Castle Kingside

Heavy in Dimitry’s palm and dented like iron after a forceful impact, scratches covered the pure vol pellet’s surface. The high density, malleability, and lustrousness hinted that the magic catalyst was a transition metal, which often formed colorful solutions when dissolved in water, but Dimitry couldn’t recall any element on the periodic table boasting vol’s dark green hue while solid. Still, undergraduate chemistry was a long time ago. Brain fog and a throbbing headache didn’t jog his memory either.

A distended groan escaped his stomach.

Efforts to distract himself from hunger ineffective, Dimitry took one last glance at the pure vol pellet he hid beneath outstretched rags and stashed it into his pouch. The green rock was his last hope. No one could know he had it while accepting Samuel and Arnest’s job offer. Not only would having possession of vol broadcast to others that Dimitry knew magic, potentially linking him to his earlier crime, it would also complicate invisall usage. Secrecy was vital.

To avoid suspicion, Dimitry watched the port instead.

Despite stiff winds, laborers wore nothing but white pants and leather shoes as they dragged cargo from the road to the pier and back. Planks squealing beneath their feet, they hauled crates, pulled carts, and tugged on fabric sacks before dumping them aboard a variety of seafaring vessels bobbing up and down in unsteady waters. Compared to two days ago, there was twice the number of watercraft. Most were small, while others had multiple masts and dwarfed the port.

The stench of fresh mud entwined with nauseating fish to create an irksome atmosphere. It reminded Dimitry of the first time he stood on the deck of a sailing ship. His college friends watched him expel breakfast over a yacht’s railings.

Not that he hated water. Dimitry loved nothing more than an afternoon swim. It was that senseless bouncing, the ship’s never-ending rebellion against the tides that evoked the urge to vomit. Luckily, or perhaps not, his stomach was empty now.

Samuel, whose thinning gray hair blew in a quickening wind, turned away from the homeless men he chatted with across the pier. He walked back towards Dimitry. “Kid, you’ll never believe this shit.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Real funny.” The old man joined Dimitry in sitting against a warehouse wall overlooking the port. “Get this. There’s a bum out there who can disappear!”

Dread trickled into Dimitry’s veins. He once asked Samuel about invisibility magic, and he hoped the question wouldn’t return to haunt him. “Are you sure? Is that some kind of magic?”

“Fuck if I know. The rumors say he just… became foggy. Crazy shit, huh?”

“Did anyone see what he looked like?”

Samuel shrugged. “Like a bum, I guess. Not that you can even believe that. By the time rumors get around, people make up all kinds of horse crap.”

Dimitry exhaled an undetectable sigh, thankful that a rag hood hid his distinctive eyes during the heist. Or maybe that was what Samuel wanted him to think. What if the old man knew who he was, intending to turn him in for money? The shopkeeper offered city guards gold gadots for his arrest. Perhaps the reward extended to others.

An unlikely outcome. Were Samuel’s intentions malicious, he wouldn’t hint at his suspicion. Besides, he remembered the old man’s earlier words on what gratitude the guards might bestow on one homeless person turning in another.

“Disappearing bums?” Dimitry said. “Crazy shit indeed.”

Samuel’s thoughtful gaze lowered to admire the longest boat on the pier. “Kid, you got any dreams?”

“Meat pie.”

He laughed. “No, I mean, you know, dreams.”

Guilt struck when Dimitry thought of his alleyway clinic and the patients he promised to help, who were dying while he scraped together two gold gadots. “Not particularly, but with you ogling that boat, am I right to assume you enjoy sailing?”

“Don’t know. Never tried it. Not yet, anyway.”

Turning from a gravel street was Arnest, whose rags blew back in a fierce wind as the young man rushed forth carrying three arched pastries, each atop a circular bread slice. He handed a set to Samuel, then another to Dimitry. “Good ya ain’t starved to death yet. Zera’ll never forgive me.”

Dimitry’s hands begged to bring the pie-like substance to his mouth, but concern afforded him restraint. “What is it?”

“Never had a pasty before?” Samuel asked. “Just shovel it and hope the cookshop didn’t sell us rotten meat. Again.”

Crumbs already fell from Arnest’s lips. “Nah, this time’s alright.”

Cautious to avoid touching portions that contacted dirty hands, Dimitry chomped down. The blend of honey, chicken, and stale black bread brought on euphoria, earning him a newfound appreciation for Arnest’s generosity.

Dimitry finished eating before anyone else. “So, now that I’ve agreed to join Tenebrae, will anyone tell me why we’re watching the port?”

“Apparently,” Samuel said, “a Sundock merchant is buying up all the furs in Ravenfall. Some bigshot hired Tenebrae to steal his cargo. Our job is to wait until he loads his ship, then report to the hag.”

“The job’s easy, but damn does it make ya wanna strangle yourself. We spent three days just sitting here.”

“That long?”

“That’s not even the worst part.” Samuel stretched back. “We’re not the only ones keeping watch. I’d bet the guards are in on it too. We’re just here so they can string us along until they need someone to do the real dirty work. But damn will the pay be worth it.”

Despite the prospect of high pay, a chill slithered down Dimitry’s spine. “You told me before that the dirty work won’t involve assaulting anyone. That’s true, right?”

“Didn’t lie to you, kid. Why would they hire invalids like us to do that when others are guaranteed to get the job done?”

Arnest nodded. “There’s people out there who can kill ya with a pebble from fifty strides away. No sound or anythin’. Ya just die.”

“You mean, like assassins?” Dimitry asked.

“Yup.”

Tenebrae was a crime syndicate in every sense, but if Samuel and Arnest survived without magic, Dimitry would too. Especially after procuring a pure vol pellet capable of turning him invisible.

“Hey,” Arnest said, “ya guys wanna play knucklebones while we wait?”

Samuel groaned. “Just because you got a silver set from your dad doesn’t mean we have to use it all the damn time.”

“You’re just jealous of my skills.” Arnest nudged Dimitry’s shoulder. “How about it?”

Budding regret didn’t put Dimitry in the mood for games, but after Arnest bought him a meal, he didn’t have the heart to decline. “Sure. Don’t know how, though.”

“I’ll teach ya!”

They played knucklebones until the sky turned pink, then obsidian with an ominous moon peeking from behind corrupted clouds. Its green light illuminated the scar on Arnest’s cheek, and with his beard, it gave him a more valiant appearance than he deserved. Like a viking that bathed in dirt.

The young man threw a silver piece, plucked three more from the ground, then caught the one in midair. He slammed them to the ground. “Nineteen!”

Dimitry tallied two convex knucklebones, one concave, and the last concave narrow. “No, that’s sixteen. My score was higher. I win.”

“W-what?!” Arnest dropped to the floor to count.

Samuel bellowed a deep-belly laugh. “You turned the kid into a monster. You’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“I’m just not trying ‘cause there’s no money on the line! That’s all.”

“Sure you are.”

Dimitry doubted there was much skill in a game of chance. Any consideration of him using knucklebones as a moneymaker departed as soon as it was conjured.

Arnest slammed the gambling pieces into his pouch and stood. His foot impatiently tapped the dirt floor, coaxing green-tinted dust to rise from the ground. “Where’s that bastard, anyway? How much longer do we gotta wait?”

“The hag said his boat is the one furthest from the main road, but no one came by all day.”

“What if you two missed him when you stopped by to rest at the fire earlier?” Dimitry asked.

“Well…”

“If that’s the case, we’re fucked.”

After a prolonged silence, Arnest pointed at the road leading from the market. “Look! Furs!”

Two shabbily dressed men tugged a cart filled to the brim with assorted pelts while a third, taller man walked behind them. One arm held a wooden pipe with a long stem, and the other folded against his back. His fur coat and dignified gait distinguished him from everyone else on the docks.

“I hope his dress catches on fire,” Arnest said. “Rich assholes like him strut around all fancy while the rest of us sleep on the streets.”

Samuel held up a finger. “Shut up a moment.”

The laborers pushed the cart onto the port’s elevated wooden platform, traveled across its uneven surface and stopped at its edge. They loaded pelts onto a massive ship, whose sails fluttered in the wind as if to break free from their mast.

Samuel pushed away from the wall. “Looks like we’ve found our guy!”

“What now?” Dimitry asked.

“Now me and Arnest are gonna go see the hag to collect our money. Don’t worry, we’ll introduce you while we’re there. Make a good impression, and you’ll get a cut next time.”

Arnest nudged Samuel. “What are ya gonna do with your payout? Blow it all on booze again?”

“Better than gambling it away on a children’s game.”

“It’s not for children!”

Like an old log cabin in a silent forest, the fireplace’s crackling gave the dilapidated alehouse a rustic charm. However, despite fragrant oak fumes, a musty scent contaminated the air. Dimitry guessed it came from the brownish fungus filling the gaps between the overhead ceiling timber beams. He hoped the people in this world knew that black mold spores were toxic.

He dared not verbalize his complaint. If neither Samuel, Arnest, nor Tenebrae’s thugs ventured to interrupt the deafening silence, Dimitry wouldn’t either. Attracting attention was reckless.

A rugged man with a thick beard stood behind the counter, persecuting Dimitry with furrowed eyes. They relentlessly scanned up and down as if searching for a reason to admonish him.

Something patted Dimitry’s shoulder.

It was Samuel’s hand. The old man sat beside him, a sly yet comforting smile on his face.

Did he think Dimitry was nervous? If so, he was right. They waited for, as Samuel liked to call her, the ‘hag’. Agatha was doubtlessly more well-connected than anyone else in the building and would recognize the ‘holy cleric’ immediately. Perhaps she would surmise Dimitry was the disappearing bum as well, but when his last options were to starve to death or take a chance with a criminal organization, he had to risk discovery.

Sitting on Dimitry’s other side was Arnest, who stared vacantly into his ale.

The sight of a typically emotive young man curling his spine into a stifled posture struck fear into Dimitry. He lifted his tankard to his mouth. The faintly sweet ale touching his lips was tamer than beer, yet he spent great effort fighting the urge to gulp the contents. Maintaining a relaxed appearance trumped calories.

“She will see you now,” a gruff voice resounded from the second floor.

Dimitry downed the rest of his ale and gently lowered the ceramic vessel onto the countertop. The three homeless men climbed up the stairs, walked past a giant man, and entered a cozy room with a desk at the other end.

Sat behind it was a middle-aged woman. Her long, slender nails tapped the table. One finger at a time, they hit its wooden surface, producing a rhythmic tune. On the wall behind her, above a small stained glass window overlooking a crimson-lit street, was a beautiful sword. The weapon didn’t match her elaborate dress.

Samuel was the first to speak. “We saw the—”

“I know what you saw.” She dropped four silver gadots, which rolled across the desk before collapsing. “That’s not why I asked to see you personally.”

Agatha stood, her poise firm and prideful, and stepped away from her desk. One deliberate step at a time, she strolled towards the three men. Passing Arnest, then Samuel, she stopped in front of Dimitry. “Who’s this?”

Arnest stared at the floor. “That’s Dimitry. He’s, um, a friend. I mean, a recruit.”

“Can he do anything useful?”

“M-ma’am, he does, he’s the—”

Was Arnest trying to keep Dimitry’s identity a secret? Although thoughtful, the young man would crack eventually, revealing him as the ‘fake’ holy cleric. Dimitry stepped forward to do the deed himself.

Samuel and Arnest watched him with alarmed eyes, warning him of a single misstep’s perils.

Dimitry wasn’t afraid. The opulent furnishings in Agatha’s office hinted at wealth that spat on any bounty a peeved barber-surgeon could offer. Reporting Dimitry’s crimes wouldn’t be worth her time. What concerned him more was the holy symbolism lying on a nearby shelf: his future employer was a Zeran believer. If Dimitry didn’t distance himself from the Church, his religious transgressions could offend Agatha.

Aiming to introduce himself as a normal surgeon, Dimitry unraveled his rag hood. “I believe I can be an asset to your organization. My capacity to treat wounds, plagues, and infections is unparalleled, and if necessary, I can perform surgeries for life-threatening injuries.”

Agatha swiped her emerald bangs from her face when she leaned forward to examine Dimitry’s eyes. “Pale green like mint. Samuel, is this the man from the rumors?”

“Eh…” Samuel glanced at Dimitry as if apologizing. “Yeah.”

“Where did you find him?”

“At the port.”

Agatha cracked a smile. “Idalia spoke highly of him—the pilgrim who heals with Zera’s grace.”

“Idalia?” Dimitry blurted. “You know her?”

“She’s a maiden at one of my alehouses.”

He recalled Idalia mentioning something similar. “Pardon me for overspeaking, but did she find the cause of her swelling lips and breathing issues?”

“I may have overheard a meandering diatribe against carrots.”

How strange. Carrots rarely triggered food allergies, making oral allergy syndrome more likely. It was a disease that started with an immune response to pollen, which proceeded to cross-react with similar proteins in a wide range of fruits and vegetables. Idalia was at risk of anaphylaxis from multiple sources.

“I know I’m not one to make requests,” Dimitry said, “but I’d be most obliged if Idalia was told to sample other fruits and vegetables, not only carrots, with caution before adding them to her diet.”

“Why is that?” Agatha asked.

“She might suffocate otherwise.”

“And you know that because you’re the holy cleric?”

“No,” Dimitry said. “That’s merely what others chose to call me. In truth, I am an experienced surgeon.”

Arnest’s mouth hung open.

“Very well.” Agatha strutted back towards her desk. “I value my ladies too highly to take risks with their health—especially when an experienced surgeon says I shouldn’t. But tell me, Dimitry. Have you ever performed an amputation?”

“Many times, but removing organs is to be avoided when possible. Why do you ask?”

“The rumors claim you heal with foods, but genuine professionals handle saws and cleavers. There is a demand for skilled barber-surgeons among many circles. If you are as talented as you say, then it’d be wasteful of me to throw you onto the streets.”

Her considerations were logical. Even criminal organizations needed skilled surgeons, and Dimitry had yet to demonstrate his abilities due to a lack of surgical tools and permits.

He would use that to his advantage. “Although I wish to demonstrate my skills, which includes proficiency with far more than mere amputations, the Barber Surgeons Guild forbids me from operating, and I don’t have the funds to pay them off. All I need is a chance.”

Agatha sat with grace, swinging one leg over the other. “While it is not I who requires your talents, I have a colleague who does. She’ll make guilds, venomous rumors, and tool purchases an afterthought. I’ll introduce you to her after you prove your loyalty with an assignment. And worry not about abandoning Samuel and Arnest. They’ll receive a recruitment bonus were my colleague to accept.”

Grinning, Samuel gave Dimitry a congratulatory nudge. Was the old thug expecting to get paid for the reference? It seemed that Arnest and Samuel's willingness to help wasn’t purely altruistic.

Agatha was cunning. Not only did she strike down Dimitry’s every concern, she simultaneously allayed any hesitation Samuel and Arnest might have had. While working for Tenebrae didn’t elicit pride or confidence, the organization’s efficiency offered a plausible escape from poverty.

“With that out of the way, I’ve got a job for you three. An important one. Naturally, the pay is good.” Agatha waved her hand. “Bartolo.”

The hulking mass of a man standing at the room’s entrance pulled a small pouch from his tunic’s pocket. He threw it over Samuel’s head and into Agatha’s palm.

Her long nails moved with precision to untie a string. Two confident fingers reached inside the pouch, pulling out one gold gadot at a time until three lay atop her desk. “My client is a wealthy man. If you do as I ask, these are yours to split amongst yourselves.”

The gold coins sang to Dimitry. If Agatha granted him independence from the Barber Surgeons Guild, circumventing the need for a certificate, just a single gadot would purchase tools like thread and suturing needles while leaving plenty to reintroduce modern medicine! How many patients could Dimitry treat? How much could he eat?

To his side, Arnest licked his lips, and Samuel stared unflinchingly. They must have felt similar excitement.

“Looks like I’ve got your attention. The fur merchant’s ship will likely leave port in the morning, which means the job has to be completed overnight. We were asked to retrieve the product and dissuade the target from returning to Ravenfall.

“Since you three are useless in a confrontation, there’s something else I want you to do. Although we own several watchmen by the port, most are still loyal to the crown. You three will distract those closest to the market road while the others push further in.”

Arnest’s face turned pale. “W-watchmen?”

Samuel’s gaze fixated on the gold coins. “A small fortune for a large risk, then?”

“After we raid the ship, one of ours will activate the warning beacon. The port watchmen will return to their posts. There’s many working on tonight’s job, so you won’t have to distract them for long. Your risk is minimal,” Agatha spoke calmly. “Will you do it or not?”

Meeting her gaze, waves of hot and cold washed across Dimitry. The job was hazardous, but he had dealt with authorities before. A street devoid of gray-glowing statues that drained invisall’s effects improved his odds of survival. There was little danger for him. He was more concerned for Samuel and Arnest.

Dimitry glanced in their direction.

Hesitant at first, all three nodded in agreement.

The door of the dilapidated alehouse slammed shut behind Dimitry, Samuel, and Arnest as they stepped onto a street that shone brightly despite black, overcast skies. Red light from glowing stones flooded every road. Those magical rocks, operating on some otherworldly power, decorated every storefront, horse-driven cart, and fortification in sight. Not even the hunched and cloaked figures skulking through alleys could escape their luminescence.

Dimitry navigated a district of Ravenfall under Tenebrae’s unofficial jurisdiction. A place where anyone could buy anything for the right price.

“Kid.” Samuel walked with his only arm folded behind his back. “I thought you were just out there scamming morons while in reality you were scoring points with the Hag. Since when were you a real barber?”

“Even if I said who I was, would you have believed me?”

“No, but that’s not the point.”

“Who cares?” Arnest let forth an enthusiastic clap. “We’re gettin’ paid!”

“My intention wasn’t to trick either of you,” Dimitry said. “With guards looking for me, I couldn’t trust anyone.”

Samuel sighed. “Just promise to take a look at my back later. It’s been killing me for years.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The wind, fiercer since that evening, blew a mixture of stale perfume and aerosolized sweat from a three-story building down the road. Red light bathed the scantily clad women, who stood outside the entrance. With tantalizing smiles and devious smirks, they beckoned passing men closer.

Among them was a girl whose face was a mess of pale powder and rose-painted cheeks. She waved while running forward. “You guys here for a bath?”

Samuel’s hand shot forward to stop her advance. “Not interested. Sorry, Claudia.”

“Wait, wait,” Arnest said. “Is Beatrice in?”

“Yep!” the girl cheered. “Want me to call her out?”

“Nah, not right now. We’re kinda busy.”

“Fine.” Claudia’s gaze turned to Dimitry. “Who’s the really skinny guy?”

Samuel shrugged. “A bigshot surgeon, apparently.”

“Like, he’s rich?!”

Rushing to dispel anything that might earn him the fancy of a girl no older than sixteen, Dimitry shook his head. “Nope. Not a single gadot to my name. I can’t even afford food or clothes.”

“For now!” Arnest the uncalled for wingman blurted out. “After tonight, he’s gonna make a bunch workin’ for Tenebrae!”

“No way!”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Claudia.” Dimitry bowed out before the conversation escalated. “Keep safe.”

“You too!” The girl waved as the men walked away. “I’ll be waiting, bigshot surgeon!”

Dimitry wasn’t as eager.

Arnest wore a smile befitting a child on Christmas morning. “What do you guys think? Wanna come by later tonight? After we play some knucklebones?!”

“Save feeding your sick addictions until after we get the job done,” Samuel said.

Ignoring Arnest’s overly enthusiastic comment, Dimitry forced their attention onto more important matters. “Do we have a plan to deal with the port watchmen when they come after us?”

“Yeah. Run like hell.”

“Kid, do you have something specific in mind? It’s not like we can fight them off.”

Did these two survive on luck all this time? By preparing the streets beforehand, getting out alive was no longer just a matter of chance. It was possible to tilt the odds in their favor.

Dimitry stepped around a cracked knife blade colored red by magical light. “For example, have either of you considered using obstacles to slow them down while running away?”

“Just how the hell are we supposed to do that?” Arnest spat.

“It’s not like we have much time to set a trap. The hag waited until now to tell us the plan.”

“It shouldn’t take long at all,” Dimitry said. “If we plan an escape route and cram the alleyways with junk, it’d make it easier for us to escape. Our advantages are mobility and the fact that we have the initiative.”

“That makes sense.” Arnest’s face was one of illumination. “If ya move garbage from the streets, it’ll be easier for us to run away!”

“No, you idiot. He’s saying that if we fill alleys with trash, armored watchmen will have a hard time passing through while we can just climb over.”

“Oh.”

“Something like that,” Dimitry said. “How long do we have?”

“The hag said the signal fire will be lit when the moon is highest in the sky, which gives us only a bit of time to work with.”

“Let’s stop wasting it, then.”

The three men rushed to the port to plan an escape route. From there, they traced a path that led through narrow alleys between warehouses, all the way to what Samuel described as a safe haven—a place where densely clustered buildings occluded stray moonlight, providing dark crevices to hide in until the port’s watchmen were forced to retreat to the harbor.

They spent the little time they had finding and stacking debris traps, clearing bits of ceramic, and anything else that would aid them in a frantic chase. Not long passed before several rigged alleyways were complete.

Dimitry returned to the port and crouched behind a low wall. He peeked around the corner.

Three watchmen stood near the market road, glowing cylinders in hand. Those must have been their targets.

Pressed against a nearby warehouse wall was a cloaked man, and, further down the street, was another glancing from behind a barrel-loaded cart. Samuel claimed they were just a few of Tenebrae’s thugs with more hiding out of sight. Not all of them worked for Agatha. The organization comprised loosely allied people, unified under the promise of money and power.

The winds howled, blowing at the men’s rags as dark green clouds raged in the sky. A flash of thunder. Then a raindrop. And another. They fell on Dimitry’s head in tandem but did nothing to extinguish the flames of anxiety in his chest. He had received another chance at life, and it wouldn’t end in regret like the last one.

From somewhere far removed from this charade of medieval life, was the man in the dark hall watching?

A port watchman’s hand rose into the air.

In it, the signal fire.