The Raven: Chapter One - The Black Dog (title under construction)

The Black Dog tavern was a popular pub on the edge of Carney Wharf, a place that catered to both the middle class workers who lived beyond Old Way and those who lived down in the slums of Carney. It was more often known as Dawson’s after the owner, Ed Dawson. He was a fairly straightforward man. As far as the City Guard was concerned, nothing criminal ever went on behind Dawson’s doors. That was not the case over his tables or counters, but Dawson had a rule: keep to your own business and he would keep to his. As long as you had a drink between your hands or a plate sitting in front of you, he would leave you alone.

It was barely third hour, and men were beginning to make their way into the Black Dog. The real crowd wouldn’t begin to form until after sixth hour when the work day ended. All those tired souls from the shoreline and Kenston factories would come through his doors for a few hours rest before heading home to their families, if they were lucky enough to have one. For now, there was a small crowd in Dawson’s. Some merchants were heavily intoxicated, creating quite the row with their rendition of a drinking song. Two men sitting by the fire nursed mugs of steaming liquid as they conversed in quiet tones. They were dressed well but comfortably, obviously men from across the Way. One young man lounged against the counter, eyes fixed on the serving girl behind the bar. As she passed, he would lay a hand on her arm gently, and she would smile shyly. A drunk snored loudly in a corner booth. Sooner or later, Ed would make his way over and see the poor man out, but had a soft heart for those down on their luck.

The last patron in the Black Dog was an elderly man with ashen brown hair and pale skin. He wore a white shirt and tanned breeches under a patched, brown leather long coat. He played with a weathered old walking stick, spinning and tapping it against the floor. Keeping one steady, gray-blue eye on the door, he sipped slowly from a tankard.

The door opened, admitting the cold weather outside. The old man straightened. Three men, all wrapped thickly in coats and woolen scarves, stomped their way inside. Winter was fast approaching, and while there was no snow yet on Daran’s streets, the air was growing colder by the day. The men rubbed their bare hands together and cast about for an open table. Their gaze passed slowly over the old man, who absently tapped thrice, before making their way to a table near the door.

He was waiting for someone, the old man, but they were late. Very late. Youth were ever so impetuous, believing themselves to be far above manners. Had he not been so desperate, he would have left long ago. Youth had advantages old men did not, and they were eager to prove themselves. That was exactly what the old man needed right now.

A gust of cold air blew through the tavern as the door opened again and this time, a lone adolescent strolled into the room. He stood imperialistically, like a wannabe warlord with a gangly figure and tousled, dirty hair. He smirked at the scowls thrown his way because of the door left propped open. When his eyes finally fell across the old man, he let it swing shut and strutted over to the old man’s table. The old man made sure to let the boy see his hopeful gaze as he collapsed into a chair in front of him. Anxiously, the old man tapped his stick twice and then thrice. The ever vigilant Ed ambled over to the table.

“What can I get ye?” he asked.

“Beer,” the youth smirked.

Ed shot him a disbelieving look and then turned to the old man.

“Refill?”

The old man nodded, and as Ed went off to do as he was bid, he leaned in closer.

“Eli Jones?” he asked a little louder than necessary.

“Shh! Keep it down,” the youth hissed, casting a wary glance from side to side. “Don’t go spoutin’ me name like that. Can’t be too careful nowadays. I hear tell the Guard’s takin’ to dressin’ like civilians now. They’re after Jack Smiley, but they don’t mind taking down up-and-coming thieves like me in the process.”

“But ye are Jones, yes?”

“Of course I am. Who else would I be?” the youth snorted and leaned in his chair. “A random youth walks up to ye in a pub, sets down at yor table and begins a conversation just for the bloomin’ sake of it? I don’t think so.”

The old man fidgeted uncomfortably. “Well, yer late. Makes a man think twice afore hirin’ a boy like yourself.”

“I had some trouble,” the boy sniffed. “Some Guard was lurkin’ outside me place. Had to take care he wasn’t followin’ me or nuthin’ so I did ‘im in. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do nuthin’ to him. He’ll wake up tomorrow wid a sore ego and an ‘eadache to boot, but he’ll live to terrorize us again. I don’t want no upsets inna city if’n I’m about to take on a job.”

“Why would they be followin’ ye, lad?” the old man questioned hesitantly.

“Because,” Jones began, but he stopped abruptly as Ed came over with their drinks.

The bartender plonked down two tankard and swept up the old man’s empty one before wandering back over to the counter. Jones watched him go with suspicion. At the old man’s confused look, Jones waved a hand.

“It’s just a rumor, but I ain’t takin’ no chances. They say Dawson’s an agent of the Highwayman. Can’t be too careful.”

“The Highwayman? But ain’t he a thief like ye?”

Jones laughed mockingly. “Aye, no more’n a bedtime story if’n ye ask me, but if he is real, then I wouldn’t put it past ‘im to use the law to his advantage. Don’t look at me like that. The law can be bought, same as anythin’. Now, master Granger, to business.”

The old man gulped. “How d’ye know my name?”

“You’re not lookin’ to hire no amateur. I have me sources.”

He paused and took a deep draft of his drink. Spluttering, he spat it back out again.

“Ginger ale,” he muttered, then looked hopefully at the old man’s tankard.

The old man shrugged apologetically. “If me wife smelled beer on me, I’d lose me ‘ide.”

“Alright, fair enough. Any’ow, to answer yor question, me boss ‘appens to be very interested in yor plight. Tells me ye got kicked out of Three Pines for not payin yor rent.”

“Aye, but what’s this ‘bout youse havin’ a boss? When I contact ye, I didn’t want no one else. I just wants me own. I wants me old mas’er ter give me my furniture and the like. Didn’t even let me take me wife’s cooking pot neither when we left yon Three Pines, he didn’t. I tell ye, me wife was sore upset when we left wid nuthin’ ‘cept the clothes on our backs.”

“Me boss’ll make sure that ye get everything that was yors. Even get a bit of revenge too, for kickin’ ye and yor little ‘uns to the streets, for a price o’ course. Nuthin’ comes cheap nowadays,” Jones promised.

“But, sir, I’ve heard tell of those who deal and get dealt with,” Granger protested.

“Jack Smiley ain’t no cheat!” Jones’ voice raised slightly in indignation. “And he ain’t unfair.”

At the mention of Jack Smiley, the old man perked up.

“Yor workin’ for Jack Smiley,” he said. “That changes things. But ‘ow do I know y’are who ye say y’are? Impetuous youths like yorself...ye never know what youse be doin’ next.”

Jones bit his lip reluctantly, then reached inside his shirt and pulled out a wooden carving laced on a string that hung around his neck. It was a circle with a jagged half moon cut into the surface, or a cat’s grin as it was more commonly known.

“This ‘ere is a genuine carvin’. Trust me, Smiley ain’t no fan of impersonators lookin’ to get ahead in his business. Not even ‘impetuous youths’ like meself would dare for fear of somethin’ awful happenin’. I heard Smiley cut off a lad’s forefinger for carryin’ one without ‘spress permission.”

Granger leaned in for a closer look. It was a “genuine carving” as Jones so eloquently put it. He nodded and looked up at the boy.

“Thank you for the conformation,” he said, his cracked and weathered voice becoming cultured and deep.

Jones jerked away, his eyes widening.

“Yor not…”

“I must say, it’s been quite a hunt for you,” Granger said, straightening. “You do your master a great service. You cover your tracks well, but not well enough, I’m afraid. You made a mistake when you accepted my proposal to meet you here of all places, so near Old Way and the Gaol.”

Jones jumped from the table and bolted for the door. Granger did nothing, only sat back and watched. The boy was nearly at the door when the three men who had walked in before him leapt from their seats and made a grab for him. Jones was a slippery young fellow and had survived this long for being quick. He dodged their grasping hands and circled back around only to find him facing the previously drunken man, who now stood in his way with alert eyes. Jones dashed around them, aiming for the back, but four against one was not a fair fight, nor was it meant to be. They caught and dragged him to the ground before he made it halfway there.

Granger drained his tankard and stood, approaching the writhing figures on the floor. Jones was hauled to his feet in the arms of two strong, burly men and held still.

“Captain Estis, the target is secured,” one of them said with a smart salute.

“Estis?” Jones breathed, growing pale. “Bram Estis? The Captain at Blackwater Gaol?”

Granger - or Bram - rubbed the back of his neck absentmindedly and shook his head. Small, pale flecks of gray ash fell to the floor and his hair suddenly became darker. The two men at Jones’ side gripped him tighter as he gulped and became fidgety. There was no escaping these men tonight.

“Eli Jones, formerly street thief, now turned runner for Jack Smiley,” Bram said. “You are under arrest for the theft of countless purses and home break-ins, as well as being involved in the dangerous street crew known as the Smilers.”

At the counter, there was a commotion as the young man who had been making eyes at the barmaid suddenly bolted for the door. Two of the disguised guards tried to stop him, but he was too quick and the door was already swinging shut behind him.

“Leave him,” Bram called after them.

Jones laughed. “Yor mistake. You shouldna let ‘im go. Jack Smiley’ll know what ‘appened to me afore the hour’s up!”

Bram didn’t look concerned, however. In fact, he looked downright comfortable with the idea.

“I’m counting on it,” he said, confirming Jones’ suspicions that the man was mad.

The captain nodded to his men, and they dragged Jones from the Black Dog kicking and screaming.

“I’ll never give ‘im up! Smiley’s not stupid. Ye’ll never catch ‘im, never! I won’t breathe a word, I swear it--”

“Don’t forget to find Thom!” Bram shouted after them, remembering his fallen guard. “The lad left him around his place.”

Jones’ voice faded as the door swung shut and Bram’s men dragged him away. For a moment, the tavern was silent. Then Ed’s gruff voice called out, “What are ye all gawkin’ after? It’s done. Get on or get done yerselves.”

Business as usual resumed in the tavern, but the merchants were quieter now and the men at the fire raised their mugs to Bram in salute. Bram approached the counter and Ed put out a small mug of ginger ale, knowing how much the man disliked spirits. The City Guard Captain sipped the drink slowly, keeping his eyes down on the counter.

“So,” Ed began. “You got yor man. What are ye gonna do now this be over?”

“I’ll have to lay low,” Bram said. “I won’t be around for a long while.”

“That’s prolly best, Smiley’ll be after ye, you know.”

“Aye, I’m counting on it.” Bram looked up at the bartender and flashed one of his rare smiles. Ed shivered a little. When Bram was on the hunt, it was usually best to get into business or get out of the way.

“Only way I get Jack Smiley off the streets is if he comes out of hiding for once,” Bram continued. “And the only way he does that is if I draw him out.”

Ed gave him a funny look. “I can’t tell if yer brave or stupid, but ‘ere.”

He took out a small, leather purse and placed it on the counter. It was a fat thing, the coins inside barely making a sound they were so tightly pressed together.

“Highwayman’s compliments,” Ed said.

Bram stared at the pouch for a long while, then shoved it back across the counter.

“I don’t work for him,” he said softly. “‘Sides, once Jack Smiley’s out of the way, I’m coming after him.”

The bartender shrugged and the coins disappeared beneath the bar once more. “I’ll tell him ye were just doin’ your duty. I’m not daft.”

“Whatever you like,” Bram sighed and downed his ale. “Best be getting on. See you later, Ed, and keep an eye out for Smilers.”

“They don’t dare come near me tavern,” Ed said. “I know a thing or two. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

Bram nodded and walked out the door into the bitter cold air. He shivered slightly and pulled the patched leathers coat tighter around his body. It was surprisingly warm despite the worn look. Inside was lined with fleece. He had owned the coat for years now and had an undisguised affection for the thing. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t wear it.

Because Dawson’s was too small to house anyone for any length of time, the “stable” was little more than an overhang with some hay thrown on the floor. There was just enough room for one, maybe two horses at a time. As Bram approached the overhang, Ed’s stable boy scrambled out and stood resolutely by Bram’s steed. Bram flicked a coin in passing, and the boy dipped a quick bow before dashing off into the tavern to get his supper. Sighing, Bram approached his gelding with an outstretched hand and patted his neck.

“These are good people, Danger. I hope we didn’t just bring trouble down on their heads,” he muttered.

The horse nickered softly and buried its nose in his master’s chest. Bram smiled.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything. You’ll have to wait until we get back to the gaol.”

Huffing, Danger followed Bram out of the overhang and stood still as his master mounted up. As soon as he was in the saddle, Bram urged Danger out and onto the road. The men and women did well to steer clear of them. They knew any figure on horseback in Carney Wharf was either rich or Guard and neither was any benefit to the likes of them.

Bram hadn’t been jesting when he told the boy that the hunt for him had been quite a spectacular one. It had been the first one of such magnitude that had been put into place. A lot of coin had exchanged hands and stories thought up to cover Bram as James Granger. That didn’t even begin to cover the weeks of living as one of the rabble, although the widow Granger and her young ones were very kind to him. All in all, it had cost the Guard a pretty penny, but it had been worth it. They had made several great discoveries today, including Smiley’s interest in Three Pines. It was heartening to know that plans like these actually produced results. Bram hoped that they would be put to work more often in the future.

A year ago, Bram had been posted at Blackwater Gaol as Captain after having risen quickly through the ranks and through many different postings in the city. His rough and crafty ways of dealing with his assignments weren’t exactly well received elsewhere, but here in Carney they were necessary. The post at Carney had been deeply corrupted, so the first few months had seen Bram cleaning up that mess and training new men. Then he began establishing a reputation among the people. It wasn’t hard. Those who abided by the law had nothing to fear from him and those who didn’t steered clear. Crime went down in a matter of weeks, and for a while, he was able to relax in his new captaincy.

Then, Jack Smiley made his first appearance. Not the Bram hadn’t heard of him before. He was well known as one of the more dangerous criminals in Carney, but he was also no more than that: a run-of-the-mill thief. But then they began to get violent. It wasn’t until Smiley killed two people that Bram really began to pay any attention at all to him. Perhaps that was a mistake on his part to let it get so far, but until then there had been no reason to search for him outside of the regular. They had been innocent lives, victims of a break-in gone horribly wrong, and Bram had no doubt that Smiley had left their bodies to taunt the City Guard. He had disappeared for a few weeks after that as the Guard went on a frantic search for him, bursting into homes and arresting all the men they thought might be a part of Smiley’s crew. Realizing that he wouldn’t be able to find Smiley like this, Bram called back the Guard patrolling Carney streets and waited. Not to draw Smiley out directly. Bram wasn’t stupid and neither was Smiley as Bram was quickly finding out. He had a crew that he would use and be willing to sacrifice for his own safety. Bram would target that crew. That was what had set in motion the events that led to tonight’s capture and Bram was very, very pleased with the outcome.

Later, he would go over the details with his second. Smiley’s interest could be exploited, and if they leaned heavily on young Jones, they might be able to discover some more names. For now, though, he wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep in his own bed. He was ready to retire.

It seemed that life would not allow Bram a rest however. As he approached Blackwater Gaol and they raised the gates to let him in, he noticed the ridiculous contraption right away. Auto-carriages, or autos for short, were fairly new devices along with many others invented by Lord Kenston, the brilliant inventor. As much good as the new devices were doing for the city, Bram couldn’t stand them. He didn’t hold with cogs and gears.

Auto-carriages were only owned by the rich and powerful. They were the only ones who could afford them. So when Bram noticed the lack of decor, he knew that something was up. The contradiction between the anonymity the driver was clearly aiming for and the fact that they had driven one of Kenston’s contraptions was confusing, almost amusing. Except, the only reason one of those things would be in Carney was to see him, and Bram wasn’t expecting anyone at the moment.

He dismounted at the gate, and one of his men appeared at his shoulder right away.

“Sir,” the Guard saluted.

“Layman,” Bram said, referring to the Guard’s surname. “What is this?”

“Sir, there’s a courier to see you. He’s bearin’ an official mark and all. Garrett's ordered me to come and fetch you as soon as you returned. I’ll see to your horse...if you don’t mind, sir.”

He said the last part rather reluctantly, all too aware of Bram’s preference to do things with his own two hands. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but a good one. The men enjoyed having a captain who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty with the rest of them. However, Bram seemed to be preoccupied at the moment. He handed the reigns to Layman and walked towards the building without a word. As he entered the Command Post, he could hear voices coming through the open door of the office where he second, James Faulkner, presided most days. Faulkner was not the sort of man who liked to go afield. From where he stood, Bram could see his overweight form scratching furiously at his forehead and glaring at another figure just beyond Bram’s line of sight. He was far more suited for desk work. His mind worked in a swirl of numbers and protocols that Bram had not and would most likely never figure out on his own. That was what made Faulkner such an invaluable asset to Bram. While he took care of the field work, Faulkner took care of the paperwork. They made an excellent team. Bram didn’t know what he would do without his commander.

“I understand your predicament, sir,” came Faulkner’s voice, “but I don’t know what to tell you. Captain Estis is afield at the moment, and I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. You’ll just have to wait until he returns.”

“This is of the utmost importance,” the snobbish voice of a grown man replied. “Can’t you send someone after him?”

From Faulkner’s sigh, Bram guessed that this was not a new discussion.

“I told you, the Captain is currently involved in a very delicate operation.”

There was a strangled grunt of annoyance. “I must insist you tell me where I can find Captain Estis. I will go after him myself. This is a matter of life and death.”

“A matter of life and death, you say?” Faulkner mused, a note of sarcasm in his voice. “That changes things.”

There was a pause. “Does it?”

The man was clearly a dunce.

“No,” came Faulkner’s sharp reply.

“Commander, please, I have no time for this,” pleaded the visitor.

“And I have my orders. Captain Estis will talk with you when he returns.”

“I am warning you, commander. If you don’t take me to see Captain Estis this instant, I’ll have you brought up before a court of your peers.”

It was high time Bram put a stop to this before someone got hurt. He pushed open the door and strode inside, glancing at Faulkner’s red face as he did so. His commander was struggling to respond when Bram walked in.

“I hardly think that’s appropriate, sir.”

At the sound of his Captain’s voice, Faulkner immediately stood and came to attention. The visitor, an older man dressed smartly in suit and jacket, stared uncomprehendingly at Bram.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Commander Faulkner was simply following orders, sir. To court martial him for doing his job seems a bit unfair to me.”

“Who the devil are you?”

Bram glanced down at himself. He was still dressed like a civilian and had yet to bathe the white paste from his skin or brush the ash from his hair. Admittedly, he did look less like a City Guard Captain and more like a common ruffian.

“Captain Bram Allard Estis of Blackwater Gaol. I hear you have been waiting for me,” he said.

“You’re Estis?” the visitor breathed as if he didn’t quite believe it.

“Do forgive my appearance,” Bram said, opting for diplomacy. “Our most recent venture required some...special methods of investigation. I haven’t had time to change.”

“Ah,” the visitor replied. “Yes, well, as long as you’re here, I suppose I can’t complain. Captain Estis, I’m afraid we haven’t much time. The situation is rather critical.”

“A matter of life and death, you say,” Bram offered, sitting on a corner of Faulkner’s desk and motioning for his commander to relax.

“I’m afraid so,” the visitor said. “I...don’t feel comfortable saying any more, except that you are needed urgently.”

Bram bit his lip, considering the demand. He didn’t much like demands, a rather unusual trait in such a successful soldier, but one that had stuck with him through the years. His pride would not let him surrender to the orders of a man whose name Bram didn’t even know. He sighed and crossed his arms.

“Regrettably, I cannot conform to your demands, Mister…?”

“Wilker. Jacob Wilker,” the visitor answered. “I’m the business advisor to Lord Kenston.”

“The inventor?” Faulkner asked with a touch of awe.

“The same.”

“Mr. Wilker,” Bram said. “We have our own situation here. If you’re not aware, we are on the hunt for a murderer. We’ve made a rather significant arrest today and I’m afraid our hands are rather full. I don’t care who you work for. I cannot in all good conscience abandon my post at this time.”

“Please, Captain,” Wilker pleaded. “I’m not here on behalf of Lord Kenston.”

“It would take the bloody king to move me on this matter,” Bram said, no longer feeling the need to be formal.

“Then, it’s a good thing I have this,” Wilker said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a letter.

Bram hesitated and glanced at Faulkner before taking the letter. As his eyes alighted on the seal that held it closed, he sucked in a breath, surprised.

“The badger and the scroll,” he said.

“The royal seal,” Faulkner whispered.

“It seems that the ‘bloody king’ is moving you,” Wilker said. “This letter contains orders pertaining to your replacement here at Blackwater as well as a summons to the palace. His majesty is expecting you for tea, but I suspect we’ll be quite late, even if we leave now.”

He may have said more except that Bram was no longer listening. He tuned out Wilker’s voice as he broke the seal and ran his eyes over the words. When he finished, he read it once more, and then again, just for good measure. What he read there troubled him. Faulkner saw the agitation on his face.

Leaning in, he asked, “Bram, what is it? Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure. Ask me in five minutes,” Bram murmured. “Is this accurate?”

Wilker looked up and nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Now that Bram was paying attention, he recognized the lines around Wilker’s eyes and the exhausted look on the business advisor’s face. Bram’s own expression became drawn. This was serious.

“I’m sorry, Faulkner, but I have to go,” he said.

“Sir?”

“Take over Jack Smiley’s case. Don’t let us lose this lead,” Bram told him. “Lean on Jones. I don’t care how brazen he is; he knows something, and he will give it up.”

“I-I won’t let you down, Captain,” Faulkner said.

“You’re acting captain now, until further notice,” Bram said, relaying the orders.

“Sir, if I may ask, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Bram looked to Wilker, who shrugged. “I see no problem with it. The King is announcing it tomorrow anyhow.”

“It’s Lord Kenston,” Bram said to Faulkner. “He’s dead.”