The Drunk

The Thieves Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Chapter two, The Drug. Vesper didn't mind searching for people who didn't want to be found. When he hunted a target, there was a logic to it, a pattern of habit, a trail of vice. But hunting a man who had simply given up was like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. He had scoured the craft tower, stepping past the repairs from Jasper's assault, ignoring the suspicious glances of craftsmen wondering who this shadowy man was asking questions. George, the captain of the Lower Quarter, wasn't there. He had walked the length of the warehouse district, checking the die house and the lumber yards. The four men shrugged, too busy trying to secure their stock against the uncertainty of the coming days to worry about a missing captain. He checked the main gild hall in the flats, a sturdy brick building that was currently being used as a triage center for the few remaining residents still trying to rebuild. George wasn't there either. Frustration, hot and prickly, began to crawl up Vesper's neck. He had secured the steel with Torren. He had removed the obstacle of Bertram, but without George, the plan was a stool with two legs. It would tip. It was late afternoon when he finally found a lead at a small, neglected guild hall near the night Tower. It was more of a room for rest than a hall. The guard on duty, a boy barely old enough to shave, pointed a shaking finger toward the shadow of the wall. He's at the loom, sir, He's always at the loom. The Crooked Loom was a tavern that looked like it had been built from the scrap lumber of a dozen other failed buildings. It was ancient and one of the few buildings allowed to abut the Great Wall, which appeared to be the only thing keeping it upright. It was a place for men who wanted to drink until they forgot their names. Vesper pushed open the door. The air inside was thick enough to chew, smelling of sour ale, unwashed bodies and the damp, earthy scent of the dirt floor. It was dark, the windows covered with oilcloth to keep out the prying eyes of the night Protectors who patrolled the wall above and there in the corner, wearing a dirty yellow cape and a crooked captain's badge. Was George, the captain of the Lower Quarter. Didn't look like a captain. He looked like a pile of laundry that someone had spilled wine on. He was slumped over a table, his head resting on his folded arms, a half empty tankard dangerously close to his elbow. His yellow tunic was stained and unlaced at the throat. Vesper walked over his boots, making no sound on the packed earth. He stood over the man, feeling a wave of cold disgust. This was the leadership of the craft Guild, A weeping drunk hiding in the dark. He kicked the leg of the chair hard. Wake up, George. George jerked upright, knocking the tankard over Ale splashed across the table, dripping onto his lap. He blinked, his eyes, red rimmed and wet. He looked at Vesper, but there was no recognition, only a dull, watery confusion. Who who are you, George slurred? Go away. Guild's closed, everything's closed. The guild is not closed, Vesper said. He pulled out the chair opposite George and sat down. He didn't lean back. He sat on the edge, poised intense. I need your vote, Captain George let out a wet, hacking laugh. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Vote for what for which vulture gets to pick the meat off our bones? He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, or perhaps toward the craft tower miles away. Orion is dead? Did you hear tossed in the river like garbage. The tower is broken. It's all over. He reached for the empty tankard, realized it was empty, and let it drop with a clatter. His head sank back into his hands. It's all over. Vesper watched him. Intimidation wouldn't work here. You couldn't threaten a man who had already surrendered. Greed wouldn't work. George looked like he didn't care if he lived or died, let alone if he was rich. Vesper felt a strange, unfamiliar friction in his mind. He was a blade. He dealt in endings. He knew how to stop a heart, how to sever a life line. He did not know how to start one. He had to inspire this man. The thought was almost repulsive. Inspiration was a tool for boys, like Raylan, or liars like Polo. It was soft, it was messy, but he needed the vote. It is not over, Vesper said. He kept his voice low, pitching it below the murmur of the tavern, forcing George to lean in to hear him. Orion is dead, yes, but Orion was a man. The guild is stone, the guild is iron. The guild is built on the things we craft, not the people who craft them. Do you mourn the man, George, or do you mourn the craft? George looked up a flicker of something dot anger perhaps dot I in his eyes. I mourn the respect. We built this city. We paved the roads these knights walk on. We laid the stone of this great wall. Every tower in this city was build by us. And now now we are nothing. Polo's pets broken. We are only broken if we stay on our knees, Vesper said. Vesper slowly slid a knife out of its sheath and gently laid it on the table. George looked at it, a mixture of fear and confusion on his face. What's that? It is? Me? I am, Vesper, he said, I was Orion's blade. The effect was immediate. George recoiled, pressing his back against the wall of the booth. The drunk haze seemed to evaporate, burned away by the sudden proximity of something noxious or frightening, or even worse. You, George whispered, You're the shadow who killed Pietro. Interesting, Vesper thought, he did not realize that such a rumor existed. No, Larsen's blade, Pattis killed Pietro. However, I gave Orion the poison that killed Pattis. Vesper picked up the blade and twirled it. That was my role. I served Oryan because he held the guild together, and I did the things that were necessary to do that, but which Ryan didn't want known. You killed people. I kept the guild strong, which is why we're our talking. Vesper leaned forward, his dark eyes, locking onto George's. He had to sell this, He had to make this broken man believe that he was part of a resurrection. I am stepping out of the shadow, George, because someone has to. Polo thinks we are weak. He thinks because we mourn, we are defeated. He wants to put a collar on us. Polo. He has more men than cash, and look what Kash did to us. George muttered, but he was listening now. The despair was shifting, curdling into resentment. This is not a battle, George. This is not time for working in the shadows. We need to take charge. The guildmasters have decided that the captains will choose our next guildmaster. I am one of designates. Vesper put the knife back in its sheath. Torreon is with me, are you, Torreon? George blinked. Torren is with you. Torreon stands with me because he knows I will not let this guild fall. I am not a politician, George. I do not know how to make speeches, but I know how to fight. I know how to win. Vesper lowered his voice, letting a note of steel enter his tone. He channeled the absolute confidence he had felt when he walked through the Old Quarter, the sense of purpose he had seen in allad. I am going to take the tower back. I am going to make them fear us again. I am going to make sure that no merchant ever dares to give an order to a craftsman again. But I cannot do it alone. He pointed a finger at George's chair. I need the lower Quarter. I need the man who Orion put his faith in. I need you to stand up, wipe the ale off your face, and be a captain. George looked at him. He looked at his own shaking hands. Vesper could see the struggle dot, the desire to sink back into oblivion, warring with the old, rusted pride of his station. There is a council, Vesper said, pressing the advantage a vote. It is soon a vote, George repeated. He straightened up, running a hand through his greasy hair, to elect a new guild master. Yes, and you you want me to vote for you? I want you to vote for the craft Guild, Vesper said, And I am the craft guild. George took a deep breath. He looked less like a ruin and more like a man who had just survived a shipwreck. Who is the other choice? Who does Cash want? What about Polo? Vesper hesitated. This was the Gambol. If George loved the hero of the pit, this would all fall apart. But Vesper had to trust his instincts. He had to trust that a man who drank in a dark hole near the night Tower didn't have much love for heroes. The Rogers Vesper said, he is Polo's choice. Caarch has been suspiciously quiet on this count. But he has been quiet. George's face twisted. It wasn't fear, it wasn't respect. It was pure, unadulterated loathing. Rogers. George spat the name like it was a curse, the harvest captain, the hero, the same that preening peacock, George growled. He slammed his hand on the table, making the key jump. He walks through the lower Quarter like he owns it. Captain of the Lower Quarter, he calls himself. He's not a cruftsman, He's a farmer. He smells of dirt and entitlement. Vesper watched the hatred bloom. It was beautiful. It was irrational, petty and deep dot the best kind of motivation. He came into my district, George ranted, his voice rising, ordering my men around during the fires, telling us how to stack stone, how to manage water from irrigation canals. What did he know of such things? He isn't a craftsman, he thinks, because he saved a few houses in the pit, he can tell me how to run my quarter. A Polo wants him to be our guild master, Vesper said, softly, adding fuel to the fire. He wants us to bow to him. Never, George snarled. He grabbed the table edge, pulling himself up. He swayed, but he stood. I will see the tower burn to the bedrock before I salute a Harvest Captain. He looked at Vesper. The fear was gone, the despair gone. In their place was a petty, vindictive resolve. You're a killer, Vesper. You admit it yourself. You're cold, and you're frightening, and you probably killed half the people who have gone missing in this city. George extended a hand, but you're not a Harvest guild member. Vesper took the hand. It was clammy, but the grip was firm. I'm not, Vesper agreed. Count on it. George said, I'll be there, I'll vote, and I want to see the look on that farmer's face when we deny him. Vesper nodded. Get cleaned up. Captain Vesper said, we have a guild to take back. He turned and walked out of the crooked loom. The air outside felt fresh after the stifling gloom of the tavern. He had done it, He had played the part he had been, the inspirer, the leader, the brother in arms. It felt hollow, a performance for a cheap audience, But as he walked back toward the Merchant Tower to report to Karch, a small cold satisfaction settled in his gut. He had Torrn, he had George, he had the votes. A podcast Alchemy production