The Right Man for the Job

[Dylan Drashalov]

Trying to mirror the movements of Vintas was daunting. The man had a breezy confidence to him, even as he illicitly entered the home of a Marn citizen. The way he picked the lock and strode on inside as if he had been invited for the Mykalvir’s weekly fish dinner. His demeanor said, Of course a Guardsman is entering your home, what else would this be?

Speaking of fish, there was a scent of fried oil in the air, a sauce made from pungent vegetables. The farm boy in Dylan recognized river trout and a finely made tartar. He could almost taste the flaky, breaded flesh and the tang of the sauce. His stomach rumbled loud enough to wake the dead, or the occupants of the home they were breaking into.

But no, they were OK. Dylan’s ears worked as well as his nose. He heard the sounds of a couple talking, the ting and clatter of cutlery and plates being cleared. They still thought they were alone.

When Vintas spoke to him, Dylan had to sharply quell an urge to flap his arms at the man and hiss at him to be quiet. When he noticed that the other man was muffling his movements and voice, Dylan also crept closer to him.

He took in Vintas’s words and pondered. They had time, after all, but not much. The missus might pop in here at any moment to uncork another bottle of wine. It was time to make their move, and Dylan had had the honor bestowed on him to do so.

Moving around Vintas, Dylan strode into the next room and saw the stunned faces of the couple. “I hope you have enough for two more.”

[Ferric Vintas]

“You offering to help them clean the dishes, rookie?” Ferric quipped, pointing out the dissonance between Dylan’s words and their situation with scalding style. He walked in after Dylan and flashed the pair a deadly grin. Seeing the whites of his teeth must have had curative powers, for their paralysis was miraculously cured. The pair leapt back to what they were doing, with Mykalvir’s wife now scrambling to grab more plates and fresh food.

“Oh! Guardsmen, what, what a surprise.” Mykalvir stuttered, setting his dishes aside before glancing left and right looking for something to do. When Ferric was not forthcoming with any response, Mykalvir began to help his wife. “L-let us grab something for you, just give us a moment?”

“Of course.” Ferric waited patiently for the duo to finish, easing himself calmly into a chair. He motioned for Dylan to do the same. “We’re in no particular hurry.”

[Dylan Drashalov]

Hiding his unease, Dylan sank into his seat. The ease at which Vintas had inserted himself into this situation had unnerved him. However, he didn’t let it show on his face. They were playing the game now, and doing it quite well, to judge from the panicked shock on the faces of the couple.

“Heck, no, boss. I peeled my share of rutabagas back when I was a recruit.” Dylan touched the dagger at his hip, that old piece of gray iron in its dingy sheath.

“Besides, we’re the guests.” He winked at the wife, who was a pretty little thing, if a little plump. “We’ve been pounding ground all day to get here. Seems like the polite thing to do, for our hosts to offer us food and drink.”

“No wine,” He told the wife loudly, eliciting a gasp at the volume of his voice from them both. “We are on duty.”

That settled, Dylan cast a mock-worried glance at his companion, and pulled his face into an exaggerated frown.

“Hmmm…right now they’re thinking that we ain’t here in an official capacity, Guardsman Vintas.” Dylan’s voice was conspiratorial and light. “I wish it was the case, don’t you, boss?”

[Ferric Vintas]

Boss? Sure, Ferric outranked the rookie, but boss? That was probably pushing it. Ferric’s eyes rolled to his right in silent consideration. It hadn’t sounded like a sarcastic retort to the ‘rookie’ appellation going by the tone, but the words themselves made Ferric briefly consider the possibility that Dylan was taking the piss. He dismissed the possibility swiftly enough. It didn’t exactly fit what Ferric knew of Dylan, especially considering how much fun he’d been having making Dylan uncomfortable this whole trip.

Boss. He could get used to that.

“I’m thinking you might be right. But it’s rude to discuss such matters when the host is busy, especially with the Mykalvirs working so hard on our behalf. We can wait until they’re done.” They’d get to enjoy watching the couple squirm as well. Fun for everyone! Except the Mykalvirs.

It did not take too much more time before a rudimentary meal had been set before the guardsmen. For their part, the Mykalvirs sat across the table, their hands folded, with constantly shifting frowns on their faces. Every once in a while, one would glance at the other as if hoping to glean some insight from the fleeting bond of eye contact.

Ferric put the last of a piece of bread into his mouth, enjoying the subtle flavor of the butter. It was then that Ratmei finally worked up the courage to speak. The opening of his mouth was interrupted when Ferric shot him a look that immediately silenced him, as if petrified by medusa’s gaze. The respite did not last long. Once Ferric had swallowed, Ratmei spoke up again.

“May I politely ask what has occurred to lead to two guardsmen to my home?” He inquired.

Ferric shrugged. Not seeing any particular reason to draw it out, he plainly stated. “We’ve orders to bring you up to the fort. Beyond that, we’re frankly as ignorant as you are. That’s saying something.”

Ratmei looked strangely relieved at that, as if knowing this were better than the agony of suspense. Ferric’s sense of character didn't pick up anything terribly interesting beyond the reaction itself. Mrs. Mykalvir looked more appropriately frightened, somewhat typically losing color from her face and leaning away. Neither seemed to react to the insult he'd tacked on, which was disappointing.

“As is standard, we’re going to need to search the house. I’ll take care of that as Dylan here keeps you company. Anything to declare?” Both shook their heads as Ferric left the room. “We’ll see about that.”

[Dylan Drashalov]

The unhappy trio trudged over cobblestones and stepped over horseshit. Dylan had never gotten use to the smell of Marn. It wasn’t a big city by any means, but it was a damn sight bigger and smellier than Shim. The odors that clung to the farm were more homey and natural than the foul miasma of the city. There clung to everyone in Marn the scent of body odor of the unwashed masses, baking bread, sweaty horseflesh, and lately, fear.

Idly, Dylan cast an eye at the already guilty looking man in tow. Would fear be allayed with his arrest? Somehow, Dylan doubted it.

Or maybe it would, he amended. Already the three of them were drawing furtive glances and knowing looks. Guards were a common sight on the streets, but being escorted by two of them and casting an air of resigned guilt like Ratmei was only meant one thing. Even with his limited time in the city Dylan knew it, too.

Had he said or done anything wrong, back at the Mylkavir house? Mentally, the farm boy turned guardsman reviewed the events that had transpired. No, he didn’t think so. Vintas had looked a bit surprised at the things Dylan had said, nothing a civilian would have picked up on even if they weren’t pissing their breeches in fear, but Dylan had caught it. No, he was OK. When Dylan was a boy he’d negotiated prices for the family harvest with other farmers and with the merchants from the big city. Playing one’s cards close to the chest, banter, dueling with words. These were things he’d learned.

His father had always been a strong back with a not so strong head perched atop it. He haggled a bit because he knew his family needed more money, but he had no idea how to sell a crop or drive up the price. The senior Drashalov hadn’t been especially keen on letting his young son do the talking, but the latter wasn’t a good enough worker, and on a farm you earned your keep or you beat feet, as the popular saying went. Once his father had found that his “too smart, too bookish” son could spin off a crop and bring in more bishani than anyone else in the family, he was mollified. Or as mollified as a dumb farmer could be, a man who knew only work.

At least his father had taught him that, Dylan knew. It was hard work that got him to the city, and into the Guard.

The search on the house had turned up nothing of any use. It was clean. He’s so clean he fucking squeaks.

Dylan glanced at Ratmei and saw the man was bursting with questions, and fear.

“What is going to happen when we get there?” Ratmei suddenly asked, his emotions boiling over.

Dylan decided to let Vintas field this one. The other Guard clearly loved to talk.

[Ferric Vintas]

Ferric shrugged, grabbing Mykalvir by the back of the collar. He didn’t care to stop and chat, but dignified him with a response anyways. “Beats me. Normally when we grab a tosser, they know why we’re bringing them in. Try to reason with us to get out of it, like that’ll do them any good. Orders are orders. Just know that you pissed off somebody with enough influence in the guard to get some friendly visitors to bring you to the most esteemed building in the whole city.” He used his leverage over the handcuffed fellow to shove him ahead. It so happened that ‘ahead’ took them off the main street and away from the public eye. Mykalvir didn’t notice.

To finalize his sardonic comment, he added one last brutally caustic remark. “Congratulations.”

The alley was dark. One of Marn’s most favorable traits, in Ferric’s opinion: dark alleys were a bishan a dozen. Ferric reached forward, pulled Mykalvir up to a proper posture, and let him examine his surroundings for a moment. The man’s eyes widened as he realized their unusual surroundings.

“W-what is…?” He stammed, before Ferric pushed him roughly against the wall. Petty and brutish, it was true, but sometimes the simplest demonstrations of power were the ones best suited to opening people up.

“The truth is,” Ferric stated, leaning in a little too close to Mykalvir’s ear. His volume hadn’t correspondingly lowered, and Mykalvir winced in response. “The sweep didn’t turn up nothing.” Ferric released Mykalvir after giving him a firm push against the cold, damp wall of the building. The implication was clear enough, and the thoroughly intimidated fellow didn’t move from the wall’s less-than-tender embrace as Ferric worked his way through the bag he’d brought.

Ferric pulled out the copy of Paragon he’d stolen from the evidence bin at the outpost. “Found this. Weak, as evidence goes, but plenty of scared people these days. I bet owning one of these bastards could get your ass fried.”

Mykalvir twisted his head around to look at what Ferric was displaying for all to see. Upon recognizing the object, confusion immediately played across his features. “What? That’s not mine, I-“

“Not yours?” Ferric interrupted, easily steamrolling over the other man’s speech. “That can’t be right. I found it in your house. It must belong to somebody else who lives-“

Mykalvir grit his teeth. “It’s mine.” He said flatly.

The pleasant smile that graced Ferric’s features was eerily out of place given the context. “I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding, Mr. Mykalvir. Now at least, I can tell you what is going to happen.”

Ferric pulled out a bag, took a step up to Mykalvir, and pulled him away from the wall. The bag went over Mykalvir’s head, who shuddered fearfully as it blinded him. “Showing disrespect to the guard is punishable by a beating. This paper disrespects the guard.” Ferric grabbed the Mykalvir’s hands, ignoring his protests, and tied them. Protocol dictated they should have done so earlier but Mykalvir was clearly harmless, so neither had bothered.

“You ready for an education, Rookie?” Ferric asked, peering over Mykalvir’s hooded shoulder.

[Dylan Drashalov]

As Vintas ushered Mykalvir into a dark alley, Dylan braced himself for the man to retaliate. Not that he thought that their perpetrator was quite stupid enough to attack two armed Guards, but when a man was desperate it always paid to be cautious.

His dagger had nearly cleared leather when Vintas got down to the bit of the planted evidence. When Mykalvir tersely admitted that the Paragon was his, Dylan could not and did not stifle the smirk that flittered over his own face. Oh, deftly done, Guardsman Vintas. Dylan contemplated the other man’s back with something akin to fondness or admiration.

When their perpetrator meekly submitted to being hooded and tied, Dylan saw he would have no use for his dagger. He knew he’d be doing Marn a favor by burying the business end of the weapon into Mykalvir’s stomach, pulling up a chair, and watching him die. The man was meek and mild and fearful, and even as he began to shudder Dylan could feel no sympathy for him.

“I’m always looking to further my education, boss,” Dylan drawled back at the other man, with a calmness he didn’t feel. Truth be told, on the few occasions that trouble had broken out so far in his tenure as a Guard he couldn’t help but feel a bit scared, but a bit excited.

For Mykalvir’s benefit, as he was hooded, Dylan quietly removed his gloves and gave his bowman’s fingers, worked and supple from fletching and plucking yew, a good crisp crack at the knuckles. In respose, a low moan of dread escaped unbidden from the hooded man’s lips.

He’s all yours, Vintas.

[Ferric Vintas]

Ferric rolled his eyes, but his lips had a jovial smirk. He wrenched Mykalvir over backwards by the rope tied around his hands. “Right, rookie. Here’s where you start, with a good bit on the ears. Boxing them causes a great deal of hurt, but doesn’t leave much in the way of bruises.”

Ferric lifted one of his hands, showing the proper formation of the hand to do so: a slightly cupped palm. “Won’t be as bad here thanks to the hood, but we don’t want him totally broken. This is for use on someone, generally speaking, who is at your mercy but you don’t want or need to bring in officially.” Ferric’s heavy glove soared through the air and slammed into Mykalvir’s ear. The unfortunate man’s head rocked to the side, stopping with painful abruptness when the limit of his flexibility was tested.

“The idea is to force air down the ear canal. Works better than you might think, and done properly, leaves a target deaf and in pain for days. You can even convince them it’s permanent, with a bit of luck and some pantomiming… Oh. And get someone else to hold the target so you can use both hands. Go on, give it a go.” So it continued, as Ferric educated Dylan on everything from the proper method of groin attacks to the various methods one could use to humiliate criminals in the glorious name of Marnish patriotism. It ended with Matvai a sad, sobbing wreck on the ground, inelegantly blubbering in-between prayers to Teonidus.

Ferric scratched his chin. “Hm. Might have had a bit too much fun with this one. We’ll give him some time to recuperate. Anyone asks, he wasn’t home when we got there and we had to wait a while, got that?” He gave Mykalvir a pat on the head to ensure the poor fellow understood he was going to be part of this little conspiracy too.

Privately, Ferric was a bit worried. He had gotten a little bit carried away and was on thin ice with the brass already. Dylan seemed too self-interested to report these little details, but Mykalvir might squeal. Not many would listen, but it was always possible.

Waiting would be good. Mykalvir certainly needed time to compose himself, and Ferric supposed he’d have to clean him up a bit too. He drew a rag out of his tool belt and started washing away the most noticeable parts. Dylan could learn a thing or two from this part as well, come to think of it.

[Dylan Drashalov]

Dylan was suitably impressed. He had not thought that their captive could be reduced any further, but in under a minute of Vintas’s “class” Mykalvir was thoroughly humbled. If the man had ever had a treasonous thought in his head, which Dylan frankly doubted, it had been beaten out of him.

He paid close attention to the words and movements of his counterpart. Dylan, like any farm boy, had scraped a time or two with brothers, neighbors, or friends, but he had never relished it. He had always found that a bandied word or some maneuvering was a cleaner way to solve problems. A few months in the Guard had changed that, but this was the first time he saw the effect of using fists to reduce an already shell of a man to ruin.

Studying Mykalvir, Dylan was struck that he wasn’t all that injured. In his own way, Vintas had defeated the man physically but the wear and tear on his victim’s mind was invisible, but far more damaging.

If Dylan hadn’t grudgingly respected Vintas before, he certainly did now.

When the elder Guardsman gave their cover story, Dylan merely replied, “Understood.” Another lesson learned. Do some damage, and cover your ass. He didn’t try to stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

As the evidence was being covered up, Dylan wordlessly squatted next to Mykalvir and uncorked a wineskin. It was only boiled water, however; Dylan rarely partook in alcohol except on special occasions or when he was sick. He handed the skin to the man, who accepted it with confused but grateful aplomb and shaking hands.

Privately, a part of Dylan’s mind was already working that Vintas had gone overboard. Citizens of Marn respected and feared the Guard. In a few months Dylan had instilled more of those two feelings than he ever had in his life. Even so, a clandestine alley beating on a respected citizen, especially one so demoralizing and vicious, could cause problems down the line. Would they have to kill the man to make it go away?

[Ferric Vintas]

Ferric waited patiently, sitting beside the beaten man until he composed himself. His efforts had proven true, and there was no evidence to the naked eye that Mykalvir had been at all harmed. The only real concern was that Mykalvir would personally seek some kind of justice, but then, Ferric had already indicated his willingness to frame the man’s wife. He didn’t consider it likely.

He clapped their captive on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, just go along with everything they tell you to do, and you’ll be out by tomorrow like this never happened.”

Ferric rolled his shoulders, easing his muscles before standing. He didn’t bother to grab their captive. Instead he looked at Dylan. “Grab him, rookie. Time to take him to the fort and let him rest. I’ll put in a good word for you when this is over, mark my words.”

He wasn’t kidding either. He anticipated using at least one good word, which was considerably more than he had planned when this venture began. Mostly he had anticipated mumbling behind his superior’s back about how determined they were to waste his time.

Wouldn’t they be surprised to find out what a lovely morning he’d had. As he smiled at the sun, Mykalvir shied nervously away from him.