The Literary Diversions of K.T. Lazarus

Dun led Second Lord Struntley through the dimly lit labyrinth of the undercity—out through the alleyway, down a staircase, across a squashed courtyard—putting distance between themselves and anyone at the stadium who may have seen the both of them together. The constables were typically of little concern to Dun’s operations, but it was still bad for business to be as blatantly shady as this damned Second. Beside, the envelope in the inside pocket of Dun’s twill coat contained sensitive information that had come at the displeasure of yet another lord, who held just enough power to make Dun’s life unpleasant should his part in the theft be revealed.

Surrounding the stadium was a ring of the most successful businesses of Foundation, peddling exotic wares and services both to the nobles who desired a bit of slumming after watching a good contest, as well as to the commoners who’d placed the right bets and put a couple silver notes into their pockets. For two or three blocks in any direction from the stadium the wealth and success was evident, but by the time one reached Fourth Annular, all that was to be found was a dilapidated collection of warehouses and storefronts, with iron bars over broken windows and boards nailed across leaning doorways. 

Dun turned them onto the deserted Fourth Annular in front of what had once been a shop struggling to sell calligraphy tools, but was now a convenient safe-house for his clandestine dealings. He glared at the noble as he reached for the door, longing for the lost words to adequately berate him for his stupidity. 

A large, bald man stepped out from the arch behind Lord Struntley and glanced briefly in their direction. Dun turned on his heel and sprang away toward the next archway down the avenue—Struntley was on his own now for whatever shit he’d brought down on them.

Three more men stepped out from the alley ahead, blocking his exit. As one, they threw back their plain cloaks to reveal constable uniforms and heavy cudgels on their belts. Five more flooded out of the surrounding buildings with short spears, advancing with their tips leveled until Dun and his client were pressed back to back.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried Struntley. “I demand an explanation! The chief of constabulary will hear of this. I want your names and badge numbers—”

The bald man, wearing captain’s insignia and a sword on his hip, stepped forward and back-handed the Second across the mouth, shocking him into blissful silence. The captain reached into Dun’s overcoat and extracted the envelope. 

“How dare you strike me!” Struntley regained his voice, “I’ll—” The man slapped him across the face again with the envelope, leaving behind a thin line of blood across his cheek.

“The Lord Mason’s private business dealings over the past year, I presume?” The captain’s voice was low but clear, barely above a whisper. It sounded familiar to Dun, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it before. “Now what would a respectable Second like yourself be doing with such a packet of information, Lord Struntley?”

The ambitious lordling paled and swallowed nervously. “I don’t—I have no idea what you’re talking about, constable. I don’t know this man—I’ve never seen him before in my life, you should arrest him, he’s a criminal and a thief! He was attacking me!”

Dun ignored his former client’s blathering, which showed no sign of halting any time soon, and assessed their captors.

They’re not constables, you twit. They’re too well fed for that, and their weapons are quality. Real constables are just as impoverished as the rest of the trash living down here. This is private security, paid well.

The captain raised the envelope like a club, and Struntley flinched away and shut his mouth. “That’s much better,” he said. “Now, why don’t we take this conversation to a safe, quiet place where we can talk in private?”

If this pompous ass just got me embroiled in the middle of some political shit-storm he failed to mention when I took this job, I am going to kill him myself.

Nine men, well-fed and armed to the teeth, against him, with only a couple of knives and a lousy human shield. Dun shrugged, spat on the ground, and nodded. 

The fake constable smiled. “A wise man speaks few words. I think I might like you. Let’s go.” He gestured to his men. 

Prodding the Lord Struntley in the back with their spears to get him walking, the group set off down the cobblestone road. They were taken to an unnamed warehouse on Third Annular, lined with nondescript crates of varying sizes. Business must have been slow, as the floor was devoid of activity of any kind. 

The crates are all dusty, but the floor is swept clean. Sloppy—what’s the world coming to when criminals don’t even try to disguise their business fronts anymore?

Though there was of course another possible explanation which Dun preferred not to entertain for as long as possible: if the bald man’s organization had powerful enough backing, the authorities would never dare interfere with them to begin with. 

Leading their prisoners down a hallway, they tossed the nobleman unceremoniously into a room off the side, leaving two ‘constables’ behind to stand guard. Dun was ushered farther down the hall behind the captain, and then shown into what appeared to be an office or study, finely furnished with large, leather-backed chairs and a coal stove to the side of a polished wood desk.

The captain took a seat behind the desk and gestured toward one opposite him. Dun dropped lightly onto the leather cushions.

“You are remarkably calm considering the amount of legal trouble you’re in, my friend.” The captain’s voice when he wasn’t speaking under his breath was deep and resonant, filling the room well. 

Dun snorted in response.

The man frowned. “I fail to see the humor in this. Your life as you know it may very well be over.”

Dun shrugged, but politely refrained from spitting on the fine carpet beneath his feet. He gestured around him at the wealth of the room, then pointed at the captain’s insignia on the man’s shoulder. “Fake,” he said.

The captain eyed him for a moment in silence, then chuckled. “Wise indeed. Though still, if we’re not actually constables, what’s to stop us from just killing you outright?”

Dun shrugged again. You haven’t yet. He pointed at his host. “Work. Who?” The man sat back in his chair.

“My employer’s identity is no concern of yours. My name, however, is Carrows.” The man stopped and chuckled at the flash of recognition across Dun’s face. “And I see my reputation precedes me. I have been asked to talk to you in order to clear up a few… misunderstandings. Would you care for an apple?” Carrows beckoned to one of the guards, who walked over with a bowl of fresh fruit. Dun shook his head as his host selected a crisp, red apple and took a dainty bite out of it. “You see, your recent employer, the unfortunate Second Lord Struntley, apparently did not level with you fully about his situation when he took you under his employ.”

I knew it… I hope these thugs let him go unharmed so I can find him and split his tongue.

“I am certain of this fact because, had you known the full story behind Lord Struntley and Lord Mason’s rivalry, or the relationship shared between Lord Mason and… other interested parties, I cannot imagine you would have been foolish enough to accept any such employment.” Carrows withdrew the envelope of information from his pocket and handed it to a guard, who opened the coal stove and placed it inside. “Sadly,” he continued, “You will not be receiving your payment for the unfortunate Lord Struntley’s job. However, my employer does not feel it necessary to hold a grudge against an act done out of ignorance of the situation; he is perfectly willing to allow you to walk out of this with your well-being intact—provided you agree to perform a small… let’s call it a favor, for him first.”

Dun sank back into his own chair, neither confirming nor denying his interest in the situation as Carrows continued to speak. The man certainly loved the sound of his own voice.

“The man known only as ‘Dun.’ A man of few words, but many talents. I’ve been looking into you. No one knows who you are, or where you came from. All they say is, you’re the best. Tell me, why is that?”

Dun’s hand made a small, fluid motion as Carrows took another bite of his apple, burying a knife to its hilt in the fruit between his fingers. The lackey held up his hand to the guards as they reached for their weapons. Extracting the knife from the apple, he cut off a slice and offered it to Dun. The mute popped the slice of fruit into his mouth, and made the knife disappear into some unseen sheath or pocket.

“The best, indeed. Leave us,” Carrows said with a sweep of his hand, and the guards retired from the room as their leader leaned forward over the desk with his fingertips steepled before him.

Artwork by K. T. Lazarus