Welcome to Deep Cove

The massive redwood table was centrally located in the lounge. It was a monstrous piece, weighing some eighteen hundred pounds. The redwood surface of the desk was brilliantly polished to fit the expensive décor of the room. It was intended to fit together as two separate sections and offered seating for thirty men; only two of the chairs were occupied this morning though, as Don Fergani received his quarterly review. Behind the seated men, the window coverings were drawn, blocking the light from the double patio doors. Anchored above the table, a six foot diameter globe hung from the ceiling, its glowing surface depicting a series of charts and numbers.

Don Kaxaun used a long thin pointer to highlight one of the statistics on the glowing chart. At forty-three, he was a man in his prime. He was tall and muscular with angular features and ice blue eyes. His hair was light brown with only a hint of grey above his ears. Don Kaxaun was head of the entire Vellian Crime Syndicate, a man with immense power – and he knew it. As head of the secret family, only the king could rival Kaxaun’s influence. Tapping lightly against the side of the glass ball, Kaxaun flashed a rare smile. “You have once again proven your ingenuity with your new manure removal tax. If I didn’t see the numbers for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it possible.”

Don Fergani nodded his head. “Those blokes in Addlebury ’ave the place named right for sure. Got their brains addled and their noses buried so far up the Mayor’s arse, I could tell ‘em we have to pave the main bi-way for Saint Tomas’ second coming and ’half of ’em would offer to lay stone for free.” Don Fergani was in his late thirties. He had a round face and a heavily creased brow. His thinning black hair was greased back over his forehead, and an ugly white scar bisected his right eyebrow. “Bloody lords and their money.” he laughed.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and the chairman’s cold eyes sparkled with controlled anger. A hidden button under the table activated two panels above the globe, revealing a compartment for the large viewing device. He waited for the globe to disappear into the ceiling before rotating a small dial beside the button. Immediately the lanterns in the room sprang to life, illuminating the darker recesses.

“Pass code,” he called and waited for the response from the other side of the door. Beside him, Fergani looked nervous and annoyed. No one had ever dared disturb them during a review.

“Rivermen,” came the reply from the other side of the door.

“Enter.”

A slim man in a black suit slipped inside the carpeted entryway. Standing at attention, he looked nervous as he spoke. “I am sorry to interrupt you, Chancellor,” he began. Kaxaun waved him on with a flick of his hand and the servant continued. “Sir Gael has arrived from the North with important news that he says cannot wait. I tried to explain that you are not to be disturbed, but he will have none of it.”

Kaxaun remained silent, his features unmoving as he attempted to work out the details. “Send him in.”

Turning, so his back was against the open door, the servant extended an arm into the room. A shuffling was heard from the adjacent area and a soldier strode into the lounge. The newcomer was dressed in riding leathers and a thick white cloak bearing King Uldemar’s sigil. The man was drenched through and his boots were caked in greasy mud. He dropped to one knee, his right hand making a fist and touching his left breast. The servant bit his lip as he closed the door behind him.

Kaxaun glared at the knight, his fingers drumming the redwood tabletop in irritation. “Sir Gael,” he acknowledged and the man stood. “I suppose you strode through my entire residence with your muddy boots on?”

“I apologise,” said Gael, his deep voice uncertain. “I have ridden far and my message is of importance.”

“So important that you could not spare the ten seconds to remove your footwear before marring my rugs?”

“No, I suppose not,” Gael’s voice hardened and he stood as straight as a board. “Again, I apologise.”

“Don Fergani, your jacket,” said Kaxaun, his eyes never leaving the knight.

“Sir?” said Fergani flustered.

“Give the man your jacket.”

“I am fine,” said Gael, standing immobile.

“It’s not for your comfort, Knight,” said Kaxaun. “It’s for my floor.” Kaxaun transferred his gaze to Don Fergani and waited while the man removed his jacket and threw it across the room at the knight. Fergani looked like he might make the mistake of saying something, but to Kaxaun’s surprise, he managed to reign in his anger and only exhaled before seating himself again. Sir Gael spread the jacket on the floor and stepped onto it. He did not look at Don Fergani when the man grunted.

“I will send your estate the bill for my rugs,” said Kaxaun. “Now what news do you interrupt us with?”

“Yes sir,” snapped Gael, his arm rising in another salute. “I have come from the Ponce border at Temang.”

“Don Ramoli sent you?” asked Kaxaun, uneasily.

“Yes.”

“And how many days ride from Temang is it?

“Almost a month. I wore out several horses to get to you.”

Don Kaxaun looked pensive as he considered the man’s words, his fingers drumming the tabletop. “I am confused,” he said at last. “Did not Don Ramoli receive his viewing globe?”

“He did.”

“He’s probably too lazy to read the manual,” interjected Don Fergani.

“Be quiet,” said Kaxaun, his voice as firm as iron. “Is there a problem with the equipment?”

“No,” said Gael.

Kaxaun nodded. He knew the message Gael carried was important, and that the knight was waiting for permission to deliver it in the presence of Don Fergani. ’Who is it this time,’ he wondered. It wouldn’t be the first time a coup was attempted against him. Whoever was behind this mischief obviously did not have the majority of dons with him. ’I’d be dead already,’ he reasoned. “You may deliver your message,” he said aloud.

“Forgive me, Don Kaxaun, but Don Ramoli does not presume to know your every intention. He has sent me all this way knowing that you may very well have planned to stir things up with Ponce. He does think it odd that you did not send your orders through him.”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Kaxaun in annoyance. “Stir things up with Ponce? What orders are you referring to?”

“As you know, things have been tense between Vellia and Ponce for several months now. The king has reinforced Temang with several units, and negotiations have been ongoing to release Vellian dignitaries being held in the Ponce prison of Chateau Gibet.”

“I am aware of this,” acknowledged Kaxaun, “but what does this have to do with the family?”

“Two units under our influence have been sent in on a direct assault on the prison. The first order saw the Hard Hawk’s balloon division assault the upper chateau. The King’s pride and joy was shot down over the cliffs of Gibet and the whole division was decimated. Days later, Commander Edward Rowgar and his Special Forces unit were ordered into the prison on reconnaissance. None of them returned.”

“We have many men under our influence,” growled Kaxaun, his face growing a dangerous shade of red. “Where did these orders come from?” Behind the Chancellor, Don Fergani sat quiet, his fear evident.

“From you.”

“I gave no such order,” thundered Kaxaun. “Those men were under the direct command of the king’s forces. They take orders from the king’s generals not the Syndicate.”

“Yes, but General Omik is on our payroll, and the order was issued to him and down to Rowgar and Hawks. If there is one thing men like Captain Hawks and Commander Rowgar know, it’s how to follow orders.”

“Again, I have given no such orders. Omik has gone rogue,” continued Kaxaun, “or he’s being influenced by someone who will benefit from a war between Ponce and Vellia.”

“Omik has been trustworthy in the past,” interrupted Sir Gael, “but Don Ramoli theorised much the same. He had Omik brought in for questioning and that’s when the general showed us the communication he’d received ordering the two units to assault the prison. I was present when he brought up the encrypted communiqué on Don Ramoli’s globe. It was sent from Syndicate headquarters and bore your own initials.”

“How?” asked Kaxaun, sounding more stunned than angry. “These bloody globe transmissions are supposed to be encrypted! No one should be able to use our feed unless they have my authority.” He rubbed at his temples. “Don Fergani,” he said coldly, “you assured me these devices were encrypted. Wasn’t it also you who suggested we utilise this new technology?”

Don Fergani blanched under the direct assault. His fat face quivered and a bead of sweat ran down beside his nose. “I swear, Don Kaxaun, these devices are secure. We pay the Dragon Council a monthly fee to use their secure network. We have insurance, my Lord. Surely, if there was a breach in their system, the Dragon Council will take matters into their own hands.”

“No,” stormed Kaxaun, trying to regain control of his emotions, “the Dragon Council must not find out about this. No one must. We all know what will happen if the King finds our influence to be so significant. My God, the destruction of Vellia’s flagship now lies at our feet. War is imminent and somebody wants us to take the fall for it.”

“What can we do?” asked Don Fergani. “Do we stop using the system?”

“No,” returned Kaxaun. “We will continue to communicate through the devices, making it look like we remain reliant on these bloody globes. Anything of importance however, will be sent overland by courier. Am I understood?” Both Don Fergani and Sir Gael nodded.

“Don Fergani, you will see what you can do with the Dragon Council’s help to trace the origins of the commands issued to General Omik. The dragons are to know nothing of the transmissions, only that you desire to find out where the communications originated from.”

“Understood,” agreed Fergani, looking relieved he had been given a role in finding a solution. “What about this Omik?” Nervously, he ran a hand through his greasy hair. “The king is going to want answers on who ordered his units to attack the citadel.”

“Hawks and his crew went down with their ship, and Rowgar and his men did not survive their excursion into Gibet,” interjected Sir Gael. “For now, General Omik himself has ordered a full investigation into why these men took matters into their own hands and assaulted the target without authorization.”

Kaxaun nodded thoughtfully. “Sir Gael,” he said at last. “Thank you for the delivery of this intelligence. Don Ramoli was correct in sending you. I know you must be weary. You have my leave to clean yourself and take rest.”

“Thank you,” returned Gael, saluting and turning for the door.

“Oh,” added Kaxaun as an afterthought, “do not concern yourself with the rug. I shall have it taken care of.” He turned to the don beside him, ignoring Sir Gael. “You are dismissed for now, Don Fergani. We will convene in three hours. I need time to consider our options.”

* * * *

Pacorro ran through Dungren Abbey. Even though it was night and the church was pitch black, the assassin moved confidently along the nave toward the high altar. Pacorro knew the abbot had run this way, and he also knew where the man was headed.

Pacorro had spent the evening hunkered in the cold room behind a barrel of apples and a hanging side of beef. Twice, monks had entered to retrieve food items, but he had not been forced to kill either of them. Patiently he had waited for the abbot to come for his nightly snack. The cold room had been chosen for its location, not because it was an assured place to make contact. If he had simply wanted to kill the abbot, the man would have died a week ago. To Pacorro stalking and killing his prey was an art. Anyone could draw a knife across a man’s throat.

It had been close to midnight when the abbot made his appearance. His Holiness’ mind was not on the pantry though, as he rummaged along the shelf for a jar of preserved jellies. Pacorro had been forced to thump the apple barrel twice before the man turned. The shock of the encounter registered on the old man’s face and he nearly dropped his candle. “Assassins!” he screamed hoarsely and drew in a second breath to shout again. One of Pacorro’s throwing knives thudded into a support beam beside the man’s face, and the abbot was quick to launch his candle at the killer and flee.

Pacorro had smiled to himself as the old man made a break for the western passage. Climbing from cover he had jogged along at an easy pace behind his target.

Now, passing the altar, the assassin leapt to the landing and the door leading to the Chapter House. The polished stones underfoot hardly surrendered a whisper as Pacorro bounded toward the southern exit and the Tower of Sorrow. Pounding up the stairs, he could hear the abbot labouring above him. A surge of adrenaline raced through him as he thought of the kill. “You may run your Holiness, but your god will not save you,” he called out.

There was no answer from above. Wary now, Pacorro scanned the landing before him. It wouldn’t be the first time the prey turned to fight. There was no sign of the abbot however, until he cleared the last step and entered the top of the bell tower. As expected, the ‘Bells of Sorrow’ remained silent. Twenty feet in front of Pacorro, the abbot had stopped, the man’s frail body shuddering with each laboured breath.

“Let him go,” Pacorro heard the abbot say, but the man’s words were not for him. In the shadows beside the bell ropes, two other figures stood silent. “Release the prior,” continued the abbot with authority. “You have no power over us. Death holds no secrets for men of the cloth.”

“Is that right?” came the whispered response from the man standing behind the prior. “The prior was just telling me how his views differ from your own.” Pacorro almost laughed at his brother’s response, but he forced himself to remain quiet.

“Father Raoul?” asked the abbot in disbelief. “You would bow to these monsters?”

“I’m sorry, Selig. I am not ready to meet our maker.”

The abbot shrieked and ran at the two men.

Pacorro’s instincts took over and he discovered a throwing knife clenched in his fist. He did not throw the weapon, however. The abbot’s death must look like an accident. Sheathing the blade he watched as Father Raul and his brother separated upon the abbot’s assault. Pacorro’s brother smoothly sidestepped the man’s wild swing and launched the abbot into the well of the tower. The man’s scream was brief and silenced abruptly.

Pacorro glided to where his brother and the prior waited. “You understand our policy on disobedience, Father Raoul?” he asked.

“Yes,” agreed the man with a shudder. “Tell your master, the abbey is willing to make the required donations.”

“A wise decision,” returned Pacorro. “It seems you will get to enjoy your promotion – for a little while, at least.” Turning for the stairwell, he motioned for his brother to join him. “Come Oved. This evening has turned out to be quite anticlimactic.”

“Maybe for you brother, but my foot on his ass, brings me one kill closer to your tally.”

Pacorro snorted. “One kill and you’re proud of yourself? At this rate you’ll never catch up.”

* * * *

The morning sun crested the far ridge of pines as Pacorro and Oved led their horses to the gatehouse. In the near distance, the brother’s manse sprawled across the middle of a considerable field. The modern lines of the structure still pleased Pacorro even now, five years after its completion. The assassin dismounted stiffly and stretched.

Oved grinned at his brother’s discomfort. “Is it so hard for you to stay up all night, Paco?” he asked innocently.

“You didn’t spend the evening crouched in a pantry,” retorted Pacorro.

A man emerged from the gatehouse and took the reins from Pacorro. Nodding to Oved, the newcomer passed a sealed envelope to the first assassin. “Don Kaxaun has summoned you, my Lords.”

Pacorro’s look hardened and he tossed the envelope to his brother. “We are tired,” he said curtly. “The dons will wait.”