sebastian had been involved in the death as much as the gossip.
Not entirely beyond the realms of possibility.
"Still not wearing your sword, I see. Still trying to 'fit in'?"
Yaro couldn't stop his hand from subconsciously reaching for where his sword should be. The remark had cut him somewhat, par for the course, when chatting with this particular old acquaintance.
"They'll never accept you as one of them. Be the boss, like you're meant to be. Lop off a few heads. They'll take you more seriously then."
"Well, yours would be the first."
Sebastien grinned, pleased that Yaro was prepared to joust with him. "Then who would do the second least desirable job in the city?"
"Even I wouldn't switch places with you Seb." said Yaro, immediately wiping the grin from Sebastian's face. "The name for a start… 'comisery men'... not really appropriate is it?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Well, commiserations are more appropriate for when someone fails a test. Not when someone has died. 'Condolences' might be more appropriate."
"So the condolences men? Doesn't quite have the same ring to it… The 'condomens' perhaps?"
Yaro tilted his head from side to side suggesting that it did indeed sound like an improvement.
Sebastian looked genuinely aggrieved. "Okay. So you've reduced us to table accompaniments. Any other suggestions while you're here?"
"No, you're right. The misery part is certainly fitting, can't get rid of that."
"Wish someone would put me out of mine." Sebastian said under his breath. "Is this about the attacks outside the walls?" A quick change of subject to put Yaro on the backfoot again.
"How do you-"
"They were independent traders. Probably not even from the city. I'm sorry, but really... who cares?'"
"Isn't it your job too?"
"No. It's my job to bring people closure. You have to remember, when we have news to give, no one's actually died. Well, they have, but not in any meaningful way. You were hoping that one of them had become a vampire?" The disappointment was clear on Yaro's face.
When Sebastian finally had his fill of Yaro's chagrin, he continued, "I shouldn't tell you this…but you know I will. These documents I have here…not technically the originals. So to speak."
"I've no time or patience for riddles Seb."
"Fenrir." Sebastian already knew exactly what Yaro had been clumsily stabbing around for.
It was simply taking him too long to get there on his own.
It was impossible for Yaro to hide his sudden and intense interest, try as he might. Sebastian seemed to revel in it, as though he had kept the name up his sleeve from the moment Yaro had walked in, ekeing out every salacious morsel of intrigue that came with it.
"He sees them first. Sometimes the pages arrive here torn."
"For what purpose? To what end? Is he–"
"I've said all I'm prepared to say." Sebastian raised his hands in the sky. "Perhaps I've already said too much."
Yaro lunged across the counter and grabbed Sebastian by his exquisite silk tie. His hand slipping slightly as he tried to gain some purchase. At his second attempt, they were now nose to nose.
"Where do the reports come from? And how can I get my hands on one BEFORE it gets to Fenrir?"
Sebastian moved his hands slowly and gently to fix his tie. Yaro released him as he did so.
"Ah-Hem. As I was saying, " Sebastian corrected his attire with a flourish, "The report comes from the abattoir, naturally. A scurrier delivers the report, along with fresh blood, to Fenrir's villa every evening. He peruses them, and then a guard drops them here first thing."
Yaro barely gave Sebastian the chance to finish.
"I only need to see the original. If I can prove he's doctoring the reports, I'll have proof."
"It must be marked…" Sebastian prodded Yaro with his finger, "That fruitful or not. This is another one that you owe me."
There was no time to contemplate the enormity of the debt he had just burdened himself with. He finally had something concrete to go on.