12.
It
had taken two days of cajoling, negotiation, bribery and intimidation, but
Pyrrho and his new found motley crew had reached the base of one of
Fortunestones’ imposing walls. Few refugees had taken kindly to their efforts
to press through the gathered throng and so it had been a slow process. Along
the way Pyrrho had learnt a number of worrying things. The impact of an
emerging pox was one, a problem exacerbated by there being little way to remove
the dead bodies. The growing anger with those inside of the town was also of
concern. Talk of an assault on the front gates was gathering momentum. But the
most concerning nugget of information picked up by Pyrrho was just how
co-ordinated the Drakhan had been. Refugees had been funnelled towards
Fortunestone for weeks, well before the last battle with the Steed. This
implied a broader plan, not just focussed on defeating the erstwhile Senator
Steed, but on taking over the wider lands. This wasn’t an isolated conflict,
the Drakhan were aiming to expand their rule throughout the seven counties.
Maybe even beyond.
Changes
in power structures like this usually provided ample opportunity for people
like Pyrrho, but not if they had spent the past three years as a near constant
thorn in the side of their new overlords. Perhaps Pyrrho’s role would get lost
in the greater turmoil, but it wasn’t a risk he especially wanted to take. Plus
there was something about the pace and style of the Drakhan’s new found
ascendency that troubled him deeply. A shared uneasy feeling with his sister
that they both had an idea as to the root of the new power dynamic. But they
needed to find out more. Which was why Pyrrho now stood at a small iron gate
that had been placed in this part of the wall on Fortunestone’s east side.
He
banged on the gate with a rock, attempting to attract the attention of the
guards post that lay behind the gate. However, the only attention he’s
succeeded in gaining was that of the refugees around him. Eager eyes watched
this small stranger; had he a way to gain entry? The press of refugees around
him grew in anticipation. Pyrrho grew uneasy at both the lack of success in
front of him and the growing unrest behind him. He banged the gate again.
Nothing.
“Er,
hello?” his meek enquiry echoed through the small hole in the wall behind the
gate. “I’ve important business inside the town”
“Me
n’all” came the waggish call from the mass of people behind him, followed by
some tittering laughter.
Pyrrho
reddened slightly, he was much better suited to life in the shadows than life
on the stage. He tried to block out the noises behind him. “I’m an old
acquaintance of Councillor Decker” his voice again echoing. He banged the gate
another time. This time, something.
A
slow clumping from inside the wall, then a voice. “Must be a very old acquaintance”
the sound grew closer “seeing as the ‘onorable councillor has been dead two
winter’s past”. A gruff old guard strode up behind the inside of the iron gate.
“What you want with ‘im in any case” a suspicious eye glanced Pyrrho up and
down. Not impressed with what he was seeing, the guard sneered.
“Information
to impart. If the councillor is, er, indisposed, how about lady Fox?”
“The
Fox is not currently in our magnificent Congressman’s good books at the moment,
so she ain’t receiving visitors” the sneer developed into a scowl. “You got any
more names to throw at me, or can I get back to my stew?” the mention of food
saw the crowd behind Pyrrho press forward that little bit more. The guard must
have seen this as he instinctively edged back.
“The,
er, Congressman. Is it still Florus?” Pyrrho hoped not. The only thing that
could be worse than that was…
“Nah,
his brother acceded ‘im, it’s Virius now”
…that
“Ok,
er, thanks” Pyrrho slumped, the guard stomped away.
“That
was rubbish” the wag in the crowd was adamant “I seen better attempts to get in
by me old Ma, like when she tried to seduce that fat guard. She’ll be 68 next
fall”
More
laughter from the crowd as Pyrrho slunk off, mentally plotting acts of
unspeakable evil against the wag when he should have been coming up with other
ideas to gain entrance to Fortunestone. Well, ideas other than his backup plan;
something he hadn’t so far been prepared to countenance as an option at all.
Once
back with Volk and the others a little way round the wall from the gate he
slumped down against the wheel of the cart.
“No
luck?” Volk stated the obvious, but avoided a cutting response from Pyrrho by
offering him a cup of the broth he’d been brewing with the farmer’s daughter.
“Need
another way” he said after taking a sip of the hot, flavoursome liquid.
“There’s
that talk of an attempt on the main gate, maybe we could get in with that?”
Volk suggested
“Nah,
not yet. We don’t want to destroy the town, there’s stuff, and people in there
that I need”
“No
one wants to destroy the town” Volk sounded a little defensive “Just share a
bit of their stores. People out here are in real trouble”
“Your
conscience getting the better of you again?” Pyrrho looked up at the big man. “Thing
is, even with the best intentions, you suddenly introduce ten thousand people
into Fortunestone, stuff will get trashed. Can’t be helped”
“There
must be a better way than this” Volk surveyed the mass of humanity crowded
around them.
“There
is. We get me inside, I figure out what the hell the Drakhan are up to and a
result of that, these poor sods can go home” Pyrrho waved an arm vaguely in
front of him at the refugees.
“Your
plans rarely turn out that simple” Volk took a seat on the ground next to Pyrrho,
with an “oomph” as he settled his weight down.
“Wouldn’t
be so much fun otherwise” Pyrrho rested his head back, closed his eyes as he
took another sip of the broth.
“And
what fun have you got in store this time?” Volk asked with trepidation
“Don’t
sound so nervous. All you need to do this time is create a distraction. It’s me
that’s gonna end up in deep muck”
“Please
don’t say you’re being all literal again” worried Volk
“Unfortunately
I am” Pyrrho sighed.
That
evening dark figures crept along under the wall, following a drainage channel
that encircled much of the town. The steep sides of the channel, plus the foul
smelling effluent that sat in the bottom of it meant the route was relatively
free of refugees or their belongings. At the south side of the town the ditch
opened out into a small river that came to the surface in the centre of
Fortunestone, before passing through the town, via a large iron portcullis that
now loomed above them.
Next
to the river the density of the refugees was even higher. The river washed away
the town’s detritus and sewage, but with the rain halting a day ago, was now
the prime source of water for the camp. Even this time of night, the river edge
bustled with activity. People washing, filling flasks and skins, or attempting
to fish out anything useful thrown away in the city. A small market had built
up around the trading of Fortunestone’s waste, something that made Volk bristle
with injustice.
The current of the river would make swimming
upstream and into the town impossible, even if the portcullis had enough space
for a man to squeeze between its rusty pillars. But Pyrrho didn’t intend on
swimming. Well, not the river at least.
At
one side of the portcullis, imbedded in the wall a few metres high, was an
outflow pipe from the town’s rudimentary sewage system that served the houses
of the richer residents. The poorer residents had to make do with outdoor
plumbing or throwing their waste directly into the river, but those with more
means actually enjoyed some indoor facilities.
The
outflow pipe was too high for one man alone to reach. Even if he could, iron
bars just a little way in from the edge of the pipe would prevent access. Unless that man had an accomplice of much
greater than average height to balance upon, and knew of very specific weakness
in one of the bars. Still, even with access potentially at hand, Pyrrho did not
want to risk detection from outside of the camp lest he trigger a potentially
ruinous stampede of people attempting to follow him. Hence the need for
distraction.
The
farm hand punched the Steed loyalist full in the face.
Pyrrho's
plan had called for some good acting,
but there was more to it in this particular scrap. The farmer and his retinue
had become increasingly alarmed at the supplies that Pyrrho's men had got
through in recent days. The Steed
loyalists had, on the other hand, been feeling underappreciated for their
efforts in keeping the cart, not to
mention the farmer's two daughters, from
unwanted attention. Pyrrho hadn't paid
much attention to start with, mind on
other matters, but then spotted the
opportunity that a public airing of the grievances could bring.
Unless
it got out of hand.
The
refugees in the vicinity were rushing to watch the fight as Pyrrho and Volk
struggled to move in the opposite direction.
Once at the wall and underneath the outflow pipe, Pyrrho cast a glance back to a rapidly
expanding explosion of violence.
"Reckon
you'll be able to calm it down while I'm inside? " he asked of Volk.
"
Yeah. Knock a couple of heads
together. Plead tolerance. The usual" Volk scratched at his chest.
A small medical facility had sprung up near their section of the camp, medics in the refugee horde trading their
skills for supplies or favours. Pyrrho
had got new dressings and a pungent smelling salve to apply Volk's wounds at
the cost of his long treasured cloak,
but it would be worth it to keep such a useful ally – a friend even - around. Volk was still weakened by his injuries, but even at 50% Volk was more than a physical
match for most. And oddly adept at
getting people onside. A skill Pyrrho
could have used in previous years if he were to avoid his current undesirable
plan. But that was not to be. He looked up at the pipe with no little
trepidation as effluent splashed down onto the ground in front of him, before oozing into the river.
"OK
then big man, time for you to fulfil
your life's ambition of being a ladder" Pyrrho attempted levity as a
distraction from his fears. It didn't
work. Volk obediently took a knee and Pyrrho
scrambled onto his shoulders. The bigger
man then stood to his full height,
allowing Pyrrho to scramble onto the lip of the pipe. From his perch, Pyrrho called down, “Thanks
Volk. Now you just need to go sort out the riot over there” he pointed at the
building turmoil near the river’s edge.
“Fun
times” the delivery from Volk sounded sarcastic, but there was a smile clawing
at the edges of his mouth. The big man did enjoy a challenge, especially if
that challenge involved a bit of intrigue and a lot of violence.
Pyrrho
turned back to the pipe entrance. The effluent continued to pour out, lapping
at his ankles, occasional suspicious lump bumping against his feet. The less
said about the smell, the better. Pyrrho grimaced and moved forward. A metre
into the pipe he came up against the iron bars. Here is where his last gamble
at gaining entrance to Fortunestone would play out. Third bar from the right,
he rested a hand against it, hoping it was the same bar that had been his
ticket into, and more often out of, Forturnestone on numerous occasions in his
younger days, rather than a more permanent recent replacement. Grab hold, push
it up into the roof of the pipe. Nothing, then a slight movement, then a click.
Push the bar forward, then slide to the right. The bar came away in his hand.
Success, depending on whether anything achieved in a rancid sewage pipe could
be described as a success.
Pyrrho
squeezed through the gap, then reversed the movements with the bar to reinstall
it. Those drunken nights with the head builder all those years past once again
proving themselves to be worth the terrible hangovers and blurry memories. The
pipe turned upwards a few metres further on, up into the higher part of the
town where the merchant’s quarter nestled. The flow remained fairly constant,
aside from the occasional rush of a bath – or worse – emptied in the town.
A
couple of slips, accompanied by a lot of swearing, later and Pyrrho arrive at
the first grating. If memory served correctly, this was in the ornate gardens
of an old architect, probably long dead by now. However, the heavy stone statue
that prevented the grate from opening was still there. Pyrrho pressed on. The
next grate was in an alley that ran behind the small court used for addressing
the minor grievances of the local gentry. Never underestimate the ability of
Fortunestone’s wealthy residents to fall out over various petty misdemeanours.
The court was consequently always busy, and so near impossible to make a covert
entrance from the grate. Once again, Pyrrho moved forwards.
Pyrrho
smiled when he came to peer through the third grate. An unconscious woman,
snoring loudly, flagon of wine still clutched at her chest, dripping a stain
onto a lurid blue dress. Never underestimate the ability of Fortunestone’s
wealthy residents to spend their evenings drinking themselves silly. Pyrrho had first discovered this grate from
the position the woman was in now. He’d woken up in the drunk’s dungeon once
again, except this time with his blurred vision trying to focus on a mysterious
iron grate. Possibilities forming in his half addled mind. His smile widened a
little further at the memories of his younger days as he set to work on the
rusty lock holding the grate closed. Lock picking wasn’t one of his
specialities, coming up against a lock was rare, even in the richer quarters
that he frequently inhabited in search of fortune or information. But they were
also fairly rudimentary if you understood their quirks as Pyrrho did. The lock
dropped into Pyrrho’s hand and he pushed the grate up and open. He clambered
into the small room, cautiously stepping over its slumbering occupant. He
looked down at her, pretty enough if you looked past the smeared makeup and
spittle dripping from the corner of her mouth. Instinctively Pyrrho checked her
jewellery, not bad, but not top tier. Tallied with his suspicion that if she’d
been of one of the wealthier families, some lackey or other would have dragged
her home. Probably new money, unfamiliar with the potent brews that this
particular establishment specialised in.
Curiosity
over his roommate satiated, Pyrrho moved to the heavy wooden door. It was rare
for it to be locked – if the incumbent was capable of standing to open the
door, then they didn’t need the hospitality of the hard stone floor any more.
More of concern was the creaky hinge. Pyrrho pressed an ear to the door. He
could hear conversations and the occasional burst of laughter, but tonight was
not one of the raucous evenings he fondly remembered. Not enough to disguise
the sound of the door opening. He took a step back, hand on his chin as
possibilities whirled in his mind.
The
door opened in front of him.
The
woman on the floor got up.
A
knife was pressed against Pyrrho’s throat.
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