Harvey Logan

Harvey Logan fell on the bed. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he’d experienced such comfort. A proper mattress. Butcher’s bandits slept on the naked ground or planks, and the shelter houses have never offered anything except a pallet. In this crazy humidity and the arrival of the Drowner Mansoon all the mattresses had rotten ages ago. The conman missed his life in the Red Cities. He understood how to operate around people and schemes, not animals and illiterate bastards.

The sleep took him quick, so heavy the day weighted on his shoulder. He was yanked brutally from threw on the floor. Harvey stifled a cry when he saw the cold stare of the band’s healer.

“There is a job to be done and you sleep?” Perkins said.

“We need sleep, Perkins,” Emm said from the spot on the ground near the window. It didn’t seem as if the healer threw him there. Emm was a strange kid.

“These fuckers have the lightfly lamps.” While Emm softly whistled, Harvey tried to rake his memories to find the meaning of the word ‘lightfly lamps’. It sounded strangely familiar and yet elusive.

“I knew there was something up with this place,” Emm added. “Only towns can afford a wall around and not without good reason. This village has a long way to become one.”

“And this inn,” Harvey’s words stirred him to wakefulness. He returned to his bed. “None of the village we’d visited had an inn and many towns cannot afford a real mattress.”

They were nodding and Harvey noticed Perkins’ sudden talkativeness. The healer spoke the least and rarely got excited if ever. Now he couldn’t even hide it. Harvey could say that tremendous money was in circulation inside this village. But what got the bandits so excited would spell their doom. They didn’t understand what Harvey simply knew from his experience. The money attracted power and whatever was afoot in this place was best left alone. Butcher’s bandits were a ragtag bunch of idiots and nobodies. Except for the butcher and his three officers – Yellow Bud, Red Bill, and Black Jon, of course. Those were nasty and deadly. Listening to the spiraling excitement, the conman had to step in and he did so.

“We should leave this village the moment Red Bill recovers.”

The only answer was silence. I’d gladly exchange this for Madrab or even Oranelle with their pit of snakes. Oranelle was the capital of the Red Cities and one of the Seven Great Cities of the Fifth Region and the seat of the House of Kerandella. The most venomous snakes in the Red Cities. Harvey schemes have never reached them and for a good reason. They were too powerful with connections spanning beyond the horizon. Once, Harvey’s father and mentor told him that there is something like one scam too many. Some bridges have nothing on the other side but death. His father’s words sounded high-pitched inside his head with alarming insistence. What kind of snakes live here?

“How’s the boss?” Emm asked and Harvey noted how rarely Emm used that word in regard to Red Bill or other officers.

“Time will tell. He’s in the Forest Gods’ hands now.” They choose to ignore my advice, though they didn’t protest it either. Perhaps they’d heed Harvey’s words after all. Perkins rummaged in one of the bags and pulled something small and irregular. In the poor light of the outside night lamps, it looked like a gnarled root. He handed one to Harvey and the other to Emm. “Keep it with you, but don’t let anyone see it.”

The root wasn’t larger than a thumb and stank of the old boots. Sharproot. An insanely strong drug that could keep a person up for days. Garhala’s balls, it’s freaking addictive. And illegal, which shouldn’t make Harvey wince after everything he’d done. It still did.

*

The morning arrived way too soon. It wasn’t only the daylight but the noise. Staying for weeks with Butcher’s band has made Harvey lazy when it came to the mornings. The heavy night drinking left most of the bandits unable to lift their heads until the midday. Harvey groaned, tilting his head toward the floor where Emm supposed to sleep. The spot was empty. The young scout must have been already up.

Garhala take me, I hate early mornings. He wasn’t the only one. The innkeeper looked rough as they met in the common room. The inn was still closed but there was a long-necked woman, with very aware bronze eyes, behind the bar. Harvey mustered all the control he’s possessed. His face became timid and one that a scared merchant would wear. They had a story to uphold. He only hoped that the others would stick to their roles.

“Early bird,” the innkeeper said. Harvey needed a second to recall his name. Zuma. Something in the conman’s face had to spook him off as he quickly added. “My apology … sir … my Lord?” My Lord? The words hit Harvey and all he could, was to look dumbly, losing for a moment his mask. Then it returned to him. His second name. An old joke this was. He profited handsomely from it and must have abandoned one of his favorite mansions in Sagen where the university he’d attended was located.

“I am not a Royalblood,” he whispered conspiratorily. “It’s an old thing from my time in the Red Cities.”

Zuma’s puzzled face made it obvious that he didn’t catch the meaning behind the conman’s words. How could Harvey explain it to him? Logan was a non-existent Royalblood House he’d set up to have fun at the expense of minor Houses that didn’t have means to uncover his conspiracy. At some point, the governmental income started to appear and from there it’d gone to shit. This, Harvey, couldn’t tell the innkeeper. So he pulled one of his tried excuses. He knew that at this point he should drop the second name and go simply by Harvey.

“Logan is the name of my deceased brother.” It was a neat lie that worked on the commoners. Harvey Logan didn’t have a brother.

“I am sorry, I didn’t know,” Zuma quickly said. He almost sounded sincere. “Let me fetch you a drink.” With that, the innkeeper slipped out of the common room somehow. Harvey frowned, searching for cracks in reality. Then he found the barely visible exit in between walls. These things were engineered by some truly smart minds. If they made the inn this way, who the hell are they? His father’s warnings were drumming in his head more than ever, but with the warnings have always come a promise of even greater profit. This was the reason why Harvey Logan had so much trouble in the Red Cities. He couldn’t say no to a prospect of money. As he retreated into the seat his mind already probed possible avenues of steering the conversation with the innkeeper. This Zuma knew things. Being the innkeeper came with a perk of overhearing hushed conversations.

The drink arrived out of nowhere. The long-necked girl, grinned mischievously at Harvey as she put the cup on his table.

“I’ve heard you were attacked the last night,” she asked softly. “Would like something to eat?”

The fog in Harvey’s mind required effort to clear and while he was prepared for Zuma, the girl caught him off guard and so he slipped a little, “yeah, jaguars, I think.” Here he paused, realizing that she didn’t ask about the jaguars but Yucca. The black smoke must have been visible for miles. He needed to take a mental grip or they’d figure out that something was afoot. She opened her mouth and with dread Harvey noticed the shine in her bronze eyes.

“Izin-Pil leave our guest and return to your job. We’re opening in thirty minutes.” She swiftly nodded and like the innkeeper before, she disappeared between the brilliantly designed walls. Now it was time to get offensive.

“Two names? She isn’t a Royalblood, is she? What if the imperials appeared?” It was a childish question, but it was perfect for figuring out people. The conmen needed to know their public and so they developed methods.

“The imperials…” Zuma paused, almost revealing the truth. Now would come the lie. “We know when they come in advance.”

Harvey took a sip of the drink… Garhala’s unwashed balls, this is good! Zuma noticed the change of expression of Harvey’s face and said, “A new mix of papaya and nuts with herbs.”

“You could make fortune with this.” Unfortunately, Zuma’s answer was too ambivalent, and straying too far away from meaning was dangerous for Harvey’s comfort. If Zuma told him the truth, then whoever ruled this village had the imperials in the pocket. That concept would be scary. Corruption amongst the Imperial officials equaled the death penalty. If he lied, which he most likely did, then somehow the village remained out of the radar of the Aael Empire. Not an easy feat.

“I could…” The innkeeper sat down and squinted at the girl behind the bar, then he added. “Where are you heading? If the Red Cities, I could join you.”

Harvey scratched his unshaven chin and wondered where to go from here. Sticking to Butcher’s band didn’t seem like a viable option anymore, but so returning to the Red Cities emptyhanded. The House of Pacha wouldn’t forget the betrayal and they were the force to be reckoned with.

“I was thinking of going to the north?”

Zuma nodded then his eyes gleamed. “I am sorry, I didn’t notice what kind of merchant are you?” Merchant? The pause cost Harvey much of his trustworthiness, but somehow thinking came harder… the drink!

“I am not in the liberty of discussing my disposition.” Harvey cursed his stupidity. A few months out of the Red Cities and he already lost an edge. Busted by the innkeeper, eh? Humiliating. He pushed the drink away, thanking the innkeeper for the hospitality. I have to rethink it. They’re already probing. I need time. But the time was the last thing he had. Siddy came down. He held a mug filled with a frothing beer. The girl must have woken him up. Siddy flashed him a grin and picked a stool by the bar. Harvey’s time was running up.