The Jackal
"I have a bad feeling about this," Berkant said, resting one hand lightly on the hilt of his sword.
"Foul spirits in the air.
Something is going to go wrong."
"Superstitious nonsense," Ratti replied at his most scathing.
"I pay you to be more level-headed than that, so do it."
"As you please, Master." Berkant breathed in, breathed out, letting the anger dissipate into the air.
Well, that was what he was supposed to do, and he tried, but he was damned tired of this work, especially Ratti.
If a meaner rat existed, Berkant hoped he never met them.
He didn't care how dismissive Ratti and all the others, still casting him looks and sniggering, were about his 'superstitions'.
He had a bad feeling, and they'd never steered him wrong before.
A pity, really.
This job should have been simple.
Retrieve the goods from the warehouse; make deliveries to the various customers.
The city guards had long turned a blind eye to smuggling, so long as the smugglers weren't stupid enough to get involved in something as heinous as human trafficking.
Ratti was a long way from that, thankfully.
Greedy, crafty, and with a temper that required a bodyguard of Berkant's skill, but not stupid.
Well, not entirely stupid.
He could stand to listen when Berkant warned him something was off.
He'd been right every time so far, but Ratti liked to pretend he was just a superstitious wall of muscle.
Whatever.
Smuggling wasn't a matter of 'don't get arrested,' so much as 'avoid it as long as possible'.
It would hardly be the first time Berkant was dragged off to jail. At least he'd only be an accessory to smuggling, since his job was solely to serve as Ratti's bodyguard.
"Let's move!" Ratti bellowed, and the men he'd hired for the night finished securing the load, secured their harnesses, and hauled the cart out of the warehouse.
It took four of them to do it, each man roughly the size of a house.
Ratti walked several paces behind, Berkant beside him, so that if the cart was busted, he had plenty of plausible deniability about being associated with it.
That never fooled the guards, but it didn't matter, because on the rare occasion they cared enough to inspect, a suitably heavy purse sent them right back to blind and apathetic.
There were many things Berkant missed about his old life, but being a city guard wasn't one of them.
Most of them were corrupt, and the rest were either severely corrupt or one of the smattering of actually honest guards.
Being an honest guard had nearly gotten him killed more than once, by criminals and comrades.
Once the marriage contract had been signed, it had been all the excuse he'd needed to abandon the career he'd been shoved into and find something 'more suitable for building a family.'
That had turned out to be a show fighter, but he'd never minded fighting, except when it turned dirty or ended in death.
A sharp, cool wind startled him from his thoughts, bringing with it the sea, refuse the cleaners had not yet carted away, and smoke, both from woodfires and more dubious substances from the alleyways where the poor and homeless made do with what they could scrounge.
Berkant scarcely noticed the cold; he rarely did, unless it got much closer to freezing, which didn't happen this time of year.
Beside him, though, despite being bundled in layers enough for a wintry climate, Ratti shivered.
"This had better go smoothly tonight."
"I hope so," Berkant replied.
"I still feel like it won't."
"You superstitious types never seem to realize you cause your own misery by declaring it beforehand.
Positive thinking, Jackal! It will get you much further in life."
Berkant didn't punch him in the face, but it was close.
Very close.
All the positive fucking thinking in the world, all the prayers he could possibly find or make up, all the desperate bargaining and pleading and begging with heartless gods, had not saved his wife and child.
Married at twenty-four, widowed and childless at twenty-six.
That was his life, and no amount of positive thinking would change that.
Thankfully, their first destination came into sight, sparing him further advice from Ratti.
This stop was a tavern with a sparkling front and a sordid back room.
Which could describe most taverns in the city, but this one was particularly ugly.
Even back when he'd been a guard it had been a problem.
Berkant had tried a few times to address it, but had always been told, and then warned, and then threatened, to leave well enough alone.
Even now, he could hear sounds that would haunt his sleep.
Nothing to be done about it, though.
That required more than him caring, a requirement that would never be reached.
He could fight his way through impressive numbers, but not the whole of the Tavamaran underworld and wealthy elite.
Ratti provided the liquor the clientele drank in excess before they set to abusing the latest crop of kidnapped entertainment.
Berkant was fairly certain Ratti thought that meant he wasn't as bad as the rest, but Berkant had never really seen the difference.
Culpable was culpable.
Thankfully, the drop-off went smoothly.
His neck still prickled, though, so they weren't out of the desert yet.
The next stop was a pleasure house, one of the really high-end ones that catered to very specific tastes and asked no questions, at least past what they needed to provide the requested delight.
Berkant's heart sank into his stomach when this exchange too went off without a hitch.
Because the next stop was one of Ratti's biggest problems; if trouble was going to come from anywhere, it was there, and it was going to be nasty.
It took some time to get there, as the next stop was clear across town at a rundown shop that sold far more than it's… humble… appearance would suggest.
After that, there was a long list of taverns and pleasure houses so seedy they weren't welcome in the districts where they should be.
This particular shop claimed to carry grocery staples and a smattering of other odds and ends.
The unlisted inventory included items vastly more exciting.
Ratti's smuggled liquor was the least interesting thing on their shelves.
Berkant had once bumped into a fleeing customer who'd been carrying a sack of human skulls.
The men charged with hauling the cart took a sorely needed break as Ratti knocked on the back door.
It opened the barest crack a few minutes later, and the voice of the old woman who ran the place said, "Took you long enough.
Tell me why I'm paying full price for shipments that're always late."
So it began.
Berkant stopped listening to every word, only paying attention enough to know if the arguing was going to shift into violence.
Maybe Ratti should try more positive thinking about this stop.
It would be another three, possibly four, hours before they finished.
Seven stops yet to go, and only two of them were close together.
Three were private residences.
One was just outside the city walls, so they could trade with someone from the palace.
No doubt someone who worked on behalf of His Majesty.
Who else would get away with such a breathtaking hypocrisy?
Berkant didn't care.
He hadn't cared about anything in a long time.
Not since he'd cast the ashes of his wife and the child he never got to hold into the sea.
He hadn't even mustered any caring for his career as one of the best hand-to-hand combatants in all of Tavamara.
All he required was enough money to keep himself in food, clothes, and his hovel of a room.
By the time they were done and back at the warehouse, the sun would just barely be rising.
What did he want for food before he went to sleep? Kebabs, that sounded good.
The food cart near him used cheap cuts, but was good at cooking and seasoning them.
He already had some almost-decent wine at home.
That would make a suitable meal before he slept, and when he woke, he'd seek out something more rounded and filling.
Rising voices snapped his attention back to the present, but it seemed Ratti and Veca were simply haggling more dramatically than usual.
He was about to go back to ignoring them when the large double doors used for taking in shipments opened, and a man little wider than a matchstick carried out one crate after another on trembling arms.
Ratti's men finally grew so fed up they unhooked from the cart and helped him.
"What is going on?" Berkant asked.
"We deliver your goods and your goods only.
Playing messenger isn't part of the arrangement."
"You're the bodyguard, I'm the merchant," Ratti snapped.
"You mind your job, and I'll mind mine."
"Fine," Berkant said, "but don't expect me to lift a finger when you get arrested for doing stupid shit."
Merchant.
Please.
He was a fucking smuggler.
Berkant nearly laughed, long and loud and ugly.
At least he was honest with himself about how far he'd fallen.
Ratti clearly still struggled.
"Do what you're paid to do, that's all I've ever asked of you," Ratti said sourly.
More lies, but Berkant let the matter drop.
Some fights weren't worth it.
He simply focused on what he was paid to do, which was keeping Ratti safe should something go wrong.
Thankfully, nothing had so far, but he still sensed the night would end in ruin.
On they went, from the derelict shop to an especially seedy pleasure house.
More like a pleasure shack, really.
Berkant always insisted that Ratti never go inside, and Ratti for once had never argued with him.
The next was another shop, and after that a teahouse.
Finally, they came to the last long haul of the night, to the night gate where they had to turn over a hefty bribe to get through, and had a couple of bottles set aside for just this purpose.
That prickling on the back of his neck was stronger than ever, and it all revolved around the extra cargo they'd taken on to deliver as a favor.
"I don't suppose you know what's in those crates?"
"I don't ask questions I don't want the answers to," Ratti asked.
"I'm a criminal, not a dumbass."
"I thought you were a merchant."
"Different words, Jackal, different words."
"I hope you like the words 'arrested' and 'convicted,' because that's what we're going to be soon."
"Positive thinking."
"Say that one more time and I'll break your nose, steady employment or not."
Ratti laughed and thumped his shoulder, which was hilarious, because he had to reach up significantly to do it.
He just barely cleared Berkant's elbows.
"You need to learn to relax, Jackal.
All that tension will kill you before you're twenty-nine."
"I doubt tension will kill me within the next five days," Berkant said, though honestly, with this job and Ratti's dismissal of its dangers, he didn't doubt it at all.
Especially when the meeting spot came into view, and instead of the singular figure who usually met them, there were two.
Berkant didn't like the look of the second man remotely; everything about his posture said 'soldier'.
Worse, he was probably a royal guard, current or former, and royal soldiers were several grades above the city guards.
"The unknown is a guard," Berkant said.
"Last chance before we end this night in chains."
"Just do your job and leave me to mine," Ratti replied.
Berkant sighed.
As they drew close to the pair, Ratti called out, "Seto, you have company."
"He came along for those crates.
Supposed to be someone else doing the delivering though."
"Veca? That old cow never leaves her house if she can help it.
I paid her, and now you'll be paying me, and I'm not a lazy old woman who's going to take pity on you because of your lentil-sized dicks."
"Always a pleasure, Ratti," Seto said with a sigh.
"Fine, let's haggle."
Berkant was liking this less and less, but there was no point in arguing further, and as much as he simply wanted to leave and let Ratti reap what he was sowing, he needed the money.
So he loomed and skulked and kept a sharp eye on the guard pretending to be a buyer.
Hopefully the manacles his night was going to end with wouldn't damage his wrists.
When the haggling finally concluded and the money was brought out to be verified of its authenticity, Berkant was tempted to relax.
Usually if the money came out, all was well.
But the guard pulled out a crowbar and went to the cart, where he pried open one of the crates.
Berkant had expected something ridiculous, though really he hadn't expected to see the contents at all.
In his wildest imaginings, he guessed they might be filled with bones or far more grisly body parts.
He hadn't expected the guard to pull out a baby.
"Is that— Is that a child," he demanded.
"You traffic liquor, not children! I told you I had one rule, Ratti.
One rule!"
Ratti held up his hands, eyes widening in genuine fear.
"Now, Berk—" he cried out in pain as Berkant punched him in the face, shattering his nose and breaking a tooth.
"That was just the warmup," Berkant hissed.
"I don't tolerate harm to children. "
He barely noticed the cries, the noise, the flurry of activity that rose up around him, until not one but four royal guards dragged him off Ratti, who was lying just barely conscious on the ground, a mess of bruises and blood.
Berkant wasn't one bit sorry.
"I'm done, I'm done.
I'll go peacefully.
My problem isn't with being arrested, it's with him. "
He swore one of the guards laughed, but couldn't see well enough in the torchlight to be certain.
As he'd predicted earlier, they clapped him in manacles—behind his back, instead of in front as was more typical, probably hoping it would keep him from doing additional harm to Ratti.
The only thing keeping Ratti alive was distance.
The moment Berkant got close enough again, he wouldn't need his hands to kill the donkey-fucking bastard.
Unfortunately, the guards seemed well aware of this, and were careful to keep them separated as they were hauled away.
In the wrong direction.
Berkant frowned.
"Why are we headed for the palace? Last I checked, smuggling was a city problem."
"Not when it's child trafficking and you've been caught in a sting arranged on orders of His Majesty the King," replied one of the guards.
"Now be quiet.
Silence is your only friend right now."
Berkant grunted in acknowledgement and thanks.
Certainly the city guards were never kind.
They were barely human.
They'd have beaten him in turn for his behavior, and he'd have been left in far worse shape than Ratti, who'd likely have bribed himself out of at least a few problems.
Though not all of them.
Human trafficking wasn't something the throne took lightly.
Even the laziest, most worthless kings in the history books did not tolerate it.
Berkant had heard rumors that lately King Shafiq had been particularly ruthless about cracking down on the matter, but he hadn't really paid them much mind, assuming it was overblown nonsense spread by somebody who got caught by being stupid.
Perhaps he'd been mistaken.
They reached the palace as the city bells tolled the fourth hour.
So much for kebabs and wine.
He'd be lucky to get any food at all.
Well, hardly his biggest problem at present.
His thoughts scattered as they were dragged into the palace.
Hardly the finer parts of it, but still far and above anything he'd ever seen.
They were also pleasantly cool, instead of insufferably hot or ball-shrinking cold.
There were plants everywhere , lending a fresh, almost sweet scent to the air.
There were more varieties and colors than he'd ever seen; they were amazing.
The colored tiles of the floor, the beautiful paintings and tapestries and murals. Parvaneh would have loved it, even though she would have been deeply ashamed of his reasons for being here.
Shoving thoughts of his dead wife back to the depths of his mind, Berkant focused on the present: Being dragged into a detainment center that was nicer than his rented room.
Giving his name, address, occupation.
He could see in the faces of many guards that they'd recognized him, and still more recognized his name, but Berkant ignored them.
Who cared what he'd been?