02-01-2024, 10:56 PM
![[Image: kas.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/kas.jpg)
Kasimir
Money, celebrity? Kas had had those things in Ebou Dar, to an extent. He’d made a fortune by gambling nightly on his skills with duelling knives, but he’d left all that coin with his family in order to chase the golden gleam of adventure. Sitting at the head of a wagon in pissing drizzle, coat snuggled up to his chin while Kethel huddled like a stinking bag of rags in the back was hardly glamorous, though. Shifting stock in Lugard, that was the plan, though what that stock was remained hidden under bulky blankets and Kethel’s broad-lipped grins. Nothing good, probably; Kasimir had met the man in the Rahad after all. And he didn’t care since it was his quickest ticket out of Altara.
There were drifting rumours of an army building under the banner of Murandy’s King, which was the intrigue to an otherwise questionable mercenary detail. There was adventure, or at least a hat to try on and see if it fit. By all accounts, Murandy was not the most fragrant of places, but Kasimir had forged a career of the Rahad. Thieves, sell-swords and vagabonds did not scare him, though Kethel’s frizzy grey-haired head had rocked back in laughter when Kas had told him that. “The Rahad is Lugard’s beautiful, sophisticated young sister,” he’d said, spitting tabac-brown spit onto the ground. And Kasimir had frowned.
They approached the gates as the sun was seeping blood on the horizon, and Kethel finally emerged to join Kas at the head of the wagon. No-one questioned their arrival; a guard peeled back the wagon’s cover disinterestedly before shoving it back over and waving them through. Afterwards Kethel flicked his hands for the reigns, and navigated their clip-clopping way through Lugard’s mud slapped streets. He had been right: it was like the Rahad’s older, uglier brother. Women canvassed from clustered corners and lamp-lit doorways. Drunk men spilled from copious tavern doors. Brawls squelched in the dirt, some set on by beleaguered guardsman, many left to fester. Doors that did not belong to inns and taverns were sealed tight, as were the shuttered windows.
They trundled through, and no-one paid them any mind. Kethel hummed tunelessly to himself, though Kas noticed his shrewd gaze missed nothing. Eventually the streets grew quieter, and though he knew it was a combined effort of an on-edge mind and the natural progression of dusk, it felt darker. “So, boy, she all you dreamed?” Kethel flicked a hand at their surroundings and laughed. Maybe he’d noticed the way Kas eyed everything they passed with a grimace. But when he asked the question, Kas only shook a hand through his damp hair and shrugged.
Soon after they stopped, and Kethel shoved up on his seat, gesturing Kas should jump off. Mud buried his feet when he did, splashing to the tops of his boots; Kethel was right behind. Shadows detached from the walls of the adjacent tavern, the sign of which was obscured by the murk of evening and grey drizzle. Kas’ arm flexed, testing the comforting weight of one of the knives up his sleeve, but Kethel smacked a steadying hand on his back. The new men took quick control of the cargo, first unhitching the horse, and then steering the wagon into a waiting warehouse. It fit snugly inside. The large doors creaked closed, bolts slid in place, and the shadows began to dissipate.
“Keep a’watch out, business’ll take but a moment and then a good beer awaits.” Kethel strode away, paused momentarily. “No, that’s a lie. It’ll be trolloc piss, but beer’s a beer’s a beer in Lugard. Count your blessings, I say. You’re safer with the beer than the women. Free advice, that.” His voice faded as he followed the other men into the warehouse. And left Kasimir alone. In the rain.
He dug his hands deep in his pockets. The street was quiet. Overcrowded buildings cast long shadows like jagged teeth in a jammed mouth. Well, this was pleasant. Was Kethel planning to abandon him without payment? Looking at his surroundings, it was probably the way business was often done out here. Another bit of free advice, maybe. Muffling curses, but not quite ready to give up yet, he paced, flicking mud from the tips of his boots and listening to the discordant patter of rain.
The hard shove into his back almost sent him sprawling, but his fall was halted by a fist to the face that instead sent him reeling backwards. What the-!? He skidded to a tenuous balance, slipping in the sloppy mud but somehow staying upright. His jaw throbbed, and he touched it gingerly, turned, ducked, stumbled. A man in a flapping jacket lunged at him again. The reek of strong spirits wafted on the wind.
“Come here, do you? Son of a trolloc-kissing--” words cut short as Kas’ fist drove recompense into the man’s face; he staggered back, plugging the blood spewing thick from his nose. Kas looked disgusted. Where was the bloody honour in brawling? It was so untactful, so… crude! He shook the pain from his fist, then spun when he remembered there had been more than one. The second punch caught him in the temple, flashing the spitting rain to thousands of sparkling diamonds. More shadows moved in his periphery, and Kas’ heart sunk. Blinking rapidly, he charged one man into a wooden wall that shuddered under the weight, before another wrenched him backwards. Kas ducked
the punch, skidded backwards.
Dazedly, he remembered his first day in Tar Valon – when he had demanded duelling rights from a man who’d rudely shouldered past him. The gaidar that had pinned him down. First lesson in foreign waters learned. Foreigners do not take kindly to duelling. He felt every soothing promise of the blades hidden on his person, as well as the two at either hip. His favourites. Anger fuelled an itch in his fingers. But no. Here there was no flash of weapons, just bunched fists. And… empty sheathes? Squinting he realised the leather casing at one man’s hip was empty. In the same moment a hand tried to close over the hilt of one of his knives. Something snapped. No, oh no; what manner of man steals another man’s knives? A flick of the wrist palmed a blade into grasp, and blood sprayed from the offending thief’s forearm in almost the same moment.
“That, gentlemen, is rude.”
The man howled pain, and gripped his arm at the elbow. Another man squinted in the ghostly light cast by the tavern’s lanterns. His eyes grew wide. Kas would have liked to think his reputation in Ebou Dar preceded him, but he knew that was impossible. The man swore, pulling up one of his comrades who retched blood and vomit onto his own boots.
“S’wrong!” he yelled. “S’speaks all different like.” And they began to run.
Like Kas had any interest in chasing after them. Blood and Ashes. The blade slipped back up his sleeve, and he brushed down the soaked front of his shirt, staring after those retreating backs. His face throbbed. And what, he thought, was that for?
“Thought you were done for, lad.” Kethel crept out from the shadows, licking his lips. He squinted into the wet distance. “Thems guard uniforms. Or passes close as. Welcome to Lugard. Ready for that beer?”
Kas rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand; it came away bloody, mixing with the dripping rain and sliding off his skin. “You see all that? Cheers for the help. You owe me that beer.”
Kethel was right about the beer. Warm and watery. Kas chose not to peer hard into the mug, to decide if those were bubbles or questionable bits. But his face ached and it knocked something of the edge off, at least. Welcome to Lugard, indeed. Kethel gulped gratefully, leaning over their small, slightly damp table and eyeing the serving maids and their scandalously plunging necklines. Candles glowed in brackets, but there was more shadow than light, casting the faces of the other patrons like monsters. His clothes settled uncomfortably clammy against his skin, and he was not sure if it were he, Kethel or the whole common room that smelled utterly rank. A woman walked past with a wooden tray balanced on one hand, the other hand hitching her skirts past the knee. She laughed raucously. The food, oh Light, please don’t say it’s the food that stinks!
“So,” Kethel said, tipping back the last of his drink then flicking the mug away. “We have one more job for’n tonight. Hearing some right nasty rumours since we arrived. Enough’n to advise we dip our pinky toe before we jump in the lake.”
Kasimir sighed, swilled his drink, and downed a gulp. Light, there was something chewy in there. He swallowed. Uneasily. The trade had been arranged for midnight, which was another reason he was fairly sure the deal was a shady one. This change of plan was not comforting, least of all because he had agreed to employment until the good were shifted not just until they entered the city. “Huh. That’s heartening.”
Kethel shrugged. “Today’s lords are tomorrow’s paupers in the legendary land of Lugard. And not all the ones with power are wearin’ the lordliest of attire neither, least where we’re concerned.” He gestured the bloke behind the bar. “Balden’s warehouse, Balden’s extra men, Balden gets a cut. The way it’s done when I come t’these parts. So best be sure we keep our end of the deal, eh?”
“You said you had a buyer.”
“I do, boy.” He grinned, and not for the first time Kas wondered just what he was selling. But the thought shrugged itself off. What he had seen of Lugard so far? Kas wasn’t planning on staying long.
After dark, Lugard was not the type of place one was advised take pleasant moonlit strolls. There seemed plenty of interesting characters flittering from shadow to shadow … though, Kas supposed, with his rapidly swelling face and Kethel’s stooping back and frazzled hair they were but another jewel in Lugard’s illustrious crown. They walked mostly in silence, Kethel leading the way; and despite his decrepit body, he moved well enough. Kas flipped a dagger in and around one hand, though Kethel warned him it would only attract unsavoury attention. One district passed to another – according to his companion – but it all looked much the same deprivation to Kasimir. Twenty minutes or so later, their paced finally slowed. Kas arched his neck to check around them, unimpressed. There were some men ahead. Kethel frowned, and with surprising swiftness shoved Kas back into the shadows of an alley.
“They’ll smell you, Kethel,” Kas joked, but it only earned him a greasy hand slapped across his mouth, pinning him back. Serious, then. He shrugged the grip off, flipped his collar up against the rain, and peered into the darkness. Three men in boiled leathers and sheathed swords, each with a hand resting on the hilt and a flapping cloak at his shoulder. They were chatting. Just a regular patrol, or so it seemed. They’d seen a few on their journey; very few, but still, some. Half the time they were as engaged in unlawful distractions as the locals.
When they had passed, Kethel let a whistle of breath pass his lips. “Oh, bad. Bad‘n’bad.” He scratched his stubbly chin. “Seven years strong, seven years strong. How’s that happen faster than a fade’s fart? Hmmm.”
“What?”
“Used to be this was Bikelin territory. And recent like. But the turf’s’a changed. Very bad for us, since Lord Bikelin was our delightful buyer.”
“Us?”
“O’course, us. Employed until the cargo’s shifted, those were the terms. And good thing too. Might be I’ll need the help.”
Back in the tavern Balden frowned, slamming a pile of grease swimming, brown stained empty dishes on their table. “Still here,” he said flatly, wiping a hand down his front and somehow missing his apron. “Taking up valuable room, too.”
“Drop’s the morrow. We’re early. Faff off.”
“Then I’ll be needing twenty percent, on account of my troubles.”
“Fifteen.”
Balden nodded slowly, hoisted his dishes, and moved off. Kasimir watched him leave, frowning. “Not the way to negotiate, Kethel. You nearly doubled his takings.”
“And what’s fifteen of nought, y’son of a goat?” He scratched savagely at his head, eyes squinty, clearly thinking furiously to himself. “Bloody politics is what it is. But seven years strong. Long time lucky, to suddenly be eating mud. And with the nature of them goods as well, huh.”
Kasimir picked at the chipped table, inferring what he could. “Something going on, you think. This army thing.”
“Oh, indeed, for sure. Always this’n that’n going on. Rises and falls. It’s Lugard! But seven years strong, that sits wrong.” He laughed. “Well, that’n awagon load’a stock and the buyer’s gone bust. Otherwise why give a trolloc’s turd?” He scraped his chair back. “Gots some stuff to do. Recoup costs, as they say. Won’t need you for a bit. Stay local though, right? Balden has a room, if sleep’s on your mind. Mind what I said about the women.”
“Right.” Kas frowned. “You still haven’t paid me, remember?”
“Hah. Right. Percent of nought, remember? Better wish me luck.”
He quickly discovered that men in Lugard cheat at cards, and more: don't take kindly to foreigners calling them out on it. The scuffle was brutal, but shortlived; Balden hauled him out by the collar and thrust himself in the centre of the brawl - questionable looking meat cleaver in hand. "Enough, or outside with the lot of'ya!" And, lord of his manor (and hardly unarmed), with that the bruised egos and split lips shifted back into order. Clearly Kethel had been right about the lay of power, at least insofar as within his own tavern was concerned. Having landed hard on his backside, Kas blinked at the scene. Balden turned, and used the knife to point at Kas. Flickering shadows dragged his frown down low. "And you. I suggest it time to retire for the night, afore Kethel comes back to a corpse." As if to articulate the point further, a vicious kick landed a blow into Kas’ thigh as he passed. Kas' fingers gripped the edge of one blade, but released a moment later. Okay. Not the fight to bait. He could live with that.
The room Kethel mentioned turned out to be little more than a space off the warehouse furnished with a straw pallet and not much else. Kas lay back gingerly, feeling every pang of the day’s journey and ending. Probably stupid to sleep – there was no lock on the door – but he was tired, and convinced he was quick enough to wake and defend himself should the need to arise. Eyes closed, head thumping, he could just about picture his mother’s disapproving face. Or maybe it was his sister’s; they looked so alike these days. The condemnation would be the same anyway, whichever face stared it down. Hardly an adventure he could write home about. But it’s only the first stop… Yeah, positivity and all that. Lugard had been a bad idea, but there were other places.
A hand smothering his mouth woke him up. He thrashed, panicked, reaching for a knife before Kethel’s cackle lit recognition in his ears. The sweaty hand drew back and Kas coughed. “Light, Kethel, I could have gutted you. Better ways to wake a man. Geez.”
“Ha, sure boyo. Such a pretty little sleeper you make. Though those snores might’n have bought half’a Lugard’s pick pockets and worse to your door. Supposing you weren’t kipping in Balden’s place. And you’ve me to thank’n for that, huh?” Though he spoke with his customary ghoulish grin, even Kas could tell something was up. Scooting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes – winced when he remembered his injuries, then yawned. His knees drew up, arms resting on either knee. A few more sleepy blinks.
“Right then, so I’m awake.”
Kethel shook his head. “And sorry news to be heard, too. Seanchan are here. Flaming Seanchan! And may be ol’Bikelin had a notion to protect himself, but either way that House is dead and dust now…”
“Wait. Weapons. You mean you’re, we’re – you’re shifting weapons?” And the Seanchan were here!? That met a deep sinking feeling in Kasimir’s chest. He supposed it explained why those men had jumped him outside the tavern. They’d thought he was Seanchan. Seemed to Kas that no good had ever come of strangers mistaking him for Seanchan. A sigh inflated his lungs, and when he blew it out all he could smell was the sickening lingering scent of that beer.
Kethel was laughing at him. Probably because he’d only just caught up with that the real delivery was to be. Only because I hadn’t been trying to figure it out. He rubbed the stubble weaving up his neck, and tried not to look like he was sulking. Light, why am I even here? This was the kind of stuff that got a man arrested, and he’d had enough of that experience in Arad Doman. Enough to know he didn’t want to taste the hard end of Lugard’s judicial system. Such as it was.
“So, ways I see it, we got positives here and we got negatives. See, the Seanchan got an invite. Which means there are those what want them here. And those what don’t. Might be those what don’t will find an interest in the fine merchandise we have on offer – and men are known to pay good coin for those things what’s needed. Problem. Now, I don’t know how educated you’n are, kid, but Seanchan aren’t known for their tolerance for… entrepreneurial endeavours. And those Houses what support the Seanchan – they’re aren’t as like to either, if they’ve a mind to impress their new bed fellows.”
Kas’ head had fallen into his hand as he tried to digest this new information. Of course he knew the Seanchan’s attitude to criminal activity; his own father had been a stickler for the straight and narrow path of honour. Chakai would hate Kethel. Period. It was half the reason Kas had let himself be seduced by the idea of employment over a round of shorts in a Ebou Dari tavern. Squinting a frown hurt every muscle in his face. “So basically, what you’re saying is that we need to distinguish the Houses that are in support of the Seanchan, from those who oppose them. And use that information to drive the price up.”
Kethel’s hideous grin was all the answer needed.
Over the next few days Kethel was like a beetle, scuttling in and out of the tavern at all hours, sometimes with jubilant grins and other times pensive frowns. Once in anger. Occasionally not at all – which often coincided with the times Balden stalked the tavern floor looking for him. Each time he managed to catch the man, often in a greasy ale-soaked (and probably light knows what else soaked) corner, the price of storing the wagon-load of goods – while Kethel dutifully promised to be finalising the deal with his buyer – inched up. At this rate the whole endeavour would be running at a loss. Kas often frowned over that when bent over tedious games of card with the tavern regulars, particularly when he lost, though he was getting better at that – and, more importantly, more tolerant to the blatant attempts at cheating. But what was he to do about it? He’d promised his services, albeit currently that didn’t seem to amount to much, and he would not renege on the terms. That was an important point of honour. But just as importantly he needed the bloody money to book his passage out of this hellhole.
The guys he played cards with, sometimes drank with but definitely did not share women with (despite their raucous recommendations) had adopted an annoying habit of discussing his plight (as they called it) over games. Like he was not there, which at first had driven him crazy, prickling his skin and edging his fingers closer to his knives while he tried desperately to remember and adhere to Balden’s warnings and keep his head. It was plain rude and begged for recourse. But, he had to remember, he was stuck here – with or without Balden’s roof over his head, and Lugard was infinitely more tolerable with it – so for the most part he kept his cool and eventually the tension had subsided. Or he’d learned the best remedy was to laugh alongside the ridicule, and suddenly that made them all friends. Whatever.
They still seemed to find him amusing, which pricked his sense of pride more than once, but the other thing he had quickly learned these past days was that the honour of knife duelling went down with even less popularity here than in Tar Valon – mostly because the men here did not respect the notion of one man against one man. A fight was a fight, apparently, and you did not need an invitation to join. Still, they had learned you did not push an Altaran, and had the scars to prove it. Now there was a sort of respect. Well, there was less fighting anyway, and they laughed with him as much as at him, so as a way to pass the light-forsaken time – and that, light, it really was endless – it was better than sitting in a corner on his own. Yeah, another lesson; Lugard was not the best place to appear to be on your own.
So, the next few days crawled by with Kasimir waiting on Kethel with his scurrying to and fro, and the card-players discussing why Ebou Dari honour meant Kas couldn’t pin Kethel to a wall and demand his dues – answers to which included supposition that Kas was too foppish and lacked fortitude in the trouser department (too busy discussing him that time, because he beat them – ha!).
The few copper he won he soon lost (bloody cheats), and his belt, and if Kethel didn’t hurry the light up, Kas thought dryly, then he was going to end up with no boots. And in a place like this, he really didn’t want to lose his boots. What Kethel was actually doing, Kasimir had little idea. He rarely took Kas on these excursions – the help, he said, was not needed with such esteemed and long-time colleagues – which suited Kas well enough, since he doubted the clientele had either qualification. Beyond lamenting the slow drip of time he tried not to dwell on the nature of the cargo, nor the snippets he picked up of the political climate. Seanchan in Lugard. Strong Houses falling. Civil unrest. War. I’ll be long gone before that happens.
Balden’s share crept up to twenty-five percent before one evening Kethel returned with a smug grin and demanded a celebratory round of piss-weak ale. It was time.
At. Last.
A few meetings followed, and Kas was present at each; his purpose, it became apparent, being to demonstrate the nature of the goods Kethel offered. He knew his own blades, knew good steel from bad and the weights and balances for knives at least, and these – knives, swords, axes, bows, everything a man could want to equip an army – they looked like good stuff, insofar as he could tell. Too good for a dirty, wide-grinning man like Kethel to have come by. Curiosity stoked a wonder as he handled one such dagger, flipping it in his hand before he was snapped at by one of the watching clients to get on with it. His hand squeezed reflexively, but he surprised even himself with the smooth bow he offered in place of a retort. It was mocking, but the guy seemed satisfied.
‘It’ turned out to be something of a makeshift duel to be fought in what amounted to an old warehouse empty of stock, down a flight of stairs from the room in which the initial inspection had taken place. Kasimir was not impressed. What did this show about the weapons, other than the skill or lack thereof of the men given the blades? He shot a look at Kethel, who was leaning against a wall looking thoughtful; he shrugged like it hadn’t been his idea. Just get on with it, that look said, so we can get paid. Kas frowned, pursed his lips, but shrugged off his concerns and thought about the grains of sand finally drifting closer to the moment he would be out of here. No more Lugard. No more Kethel. He could wave a knife about and make it look pretty, for that.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, psyched himself, and threw thought to the back of his mind. It was quick. Three sets, each lasting less than a minute. His opponent was a fair hand, but he was too slow, too thoughtful, and the first draw of blood appeared to have disturbed him. Were they meant to be drawing blood? Blood and Ashes, were there rules to this kind of… thing? He didn’t ask and no one said; three pairs of dark, contemplating eyes studied him, studied the blade, and withdrew to speak with Kethel.
And then it was the day; right time, right place, finally. The wagon, flagged by men that were not Balden’s men – who had dismissed Balden’s men some twenty minutes ago down the dirt road – pulled up to a warehouse indistinct from all the others that littered Lugard. Kas peered at it, full to the brim with restless anticipation, ready to get in, get out – and get out. To be fair the procedure was swift; the doors opened smoothly, and there were more men ready to unload the boxes as soon as they entered. The delivery ran with the efficiency of habitual routine, the men dull eyed but quick, each with their understood place in the chain. Inside was a similar hive of controlled order. Kethel gestured for Kas to follow and he did, indiscriminately arching his neck to explore his surroundings as he did so.
He’d expected something more clandestine but this was unapologetically blatant.
“What’s this?” He snatched the paper warily, glaring, uncertain.
“Yer contract.” Kethel grinned. He looked pleased. No, light – Kas’s skin prickled – he looked sneaky.
“We don’t have a contract, Kethel. Not written, just verbal.” He spoke coldly, all the while internally cursing himself. Stupid to trust the old man, stupid stupid, and now the price was to be paid. His free fingers flexed on his knife hilt, but who was he kidding? He wasn’t a murderer. And blood and ashes, this wasn’t Ebou Dar and he couldn’t challenge a duel either, so what was he supposed to do? Kethel was grinning wider and wider – because he knew, oh he knew that Kas wouldn’t harm him. Days I spent in that bloody tavern! He could have hitched a ride half way to anywhere by now.
“It’s not our contract, kid. It’s payment.”
Kas’s stomach sank. He crumbled the paper in his hand. “Payment is supposed to be coin, Kethel, not a piece of bloody paper.”
“Hm, hmm. This is true. Not much coin to be’n had, though, when yer think about it, what with the unavoidable and most regrettable delays alongside Balden’s utter extortion. Pittance, absolute pittance. That, though,” he said, pointing at Kas’s fist, “is a most enterprising offer.”
“Uh huh.” His temper was swelling, spraying red mist
Which was precisely how he found himself working security for House Marucci
![[Image: cherry-blosson.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/cherry-blosson.png)