

This book is a work of fiction. All names and places are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 by Daniel Lawlis

All rights reserved.

The International Businessman (volume four of the series The Republic of Selegania).

©iStock.com/emilm

(Adjustments to photo made by Daniel Lawlis)

The International Businessman

Chapter 1

On the way back to Selegania, Righty's elation was suddenly met by a horrifying realization. While the seeds had proven themselves a steadfast supply for his junkyard dealings—and in fact he still had a considerable amount left of the sole barrel he had opened, with eleven still untouched—the scope of his newly discovered scheme suddenly drove home the realization of the frighteningly finite nature of his current resources.

He had noticed from time to time with frustration that none of the large, fleshy green bulbs of his plants—or any other part thereof—yielded seeds. And yet so adequate had they been to meeting the demands of his small-scale operation that his frustration had never quite blossomed into making inquiries, perhaps because he suspected that would mean consulting with someone who knew his real name, and he would greatly prefer that nobody associate the name Richard Simmers with Smokeless Green.

But as clouds enveloped his face thousands of feet above the ground that imprisons most men, he realized now that he urgently needed to find a solution to this problem. He knew he had been lucky so far with the lack of any loss of plants to theft or blight in the forest, and he could not expect such good fortune to endure forever. If he were to have even a slightly realistic chance of bringing to fruition the grand operation that had elated him moments earlier, he would have to quickly begin planting on such a great scale that his clandestine acre garden would seem like a speck of ink within a thick book.

This agricultural operation would quickly exhaust the barrels of seeds, and the ensuing plants would be difficult to hide . . . and to protect. The realization of this vulnerability reinforced his incipient belief that in this business every step forward put either him or his assets at greater risk.

But since he had by now become utterly determined to achieve his poorly outlined dreams of power and riches, such obstacles as this presented no realistic chance of prompting a sincere introspection regarding whether to proceed, but left only the question of how best to do so.

His first inclination was Sally Redelmin, a small business owner who sold an array of herbal remedies. These had for a brief time included Smokeless Green—recommended mostly to men who suffered from severe fatigue due to their long hours in the lumberyard, although she was well aware many of her customers used it only so that they could both lengthen and magnify the intensity of their drinking binges.

But to the best of Righty's knowledge, Smokeless Green had disappeared from her shelves the moment SISA was announced. As to whether she might be engaged in a little under-the-table business, he couldn't be sure, as he had made himself virtually a complete stranger to everyone in town. He rarely stepped foot there, unless it was to go take a quick peek at his hardware store and make sure everything was running smoothly—or in order to do some tedious magical accounting to enable him to put at least a little of his junkyard earnings into the bank. Robert handled the store excellently according to his observations, and there had been little need for Righty to have any interactions with the customers.

Thus, privy to town gossip he was not.

Janie was far better acquainted with Sally and would probably have made excellent counsel as to whether it would be brash to approach Sally with a botanical question on a banned substance. In fact, Janie would have even been an excellent person to make such a daring inquiry. But accosting Janie with this logistical hurdle would likely yield little besides a divorce and a bitter enemy.

Even if Sally consented to tackle the dilemma, he would thereby betray his illicit business activities to a denizen of Ringsetter, something he was reasonably sure no one there was yet aware of. That meant a mouth and a tongue to worry about. And if a tongue wagged about Smokeless Green and Righty Rick in the same sentence in Ringsetter, it would be the hours, rather than the days, that would be counted before several men developed an itch for exploring the woods around Righty's house.

By moving his seeds to the ranch, he had reduced the consequences of someone discovering the garden behind his house from that of a nightmare of catastrophic proportions to a severe setback that would simply freeze his cash flow until the plants at the ranch began to grow.

Perhaps you ought to wait until they have grown.

He liked this idea. It was a hard medicine to swallow, but he realized that once he had a large crop of Green going at his ranch and all of his plants from the woods transported as well, it would be considerably less risky to speak to the botanist.

But what if it takes her months to fix the problem? Or if she can't fix it at all?

This put a new spin on things. Sally might be unable to figure out why the seeds only produced seedless plants and whether there was any way to fix the problem. And it might take her a year or more just to figure out that she had no clue. Then what? Another botanist? Who? Where?

He realized that the seemingly perfect fix of waiting to inquire relied on the premise of the solution to the problem being timely discoverable. That might be a false premise.

If you wait for your plants at the ranch to grow, then move the plants behind your home, then consult Sally, and she can't fix the problem, you lose about a month or so. If you consult her now and she blabs, your plants will be discovered near your Ringsetter home, your cash flow will grind to a complete halt for a month or so, and you will be lucky if you aren't arrested to boot.

This adequately convinced Righty that the risks of consulting her now seemed to outweigh the benefits.

Throughout the journey back to Ringsetter, Righty had been pleased to notice that about every few minutes he passed a konulan in the sky, which then began to accompany him and Harold. It seemed to Righty that Harold's chain of communication was likely adequate to enable near instantaneous contact.

After Harold set Righty down in the woods, he temporarily felt a sense of relief. He believed he had come to an adequate balance between necessary action and prudent waiting, but this feeling proved illusory as another apprehension quickly assailed his mind.

Planting this acre garden had been a project done little by little, much of it at a time when he could not even be entirely sure he would ever make use of its yield. And even still it had proven itself to be a rather laborious task. If he were to begin planting at the ranch in earnest, it would be a question of massive manual labor that would make this look like a quick chore.

Are you going to ask the ranch hands for help?

He supposed there would be no way to keep the garden hidden from them. And since they could greatly ease the burden of his labor, why not go ahead and face the inevitable truth that these men were either going to have to become complicit to some extent in his operations or be replaced?

Chapter 2

It was about 8 p.m., and Righty realized he had inadequate time to do anything of consequence, so he began chatting with the konulans while he prepared twenty pounds worth of Smokeless Green for his friends in Sivingdel. He asked them a lot of questions about the ranch hands, and he was happy to learn that the konulans viewed them favorably. They had overheard them say they looked forward to working with Mr. Simmers because he seemed like the kind of guy who was firm but fair.

Righty would have been happy enough to hear such a kind compliment to his face, but there was an even greater pleasure in learning of kind words spoken in his absence, as they were unlikely to be flattery.

By 8:15 p.m. he was soaring towards the junkyard. He hoped to get there a little early so he could have a chat with Tats.

He didn't need a guide this time to find his house, but his knowledge of the house's location proved superfluous tonight, as he found Tats in the junkyard with Crabs, Chalky, and quite a few of the rest of the gang. Righty greeted them all warmly but wasted little time in letting Tats know he desired a private audience.

They began walking towards the location where the junkyard ended and the countryside began. Once there, Righty got right to the point:

"I've been made aware of an exciting new possibility, Tats. It could mean more money—and I mean lots more. It could also give us the ability to pick apart at this city little by little and keep a low profile while we're doing it. There are just two problems. One, I don't have the necessary supply yet for the plan I've got in mind. Two, I need a foreign connection."

Righty then proceeded to explain the gold mine discovery in Sodorf and its ramifications.

"I've got the solution to one of your problems, Mr. Brass," Tats said, looking at him squarely in the eye.

"Shoot."

"Not so fast."

Tats' countenance wasn't exactly aggressive, but Righty suspected he was on the verge of making a condition, and he further suspected it was going to be too good for Righty to turn down.

Tats didn't disappoint him.

"I've got a connection that's ironclad—that can be trusted and can move whatever quantity you want. I'll just need to talk to the person first."

Righty gulped. Even based off of what he had heard so far, he suspected he wouldn't be able to easily turn down whatever it was Tats asked for. He thought back to his initial start in the junkyard, having to dust the heads of several toughs with his knuckles and then facing one ambush after another before a semblance of stability was achieved.

He knew that in Sodorf he was going to have to tread extra lightly, as he only spoke a tiny bit of the language, and the last thing he wanted to do was call any suspicion to himself there and get on bad terms with Pitkins. He knew that even with Harold's help he would probably not have survived the recent attack in the alley had it not been for both the sword and training provided by Pitkins. And while Pitkins couldn't take the sword back, he could terminate his lessons at the drop of a hat, thus grinding his rapidly developing skills to a halt.

Nothing could be better than a good, professional contact that he could get straight down to business with and still keep a low profile.

"Mr. Brass?"

He had been caught in another reverie.

"Yeah, Tats, just thinking is all."

Tats decided to go ahead and add a little food for thought.

"This person . . . I know she's trustworthy."

This brought Righty's mind to a sudden halt.

"She?!" Righty asked, not quite in horror, but in strident disbelief.

Tats, not in the least offended, but rather amused, grinned and nodded.

"She's my sister," Tats said. He was smiling, apparently understanding Righty's reluctance. Righty noticed that the firmness had still not gone completely out of his eyes yet and that he could still expect to hear the condition soon.

Righty liked Tats, and thus, he didn't feel like being too artful in the ensuing negotiations. He cut straight to the chase.

"Okay, why is your sister the best person for the job? What makes you think she can move whatever I give her?"

"If you knew my sister, you'd understand," Tats said, still grinning.

"But I don't," Righty said, with a slight edge in his voice.

"Something tells me you don't exactly have an array of eligible candidates waiting to hear which will be the lucky one," Tats said, with a benevolent cockiness in his voice.

"I'll shoot straight with you, Tats. You've got a strong bargaining position on this one. Supposing I were to be convinced right now that your sister could move whatever quantity I sent to her, what is it you would ask in exchange for the favor of the introduction?"

Righty cringed inwardly, expecting at any moment to hear a demand for a full explanation regarding how he had gotten Tats out of the alley, along with a demonstration. To his great surprise and relief, the statement was drastically different.

"Thirty percent."

"Come again."

"Thirty percent of the profits for all business transacted through my sister."

"For how long?"

"For as long as you deal with her."

"That payment would only be made after your sister pays me."

"Of course."

"Okay, I think thirty percent profit for all shipments you take to your sister would be fair."

Righty watched Tats' face sink. Righty himself wasn't sure just how long it would take on horseback from Sivingdel to Sodorf City, but he guessed it would be at least two to three days of very hard riding each way.

"But," Righty began, planning to make his next proposal while Tats was on the ropes, "if I deliver the product directly to her, I'll expect to keep ninety percent of the profits. Trust me, Tats, you'll make more money that way. If you go back and forth to Sodorf City, you're gonna be travelling all the time and making less than you would here in town."

Righty could see Tats wasn't particularly happy, so he attempted to assuage his frustration. "Look, Tats—I'm not asking you to introduce me to your sister for free. But if I'm supplying all the product and doing all the transportation, I think a ten percent commission for you is pretty generous. Heck, every time she hands me a million, you'll get a hundred thousand dollars just for arranging a meet and greet."

Righty saw Tats' eyes brighten considerably once the situation had been put in its proper light. Righty thought now would be a really good moment to kill him with kindness.

"Heck, I'll pay you $50,000 just to make the introduction, and that's aside from the subsequent commission."

Tats felt he should gleefully accept this, but deep down he suspected he would never again find himself in a situation where Righty needed him this badly. He almost started to ask for more, but while he was still tossing the idea around in his head, he heard:

"You know what—let's just make it $100,000 even. A hundred thousand falons to make the introduction, plus the ten percent subsequent commission when I do or arrange the transportation, and thirty percent when you do or arrange the transportation."

Righty looked squarely at Tats and knew he was sold.

Tats smiled warmly, Righty extended his hand, and Tats shook it firmly.

"Of course, I'll be expecting you to keep the relationship running smoothly, and if she ever stiffs me, you'll have to pick up the tab."

Tats' smile shrank but did not totally disappear upon hearing this slightly new feature of the contract, but, while it was not exactly a condition he would have suggested, he couldn't exactly consider it unreasonable if he was collecting a commission on every transaction that went well.

"Fair enough," Tats said.

Tats then added, "I know you said you don't have the supply yet, but that might not be the problem you think it is. On the contrary, she might need some time to get this going. It would be best for her to start out small. I don't know what kind of operations she's engaged in now, although I do have a strong hunch, and it's not selling Smokeless Green. But I know I can convince her it's the better way to go."

This piqued Righty's interest considerably, but he didn't want to pry. Prying invites prying, and he had more than enough secrets hidden underneath his proverbial floorboards that he would prefer to stay there.

"Do you have a horse?" Righty asked.

Tats shook his head.

"Well, it seems it's time to do something with that money you've been burying around your house. Go buy yourself a fine stallion," Righty said, while simultaneously handing him a hundred thousand falons with the same casualness another might pass a cigarette.

Tats' eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.

"I would like to talk to you again at the same time in exactly one week. I would begin to worry dearly if it were a minute longer than 9 p.m. two weeks from today," Righty said, in a tone that was affable, but Tats didn't miss the gleam in his eye that seemed to say, Don't screw this up.

"Once you've found her and made sure she's amenable to the scenario, I want to meet her in person. You just tell her what I look like and that when I meet her I'll say, 'Heavens, isn't it a blessed day!' Not one word different, and in just that tone."

Tats gulped and then repeated it aloud several times.

"And then I want her to say, 'You could say so.' Not a word different. I want to make sure she's the right person. The last thing I want is to end up in jail in a foreign country. I'm going to go ahead and be an optimist and assume you will find her and be back here no later than two weeks from today at 9 p.m. to report that she is anxious and willing to meet me, so I want you to go ahead and take the liberty, once you do find her, to go ahead and set up a meeting. Today is October 2, so I should see you no later than October 16, so let's go ahead and make the meeting for October 17 at 9 p.m. Tell her she can pick the location.

"If she's the kind of operator you say she is, she'll probably have a few large fellows standing around her for protection. Tell her that when approaching them, I will say, 'I'm a friend of a friend wishing to talk to a friend.' Tell her I'll be wearing a black hat and a light blue shirt."

Righty saw Tats was making an effort to repeat everything multiple times in order to ensure it stuck in his head, so Righty handed him a pen and a piece of paper and scribbled everything down quickly.

"Memorize this until you've truly got it and then burn this."

Tats nodded, not missing the fiery look in Righty's eye that served to remind him of the real fire just referenced.

"And here's a pound of Green. Give it to her as a sample." Tats' eyes nearly bulged out.

Tats and Righty then shook hands again, cementing everything agreed upon.

When Righty and Tats rejoined the crew, Tats almost told them he had an important errand to run, but then realized no business was going to be open at this hour to sell him a horse.

When Righty pulled out the twenty pounds from his leather satchel, he expected Tats to hand him a mere $100,000 for a fifty percent down payment, as had been the usual custom, so he was happily surprised when Tats handed him $200,000 right then and there.

"I want to call a short meeting," Righty said, addressing the gang of roughly thirty toughs loitering in the junkyard. He recognized every last one of them by face and name now, and he went around and shook each person's hand and greeted them before stepping back and facing his audience as a whole.

"We've got some exciting developments in the works. First, I'd like to talk a little bit about the game plan with Sivingdel. For now, go slow and steady. As far as I'm concerned, when I took Heavy Sam out, I—and by extension all of you, as my agents—acquired exclusive rights to the Smokeless Green market in this city. One sovereign slayed another, and thus, his subjects must submit to their new ruler. However, just because this city's ours doesn't mean the smartest way to assert our rights is to go blitzing far beyond our current territory.

"Think more along the lines of expanding by a block or two per week. What remains to be seen is whether someone will replace Sam and keep his empire unified or whether it will splinter into competing fragments. I strongly expect the latter, but I'll be expecting intel soon from all of you. You're my eyes and ears out there. If a strongman takes over his organization, it will behoove us to move slowly. If it splinters, it will behoove us to move slowly while the fragments fight it out, kill and weaken each other, and draw police attention to them and away from us. Either way, it's best to move cautiously.

"Any word so far?"

Crabs, Chalky, Tats, and the others shrugged their shoulders or shook their heads. Truth be told, they had heard a few things, but none wanted to put his neck on the line by spouting rumors. It would be best to let the dust settle a bit and see what was really going on in the once mighty organization.

"You know you can count on me for anything major. If someone tries blocking your move onto a new block, you let me know. If the police start harassing you, you let me know. If someone stiffs you, you let me know. But I'm not going to be able to go out with you every night. I've got some operational issues I'm dealing with right now to make sure I can keep this product coming and to make sure I can bump up the quantity."

Righty then smiled, "That's right. You're going to soon find twenty pounds way too small an amount to move once you start expanding. That means more money for you and more money for me. But I've got some things to tend to to make sure that can happen. Any questions?"

Silence.

Righty then shook each person's hand firmly, wished Tats good luck, and then set off for the countryside on foot. Fifteen minutes later he was cutting through the night air, and a half hour later he was arriving home from another late day at the office.

Janie was still up and seemed to be in a good mood, now that she thought she knew the cause of his perennial tardiness. In fact, given the number of nights he was gone entirely, it now seemed quite special for him to be there at all, let alone by 10 p.m.

She wasn't quite in the mood for passionate lovemaking, but Righty figured you can't win them all. He ate a hardy supper and fell asleep in Janie's arms.

Chapter 3

Righty was up at 6 a.m. sharp and just barely won the battle against his body, which was insisting he had earned at least another hour of sleep. Janie had made eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes, and he tore into them like a wolf with a freshly killed deer.

Janie chuckled appreciatively at the display. They showered together, and then she went off to work at the library while he headed out to the woods for his morning sword practice.

As he began to practice, his enemy was not apathy but enthusiasm. He felt so desperately eager to get to the ranch and start planting crops that it was hard to focus on his lessons. To correct that he reminded himself that unless he mastered this weapon he would be foolish to stay in this business, let alone keep expanding it. His alleyway experience had already cemented that fact.

Nonetheless, much of the passion was gone today from his movements. To any outsider he would have seemed quite animated, but inside he almost felt like an employee going through the motions at a nine-to-five job. However, he knew from his boxing days that what makes a champion is the ability to practice even when the activity in question has lost all its luster. Enthusiasm will come and go, but the need to practice never does.

Three hours later, he was drenched in sweat as usual, and he considered that sufficient evidence of his having done his duty. Now, he felt like a kid who can finally get to his ice cream. Harold had noticed his rather sullen demeanor and had decided to watch from atop a tree. The konulans flew about the forest playfully, only making sure not to venture too near the razor-sharp blade slicing the air mercilessly.

It didn't take him long to realize they were as excited as he was to go to the ranch, and he wasn't finding any volunteers to snoop about town to watch his wife at the library or to surveil the woods, his garden, or his house. He feared he was going to make enemies out of these little devils if he didn't placate them somehow, so he suggested they rotate in six-hour shifts.

One of the four families would stay here, two would accompany him to the ranch, and one would have to spread out and form a line of communication between Ringsetter and the ranch. He had the leader of each family (and was relieved to find no major dispute on this point, as it boiled down to age in konulan society) pull straws to see who would do what.

He found most of the process rather amusing—although he noticed Harold's tempestuous eyes suggesting displeasure at Righty's coddling of the konulans. Righty decided allowing Harold to assume an authoritarian role in the future would probably be more efficient. Meanwhile, Righty would work on cultivating the bonds of friendship with them.

With these matters decided, Righty mounted Harold and took off to his ranch.

Righty told Harold to set him down on the side of the mountain bordering the ranch, and they discussed business briefly. Although Righty was all but convinced he had no choice but to involve his ranch hands in his business, he was experiencing some jitters about this step. After all, they knew his real name. Harold said Righty ought to think of this as a horse race to be the first to establish a major exportation route to Sodorf. Selegania, particularly in the south, was known to have a better agricultural climate than Sodorf, so Sodorf's Smokeless Green was going to be mostly imported. It was possibly virgin territory at this point, but it was only a matter of time before others established themselves there.

The problems he had had in the city of Sivingdel alone had given him a sufficiently bitter taste of breaking into an established market. He shuddered to think at what that would be like in a foreign country.

He told the konulans to go scout out the ranch and let him know if it would be possible for Harold to take him inconspicuously as far as the house. They soon came back and said it would be, since all the ranchers were a couple miles behind the house. Feeling emboldened, Righty mounted Harold and told him to fly low and keep flying until he told him to stop.

Harold happily complied with a speed that just about sent Righty's breakfast onto the ground. Righty told Harold to stop once it looked like he was around a half-mile away from the ranchers' area. There was a wall of trees there, which Righty found to be a convenient curtain of privacy.

Righty hopped off and went to approach the ranchers. He greeted them all with a handshake and a renewed request for their names, something he knew would have to be repeated several more times before he committed every last one to memory.

There wasn't a lot of haggling involved. After Righty promised each of them $1,000 for one day of agricultural assistance, provided he was sufficiently impressed with their productivity, the ranch soon had as much hustling and bustling as a fortress preparing itself for imminent assault.

Gone were the lean, mean stallions the ranchers rode around on like so many bolts of lightning, and out came large, musclebound oxen that looked like they might struggle in a race against a tortoise but would possibly win a game of tug-of-war against a dinosaur.

Righty asked one of the ranchers who seemed to be calling out most of the orders what his name was. "Tim Sanders" was the reply. Righty then asked Mr. Sanders for a recommendation regarding the most tucked-away area of the ranch.

"Depends on how big a crop you're planning on."

"I'm looking to start with about five acres of my main cash crop, all of which I would like surrounded by about a half-acre of corn. But in the future, I might wish to expand to hundreds of acres, depending on how well the agricultural market is doing."

"Follow me," Mr. Sanders invited, pointing Righty towards a stallion.

Righty had ridden horses throughout most of his adult life, but he knew there was a big difference between trotting a few miles around town on a domesticated horse and mounting an unpredictable beast such as the one Mr. Sanders was now indicating. But he would be darned if he showed weakness to an employee, so he feigned confidence and jumped atop the animal, which fortunately had a saddle already securely in place.

Righty felt a good connection with the horse, as it appeared to offer no rebellion, and in a jiffy he was following Tim to the proposed location. This caught the eye of most of the other ranchers, who had been assembling farming tools and beasts of burden. They now began heading in Righty and Tim's direction.

After a few minutes of swift riding, Righty began to notice a large cornfield. Tim led him alongside it for a few miles. Once they reached the back end, Tim stopped.

"I s'pose here's as good a place as any," Tim opined. "We're a good five miles or so behind your house, and you've got several good miles to work with between here and where the ground starts to get too rocky."

In a tone that almost sounded like an apology, Tim said, "I'm not sure if Mr. Wilkins ran it by you, but in the past he's allowed us to harvest and sell our own corn and keep half of the proceeds."

This seemed a bit generous to Righty, and Tim seemed to sense it, so he proffered, "We'll understand if you have a different arrangement in mind, but for whatever it's worth, the reasons Mr. Wilkins set it up this way are because a lot of the corn is for personal consumption and the profits aren't particularly high. And also as kind of a bonus, since that's helped him keep food expenses down. We also plant some other things—beans, tobacco, coffee. We have sort of our own little natural pantry back here."

Righty wasn't about to start grousing about fifty percent proceeds on crops whose worth was tantamount to grains of sand compared to the crop he was about to be planting, so his response was, "Well, it sounds fair to me."

Tim's relief was etched clearly on his face.

"You know, Mr. Sanders, I'm starting to feel like the lot of us are going to get along just swell. We might even need more help here on the ranch in the not-too-distant future. We've certainly got the physical space for it. Supposing—for cattle or agricultural reasons—I needed more help here, do you think it would be hard to come by? I would want good, competent workers such as yourselves. Men who can use a crossbow and sword, who know their way around a garden, and who can lasso and ride. And, above all, men who know how to keep business affairs private."

"You've just described Sovelians in a nutshell," Tim said, grinning.

Righty paused for a moment and barely managed to suppress a blush, as he then realized how provincial he was. Sovelia was the state neighboring Rodalia, Righty's home state.

"But don't worry—I could go to town and handpick people anytime you need more help," Tim said smiling.

"How far away's that?"

"About a hundred miles."

"Well, that's good to know, Mr. Sanders. I will certainly keep you in mind as a recruiter should business here at the ranch begin to grow."

"Yes, sir," Tim said.

Righty surveyed the area and couldn't be more pleased. To his back was acre upon acre of corn and whatever else these ranch hands planted. In front of him was lush, open country for miles before imposing hills began, which then quickly graduated to steep mountains. And all of this was miles away from any prying eye.

"Looks good to me. I'll need some help hauling the seeds here. They're back at the house—all ten of them," he said, wishing that he hadn't left all twelve there but had buried two of them in the mountains, just in case things here didn't work out. He would make sure no more than ten barrels left the house.

A loud whistle issued forth from Tim. "Yo?" the nearest rancher replied.

"Send a wagon to the house."

The rancher replied with an affirmative whistle.

Righty began galloping to the house. He wanted to make sure he unloaded the specified number of barrels and that no one peaked inside. He simultaneously cursed himself for not having the foresight to padlock the front door, but he promised to fix that mistake soon enough.

He didn't make it to the house first—it was nearly impossible to contend with these ranchers on horseback, and apparently they felt obligated to express their dedication by arriving there first to pitch in with whatever was going into the wagon. To his relief, however, they were all waiting a respectful distance outside.

He approached the door and then said jovially, "No need to come inside; I'll bring the barrels to the front door."

And do so he did. Quicker than a flash he carried them out one by one, and just as quickly the ranchers loaded them onto the wagon. Mere minutes later they were all heading back towards the planting location.

When they got there, plows and beasts of burden were ready to go.

"You'll learn I welcome expertise, and I get the feeling that you all know a lot more about agriculture than I do," Righty said, addressing the ranchers, whom he now counted to be precisely thirty-two.

Righty then took out a knife, opened a barrel, and showed them the seeds. "This is what we're planting, gentlemen. So far, my agricultural setting has mostly been forests, so I'll watch and observe as you show the best way to plant these."

"Do you mind if we ask what it is we're planting?" Tim asked. Then, he added quickly, "I mean, so that we can properly plant them."

"Not at all," Righty responded. "It's something called Smokeless Green." He looked carefully into the faces and eyes of each man. Not a facial muscle twitched, but he could easily sense the incredible exertion it required on their part to keep their poker faces.

Righty had thought this out long and hard, and he had decided that brazen honesty would be the best policy with these men, as it would give him a chance to see their reaction to the unadulterated truth being given in one swift dose. Before speaking, he had privately noticed, with satisfaction, the presence of konulans flying about. They would be giving their opinion later as to the trustworthiness of these men and their subsequent conversations.

"I'm an honest man," Righty began, "and I realize this might come as a bit of a shock to you, but those swords you carry at your side are just as illegal as these seeds, even if the prison sentence isn't quite as steep." This seemed to put the men at ease, as they realized their scofflaw tendencies were clearly exposed.

"I realize that this is illegal and therefore requires risk. I myself am a firm believer that risk ought to be rewarded. I think I'll demonstrate the sincerity of that belief right now," he said, handing each man a thousand falons.

"That's just a small taste. If you make these plants grow and help me package them, you are going to see increases in your salary you could have only dreamed about before. That is, unless you have qualms about lawbreaking. If that's the case, I fully understand. We can pretend none of these unfortunate words were ever spoken, you can go back to ranching, and you can even keep the thousand-falon bills in your pocket to alleviate your stricken consciences."

The men in the group looked to Tim for guidance, and after a quick gulp, he spoke up, "We're in, sir. There was never any doubt about it. It's just that you kind of took us by surprise. But we're in. All the way."

All the ranchers quickly assented without Tim even having to prod them further.

"Good," Righty said, with sincere pleasure. "I want to start with five acres being planted today. If you can get that done, I'll throw in another thousand falons per person. Thereafter, I want these plants watered any day it doesn't rain. I also want you to keep your eyes peeled for any unwelcome intruders around here. That goes for both the human and animal kind, although I must warn you I'm an incurable bird lover, and on this ranch it is strictly prohibited to kill a bird for any reason whatsoever. Birds have a special place in my heart," Righty said, with only some guile.

Righty realized the ranchers were itching to get started so that they could have a feasible chance of getting the five acres planted, and so without further ado he asked them to begin.

They worked like a well-trained team, several of them cracking the whip to get large oxen pulling the plows while other men trailed behind planting the seeds. Righty had a personal stake in the outcome of this project, desired to learn as much as he could about agriculture, and wished to establish rapport, so he moved along with them, scattering the seeds by hand.

Chapter 4

Compared to the lumberyard, it was rather light work, but Righty knew that without the help of all these fine gentlemen, who handled a plow and oxen with as much mastery and finesse as the lasso, he would be huffing and puffing with little progress to show for it.

The oxen did most of the heaviest work. There were around five or six large plows being pulled, each with a team of oxen being supervised with acute supervision by an ambitious rancher who used the whip liberally, his mind no doubt thinking about the $1,000 reward that could be his in exchange for the right level of productivity.

Meanwhile, the rest of the men walked behind them scattering the seeds in as even a fashion as they could. By around 7:30 p.m. it looked to Righty like they had come pretty close to plowing and sowing about five acres, so he whistled loudly.

All the ranchers stopped what they were doing and approached him.

"That's what I call an honest day's work," Righty said, grinning, and passing out a thousand-falon bill to each of the ranchers, whose eyes grew exponentially as the light paper—whose small weight greatly belied its immense worth—made contact with their sweaty fingers. They frantically dried their hands, or tried to, on their shirts in order not to soil the venerable donative, but it was a fruitless task, as not a dry spot could be found on their clothing. The enormity of receiving a month's pay for one day's work was slowly beginning to sink into their elated minds.

"How much seed do we have left?" he asked his enthusiastic employees.

"About five barrels," Tim replied.

"Anybody feel like doing some planting tomorrow? A thousand falons each if you're as productive as today."

"You've got yourself a crew, Mr. Simmers," Tim said and was quickly joined by a chorus of "Yes, sir!" "Most definitely!" and "Absolutely, sir!"

"Good," said Righty. "Just remember that no one here tells anyone for any reason whatsoever what we occasionally plant here. I'm putting my absolute faith in you men," Righty said and then observed their countenances, with the attention of a skillful physician, looking for the slightest symptom of perfidy.

"We grow corn, coffee, tea, carrots, and other items, all lawful, every last one of them," Tim replied on behalf of the group with a convincing sincerity.

"I'm glad you're all loyal, honest men," Righty said, still scanning their visages with hawk-like attention, and he noticed with inward satisfaction that a few konulans made several non-threatening flybys overhead. "See to it that the remaining barrels of seeds are stored properly. I should be here tomorrow no later than noon, but don't be afraid to start without me," Righty said laughing.

He then shook each of their hands, got on a horse, and rode as far as the fence where he usually met the ranchers. He saw a gate nearby, so he opened it up and then led the horse inside.

No sooner was he past the row of trees than he gave a soft whistle for Harold.

To his surprise, there was no sudden gust of air like usual. For a moment, he thought Harold must not have heard him. Then suddenly Harold crept out from behind a bush with a grin on his face.

"You're getting pretty stealthy," Righty said. "I like that!"

Harold chuckled and then lowered his body so Righty could climb on top. Righty had Harold stop by the house, whereupon he immediately brought out the two barrels of seeds that he had intentionally withheld from the sight of the ranchers. He bade Harold to pick them up, and then Harold flew Righty to the crest of the neighboring mountain.

Righty cursed his misfortunate at not having a shovel, whereupon Harold immediately began digging with his talons, making the most efficient shovel seem like a crude tool. The razor-sharp edges of Harold's talons sliced through the ground, while their massive strength squeezed together huge clumps of earth that Harold then tossed peremptorily to the side. Righty almost made an attempt to help but then realized his bare hands were about as equal to the task as a butter knife to skinning a buck.

He decided to profit from the time by asking the konulans what they had learned. They informed him that while the ranchers seemed a bit nervous by the unexpected change of events, treachery had not been detected. Righty was greatly relieved.

A mere five minutes later, Harold had a tomb prepared for the two barrels, which Righty then wasted no time filling with the two barrels, which, in his opinion, held a treasure far more valuable than even a king's coffin.

It was then and there that he decided that the best way for him to survive in this business was to compartmentalize his operation. The ranchers must never know about his junkyard gang and vice versa. And once this ranch was producing enough product that he was making significant money, he ought to get several more, all or most of which should remain unknown to these ranchers. That way if ever there was a betrayal, the damage could be contained. And he also realized that at some point he should get a family ranch. A ranch where no Smokeless Green would be growing anywhere. A nice, wholesome family environment for his wife and baby on the way. But that was for later.

As for right now, he was going to be lucky not to miss his appointment at the junkyard. He was glad he had the foresight this morning to pack twenty pounds, since there would not have been time to return to Ringsetter. He hopped on Harold and set off for Sivingdel.

Chapter 5

When Righty got to the junkyard, he was in shock to see the extreme change in the manner of dress of his once raggedy compatriots. He saw that most were dressed with fine suits or other expensive clothing, and he noticed that quite a few had handsome horses tied up nearby.

He greeted them and after congratulating them on their recent acquisitions, he inquired why the upgrades had come about so suddenly. They explained that after they had seen Tats riding into the junkyard that morning with a fine tailored suit and a beautiful stallion a virtual stampede not to be outdone ensued and resulted in the present spectacle.

Chalky then humbly gave the credit to Tats, saying that when he had seen Tats go thundering through the junkyard on a fine horse at around 8:30 a.m. today he had been inspired to acquire a similarly exquisite specimen. Righty felt relief that Tats had found the means of making his journey to Sodorf and hoped he was doing well. He then cursed himself for not having requested that some of the konulans follow him in order to offer what help they could in case he was approaching danger.

"Mr. Brass?"

Righty snapped to attention. Chalky was looking at him.

Righty went ahead and pulled out the twenty pounds of Smokeless Green he had brought with him. "Will we be doing consignment tonight?"

Chalky responded with $200,000 in tightly wadded thousand-falon bills, which more than sufficiently answered the question.

Righty handed him the merchandise.

"Got any more?"

"Kasani, you're moving this stuff fast!" Righty said with glee before realizing a split-second later that this wasn't necessarily good news. Demand was now exceeding his supply, which could make him look weak.

Chalky was looking at him intently with respect but not entirely able to conceal his dissatisfaction.

"I've got one buyer alone who can take care of that, Mr. Brass," Chalky said. His voice sounded careful, suggesting that whatever his true feelings were at the moment he didn't want them shown.

"Well, that's a dandy change," Righty said. Whereas Chalky was trying to hide his true feelings on the matter, Righty was trying to find his. Only a few short nights ago, the whole lot of them had to hustle and bustle for the better part of the night to move twenty pounds. Now it would be a short errand for Chalky.

Righty decided it was time for him to show his affirmative side.

"Well, I may have missed a thing or two the last couple of nights, but let me guess. In the aftermath of Sam's demise, his empire has disintegrated into factions. Likely, not all the heads of each know who Sam's source was. Or they did know, but he doesn't want to have anything to do with them. So, now one of those heads comes to you. Either that, or the richest businessman in Sivingdel has got one hell of a party coming up. I'll stick with my first theory. Congrats! You've now got a wholesaler working for you."

"You've summed it up pretty well, Mr. Brass. The problem is I've got other wholesalers coming to me. The word amongst the higher-end players is that a few of Sam's top guys knew who his connection was and are able to continue doing business through him. This leaves about seven major wholesalers in the city without a hook-up. They can go through the few guys getting it from Sam's source, but that means getting pushed down the totem pole.

"The word is some of them are okay with that. But some of them felt they were equals and don't like the idea of getting pushed down, so they're considering all-out war in order to force the source's hand. They figure he has to sell to someone, so if they kill the few he is supplying now he'll have to supply to them. But some of them don't want war or to be pushed down the hierarchy, so they're looking into branching out to a new source altogether.

"Our group got a considerable amount of prestige because of what you did to Sam, and so several of these wholesalers have approached us. Twenty pounds a night isn't going to cut it. Even the guy I'm selling this to was mad I couldn't bring thirty. The others are pissed as hell that I can't bring them anything, so they'll have to either go to war with the wholesalers that have the connection or buy from them. But in either case, that means we lose them."

Righty noticed Chalky's speech had started with the first person singular to describe his situation and had then subtly shifted towards "we" and "us." Nonetheless, Righty knew Chalky had a very legitimate concern.

"Chalky, I agree with you a hundred percent that this sounds like a great opportunity. And I also agree with you unequivocally that there is a lot to lose in the short-term by not being able to fill this need. If I had the product, believe me, you'd get it. Twenty pounds is the most I can provide you on a daily basis right now without exhausting my supply completely."

Righty saw the immense displeasure in Chalky's face, in spite of his efforts to suppress it.

"But I want you to know this. It's temporary. I'm in the process of some changes right now, which will soon enable me to supply this whole city and then some. I calculate it will take about six to eight weeks. If you have another source you want to use until then, I won't consider it an act of betrayal. But I wouldn't consider it the most loyal decision either.

"While six to eight weeks might seem like a long time to you now, keep in mind it's still $200,000 per day divided amongst the lot of you. Judging by the fine suits and stallions I'm seeing, I would dare say it looks like that's been accumulating pretty nicely, and I don't doubt most of you will be moving into some fine houses in the near future.

"There can be some advantages to a slow and steady approach. The police are probably feeling pressure to make some arrests for the Sivingdel Massacre. It wouldn't surprise me if Sam had most of them in his pocket, but now that his empire is in pieces they're going to be deciding which dealer to go after. Maybe it will depend in part on who pays the most, but it also might depend on who's drawing the most attention to themselves.

"If you start supplying all the rogue wholesalers with product right now, you're going to earn enemies amongst the few wholesalers with access to Sam's source—the top dogs. Those top dogs are gonna look at you and think, If this bastard weren't supplying these men, they'd be buying from us. That's going to mean you're going to make some powerful enemies overnight. And since you won't be getting all of that product from me, that means you won't have my full protection. Any enemies you make or any other problems you encounter while selling product you get from another source are going to have to be resolved without my help."

Righty saw this last part sank in at least twenty times more powerfully than anything else he had said so far. He watched Chalky's insatiable ambition turn to something approaching contentment in the blink of an eye.

"But, unless you have access to Sam's old source, or to that of some other major kingpin, then really all of this is moot. The only other way you would be able to get the product to supply these rogue wholesalers is by purchasing from the top dogs directly. By the time you turn around and sell the top dogs' product to the rogue wholesalers they would be paying more for it than they would by purchasing it directly from the top dogs, something they apparently don't want to do, because of resentment. Do you think they'd stomach buying it from you after you buy it from the top dogs, if they're too proud to buy it directly from the top dogs? It wouldn't make any sense financially or according to their egos."

"But we're not going to have enough left over after hooking up this one wholesaler to even go take care of our retailers," Chalky said, with genuine concern. "Then who takes care of them? They'll go to the other wholesalers right away. They're not going to sit with their arms crossed just because we've ran out of product. I could go to another wholesaler—even if he is not one of 'the top dogs'—and get the product cheap enough to be able to supply our retailers while using your product to supply our new wholesaler customer."

"But by the time you buy it from a wholesaler and turn around and sell it to the retailers, it will be more expensive than if they went directly to the wholesalers themselves, something they're likely to know how to do, I would expect."

"But the retailers would be each approaching the wholesalers individually and buying much smaller amounts than what I could buy, which means I should be able to buy in bulk and get a good-enough discount to be able to sell it to the retailers for about what they would pay one of the wholesalers for that quantity. Even if it is just slightly more expensive for them that way, it would be preferable to going outside their territory and dealing with a stranger. I've got good rapport with the retailers. They know they can trust me."

"It sounds brilliant. Go for it. I wish you the best of luck."

Righty could see Chalky was a bit apprehensive.

"There will be a ten percent tax."

Chalky looked dumbstruck. He dared not speak. He dared not move a muscle. But anyone with two eyes could see he was seething.

"Let me break this down for you, Chalky. Have you ever taken even one minute out of your busy day to think about why all these great opportunities are unfolding for you?"

Chalky dared not answer, but his silence was answer sufficient enough to his lack of thought on the matter.

"Do you think any of this would be happening if Sam were still around? He aimed to squash you like a bug or relegate you to the lowest rungs of his organization, where you would be making little more than you would earn as a clerk at a hardware store. I got rid of him. Now, there are free agents moving about with serious cash and massive clientele looking for a new source. This gang has prestige because it stood up to Sam. But this gang is ME!!" Righty said, his voice thundering.

Righty scanned the eyes of everyone there, and to his pleasure he saw nothing but submission and agreement to his truthful observations. Many of them were looking scornfully at Chalky, as if a word from Mr. Brass was all that was needed for them to set upon him like hyenas.

"You've got it, Mr. Brass. I-I-I'm sorry. This is all kind of new to all of us. You've got it. Ten percent tax on every falon made from a separate connection."

"I'm glad you've seen reason," Righty said with an edge in his voice and steel in his eyes. "And I owe all of you an apology for not being able to provide to you. I realize that as leader of this gang, that means I have failed you. But it is temporary, and I'll soon be able to provide this product to you at a quality and price where you can line up all the wholesalers you want underneath you, and you won't have to worry about pesky things like taxes on sidelines of business.

"And I want to say this before all present. Chalky has the right mindset. You should be thinking boldly and expansively. And I wish him the best with this temporary sideline of business. Soon enough that wholesaler will be a client of mine—remember my words."

But while Righty closed with these kind words on Chalky's behalf, he gave Chalky a severe glance to let him know it would be a fatal mistake to think failure to pay the ten percent tax would be anything other than a capital offense.

With that, he bade the men adieu one by one with a solid handshake and set off on foot towards the countryside.

With a lot on his mind.

Chapter 6

Tats also had a lot on his mind. As darkness neared, he prepared to do the unthinkable. The stories of his father's alcohol abuse had served as a strong deterrent to that particular substance, and from what he had seen of many of the Smokeless Green addicts, that was also not a substance with which he desired a relationship.

Yet as the evening went from dim to dark—the moon alone providing some luminary guidance—the utter state of his non-preparation began to weigh upon him heavily. He was a city boy through and through and had never so much as camped outside a night in his life.

The only weapon he had on him was a medium-sized dagger (he hadn't had time to look for the means of concealing his sword), and he didn't feel the dagger would help him much in a fight against more than one or two people. He had no idea what to expect in terms of highwaymen or other malefactors, but he preferred to take his chances wide awake, rather than risk being roused from a peaceful slumber to see a grinning devil with a knife held to his throat.

But the problem was he was getting tired. Very tired. He was beginning to have trouble making sense of the lines on the map. There was a main road that had brought him from Sivingdel to some unimportant town called Ringsetter. He had passed that at around 3 p.m. About an hour after that he had passed a weathered sign written in both Seleganian and probably Sodorfian (though his Sodorfian was extremely weak) welcoming him to Sodorf.

After that, however, he found that the "road" began to stretch the proper meaning of the term. Even in daylight, he had found any hint of the road to be faint at best. In places, it was just a matter of the grass growing a little less thickly there. And in the forests, it was sometimes a matter of the trees being just a little less crowded together in the area that was presumably the path.

But when it became dark, it was becoming more and more challenging to discern the pathway, and his increasingly heavy eyelids weren't helping matters much.

He had heard that if taken in small amounts Smokeless Green could function a bit as a performance booster, even though most preferred to take it in large doses and mix it with alcohol so that they could party all night long. He had an idea, from what he had seen, of how much the usual dose was to get high. He wondered what would happen if he just took a really small portion of that.

As his eyelids drooped again, he decided the debate was over. He brought Valiant to a halt (he had already decided on the horse's name) and took out the sack that carried the merchandise for his sister—which was no easy task, as it was fairly well hidden inside his saddle bag—and pulled off just the slightest pinch from one of the bulbs. He then rubbed it together with his fingers until fine sand-like grains fell onto his palm.

It looked to him like a small amount compared to what most people took to party, so he went ahead and sniffed it. He felt nothing at first and began wondering what all the fuss was about with this stuff anyway.

Then it him like an avalanche against a small cabin at the base of a large hill covered with boulders. The sensation nearly knocked him off his horse, so unexpected was the rush. He felt all of his thoughts sharpen and all of his energy levels go from near depletion to the top of the scale and then about a mile above it.

There were no droopy eyelids now, and he began to wonder how he could have ever thought it difficult to notice the traces of wagon wheels, horses' hooves, and boots. He dug his knees into Valiant's side, ready to prod him on, but found he got less than the enthusiastic response he had been hoping for.

He figured that if he could handle the quantity he had just had, his horse could handle at least twice that, given his size. He prepared the dose, dismounted, and gently stroked the stallion's neck while simultaneously lifting his palm towards Valiant's nostrils. Valiant, perhaps thinking it was food, quickly lapped it up.

Tats wondered if the effect would be considerably weaker that route, but he had little time to give the subject a proper analysis because he suddenly noticed Valiant shudder and then start to fidget uneasily. He realized then that he better mount fast, or he would be on foot with lots of energy but no horse.

He jumped on Valiant and dug his knees in, and this time he got more than the response he was looking for. He had to lean down tight towards Valiant's neck to avoid being thrown off. It seemed Valiant had gotten the general idea of his master's aim, which was to follow the treaded-upon ground, and Valiant soon proved himself more than his master's equal in this regard.

He burst into a full gallop, and Tats noticed with satisfaction that he was keeping towards the path.

This gave Tats the ability to begin thinking about another matter, something that had been in the back of his mind ever since this morning. When Chalky had seen him riding along on a horse, he had said, "I'll get one better," and while he said it in his usual good-natured tone, he seemed to detect malice in his stare, something that went beyond mere jealousy over the horse. Perhaps jealousy of Tats' position as second-in-command in the gang, and perchance jealousy over his secret mission.

This made Tats aware of a daunting fact. He had vouched for Chalky (as well as Crabs) when Mr. Brass made it known to him that Chalky's name had rolled out of that worthless slug Stiches' mouth as one of five traitors in the gang. Now, he was beginning to repent his voucher. The very day after Sam had been slain, Chalky had begun mentioning some wholesalers from Sam's old organization that they ought to approach to make them customers.

There was nothing wrong with that as far as business was concerned, but just how did Chalky so quickly become aware of who these wholesalers were? Stitches had said Chalky was on Sam's payroll. Tats supposed there was a benevolent interpretation, which is that now that Sam was dead it would be impossible for him to be Sam's agent, and if he had been Sam's agent in the past perhaps he had repented of this mistake and was now just trying to use his old connections to help the gang move product faster.

And furthermore, who could blame him for having worked for Sam during the long period where Mr. Brass barely showed his face around the junkyard and they needed a new supplier? And who could justly expect him to come forward and announce that he had been previously working with Sam once Mr. Brass took over the gang as its official leader?

Perhaps those acts could be justified, but what if he had continued to work for Sam even after Mr. Brass took over? That would be a different story. And it was precisely what Stitches had accused him of. But even if it had been wrong then, there wasn't necessarily anything wrong with him utilizing his prior contacts now. After all, surely expansion was the goal. His current mission seemed to prove that. So, if Chalky wanted to utilize his prior contacts for the benefit of the gang, what was wrong with that?

What was wrong with it was that if Chalky had continued to work for Sam even after Mr. Brass took over that meant he had betrayed him once. And he who betrays once will betray again. He suspected that, if he even breathed a word of this to Mr. Brass, Chalky would be deader than a doornail within twenty-four hours. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted that on his conscience, especially since it was possible Chalky might have just been good at snooping on Sam's gang.

But if you keep your suspicions to yourself . . . ?

If he did that, Mr. Brass might end up getting assassinated, after which that ambitious Chalky would likely take over the gang and probably kill Tats just for spite, if his look today had been any indicator of what he thought about his superior rank.

Or, Mr. Brass might come to this conclusion separately and then think Tats a traitor and co-conspirator for not having come forward with this information. That could also bring death. Then and there, he made a snap decision. He would tell Mr. Brass just the bare facts, and it would be his job as leader to decide what to do about it.

As for now, he decided he would be better off focusing on his current mission and forgetting about Chalky. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry.

Tats' energy was sustained for about six hours, at which point his eyes began to droop again. He almost considered taking another sniff of Green, but he didn't want to make a habit of it. His plight was ameliorated by a glow in the sky which suggested the cruel night was finally breathing its last.

Tats then decided that a little assistance from Sleep would perhaps be the best remedy to his fatigue, rather than risking addiction to this pernicious substance. The thought of sleeping during the day also seemed less terrifying than in the cavernous night. He nudged Valiant over to a grove of trees, and as soon as it seemed they were safely tucked away from the sight of any passersby, he tied up Valiant, who then promptly lay down and breathed slowly and heavily.

Tats lay down against Valiant, using his warm, soft side as a pillow, and before he knew it he was out like a light.

Chapter 7

When Tats woke up it was sunny out, but he could tell right away that the zenith of the sun's ferocity had likely passed. He checked his watch and saw it was just slightly after 4 p.m. He patted Valiant on the side, and he quickly stood up and then parted company with a material whose stench gave Tats more than sufficient incentive to get moving away from there.

He untied Valiant, mounted him, and set off.

He found the pathway much easier to follow now, so he figured that was a sign he was getting closer to Sodorf City, as most people called it—though it was formally the City of Sodorf. He didn't feel any terrible aftereffects from the Green he had had last night, something he attributed to the very low dose he had taken. Nonetheless, he was amazed at the boost of energy it had given him at a time he was sure coffee would have delayed sleep no more than another thirty minutes.

His mind tried to wander back to the issue of Chalky, now that the road was clear enough (for it now seemed more than a mere pathway) to not require any significant amount of mental concentration, but he found this to be an extremely unpleasant topic, so he banished it. He instead began to direct his mental faculties towards the pleasant surroundings.

The green grass, the verdure of the forests, the blue sky all worked together to provide picturesque entertainment during what would otherwise have been a dreary journey.

About five hours later, just when the sun was beginning to rapidly succumb to nightfall, he started to see the outline of buildings. Not too much longer, he began to occasionally notice a passerby. Then, he could see lights from various building. Several minutes later, he entered the city proper.

He realized nighttime was the best time for him to seek out his sister if she was still engaged in the occupation that had been her mainstay before police problems had prompted her to seek a drastic change of venue. Rebecca Havensford was eighteen years Tats' senior. She knew all about the terrifying episodes of violence between Tats' mother and deceased father. She had seen many of them firsthand, and little slips in conversations over time had informed Tats that Rebecca had had her fair share of abuse herself from the old monster. And not just beatings.

But somehow Rebecca had emerged from it all tougher than nails. Of course, what Tats thought of as "tough" others may have thought of as terrifying. Tats had either never seen the almost demonic aura emanating from her eyes or had chosen to overlook it. All he knew was that Becca always took good care of him growing up, and he had missed her terribly when she left the country.

He had been about fifteen at the time and was now twenty-two. She had always "done what it took" to survive. Although Tats' mother had always been somewhat doting—at least as doting as a dirt-poor parent could be—she had been rough on Becca, and the two hated each other fiercely. Tats had quit school around age twelve, due to his mom's inability to pay the meager fees the school charged students to borrow textbooks (purchasing them was even further from being a financially viable option), so sixth grade had been the last year of his academic career, even though he was usually an A or B student.

Becca had given him a variety of jobs to keep him busy. He would let out a special whistle when the cops were coming to pay her establishment a visit. He had been a bit naïve at first as to what went on in the various buildings (the location changed about as regularly as a lady's hat), but he noticed all of Becca's workers were women and all the customers were men.

By the time a year or two had passed, he was well versed in the precise nature of her prostitution organization and knew that Becca was a well-respected madam who was able to provide pretty girls for a fair price. She also had a bit of a vicious reputation when dealing with anyone trying to bilk her.

Stories of noses being cut off, tell-all letters being sent to prominent clients' wives (in cases where such news would not be superfluous), and throats being cut abounded. There were stories of still more vicious acts, but Tats tried not to think about these things. People did have a tendency to exaggerate after all. But he realized she must have done something right because references to her being cozened were scarce, and whenever he heard people talk about her it was fear if not respect. And in Tats' mind, the difference was not particularly important.

But she had met her match when the chief of police's son had scammed her. He had run up a large bill after he and about ten of his high school buddies stopped in to celebrate their graduation. The way the story went, they only had enough to pay for about half their bill. Given the police chief connection, Becca would have likely been willing to let the bill wait for a time before escalating matters, but when Albert, the police chief's son, had told her, "My dad's the chief! What the hell are you gonna do about it?" she had answered his inquiry by throwing a small lasso around his neck—something she apparently kept hidden in the sleeve of her dress—and then, in no apparent hurry, slowly strangled the life out of Albert in front of his stupefied companions, who gaped and awed but dared not lift a finger to help wrest him from the clutches of the cold-blooded killer in front of them.

Becca could have easily used any one of the six hulking bodyguards present to dispatch the rotten Albert, but Becca had always felt some jobs you just had to do yourself. Albert apparently was one of those jobs. Witnesses said her eyes took on a calm glaze, suggesting she felt most at peace when separating one's soul from the body.

Nonetheless, she realized after doing so that she had outworn her welcome in Sivingdel. She stopped by Tats' house to say goodbye to him. Her mother wouldn't even let her inside, so Tats had to go outside. She explained that "some trouble" had happened and that she was going away for a while. She had told him her destination was Sodorf City, since she thought it was the closest place outside the country to ply her trade. She made him promise to keep it a close secret, something he realized he had partially broken by telling Mr. Brass her whereabouts.

But during the last seven years, the former chief of police was indicted for accepting bribes and sent to prison. Albert was missed by few other than his father, so the case quickly went from a high to a zero priority. Tats wondered why Becca hadn't come back. Perhaps she hadn't heard the good news, or perhaps she still thought it too risky. Tats couldn't even be sure she was still alive.

Chapter 8

From the moment Valiant set hoof inside the city, Tats could feel a certain energy. Within two blocks, he had seen at least two businesses that had to be brand new, so fresh and clean were their exteriors. And even those that weren't seemed as if they had been recently refurbished. But there was something else. It was in the air—invisible but nearly palpable. Perhaps it radiated from the people he passed on the streets, a kind of optimism. It certainly was a sensation he had never felt in Sivingdel.

He knew just what kind of establishment he needed to look for in order to begin his search for Becca, but that made it no less daunting. He didn't have even the slightest idea where such businesses were located, and his weak grasp of Sodorfian wasn't going to be the slightest help.

But as businesses of every time and locale often make liberal use of that medium which requires literacy in no language, Tats decided he would carefully scan the images outside each establishment for clues as to what services might be rendered therein. He also considered that any place selling alcohol would be a worthwhile object of investigation, especially if he did not soon encounter any locale that advertised the services of women in a more audacious manner.

Before entering town, he had made certain to carefully secure his large sample of Green (about a pound) within a hidden pocket on the inside of his right pant leg. The last thing he wanted was for some pickpocket to divest him of the only thing making this trek worthwhile.

After about thirty minutes, he had seen several saloons but not a single location openly offering the service of ladies. That didn't surprise him too much, as in Sivingdel such locations were usually only in the seediest parts of town, and most preferred to advertise by word of mouth, as that was also more preferable to the police and the general community.

By the time a full hour had gone by, he decided he was going to enter the next saloon he saw. About five minutes later, he saw one, tied up Valiant outside, and dismounted. He had paid several thousand falons for the rope used to tie up Valiant, as it possessed tightly wound steel threads in its center.

The seller had produced a sample, tied it between two points, and invited Tats to try his luck at cutting through it with the knife of his choice. Tats had pulled out his own dagger, which was sharp enough to shave with, and put all his back into it, sawing and hacking, but it had been of no use.

Tats had then happily purchased such a rope, and he felt it was worth every falon now, as it eased his mind considerably as he parted company with his beloved Valiant and headed towards the saloon.

He soon realized that finding his first whore was not going to be that difficult. There was a woman in his face practically before the door had even shut behind him. He didn't understand every word she was saying, but he felt he had the gist of it, so he simply asked, "How much?"

She giggled when she heard his accent, revealing a beautiful smile. She apparently seemed more confident in her Seleganian than his Sodorfian, so she responded in his language, "A hundred velurs, one hour," with no lack of awkwardness in her implementation of the Seleganian accent.

He wasn't quite sure what the falon was trading at relative to the velur, but based upon what Mr. Brass had told him he expected the nearly once-equal falon was now beginning to lag behind its foreign neighbor, so he pulled out 120 falons and asked, in Sodorfian, "Enough?"

She giggled slightly and nodded her head and then introduced herself as "Rose." He wasn't quite sure if he had accurately calculated the currency or if she merely had sympathy for her bungling foreign client. Either way, her soft fingers were soon interlaced with his somewhat calloused ones, and she was leading him towards a stairway.

The longer he walked with her, the more nervous he felt. He had come in here for nothing other than intelligence-gathering, and yet he could not ignore the fact that Rose was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life, far prettier, for sure, than any woman he had ever been with, and not that he had been with so many. Deep down, he was a bit of a romantic at heart, and while he had visited such establishments in Selegania enough times to make sure he had been properly educated on such matters, he had always hoped deep down to find a woman he could truly fall in love with.

While logic would clearly dictate Rose was not the one, the heart rarely listens to reason, and he felt his heart pitter-pattering at treble the rate of his footsteps. She was dark-haired, curvy but not ostentatiously so, and with sparkling white teeth and a kind countenance. As soon as they reached their destination, she quickly showed Tats a fiercer side, but that only served to further sequester his heart.

About forty minutes later, they both lay side by side, sweaty and talking in a combination of broken Sodorfian and Seleganian. Tats realized that around a year ago, before he met Mr. Brass, he would have been thinking about one thing and one thing only—the painful bruise $120 would leave on his wallet. But that was about as significant to him now as the purchase of a single piece of candy. He had a million falons buried in his miserable shack that he called his house, but he had been starting to look for a more suitable set of walls to call home.

The average man often says what he would and would not do in certain situations, but he is unaware of the drastic extent to which harsh financial realities shape his paradigm for what is, and what is not, practical behavior. Tats himself would have denied most vociferously a year or two ago what he was about to do.

Running his hands through Rose's hair, he looked at her in the eye and said, "Marry me."

Rose burst out laughing. She had had her fair share of older suitors, and they could perhaps be forgiven for presuming themselves capable of sweeping a damsel off her feet with their impressive displays of currency, but the audacity of this young, foreign man both amused and perplexed her.

"I your first?" she asked, giggling uncontrollably.

"No," Tats said, smiling but not laughing. "But I know what I want when I find it," he said with a relaxed, but confident, tone.

"You pay now," she said. It wasn't exactly a war cry, but her giggling was gone. She didn't want this young romantic getting hurt by one of the ferocious bouncers outside, but if it was going to come to that she supposed it would be better to have it happen sooner rather than later, as she herself had felt more than typically fond of this young man.

"Easy," Tats said in a soothing tone, as he put $500 falons into her hand with casualness of a man supplying a tissue.

Rose's head was certainly spinning now. She had taken this young man for a well-meaning young fool on a crash course with some rather nasty enforcers who worked for the establishment, but clearly this young man had a lot more to him than met the eye. She looked him over closely, wondering how her perception of him could have been so misguided the first time. There was a strength in his eye that she had missed, or perhaps he had been hiding it from her. But she saw it now.

Returning to her more jovial mood, she handed him back three of the one-hundred falon bills that he had given her.

"Tip too much you!" she said giggling.

"No, no," Tats said. "I need help." He handed her one of the hundred-falon bills back while simultaneously pushing a small picture in front of her face. It was a painting of Becca done about ten years ago. She had likely aged since then, but it was a lot better than a verbal description in broken Sodorfian.

Rose quickly pushed the picture back to him.

"Who are you? Policeman?!" she asked. She did not appear happy.

"Brother," he said, pointing to himself. "Sister," he then said, pointing to the picture.

Rose looked at him suspiciously. She had certainly never met such an intriguing customer. She was twenty-one and had been doing this job for five years. Whereas most in her profession spent their earnings on booze and cards—or on Smokeless Green, although that was a new phenomenon—Rose had saved a significant portion of money, for she had promised herself she wouldn't do this job more than ten years.

She studied his eyes closely, and sure enough, she did see a faint resemblance to the gaze of Rucifus, one of the most feared people in the underworld of Sodorf City and certainly the most feared woman. She was the madam of about half the city's brothels and of about nine-tenths of the upscale ones. Rose had only met her once up-close and seen her from a distance on half a dozen or so occasions, but the memory of her terrible gaze had seared itself into her memory like a scalding brand onto cowhide.

Yet in this young man, she saw only a semblance of that gaze. It contained much of the strength, but little of the malevolence. Her intuition told her he was telling the truth.

Tats noticed poor Rose was trembling slightly.

"It's okay," he reassured her. "She's my sister. I haven't seen her in many years," he said in Seleganian, hoping at least the gist of his message was understood.

She knew where Rucifus lived, although she wasn't supposed to. It was a large mansion in an affluent part of town, and a braggart client had once boasted to her of a magnificent party there. Sheer curiosity had prompted Rose to ask where it was, and the same force had prompted her to ride by it one day on horseback.

She had paused on her horse for a brief moment, looking at what little of the castle-like mansion could be seen from afar like a peasant gazing upon a royal palace. Rolling, well-manicured lawns added to the beauty of the palatial abode, although much of the view was blocked by tall pine trees along the edge of the property.

She wondered what it might be like to one day live in such a fine estate, but her reverie had been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a scowling guard, after which she had prodded her horse to move along quickly.

Tats sensed something was keeping Rose on the fence, so he put the other $200 falons into her hand. This time she clasped them tightly, for she now knew she was going to earn every last one of them.

"You remember," she began, with apprehension pulsating from her voice, "you never met me. You no know me. I not tell you anything."

Tats nodded.

"You leave now. Go drink downstairs or something. I leave 3 a.m. You wait outside. You follow but stay far. I stop in front of her house and fix hair. You turn around and go other direction. You no come back until next day. You hear?"

Tats nodded.

Chapter 9

Tats partially obeyed. He went downstairs and ordered a drink, but he sipped it really slowly. So slowly in fact that by the time an hour had gone by he had only finished half of it. Drinking had never really been his thing, and especially not on a night like tonight, where he wanted all his wits about him.

His discomfort grew to the point he decided this simply was not a place he wanted to kill time. He went outside to check on Valiant and to his great satisfaction found the noble beast waiting there good-naturedly for his master. He patted Valiant's side, mounted him, and took off on a very slow ride. His watch said it was just after 11 a.m., so he had some serious time to kill.

He dared not risk getting lost at a time when punctuality was so important to the aim of his mission, so he took none of the many turns proffered him as he rode up the street. He checked his watch and waited until Valiant had walked about an hour, and then he returned. He then repeated this, except reducing it to forty-five minutes each way.

By the time he returned it was just after 2:30 a.m. He wasn't sure whether to enter or stay outside. Either way, he figured there was some chance of somebody noticing he was following Rose and misinterpreting this as the act of a predator. He assumed the girls likely had some form of security to ensure that no overzealous client who confused the acts of a profession with the acts of affection pestered any of them when they left the confines of their establishment.

But he felt that if he didn't go inside Rose might think he had lost his nerve or interest, and if Rose concluded either, she just might leave the saloon with a troupe of girls and so blend in that Tats would be unaware she had ever even left. Or he might spot her, only to find that she returned to her own home rather than leading him to the home of his sister.

Thus, uncomfortable though he felt in the bar, he decided to reenter.

The bartender looked at him suspiciously when he sat down again, suggesting he had made less than a favorable impression by occupying space while consuming so little. Hoping to ameliorate the man, he ordered a box of the most expensive cigars and threw a generous tip in to boot, and that seemed to have the desired effect upon the bartender, who thereafter looked at him with pleasing benevolence.

Tats puffed away, not having towards tobacco any of the aversion he had to alcohol. After all, it had not been fits of tobacco-induced rage that had motivated his father to terrorize his family. He made it a point to give many of the passing girls the up and down so that when the true object of his interest passed it would not seem he had any unique interest in her.

His stratagem proved a bit risky at times, as any sign of interest towards the girls brought forth more reciprocated attention than he would have liked. Only with a generous tip and a little groping could he send them on their way without offending either their professional or physical vanity.

When Rose walked by at around 2:59 a.m. he acted as if he hadn't seen her, although he gratefully noted that she had clearly seen him. He took a long drag on his cigar and then blew a large circle through the air in the general direction of the bartender, but only so much so that it appeared he wanted the acclamation of the bartender rather than to envelope the man in the small cloud.

The bartender clapped approvingly of the aesthetic "O," and Tats earned further flattery once he handed the man an additional tip. Then, he bid adieu, in broken Seleganian, saying something to the effect of, "No honest man stays in the saloon past three." The bartender smiled politely, and Tats headed outside.

By the time he reached Valiant he noticed there were indeed multiple girls beginning to make their way out of the tavern. And, he remarked with an inward groan that there were some barrel-chested men with arms larger than his thighs scowling about, surely looking for any signs of trouble from overzealous customers.

He got more than one stern evaluation, but his quiet, sober demeanor quickly informed them he was no troublemaker. And they had seen him smoking and liberally tipping like a good customer at the bar, and generous tippers were always to be treated kindly.

"Have a good night, sir," one of the bouncers said.

"Thank you, sir," Tats responded, tipping his hat.

He had been glad that in one of the brief respites from their scrutiny of him he had already seen which direction Rose was heading in. She was riding a beautiful white horse, which should make it easier to follow, but he still didn't want to let her get too far ahead.

He calmly mounted Valiant, and around this time more people began spilling out of the bar, quickly diverting the scrutiny of the bouncers elsewhere. Tats was on the move.

He stayed a respectful block behind her but didn't want to stay much farther back than that, as a sudden turn down a small street followed by a subsequent turn might leave him suddenly lost in the middle of this city. In fact, Rose did suddenly make a turn, just as he was contemplating this possibility, but fortunately by the time he made the same turn he was able to see her still ahead.

Nonetheless, he tightened the distance a tad, as he noticed there were one or more turns Rose could have taken after the first turn that would have rendered her invisible in the night. Occasionally, a lone horseman or a carriage passed them by, but the streets were almost deserted.

For around thirty minutes, Rose the tour guide continued to take Tats—he hoped—closer and closer to the requested destination. She made a few quick turns that seemed to justify Tats' decision to tighten the following distance. In fact, even at the reduced following distance, Tats struggled to spot her after a couple of quick turns.

Then, for around twenty minutes there were no turns at all. Tats noticed there were no business establishments in the area, only houses. And it seemed the farther Rose went, the larger the houses were, for there was a continually greater gap between each one.

Finally, when it seemed this would continue until morning light, Tats noticed Rose slowing down. Tats instinctually brought Valiant to a complete halt and moved a bit to the side of the street. Sure enough, Rose stopped too and began to adjust her hair, as promised.

Tats would have been content to call it mission accomplished, but he noticed a little farther up the road there were some horses moving in Rose's direction. With that peculiar instinct that criminals are born with or acquire quickly in their careers, he reached into his stash of Green and extracted some. He felt for some odd reason that Rose might be in danger, and as he was no Mr. Brass, he thought he just might need every advantage he could get. Plus, another part of him rationalized, he just might need that extra boost figuring out how in the hell to find his way from here to a place of lodging.

He inched ahead slowly, keeping far to the side of the road, seeking refuge like some solitary creature in the shadows afforded by the trees. He could see now that there were two horsemen approaching Rose. One of them attempted to make conversation, and he could hear Rose mutter something while attempting to steer clear of their pathway.

They manifestly diverted their course to stay in line with hers. One of them whistled, and the other one cackled.

Tats sniffed the entirety of the portion he had grabbed in the dark from his stash, grabbed some more, and gave it to his horse. Then, he hopped back on and removed his large dagger from his boot. When he heard Rose scream, he threw caution to the wind.

He dug his knees in hard to Valiant's side, prodding him forward, a superfluous act, as Valiant had already sensed the interest his master had in the young damsel's distress. Valiant galloped forward viciously. Tats could see that one of the men had grabbed Rose and snatched her from her horse and placed her on his own. Tats noticed a buggy speedily heading their way, and he knew this was an organized kidnapping.

Valiant seemed to have formed his own plan of attack, independent of whatever instructions his master might give him, and so impressed was Tats by the conviction with which Valiant went charging towards the horseman not holding Rose that Tats felt obligated to at least let his noble beast demonstrate his strategy.

Tats barely held on to the reins as Valiant suddenly reared up, kicking the man savagely in the neck and face repeatedly, while standing on his hind legs. Blood shot from various wounds, and the malefactor went tumbling backwards, the back of his head softening his body's fall against the concrete. Valiant then went charging towards the man holding Rose.

She was trying to kick, scratch, and bite, but the man seemed imperturbed, as he resolutely brought his victim near the carriage, which, Tats could see, now had an open door, looking like the inside of a tomb into which Rose was to go.

Tats decided it was time to show Valiant he could take the offensive as well. With the reins still tightly clasped with his left hand and his dagger in his right, he leaped up on top of Valiant's back, and when he got near to Rose's abductor, he jumped through the air towards the man and sliced across his throat with his dagger.

Blood began to spurt out, sprinkling all over Tats' face. Tats landed awkwardly on the neck of the horse and quickly let himself fall to the ground—thankfully, feet first.

He then snatched Rose forcefully off the horse, lest it crash into the side of the buggy and hurl her to her death.

He directed her to Valiant and had her climb on top, as her own horse was about halfway down the block still, although it was sauntering sheepishly in the direction of the tumult.

Tats then noticed a man step down from the buggy seat. He reached for a cane, which Tats had no doubt would prove to be a formidable weapon against his short dagger. He had no intention to allow the cane to enter the contest.

He slashed viciously at the man's wrist and then quickly plunged his dagger to the hilt in the man's throat. The next thing Tats knew the buggy was taking off, being driven by someone who did not wish to take part in the gladiatorial contests.

When Tats turned around, however, he noticed that there were about thirty men surrounding him on all sides. Instinctually, he sensed they were not combatants or in any way involved with the would-be abductors.

"What's all the commotion for?" one of them asked.

Tats felt instinctively that a bold approach here was not only the best, but the only, course, especially considering that if he did not state the purpose of his business now he was sure to be seen as a threat if and when he returned here.

"The lady was being abducted by a group of villains. I merely did what any gentleman would have under the circumstances."

"Is that so?" asked a large, moustached man. His compatriots grinned and looked at him reverently, suggesting he was their leader.

Then, as suddenly as the man's snide sneer had reached its zenith, it disappeared.

"Wait a moment . . . come closer you!" he said, looking directly at Rose.

Tats pulled gently on Valiant's reins, bringing Rose closer.

"I know her," said the moustached man. "She works for the boss." Then, with his face softening considerably, he said, "Son, you just may have earned yourself a reward. Those men probably work for Howard Helmes, the boss's biggest competitor. Or, they may have just been predators. Either way, the boss don't like her goods damaged." He turned a hardened eye towards Tats as if to drive the point home.

"But", he said, his face growing suspicious, "there's still questions to be answered here. Rose don't live here. And I can't exactly say I've seen you around these parts. So, just what in the heck is Rose doing so far from home, and just who in the hell are you?"

Tats could tell the goodwill earned by his good deed had had a short but pleasant life.

"Who in the hell am I?" Tats repeated with authority and a small touch of disdain. "I am your boss's brother."

"Haaaaaaa!" The man let it out almost more like a dying rasp than a laugh before then doubling over briefly in a fit of giggles. "Now, listen, son. I kind of like you. Truth be told, I admire a guy who'll stick up for a woman, and I can see you can handle yourself pretty well, and I won't shortchange your horse none either. And if you were to tell me a believable lie—say, 'I was following this fine lass to her home with the intention of leaving her a rose on her doorstep along with a love note'—I'd let you go on your blessed way, and it would be the lady who would have to do her explaining to the boss as to what in the heck she's doing around here.

"But if you insist on getting smart, then I'm gonna start to dislike you real fast," he said. His eyes had a certain calmness about them that suggested inflicting injury was something he could do out of pure professionalism and without raising his voice.

"Bring a torch here," Tats said with authority.

Moustache beckoned one of his underlings, who came scurrying forward.

"Now, no funny business, mister," Moustache warned.

"None," Tats agreed. "I just want you to get a good look at me."

Moustache gulped once. He could tell his subject had no shortage of confidence, and he was beginning to second-guess his own skepticism.

Tats moved closer, until he was just six to eight inches away.

"Hold the torch close," Tats said, his eyes unwaveringly fixed on those of Moustache.

The man did as Tats ordered, and Moustache didn't so much as blink either.

"Are you going to tell me you see no resemblance?" Tats queried. "My name is David Havensford, although I go by 'Tats.'"

Tats could tell he was about seven-tenths of the way there. Moustache seemed a bit unnerved as he looked into his eyes, suggesting he did see an uncanny resemblance to a gaze he dreaded.

"Reach into my front left pocket," Tats calmly, but authoritatively, instructed the torchbearer.

"Am I gonna take orders from him all night?" Torchbearer groused.

"Do it," Moustache ordered calmly.

Torchbearer reached into Tats' pocket and extracted a small painting.

"Look at it," Tats said. "That's my sister, and that's your boss." Tats was privately hoping his vision had been correct when it had informed him he had seen several of these men issue from the property where Rose had signaled his sister's abode. If not, he was barking up the wrong tree.

Moustache blinked once. Tats was sure it had been the first time during their stare down.

"Take them inside. Secure them, but be gentle." He looked really calmly at Tats, the most conflicted balance of fear and aggression he had ever seen. He looked like he was about to say some threat like, You better be who you say you are, but bit his tongue at the last minute, perhaps as he thought of the possible consequences of him being who he said he was.

Several men approached Tats and Rose from behind. They ordered Rose to dismount from Valiant.

"We've got to take our precautions, understand?" Moustache said to Tats and then shook his head at one of his men who was getting ready to tie Tats' hands behind his back. The man then walked to Tats' and Rose's front and tied their hands in front of them gently.

"Bring them to the main door. I'll see if the boss wants to see them tonight or if it will have to wait for tomorrow."

Tats and Rose were led on foot, with Valiant and Rose's horse being included in the procession. They went up the street, entered through a large opened gate, and began walking up a road leading to the house.

It seemed the walk was nearly a mile, but Tats was mightily distracted by the breathtaking array of first-class manicured plants that adorned the sides of the road underneath the spotlight of the moon, as it seemed such scenes existed only in fairy tales.

As he neared the house, its grandeur quickly eclipsed that of the manicured gardens. Gold adorned the windows, and every angle and every spiral seemed as if they had been designed by the best craftsmen who ever lived.

"Wait here," Moustache instructed Tats, Rose, and the dozen or so men guarding them.

Chapter 10

Tats noticed he got a lot of hard stares from the other guards while Moustache checked on The Boss. Apparently, they had been less than impressed with Tats' bold act of claiming to be her brother, and if their looks revealed what was in their heart, they were hoping to beat him silly.

Rose looked at Tats with a confused countenance. Part of her wanted to smother him with kisses for putting his life on the line to save her from those creeps who wanted to do Kasani knows what with her, but on the other hand if he hadn't convinced her to signal The Boss's house she wouldn't have been in that situation in the first place and, most importantly, wouldn't now be in this situation.

Although the guards looked fiercely at Tats, they didn't dare make any threats, much less physically mistreat him or his accomplice in mischief. As for Tats, he kept his trap shut. He was brimming with energy on the inside, and it was torture to stay passively in this situation, but his mind felt clear in spite of its abundant energy that demanded an outlet, and he realized that he had appropriately seized the moment for oratorical audacity with Moustache and that the most prudent thing would be for him to wait until Moustache or Becca came outside.

Suddenly, a dozen more guards came spilling out of the mansion, all holding torches. They pulled Rose to the side, and several of them grabbed Tats from behind, holding him wholly immobile. Their torches, held near, illumined his face brightly.

"Heads will roll if this is a prank!" Tats heard a voice say. The Sodorfian pronunciation was pretty good, but he could spot exactly four slight giveaways in this short sentence alone that marked the speaker as being from Sivingdel, notably the rolled "r."

A frightening woman issued from the house, glasses on her face, her hair in complete disarray.

Then, she and Tats made eye contact.

"DAAAAVEY!!!!"

The woman went running towards Tats and gave him a bear hug.

"My little brother! I thought I'd never see you again!" she said, switching to Seleganian without even realizing it.

The malevolence in the guards' expressions turned to deference with a touch of fear. They were glad they had shown restraint.

"Well, you picked a strange time to come and visit, little brother!" the woman said.

"I wasn't exactly sure how to time the journey, Becca," Tats said. "It's my first time here. Heck, it's my first time outside of Sivingdel."

"Come, come inside. Who is your lady friend?"

"Oh, Rose is her name. We met tonight at a certain establishment, and I convinced her to allow me to escort her home. It turns out Rose has a bit of a sense of humor, so she decided to take me to what appears to be the finest neighborhood in the whole city, and one by one, she kept telling me, 'That's my house.' I almost fell for it a few times, since I had a bit to drink tonight, but it didn't take long for me to realize she was just having some innocent fun with a foreigner.

"She didn't mean any disrespect by it, Becca. She had no idea we were related. Well, I thought I'd play a little joke on her and pretend to be leaving her, so I turned around and started to ride away. Just at that moment, I heard some shouting, and I realized some guys were trying to kidnap her. Things got a bit ugly," Tats said, showing the blood covering his hands and shirt, "but we came through. That was where your men came outside, as there was quite a hullaballoo. I wish I could have made a smoother arrival."

Becca cast a glance at Moustache that more than sufficed to ask her unstated question.

"There was quite a scrap, Boss. Mr. Havensford can handle himself real well. Those men aimed to do Miss Rose here some harm. They were taking her away. Mr. Havensford's horse dealt with one of them. He took out another. The carriage took off though, so there must have been at least one of them left."

Becca shot a quick glance at Tats that told him the lie would suffice for now, but that she would need the real story as soon as they could speak in private.

"Well, my house is your house, brother, plus that of your guest—for tonight," she added, and Rose had no doubt whom the qualifying language was for. She also knew she had no prudent choice but to accept the offer.

"We'll have much to talk about tomorrow morning, brother. You are invited to a sumptuous breakfast at 9 a.m. I suspect more than fondness has brought you such a long way," she said with a shrewd smile.

"Frederick," she said, addressing Moustache, "send a dozen men after that carriage. Whoever's in it, take them alive if possible. Don't let your men come back empty-handed."

Moustache whistled sharply and began calling out names, all of whom then leapt on top of swift-looking horses and took off galloping.

The Boss then instructed Moustache to show David and his lady friend to the finest guest room.

As soon as the door was shut, Tats told Rose, "I'm sorry I got you into this, but everything's going to be fine. I know my sister, and I know she didn't believe the lie I told. That was just for the benefit of the guards because it didn't make her lose face. I'll tell her the real story, just as it happened, and I promise you no harm will come to you. I know my sister."

He noticed Rose was sweating profusely. She seemed in fear for her life. Tats, like many men in an awkward situation with a female, felt he had two options, both of which were doomed to fail. He could offer her money for her troubles, but that would possibly insult her, given that he had already paid her for what she agreed to do, and it might make it look like there was no part of her being that could not be purchased.

Yet, if he offered her no compensation for her troubles, she would think him a thoughtless savage.

He decided he would go for some hybrid approach. "Look, Rose, I'm really sorry," he began while casually going for his wallet. "This is way more of a mess than what you agreed to get into. Please let me make it right," he said, extending her a few thousand falons.

"I agreed to do a task for a certain price, and you've already paid that price. I knew it had risks. That's why it had a high price. If I accepted that money you have in your hand, you would turn me into your debtor."

Tats noticed a few tears roll down her cheek.

"In fact, I'm already in your debt," she said. "I'd be well on my way towards becoming a murdered, raped corpse if those men had taken me. Thank you." Rose approached him and gave him a hug.

Electricity shot through Tats' body. He felt sensations in some ways far powerful than what he had felt at the bordello, and yet here he was fully clothed hugging a clothed woman. But there is a world of difference between the affection of the heart and the affection of the coin, and Tats now knew he was getting a small taste of the former.

Rose then pulled away from him slightly. "I'm dead anyway. Your sister's not going to like that I signaled her house."

"I'll take care of Becca," Tats said authoritatively, looking her directly in the eye.

Rose felt more assured than she thought she could have, but the doubt was not entirely extinguished.

"I'll sleep on the floor," Tats proffered.

"There's no need to be so chivalrous, David," Rose said, unimpressed, and went to bed.

Tats, feeling very small, yet very much in love with this spirited woman, slinked into bed but stayed far to the opposite side. Not so much as a hair made contact.

Chapter 11

It was an uncomfortable night for Tats. He would have liked to sleep, but Smokeless Green had other plans. He felt about as tired as a man who just chugged a gallon of coffee, in spite of the fact hours had now elapsed since he had fortified his mind and body with the powerful green substance.

He didn't even bother tossing and turning. Those are the desperate acts of an insomniac who believes sleep within his grasp. Tats had the presence of mind to know it was miles away.

When dawn arrived, he went to the door and opened it, thinking he would have the house to himself while he went downstairs. A guard was patrolling the hallway and respectfully asked Tats if he could be of service. Tats told him to take him to the breakfast area so that he could be there as soon as his sister was available.

The guard led Tats outside to a large balcony and then left him in peace. Tats surveyed the beauty of the backyard, admiring it far more even than the front of the house. A hill swooped downwards, leading to a large forest. Tats felt like a king perched on top of his castle.

"Like the view, brother?"

Tats spun around. The guard must have told Becca he was awakened.

"It's beautiful, Becca!" Tats said sincerely.

Becca laughed. "No one's called me that in years," she said, her eyes slightly moist. A sight few, if any, had ever seen in those spheres whose gaze usually cut through a man's soul.

"Why did you lie about how you found my house?" There was a somewhat murderous glint in her eyes, although Tats knew all too well it wasn't directed towards him.

"That was for the benefit of your guards. They wouldn't have believed the truth. You wouldn't believe anything but the truth."

Becca looked intrigued.

Tats produced the picture he had shown Rose.

"I showed her this, and then I showed her these," Tats said pointing to his eyes. "How could she not believe I was your brother?"

The fierceness that had danced on her eyes seemed to evaporate, but Tats knew Becca. He wasn't quite done saving Rose just yet.

"She's loyal through and through, sis. I told her it was urgent. I told her I hadn't seen you in years. She must have looked back and forth between my eyes and the picture at least ten times before I convinced her."

Becca seemed near complete calmness now, but Tats knew he had just a couple finishing touches left.

"I also told the lie about her just pretending to live around here because I knew you would never allow it to be stated in front of witnesses that someone had led another to your house without your permission. If I had said that in front of the guards, you would have no choice but to kill her. They believed the story that she was just being silly and tricking me into thinking she lived around here."

Tats looked long and hard at Becca. "She helped me, sis. If not for her, I'd be roaming around every bar in this city, just waiting to get robbed or killed."

That imagery brought a shudder to Becca.

"Okay, Davey. You played your cards well. No harm will come to Becca unless she ever brags or even hints that she brought someone to my house without my express permission first."

Tats hugged her.

"Just so you know, sis, I like Rose. I plan to call on her from time to time. If I were to suddenly be told she stopped working at that fine bordello, I would suspect you."

A craftiness passed briefly across Becca's eyes. Then, with a sincerity that convinced even Tats that he had truly obtained Rose's safety, Becca said, "She'll be safe, as long as she never talks about this incident."

Tats knew not to push the matter any further.

"So, what is it that brings my brother here on such an adventure after seven years apart?"

Tats knew that when it came to business you had to cut right to the chase with Becca or—brother or not—she would get very impatient. He reached right into his secret pocket, extracted the pound of Green he had (though it had been slightly reduced by his two emergency uses) and handed it to her.

Becca put the bag close to her nose and smelled it, but not with enough force to inhale any of the fine, sand-like particles.

"It's quality Smokeless Green. This stuff has been getting hard to come by. Not too long ago, you could buy it in any convenience store. Now, getting it is sort of like finding a unicorn."

"Mr. Brass said for you to keep this pound no charge. See if you can distribute it."

"Mr. who?" Becca said. "Just what have you gotten yourself involved in, brother?"

"What I've gotten myself involved in is the opportunity of a lifetime." Tats could see she was skeptical.

"I've been doing business with Mr. Brass for less than a year, and I'm a millionaire now."

Becca looked at Tats like she wanted to burst out laughing, except his eyes suggested he was telling the truth.

"Just recently," he said, and then fanned out a rather dense stack of thousand-falon bills to show he was not lying.

Tats had Becca's attention. She had been in the prostitution business for many years before she earned her first million. She was now forty years old, and it hadn't been until about four or five years ago that she earned her first million. That was after she took out a competitor and acquired numerous bordellos in one fell swoop. Now, she was learning her baby brother had just earned his first million. Yes, Rebecca Havensford's attention was piqued.

"How does Mr. Brass know about me?" Becca asked suspiciously.

"He doesn't know your name or anything about you. He simply said he wants to start exporting this product to Sodorf because with the gold mine discovery the economy here is going to take off, and there are going to be a lot of potential buyers."

While Becca had initially been suspicious of this Mr. Brass character, she was instinctively beginning to like him.

"He told me the only problem was he knew of no contacts in Sodorf to export to. I told him that I did and that this person could move all the product he could ship. I told him that this wasn't my contact's normal area of expertise but that I could convince her it was the right way to go."

"Can I trust this man?"

"He saved my life twice and saved me from the cops once. He's a gentleman to those who treat him with respect . . . and deals with those who don't."

"I see you admire him greatly."

"I do. He can fight with his hands like a pro boxer and like a knight with a sword. He's been teaching me."

Becca had to suppress a hypocritical instinct to tell David to get out of the criminal lifestyle while he still could, but she realized she herself had involved him in parts of her criminal organization at an age when he should have just been starting middle school. It was a bit late for her to sermonize.

"I'll check around a little and see how easily I can get rid of this quantity. I'm getting a bit old to be switching business lines. Selling love has always been my forte. Please stay a few days before heading back."

"I will," Tats agreed.

Chapter 12

Over the next few days, Tats spent a lot of time in a large library inside Becca's home. He felt a strange sense of power having such knowledge within the reach of his fingertips, and he devoured large portions of many books, as he knew his stay would be too short to permit him to read many books in full.

Becca showed him all around the city so that he would be better acquainted with it for future visits. There were lavish dinners every evening, along with hired musicians and plenty of dancing. Tats awed at the power of his sister. She was driven around in a fine coach, had great wealth, and was treated with considerable respect by everyone, above all her large number of employees, which seemed to be divided perfectly in half between work of a security and a domestic nature.

Tats went and visited Rose every day at the bordello, and she seemed pleased by his company, but Tats decided not to mention the topic of marriage again. He had felt somewhat foolish at the time he had done so, and significantly more so once he had the benefit of reflection, but every time he felt the power of her dark brown eyes, gazed on the dazzling beauty of her dark black hair, and experienced the passion of her body he never failed to remember why he had been so swept off his feet as to propose to her on their first encounter. He knew he was going to miss her when he left Sodorf City.

On the fourth night of Tats' stay at Becca's mansion, she approached him with a visage that foretold some urgent news or request. "Brother, how quickly can you acquire more?"

"I think Mr. Brass is ready to consider you his priority client immediately, why?"

"It's provoked far more interest than I ever could have imagined. I started out just giving away some free samples to some of my high-end clients, the word spread, and I made $30,000 velurs. It's not that that is such a large amount of money to me. It's the potential I'm interested in. I already have people practically demanding more."

"That's great, although I must say I'm intrigued as to why the demand is so high. Is this substance difficult to acquire in Sodorf City?"

"To acquire no. But to acquire at this quality, yes! Many clients have told me this is at least several times more potent than the Smokeless Green they're used to. It's practically a different product. I've heard a few call it Fiery Green, although we'll see if that name sticks. All I know, brother, is that I need some of this fast, or I'm gonna have some unhappy clients."

Tats wasn't sure how well Mr. Brass would like the sudden change in plans. He knew Mr. Brass was eager to get this exportation started but was also having some temporary supply difficulties. He didn't want to commit Mr. Brass to an appointment earlier than the October 17 date he had requested without first running it by him, but he also knew that it wasn't exactly going to be practical to be going back and forth to negotiate meeting times.

Brass had sent him down here to get a job done, and that made Tats his agent. Brass was going to have to give him some leeway to adjust based upon changed circumstances. Nonetheless, he felt he should at least try for the October 17 deadline.

"Sis, would October 17 be possible to swing? Mr. Brass wants to get this relationship started as soon as possible, but he's having some supply issues, which he assures me are temporary."

Tats watched his sister's face sour, and so he then added, "It could be that a small delay might serve to further stimulate your clients' appetites. Mr. Brass is a man of his word, and I know he wouldn't have sent me all the way down here and arranged a commission basis for all future transactions if he didn't think this was really important. If he says October 17, it's because he will be ready no later than that date. You could go ahead and let the word spread and tell your customers you will be able to provide steadily after that date."

Becca's face softened some, but he realized for the first time what it was that caused so many people to tremble in her presence. He perceived that at this moment he was dealing with Ms. Rucifus, the businesswoman, not Becca, his sister. Her fearsome countenance chilled the back of his neck.

"October 12, no later."

Tats' gut told him she had seen the logic in his statement about building up consumer interest by a brief delay in supplying this higher-quality product and that her impatient response had little to do with sheer business necessity and everything to do with making sure Mr. Brass knew from the get-go she was a woman who dickered hard, even with equals, and that she didn't take marching orders from anybody. .

"I'll do what I can."

"It's a one-time, take-it-or-leave-it offer. October 12. 8 p.m. My house."

Tats paused for a moment before speaking. He noticed Becca's face had a combination of aggression and ostensible apathy towards how Mr. Brass would receive the ultimatum, suggesting she was willing to walk away from the whole thing for good if he objected to an iota of her counteroffer. Her stubbornness vexed him.

"I'll tell him, Rebecca," he said coldly. "I'll leave early first thing tomorrow morning."

"Goood, brother," she said, smiling. Becca was back.

"Oh, there's one more thing," Tats said, and then he told her about Brass's attire for that day and his insistence regarding the use of memorized scripts so that they would both know they were dealing with the right person.

"That, I can manage," Becca said. "I'll send Sarah up to give you a massage to relax you and make sure you sleep like the dead tonight. Should I have a servant wake you up at any particular time tomorrow?"

"Yes, 6 a.m." Tats responded, a bit coldly, but the prospect of a massage thawed some of the ice in his spirits.

"Don't be bitter, brother," Becca said, having obviously sensed Tats' displeasure. "You're still a boy. I'm going to teach you how to negotiate in the business world." Condescension of the statement notwithstanding, Becca delivered it with a maternal sweetness that made it sound positive.

Tats wasn't sure what cue had been given to summon the masseuse, but when he saw her his naïve infatuation with Rose slipped away from his mind. At least temporarily.

Tats did sleep like the dead that night, and at 6 a.m. sharp he was able to respond vigorously to his wake-up call. He was fortified with a breakfast of toast, eggs, and sausage, and supplied with a generous amount of fruit and jerky.

Valiant had been well cared for during Tats' stay and was full of energy when the two of them set off briskly towards Sivingdel at 7 a.m. on October 8.

He knew this would be cutting it close. He had discovered from his trip down here that it took a little over thirty hours of riding time. He didn't plan on using any Smokeless Green on the way back, so he figured he would aim for about fourteen hours of riding time per day.

That meant he would probably get to Sivingdel late morning or early afternoon on October 10, and since he didn't know how to find Mr. Brass other than waiting for their daily 9 p.m. meeting, Mr. Brass would probably have less than forty-eight hours to comply with Becca's meeting.

But while Tats didn't know the full details of the what and how, he knew Mr. Brass had access to some form of aerial transportation, as that was clearly the only feasible explanation for how he had extricated himself from the alleyway the night the two of them were nearly killed after having been set up by Stitches.

Thus, he didn't feel Mr. Brass was going to have any trouble making that deadline if he was inclined to do so.

Chapter 13

Chief Benson sat at his desk early in the morning sipping coffee. He was in a devil of a mood.

He was starting to realize that perhaps he had permitted his optimism to run a bit wild because he had been elated after the death of Heavy Sam. He had been growing more and more concerned that he was going to become a bullied puppet for that freak rather than a well-paid collaborator.

He had felt—and still felt—that he would have a much better working relationship with Mr. Brass, and as soon as he had heard of Heavy Sam's death he had hoped that he would soon be hearing through his contacts that Brass had consolidated his grip on the city's underworld, at which point Benson would send an emissary to the highest member of Brass's organization that he could get to and politely request a meeting to discuss their mutual interests.

However, there had been no such news. On the contrary, the underworld in Sivingdel was in a state of disarray. Around ten or so of Sam's top guys had gone completely solo and were duking it out over who was going to be top dog. Although he had never known who Sam's connection was, the word on the street was about three of Sam's top guys knew and were able to establish it once Sam kicked the bucket.

That obviously put them miles ahead of their other competitors, but it certainly didn't mean they should be sleeping well at night. Each individual in this trio was at great risk of being murdered by one or both of the others, since success in taking out one competitor would greatly increase his market share and taking out both competitors would likely assure him dominion over Sam's old empire in one fell swoop. Thus, any of them who were not attended around the clock by competent, loyal guards were dead men walking.

But they didn't just have each other to worry about. Their seven inferior competitors were no laughing matter. The word on the street was some of them were seeking connections outside Sivingdel. Others were grudgingly buying from the trio. His sources told him this was mostly done on a rotating basis, as they had no desire to help any of the trio in their quest for absolute power. On the contrary, they were merely biding their time until the right opportunity for assassination presented itself.

And there were even a few who hoping to join Mr. Brass's gang. The fight between these Brass and Sam had quickly become the talk of more than just the underworld. Secondhand and then thirdhand descriptions of the epic brawl to the death between these two juggernauts had already become the stuff of legend. Benson wondered whether it would only be a matter of time before the National Boxing Commission sent out a recruiter to divert this prodigy from a life of crime to a life of societally condoned violence and glory, or perhaps ordered an investigation to see if one of its existing champions was moonlighting as a drug dealer in Sivingdel, so grandiose were the descriptions of Brass's pugilistic abilities.

This all whetted Benson's appetite mercilessly to meet the mysterious Brass, and it further reinforced his theory that this was no lifetime criminal. There was no field he knew better than criminology, and men with boxing talent such as Brass's ended up in championship matches, not duels to the death with rival kingpins.

Every rule had its exceptions, and he had occasionally come across—in his decades'-long career—a talented boxing champion-in-the-making who had deviated from that path due to being kicked out of his local boxing club for troublemaking or even banned from boxing entirely for that reason. Such men earned a name for themselves before turning twenty and then were usually dead or in prison by age thirty.

Brass didn't fit that profile. He was by all reports a man who appeared to be in his early thirties and who had appeared in the underworld as impromptu as a lightning bolt on a sunny day. Something had pushed this man into a life of crime only recently. Of that, Benson was sure, for otherwise he would have already become a legend long ago.

Perhaps he is an ex-boxing champion who is selling Smokeless Green to support his habit or pay off some debts.

It wasn't a bad theory, but if he were an ex-champion, he probably would have enough money to buy Smokeless Green at one of the few elite clubs that only permitted gentlemen. But he knew that wasn't necessarily the case, as these clubs usually only accepted the wealthiest of the wealthy, something that usually didn't happen to your average ex-champion. An athlete would only find such doors open to him if he were a legend. And because only these elite clubs provided Smokeless Green lawfully, even those men who were legally "gentlemen" under SISA were reduced to purchasing it on the street, although they themselves were committing no crime in the act of doing so.

Still, somehow this didn't quite fit either. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but this Brass character didn't seem like the drug addict type. He didn't have a direct informant inside the Junkyard Gang yet, but what he was able to learn through secondhand and thirdhand sources painted the picture of a calculating businessman, not a wild drug addict.

Benson's sour mood was also due to the fact that since Sam's death he had lost the lucrative side salary that he had grown quite accustomed to, and he was eager for a replacement, as otherwise early retirement would be out of the question, and he was already growing displeased with the increasingly dangerous nature of the job.

Crime in almost every category was up.

This was unacceptable. It was one thing to take payoffs from a kingpin with near monopoly control of the underworld. That was not only lucrative but beneficial to the residents of Sivingdel. Crime had actually been going down under Sam's reign. Something told Benson that Mr. Brass could do even better, but that was a moot point now.

The word was that Mr. Brass was struggling to step in and truly take advantage of the situation, due to supply problems. This was bad both for Mr. Brass and Benson. Here, Brass could probably acquire three of Sam's former wholesalers without so much as an argument. And once those forces were united, it was likely several more would do the same, as they would rather serve under the man who battered Sam to a pulp than to his erstwhile subordinates, even if for no reason other than vanity.

And once that happened, Mr. Brass would have all the muscle he needed to take care of the others. And better than that, he would have Benson's full backing. Selective policing was a valuable military tool for an up-and-coming kingpin. Benson was sure he could convince Brass of this axiom and that it was worth paying a pretty falon for.

Brass's supply problem convinced Benson all the more that this was no career criminal, and in fact he feared Brass might be getting in a bit over his head. He would like to meet him as soon as possible to find out how long this supply problem was going to last. After all, if you didn't have the proper connections to supply the city, you had no business getting into duels with freakish monsters like Heavy Sam. There was no cash prize to be awarded after such victories, just new market share. And if you didn't have the product to fill that market share, you not only risked your life in the process of acquiring it, but then put your life at greater risk for having earned a name for yourself.

He wondered if Brass knew just how much trouble he was potentially in. Before, he was barely a dot on the map. Now, he was one of the most well-known players in the city, even though he apparently didn't have the ability to expand beyond his small-time junkyard clique. With Sam's death he had gained the chance of a series of subsequent bloodless victories, but every day that went by where he furthered his reputation as unable to provide outside his small circle he put himself in increasing danger.

Sam had only agreed to duel him because Sam was larger than three average men glued together, he was embarrassed by his failed assassination attempt, was restrained by Benson from carrying out an all-out invasion and massacre within the junkyard, and he had underestimated Brass's fighting capabilities. Benson knew that Brass was unlikely to settle any future quarrels by a semi-fair, one-on-one duel. Furthermore, Benson had no control yet over any of these vying kingpins. This meant that the moment they stopped seeing Brass as a potential boss they would see him as a target to be eliminated by assassination.

Benson wasn't sure how much time Brass had before that happened, but Benson had his own timeline he was dealing with. He had told his officers not to look the other way anymore when it came to brazen drug dealing, since all bribe money had dried up (he called this "their bonuses").

He didn't want any of them needlessly risking their lives arresting violators of The Gentlemen's Law, as he called it. Yet he knew that the violence between the vying kingpins was likely to start picking up in intensity very soon, and he wasn't going to stand by and let his city get turned into a battlefield.

The underworld needed consolidation . . . and fast.

Chapter 14

Chalky was walking down the street towards his agreed-upon meeting location with Slim Face. He had Crabs and three others with him for backup, but he wasn't expecting anything too dicey. Slim had been a straight shooter so far.

Chalky walked ahead of the fivesome with the cool confidence of a man who had been elected leader long ago and had never so much as brooked a dissatisfied look from a subordinate. He took a sudden right turn, leading the group down a dark alleyway. The location for each meeting had been changing regularly lately, suggesting Slim was worried about too many people knowing his location on any given night.

Once they got near the end of the alley, Chalky performed a series of knocks that seemed anything but random: rap rap RAP rap rap rap RAP.

A window shade raised just enough to allow a pair of dark eyes, like those of an alligator peering slyly above the water, to gaze distrustfully at them. Then, the window shade fell.

The door opened about a minute later, and Slim appeared, surrounded by about a dozen bodyguards.

"Product," Slim said tersely.

"My man, Slim!" Chalky said good-naturedly, reaching for Slim's hand, but this gesture was met only by a fierce stare from the tall, wiry Slim, who looked like this meeting couldn't draw to a close soon enough for him.

"All right, all business as usual . . . I can dig that!" Chalky said, somewhat obsequiously.

But then his gaze became as hard as Slim's, and he said, "Money!" with a challenging look in his eye.

Slim didn't flinch, nor did he seem offended. He kept his eyes glued on Chalky unblinkingly, but one of Slim's associates revealed a thick wad of thousand-falon bills.

There seemed to be a bit more tension in the air tonight, though no one seemed to know why. Crabs felt that perhaps Chalky was getting a little too big for his britches lately, Slim was perhaps sensing it, and the result was two street dogs sizing each other up.

"Well, let's do half at a time then," Chalky said, tossing ten pounds of Green towards Slim.

Slim caught it without shifting his gaze an inch from Chalky's.

One of Slim's men looked at him anxiously and interpreted his silence as acquiescence to the proposal. He then handed $130,000 falons to Chalky.

Chalky then tossed the other ten pounds to Slim. His lackey looked up again at Slim, like a man looking towards the top of a tree, and once again he interpreted his silence as a go-ahead signal. He handed the rest of the wad to Chalky, who immediately began counting the money greedily.

"You know the only reason I'm buying from you, don't you, Chalky?"

Chalky's greedy expression turned sour. He suspected an unpleasant answer was imminent, and he didn't intend to help coax it out of his tormentor.

"It's because Mr. Brass sells the highest-quality product in this city. People are realizing that rather quickly. The Trio think they've got it made going to Sam's old connection while greedily hiding that source from their former equals, but the way I see it they're going down the wrong trail. I know of a connection in Selgen who will sell to me a hell of a lot cheaper than you, but Mr. Brass sells top quality. I could cut it many times over and still keep my customers happy, but why do that when I can charge extra and make them ecstatic?"

Silence.

"I sure wish I could do business with Mr. Brass directly."

The mood was far more sour than it had been even just a minute ago. Crabs wondered why Slim was being so gratuitously rude to Chalky. Perhaps they had beef he didn't know about, but he suspected the reason was he was hoping his words made it back to Mr. Brass so that he could impress him with his flattery and start dealing with him directly.

"Right now, I'm the number two guy!" Chalky said vehemently. "And don't go putting Brass on a pedestal. He's a better boxer than gang leader. What I sold you just now was all he could come up with tonight. He told me he's hit a snag or something, and that twenty pounds is all he can do." Chalky was silent for around five seconds before letting out a loud "Hah!!!!" and began laughing.

"That's some man you're so impressed with, Slim. I'm gonna have to go buy from Razors tonight just to take care of my retailers, and because I hooked you up with the good stuff, they're gettin' the normal stuff. Which means they ain't gonna be too happy. In fact, they're gonna be pissed. But nonetheless, Brass says I'm gonna owe him a ten percent tax on anything I sell, even if I buy it with my own money. Tell me, Slim—where's Mr. Brass right now? At home, maybe with his wife and kids? Going to bed early?

"I'm telling you, Slim, you admire the guy too much. This is the street, not a boxing ring. So, he whipped Sam. I'm impressed. I really am. But this is business, and he can't deliver, yet you practically worship this guy you've never even met. Let me tell you something, Slim, what I buy and sell with my own money ain't getting' hit with no tax, much less ten percent!"

He looked at Crabs and the others laughing, hoping to see them joining in his derision of Brass's orders earlier that night. Instead, they look pale-faced.

"These cowards . . . I tell you, Slim—they must think Mr. Brass is a ghost or somethin' and can spy on us anytime." He then turned a vicious eye towards Crabs and the others. "What—are you gonna rat me out if I make a few falons without Brass picking my pocket? Why let this SOB push us around?"

Crabs and the others were looking down, to the side, and in any direction other than that of Chalky. He seemed to have lost his mind, but they didn't want to cross Chalky either. This was all happening too fast.

"Tell Mr. Brass I'm honored he permitted you to sell me these twenty pounds, even though that means his retailers are going to suffer. Tell him I'll make it up to him by selling his product to his retailers until his snag is over. I'll swallow my pride and buy from The Trio in order to take care of my own retailers, and that way I'll prevent you from doing anything stupid like buying and selling without paying Brass's tax. I'm saving your life, Chalky. You should say thanks."

"You arrogant . . . stupid . . . son of a bitch!" Chalky fumed. "First of all, Brass doesn't even know his product is better, and yet you're falling all over yourself trying to kiss up to this so-called businessman just because he beat Sam in a fight. Look, they don't call him Brass for nothin'. He hit Sam with brass knuckles, which means he won by cheatin', and that ain't exactly winnin'."

"I was there, you inflated, no-account egomaniac, and Brass didn't use any weapons until after Sam was already dead. And you're not second-in-command. Tats is second in command, and I hear he's gone on business. No one ever elevated you to anything, but these guys here apparently don't have the spine to oppose your self-election. I just hope they tell Brass about this conversation we had tonight. I've been saying everything I've said for their benefit. On your account, I wouldn't even waste my breath."

Boom. The door slammed shut.

An icy chill descended upon the sixsome as if a pound of snow had just been stuffed down the back of their shirts. No one dared breathe a word.

After about half a minute of awkward foot shuffling and people looking at Chalky until he looked back at them—at which point they quickly looked away—Chalky decided to break the ice.

"That guy's got some nerve thinking he can cozy up to Brass like that! Brass works with whomever he pleases."

Awkward silence.

"Can you believe the nerve of that guy—saying he's gonna go sell to Brass's retailers without his permission? That guy's lookin' for trouble. That's what he's looking for."

To their relief, Chalky began walking towards the end of the alley. The treasonous words they had heard come from Chalky's mouth weighed about their necks like invisible chains attached to large cement blocks. To tell Brass was to kill Chalky. To not tell Brass was to commit treason against a man they admired as much as Slim claimed to and thereby put their own lives at risk.

As they gloomily walked towards the street, their melancholic introspection was interrupted by a loud SMAACK!!

In front of their eyes, Chalky's head exploded into a cloud of blood, and a large rock went smashing into the ground. He never even made so much as a peep. Four of the five survivors went sprinting off like antelope that have smelled a lion, but Crabs somehow had the presence of mind to reach into his deceased associate's left jacket pocket and extract the $260,000 falons he had just acquired.

Then, he ran as swiftly as his fellows, but after a block he began to walk slowly and casually, sensing that a sprinting man was likely to attract unwanted attention from the police, after which he would likely lose the companionship of the money currently lining his pockets.

Chapter 15

"Just Chalky?" Righty asked Harold. They were on the peak of one of the mountains surrounding his ranch. Words could not express the love he had for the combination of beauty, solitude, serenity, and power he felt atop the voluptuous body of one of these magnificent creations.

"You said to use my discretion," Harold replied and then explained everything he had overheard while circling high above the alleyway in pitch blackness like a mythical demonic creature listening for the slightest traces of treason with a large stone in each talon, ready to inflict the sentence of death upon whomever he deemed it fitting.

Righty felt particularly intrigued by Slim's positive remarks, given that he had no reason to believe Righty had a spy present, but he wasn't going to seek him out as a client just yet, not until his supply problems were alleviated. He felt relieved Harold had overheard the treasonous words because, while his gut instinct had told him that Chalky was a snake in the grass whose head needed to be crushed before it inflicted a fatal bite on Righty's ankle, he wasn't comfortable passing out death sentences based upon mere gut suspicion.

Righty then suddenly felt an insatiable curiosity for the wellbeing of his most trusted associate, Tats. "Let's go check on him!" Righty said to Harold.

Such would usually be fitting talk only for a drunken fool, but Righty's whim was made reality. Harold, with one of the full konulan families as company (the rest were divided between their various surveillance duties at the ranch, the garden, and Righty's home), flew south of Ringsetter, and within less than half an hour they spotted the lone traveler bravely making his way southward towards Sodorf City.

Harold informed him the moment Tats sniffed some Smokeless Green, and Righty felt both guilt and worry, as he realized Tats was likely doing so to fight off fatigue, even though Righty could have landed him at his destination many hours ago. But trust, like physical strength, can only be developed and maintained by vigorous exercise, and in this sordid business even the trust of someone like Tats had to be regularly put to the test.

Nonetheless, he was concerned about Tats' wellbeing during this dangerous journey, so he asked for ten konulan volunteers to keep a constant watch on him and to report to Righty immediately if Tats was in danger.

Righty returned home and was in bed with Janie before 11:30 p.m. and even managed to squeeze a half-hour or so of pleasant conversation out of her before they both fell headlong into sleep in each other's arms.

Chapter 16

The next week was a bit of a blur for Righty. He went to the ranch every day after his morning sword practice, and once there he rolled up his sleeves, donned his work boots, and labored feverishly in the fields.

Righty was ecstatic that the barrels of seed managed to supply far more than the five acres he had originally envisioned. Well before the week had passed, a full twelve acres were planted, and Righty would have watered them every day if not for the fact it rained at least two to three times per day there. He was no farmer yet, but this seemed to be about the best terrain he could have hoped for. It was warm, but not scorching hot, and while the rain was regular and kept the ground moist, so far there were no merciless torrents threatening to wash away his nascent crop.

He had decided firmly within just a couple of meetings with these ranch hands that they held infinitely more potential for being a future fighting force than the junkyard gang in case things were ever to get really ugly in this business. They were a lot like him: not criminals through and through, but men that realized sometimes you had to break a rule now and again to get ahead. But more importantly they were hard workers and weren't used to chasing the quick falon, which he had concluded was the vice of the typical street criminal and the source of his fickle loyalty.

In order to strengthen his bond with the men, he began spending a couple hours each evening engaging in archery contests and sword practice. He was finding the sword practice to be particularly helpful. Although he enjoyed practicing the sword sequences that Pitkins taught him by himself, he felt his physical and mental faculties uniquely challenged in the friendly, yet vigorous, sparring matches. They used wooden swords and donned helmets and other protective gear, which enabled them to spar with enthusiasm yet without injury.

He found the ranchers surprisingly skilled with their swords. He could beat half of them but only with maximum effort. Of the half that could beat him, there were ten who did so barely, and five who did so easily. He intended to request Pitkins that they begin some sort of similar sparring practice in order that he could continue advancing as soon as possible. He also intended to request their training sessions be increased to two per week, rather than the two per month he had been having thus far.

But he didn't feel his loss to these ranch hands was ignominious. They moved the swords about with the same fluidity as their lassos, which was saying a great deal. It was clear to him that they practiced obsessively, so sharp were their skills.

With the crossbow, he was certainly starting from scratch. His aim was terrible, and there was not a man there who was not many times over his superior, but he was finding even by the end of this first week that his aim was becoming better.

In order to promote goodwill, he paid out of his own pocket for the slaughter of one of the fattest cows, and this provided for some excellent bonfire-cooked steaks to replenish the men after their vigorous sparring sessions.

Righty asked to see each of their swords, and while he was no expert, he could see that they were likely medium quality at best. He told them that if the agricultural part of the business went well for at least six months as a bonus he would get each of them a sword crafted by a master sword smith.

Although no one had the meanness or audacity to laugh at this offer, Righty sensed their skepticism. That led to him brandishing his own hidden sword and then passing it around for their inspection. Both its cunning concealment and masterful design seemed to impress them. Their eyes widened like teenagers ogling an attractive woman as they surveyed the exquisite instrument of death.

As for the junkyard gang, Righty managed only with great effort to sound convincing when he inquired into the Chalky's absence. He was told he had been killed by some unknown assailant, who had probably been hidden on the roof.

Given that Righty was starting to take a liking to Slim, he surprised the gang by not suggesting him as the most likely culprit, even though they were initially convinced Slim had set the whole thing up.

"I wouldn't worry about Slim," Righty advised. "My sources tell me he's surrounded on all sides by traitors right now, and our departed Chalky most likely fell victim to one of Slim's ambitious rivals, who felt that by killing one of my men right after he met with Slim I would then take out Slim for him. I don't fool that easy. We'll avenge Chalky in due time."

He had then gone on to explain that it would probably be prudent for them to just stick to doing business with their retailers for now. After all, even if it was speedier to sell the twenty pounds Righty could provide daily to a single wholesaler, they ought to take into account that these retailers had been loyal customers while Slim was still the employee of Heavy Sam. While they should be prepared to forgive Slim's past association to Sam, they should not turn their back on those who had been clients beforehand. Soon enough, he would have plenty for all, Righty assured them.

Secretly, they were a bit relieved. While it was faster selling to Slim—in fact, it took them the better part of a night to move twenty pounds amongst their retailers—they ended up making far more money when they sold the product in smaller quantities amongst a larger number of people, as they could more thoroughly take advantage of the bulk discount Mr. Brass was giving them.

"I also want to make it clear," Right told them, "that we never cut our product. I'm not unaware that our product is starting to get a name for itself, and in the long run that means we can have some bloodless victories. We'll let the quality speak for itself and the customers come to us. Anyone who dilutes the product with coffee or anything else will be betraying all of us," he said sternly, not needing to explain the consequences.

To Righty's relief, all of his associates seemed sincere when expressing their agreement with this new rule.

It was October 10, around 7:00 p.m. Righty had begun making the junkyard meetings earlier, as he saw no reason to put his marriage at risk by coming home late even when it was completely unnecessary, and since the junkyard gang had reported no problems with any of the retailers, he hadn't felt his presence on the streets was needed.

As Righty was about to leave the junkyard and ride Harold home, he saw a lone horseman approaching. Suspecting it might be Tats, he told Harold in a calm voice—who was hundreds of feet above—not to come down yet. Minutes later, Tats arrived, looking thoroughly exhausted.

He seemed happy though when he looked at Righty.

"Tats! How are you?" Righty asked sincerely.

"Good!" Tats replied. "And I've got even better news."

Chapter 17

Righty was a bit nervous when the carriage driver dropped him off in front of the dark mansion at around 7:45 p.m. the evening of October 12. As he approached the gate in his promised black hat and light blue shirt, he was quickly greeted by several Rottweiler-faced security guards whose eyes growled at him.

One of them quickly stated, "Help you with something, sir?"

"I'm a friend of a friend wishing to talk to a friend."

The guards looked at each other briefly, before opening the gate. One of them approached him rapidly and said "Lift 'em" with a casualness that suggested he had long ago grown accustomed to the mundane task of frisking visitors to the estate of Rucifus.

"Not so fast, mister," Righty said, taking a step back. "I'm one man stepping unprotected into an unknown fortress. If that's an insufficient display of good faith, then this meeting is hereby cancelled."

The man tried to stare Righty down but looked away after surviving only a few moments of Righty's steely gaze.

"Watch him!" the man growled. Righty noticed he had a large moustache, and he went off in a huff into the darkness, leaving Righty under the supervision of his subordinates.

About twenty minutes later, Moustache came back, and made a "come along" gesture to the men, who then quickly surrounded Righty on all sides and began escorting him into the darkness.

Once they got a little further along the path from the gate towards the house, there were lamps alongside that gave Righty a pleasing view of the luxurious lawn that Tats had seen with even greater clarity, thanks to the fullness of the moon.

As he neared the door, he saw it was already open, and there were at least a dozen armed men surrounding it. As Righty looked at the light escaping from the house and disappearing into the ravenous darkness outside, he couldn't completely discredit the possibility this was a divine sign whose meaning was that by the time he left this house whatever light that was left in him would be similarly consumed by darkness.

But his rigid resolve to proceed with what he believed was his destiny overrode unease inspired by the ill omen. Nonetheless, hairs stood on end on his forearms in a way they hadn't since sitting around a campfire late at night telling ghost stories as a kid.

He couldn't know whether he was still reeling from the aftereffect of the unpleasant augury or whether there was some new noxious stimulus tormenting his senses, but as he entered the palatial mansion, he could not fully shake the feeling that he was outside his body witnessing himself enter into a house of horrors. He felt grateful he had called the guard's bluff about disarmament. Remembering his quick access to a razor-sharp sword calmed his senses slightly.

They walked through several hallways of opulent luxury, all of which served to make him feel like a subject entering into the domain of his sovereign. Finally, they entered a room that had no visible means of egress other than that through which they had entered, and so Righty knew he must be nearing his destination.

Then, he saw her.

Bathed in sparkling jewels, seated like an empress of legend on a large chair decked with gold, she dismissed with a single gesture the small army of fearsome bodyguards, with a lightness that suggested she saw them as little more than children acting a part.

She pointed to a seat that had been placed directly in front of her and pointed to it.

As Right made his way to it and began to sit, he noticed she was looking at him with all the intensity of a cobra studying a mouse.

A period of time that might be called longer than a moment elapsed in awkward silence, during which Righty was sure she would introduce herself or otherwise take the lead, giving that they were in her house.

Finally, she did so, but it only served to make Righty feel weaker about his position.

"May I help you with something, sir?" she said. Not quite flippantly, but her eyes had a gleam in them that implied this was every bit a trick question.

Righty froze for a moment, wondering what in the world would cause her to ask such a stupid question. Then, he remembered his insistence on a greeting in code, something he had forgotten about as soon as it was made clear he would be meeting her at her house.

"Heavens, isn't it a blessed day," Righty said, feeling utterly foolish as the words left his mouth.

"You could say so," she replied. Her eyes smiled. As he looked into them, he felt sure he was looking into the eyes of a killer and wondered how many people's last sight on earth was those same two eyes peering mercilessly at him now. And she didn't look like just any kind of killer. He himself had crossed that threshold long ago, but he could at least soften his conscience with the knowledge it had been in pure self-defense or preemptive self-defense. His gut instinct was adamant, however, that this was a person who enjoyed killing and never bothered her conscience with an explanation.

Righty was on the verge of telling her that he had only told Tats that they should speak in code because he assumed they would be meeting in a semi-public place, but before he could she said, "I like dealing with a man who has attention to detail."

Righty felt a bit emboldened by the compliment and decided it would be a good moment for him to show some spine. After all, this lady had changed the meeting date, and he had acquiesced. He was interested in a business relationship, but he wasn't going to be bullied.

"I sell at $10,000 velurs per pound," Righty said.

"But you sell for $10,000 falons per pound. Velurs are worth more."

She had gotten this info from Tats clearly, but he couldn't be mad at Tats for being transparent about something she could have soon discovered independently of him anyway.

"Transportation costs," Righty said tersely.

"Is that for premium product, like what you gave me via my brother, or was that just to reel me in?" she asked.

"It's the same," he responded.

"Let's see."

A bit uneasy, Righty pulled out a pound and handed it to her. She pulled out and opened a switchblade faster than most women could extract a mirror, stuck it inside, and extracted a small amount. She put the edge of the blade towards her nose and inhaled just a tiny portion.

Her face quickly became animated, though it did nothing to reduce her aura of malevolence and arguably enhanced it.

She handed the pound back to Righty smiling.

"How many did you bring?"

He had agonized over this part. Tats had suggested he bring ten because they needed to at least provide ten to their retailers each night; anything less than that was likely to strain their loyalty.

"Ten," Righty responded calmly.

"All the same quality?"

"Every last one," he replied.

Rucifus snapped her fingers and whispered something into the summoned bodyguard's ear. He then quickly scurried away. He returned a few moments later with a thick wad of currency.

"Count it," Rucifus instructed Righty.

Righty saw they were all in denominations of one-thousand velurs. He counted a hundred and then handed Rucifus the ten pounds.

"This is a new area of business for me," Rucifus said. "My brother's probably already told you. But your product has impressed a lot of wealthy people and left them wanting more. You'll be making quite a few of them happy by tomorrow. Would it be too presumptuous for us to schedule a meeting for a week from now at the same time?"

Righty had to blink a couple times to make sure he was looking at the same person. It was as if she were now another. Gone was the predatory stare he had beheld at the inception of their meeting, as was aggressive tone. Her eyes brimmed with intelligence, but her countenance seemed to have none of the malice he had previously observed. Instead, something bordering on friendliness was there. The sudden change made him feel relaxed and comfortable even though a deep part of his subconscious told him he was being deceived.

"Absolutely," was his calm reply. In fact, this couldn't be better. The connection was established, and yet she herself would need at least a little time before demanding large quantities on a more frequent basis. In the interim, his plants would be growing, and if her demand exceeded his supply, at least he had the peace of mind knowing that every day that passed was another day towards seeing his immense crop of Smokeless Green come to fruition.

She warmly hugged him after a few minutes of small talk about her days in Sivingdel, and then the guards—now quite deferential to him—escorted him out with a liberal employment of phrases such as "Let me get that door for you, sir," and "Turn right this way, please, sir."

As he stepped outside into the darkness, he felt pure ecstasy at the conclusion of the successful meeting, and the memory of the ill omen had vanished from his mind as abruptly and mysteriously as Rucifus's maleficent energy.

Chapter 18

Over the ensuing weeks, Righty found himself appreciating Tats more than ever. Not only had he provided him with a lucrative connection in a more valuable currency, but he had also helped reestablish order in the junkyard gang. It had not escaped Righty's attention that not one full day had passed after Tats left for Sodorf City before Righty had to have Harold bash Chalky's brains out in order to prevent an isolated problem from turning into a full-blown sedition.

Although he had not sensed any loyalty problems after Chalky's elimination, and in fact he felt confident that Chalky's removal had purchased Righty a reasonable period of peaceful governance, Tats' presence amongst the gang gave him a peace of mind that could not be matched.

At the end of the day—boxing skills and swordsmanship skills notwithstanding—Righty was "Mr. Brass," an outsider who had appeared out of nowhere and barely spent any time with them. They didn't know his real name or where he lived and were too afraid to ask. Tats was David Havensford. A guy many of them had known since childhood and who was from their neighborhood. He had their respect and affection, even if they didn't fear him.

Righty felt that with Tats there he could be reasonably sure of being apprised of any grievances amongst the gang before they blossomed into full-blown problems, but he didn't feel completely certain of that in Tats' absence. He considered himself lucky that Chalky had made the mistake of revealing his dissatisfaction—albeit briefly—because otherwise Righty wouldn't have known to assign Harold the mission of snooping on him with permission to kill at his discretion.

The next discontent mighty be slyer, and without Righty even suspecting it, he could show up at the junkyard one day to face an organized mob of murderous rebels.

Yet he knew Tats yearned to become a warrior, and it was becoming increasingly hard for Righty to ignore the unparalleled opportunity that had been presented. The ranch hands were fearsomely agile with several weapons, and by living there Tats could train daily and learn a considerable amount of the fighting arts in a year or two.

But Righty needed Tats to cement the loyalty of the junkyard gang. And there was another issue. If Tats knew about the ranch, he would be privy to the details of virtually Righty's entire enterprise. That much knowledge was dangerous to put into one man's head, as capture and torture could extricate it even if disloyalty could not. Thus, he maintained silence on this opportunity and decided he would do so until that ranch was merely one amongst several.

Righty visited his plants daily with the diligence of a mother towards her child, and when the barren land was first pierced from underneath with thousands of tiny green spears, he nearly wept with joy. If not every day, at least every several days or so there was a notable difference in their size.

Determined to rule out the possibility it was his imagination, he began measuring them, and sure enough the plants were growing fast. He decided to be frank with the ranchers, given the devotion they also showed to the incipient crop, that he had so far only produced seedless plants with his efforts, and he promised $50,000 falons to the first person who found a plant that produced seeds.

In spite of the fact he was now making more than $200,000 per day—thanks to the weekly trip to Rucifus, who paid with velurs—every day he was becoming more and more stressed about his inability to meet his customers' demands. Rucifus was starting to insist Righty come twice per week and that she thought it would only be a matter of time before she would be needing several times the quantity in each shipment.

Tats was having to work very hard to convince the junkyard gang that Righty was on the verge of a breakthrough, but he reminded Righty every day that the retailers were growing frustrated with the small amounts being moved.

Righty was tempted when the plants first started sprouting bulbs to start picking them right away, but he felt it would be more prudent to wait until they were ripe. He wasn't sure if the quality would be the same otherwise.

Then, finally, it happened. About two months after he had first planted them, he found that the bulbs were as big as the ones in the garden by his house, maybe more so.

He was so elated he consciously attempted to control himself, the way a person struck with an attack of the giggles in a serious situation might pinch his finger to avoid making an utter fool of himself. But it was of no use.

"WOOOO!!!" he yelled and then began dancing a strange dance he had never seen or heard of before. Fortunately, the ranch hands were out of sight and shouting distance, so he had his moment of ecstatic insanity without being witnessed by anyone other than his birds. After several minutes of undignified, yet understandable, jubilee, he collapsed happily onto his back, tears of joy and laughter streaming down his face.

He stared up at the sky and wondered how he could have ever been so lucky. Although he was now lying flat on the ground, he felt dizzy, as if he were going to fall over. He feared that at any moment he might wake up.

Richie, you're gonna be late for work at the lumberyard.

What time is it, babe?

Almost 5.

And then he would rise from bed, head pounding from the hangover from the twenty beers he had the night before, and all of his soul tortured by the miserable prospects of what lay before him that day, the next day, the next week, the next month, and the next year until his back or legs gave out and he sat around the porch in dirty rags for the rest of his rotten life while Janie kept their family from starving through some menial job—but one that required literacy, something a big numbskull, almost champion like him didn't have.

For a moment, the prospect of this nightmare being the case caused him to close his eyes. Surely, he was dreaming. Bitter tears of despair trickled down his face. He would kill himself if he were dreaming. Yes, he most certainly would. Not one more day at the lumberyard.

He counted down from ten very slowly in his mind, and when he got to zero he opened his eyes gingerly. The sun was warm and pleasant but not overbearing. The weather warm but not brutal. He stood up. A sea of tall green plants so tightly packed no space between them could be perceived stared at him like the at-attention faces of an army of soldiers awaiting their general's orders.

You are my soldiers, he thought to himself, and with you at my side, nothing can stop me.

He got on his horse and rode over to where the ranch hands were and whistled loudly. He informed him there was going to be a party tonight like never recorded before in the annals of history and to not even think about working past 4 p.m. He then gave each man $10,000 a piece for the work they had done watching over the plants on occasion and told them the prize for finding a seed-producing plant had gone up to $100,000.

He then handed one of them $2,000 and told them to get a cookout ready by 6 p.m. and to kill the fattest cow.

It was only 1 p.m., but what the heck—he wasn't waiting until 9 p.m. tonight to let Tats know the good news. He got out a couple of scales that he had had on hand waiting for this very moment and got thirty pounds together. He then jumped on Harold's back and flew to Sivingdel.

He was elated when he found Tats at home and even more so when Tats told him how lucky he was because he was moving into a new home the next day. According to Tats' description, it was a mansion in one of the finest neighborhoods of the city.

Righty hugged him and congratulated him warmly but also suggested he make sure to wear attire that would enable him to blend in with his new affluent surroundings. Tats pointed to a box and invited Right to open it. It was filled with fine, tailored suits.

"You're one step ahead," Righty said laughing.

Tats then informed Righty that while he was the first of the gang to move out of the junkyard he wouldn't be the last and that in fact most of the gang was already getting pretty close to purchasing a house individually, and those that weren't able to afford that yet were talking about pooling their money together to do so.

"We might have to find a new meeting spot, Mr. Brass," Tats said.

"You're probably right, Tats, and it's likely long overdue. We're as predictable as a bridge club, and yet we're all criminals. We'll talk more about that soon."

Tats' eyes nearly bulged out of his head when he saw the thirty pounds Righty had brought.

"We can move that tonight. We might even be able to move the same amount tomorrow. We'll see. There's been a lot of unmet demand lately. Can you provide this much and more on a regular basis?" Tats asked, his voice wavering slightly, as if he feared a negative answer.

Righty nodded slowly with a smile on his face.

Tats started counting out $600,000 falons, but Righty stopped him at $500,000.

"I'll give you a discount due to the size."

Tats thanked him ecstatically.

Tats gave Righty his new address, and they agreed to meet the next day at 2 p.m. They also agreed that it would probably be better not to have regular meetings with the whole gang at once, since that made them easier to spot. Righty also suggested to Tats that he consider not sharing his address with anyone except perhaps to his next in command and maybe not even with him.

"You're becoming a major player now, Tats. That means people are going to be envious of you. Privacy and anonymity are your two of your best protections."

Tats nodded with a serious look on his face and told him he was going to strongly consider it.

That night, as Righty celebrated with his men, he felt like a general enjoying leisure time with his troops.

And that night, as he made sweet love to his wife, he felt like king of the world.

Chapter 19

"GO!!" shouted Chief Rulgers, head of the National Drug Police. "This is a Level 3 drill!!"

Ten men moved forward to storm into the small house. It was built without a roof because the NDP had a very important guest today. None other than Senator Hutherton, who insisted on witnessing every last detail of the agents' training drills. And they could properly be called agents too because the cut had been last week. Thirty highly qualified men had been let go, most of whom were soldiers and thus returned to the Seleganian Army.

Seventy men had remained and were sworn in the following day in a private ceremony witnessed only by the president and a few select senators. They were the best of the best. The remnant of both the brutal interview cuts and the even-more brutal training-based cuts. So close were many of those cut to meeting the necessary mark that many of them were congratulated personally by Senator Hutherton for their heroic exertions and told that they would be more than welcome to apply again if the NDP received more funding.

Hutherton's gut had proved its acuteness when Frederick Manhausen and Robert Machendale rose to the top of the pile, Freddie just slightly excelling the latter, as this had been Hutherton's private prediction after conducting the interviews. President Beldenshire had remained so pleased with Hutherton's sponsorship of The Safer Streets Act that he had spoken to Chief Rulgers and made sure he was aware that he was to defer to Hutherton privately, without exception, in all instructions regarding the NDP, although Rulgers was to publicly report directly only to the attorney general.

Hutherton had instructed Rulgers to keep a close look out for leadership and dominant personalities and select the seven best leaders, each of whom would be part of, and lead, a unit of ten men. He further asked him to assign the most elite agents to the two most skilled leaders. This led to Manhausen leading the most elite unit in the NDP, followed by Machendale's unit.

Hutherton did not show up to micromanage. He found Rulgers to be a kindred spirit on most matters, and Hutherton only showed up occasionally to not let his shadowy influence to be forgotten. But today Hutherton had far more specific aims than that.

Two men smashed down the door with a large battering ram, while others knocked out the windows. As the men moved throughout the house, the weight of their footsteps pulled levers causing life-size images painted onto paper to pop up rapidly. The men coolly disregarded unarmed women and children, but occasionally sliced the head off of a man with a malicious expression.

Anyone carrying a weapon of any kind was immediately cut down. Every agent had already been given a small portrait of potential targets that might be in the house, and when the initial sweep failed to yield any captured targets they began destroying the walls and floorboards in a ferocious search for hidden compartments.

Several times, this resulted in a human image quickly popping out—sometimes horizontally, other times vertically or at varied angles—all of which were quickly cut to shreds. This distinguished the drill from a Level 1 or Level 2 drill, in which even those individuals found in hidden compartments were to be individually evaluated for threat assessment. At Level 3, anyone found in a hidden compartment was to be deemed a fatal threat unless painted in an image of unequivocal terror and surrender.

Hutherton was more than pleased as he watched the surgical precision of Manhausen's unit as it discovered and dispatched various threats with such unity that the ten men seemed to be tentacles of one body. Several minutes later, the unit had discovered all the targets planted in this particular house.

Hutherton stood and gave the men an ovation from his lofty chair with all the enthusiasm of a man who has witnessed a moving play. He then walked down the stairs and warmly congratulated each of the men in Manhausen's unit before requesting a private audience with him.

Moments later, Hutherton was seated in Chief Rulger's leather chair in his private office across from Manhausen.

"Do you prefer Agent Manhausen or Sergeant Manhausen?" Hutherton asked him with the sincere concern the best of hosts might employ when inquiring into the comfort of an important guest.

Freddie was elated at such a fantastic dilemma, having gone so many years without the honor of any title whatsoever, but "Agent" had a certain freshness about it that "Sergeant" never could, given his painful memories of the dishonorable conclusion of his military service.

"I would be most honored, senator, if you addressed me with either, but given the importance of my current mission, I believe 'Agent' might be the most fitting."

"'Agent' it is then," Hutherton said smiling. Then, he became gravely serious and slightly lowered his volume, though not quite to a whisper.

"Agent Manhausen, you're the best agent in the NDP. In many ways, that is an objective conclusion anyone who has reviewed your record so far in the NDP would have to reach. But there is more to you than just your performance on physical and mental examinations. Something those cold instruments can never fully appraise. You have something special on the inside."

Hutherton watched his subject carefully with the studious precision of an engineer examining a complex contraption. Manhausen's face would have been inscrutable to anyone else, but Hutherton noticed the ever-so-slight blush that came over his face. Then, he proceeded.

"I knew that about you from the moment I interviewed you, but my confidence in you has grown exponentially over the last few months while I have observed you. You are the kind of man who can see the big picture." Hutherton's scrutiny intensified. "The kind of man who can focus on the end goal without getting fussy over how it is reached."

Hutherton paused. "Would you agree with that assessment?"

"A soldier's only end goal should be full obedience with his orders. It is the burden of politicians to debate morality."

"Yes, Agent Manhausen, personally I agree with you, both on your conclusion and your classification of morale debates as being burdensome, which they most truly are. But you're more than just a soldier now, Agent Manhausen. You are a leader, and I need to know if you agree that a noble aim must be achieved whatever the cost."

Manhausen paused for a moment. He had never been high enough in the military to deem his mind worthy of moral reflection, and thus, he found the invitation to thus reflect simultaneously intriguing and terrifying.

"A leader who has a noble aim should seek to achieve it in the least injurious manner possible," he began, before taking a lengthy pause, "but far too often, I believe, a noble end is not achieved due to an excessive concern about the means used." He paused again and then said, "I think most people are far too inclined to shortchange the importance of reaching the goal, no matter what the cost."

Hutherton was satisfied with the response. He looked at Manhausen now more carefully than ever, ready to abort the ensuing conversation at the first moment he detected the slightest qualms in Manhausen's words, tone, or expression.

"Agent Manhausen, there is something of great importance that needs to be done very soon."

Freddie looked at him with the excitement and determination of a zealous hound dog that sees its master readying the instruments of the hunt.

Chapter 20

DING DONG.

DING DONG.

Calm footsteps. Door opens.

"May I help you, sir?" the maid inquired.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm here with a package for Mrs. Rachel Haufensehn."

"Oh, I'll see that she gets it," replied the maid, extending forward her hand in a routine fashion.

"Pardon me, ma'am, but it can only be delivered to Mrs. Haufensehn herself. She'll have to sign for it," the tall, moustached man replied with benevolent firmness.

"Sarah, who's that at the door?" inquired a somewhat haughty voice.

"Pardon me, miss. He says you must sign for the package." Sarah looked low to the ground as if expecting a beating.

"Why, I don't know why anyone bothers having servants anymore," the voice said, as its owner's footsteps began rapidly approaching the doorway.

When she reached the doorway, she looked the man over from his face down to his toes and then back up with the studious contempt of a connoisseur who has determined the object in question is of inferior quality.

"Sir, are you aware of the purpose of having servants? Don't bother guessing. It is to save one the mundane tasks that plague the commoner." But before elaborating further on the subject, she reached forward to snatch the extended ink pen held in the man's hand.

Before she could grab it, he grabbed her wrist with a vice-like grip, spun her around, and charged into the house, immediately followed by four individuals who had been hiding near the doorway amidst several large bushes.

The moustached man held a damp cloth to her mouth before she had the chance to let out what would have surely been a dreadful scream, and seconds later she fell limp to the ground. While the four men closed the door and kept watch for any surprise arrivals, the moustached man held a knife to the quivering maid's throat.

"Shhhhhh," he said calmly. "This can all end without so much as a scratch on your body if you just answer a couple questions."

The maid nodded her head up and down, her lips stretched back in apprehensive horror.

"Where is the boy, and are there any guards in the house?"

"No guards," she whispered.

"And the boy?"

The maid hesitated.

The moustached man put a little pressure against her throat with the knife. She flinched and began to cry.

"We won't hurt him. You have my word," the man assured her.

Whether consciously or unconsciously it was unclear, but she suddenly looked in the direction of the upstairs.

"Now that's a good girl," the man said and then put a damp rag over her nose and mouth. Seconds later she slumped over, by which point the four assistants were already most of the way up the stairs.

As he tied the maid up, he heard a brief cry from upstairs and then rapid footsteps coming his way. Just as he finished tying her to the stairwell, the four men appeared with a sleeping child.

They looked at the moustached man, he nodded, and then they proceeded quickly outside. The moustached man then set the package next to the door, stood Mrs. Haufensehn up, and walked outside with his arm around her. He leaned her against the outside wall of the house briefly while he then put a large metal pole between the floor and the door handle to make it more difficult for anyone to open it from the outside.

He then quickly proceeded towards the street. A carriage was calmly taking off, while another stood there waiting for him, a well-dressed footman in front holding the door open.

The moustached man walked Mrs. Haufensehn into the carriage, and then as the carriage calmly took off, the moustached man secured his passenger to ensure she did not suddenly awake and become frantic, necessitating that he employ violence, something he was instructed only to do as a last resort.

Chapter 21

As Judge Haufensehn made his way home that evening, his stomach growled ferociously as his mind devoured the various meals he imagined might be ready for him. He could have his pick any day of the week, but he usually preferred to leave it to the maid's, his wife's, or his child's whim, as that created a certain degree of unpredictability and heightened his anticipation.

He was imagining a superbly roasted turkey with fresh bread and mashed potatoes as he made his way towards the front door of his handsome abode. His good cheer was put to the test when he found the door refusing to open in spite of the fact he had heard the lock slide and the handle was compressing as it should.

A sullen wave of grumpiness crashed down on him, as he began to push, first insistently and then violently, against the door.

"Shall I be barred from my own home?!!" he shouted, red-faced, to no one in particular, and then let fly a string of epitaphs that would have been earned praise from a longshoreman. Now madder than hell fire, he paced around to the back of his house, in the process acquiring more exercise than he usually did in a day.

He opened the back door and walked through the kitchen. His fury redoubled as he saw no meal was prepared in the kitchen. The eerie silence of the house made no impression upon him, as his irascible temper was stoked by the contemplation of a cold supper after his long day's work.

"Rachel!!" he shouted out with such vehemence that she likely would have considered her kidnapping fortuitous had she heard it. He was fit to be tied. He had visions of Rachel, Sarah, and Timmy out amusing themselves somewhere, while he faced a kitchen as empty as his stomach.

Then, he saw what looked like movement near the stairwell.

"Sarah?" he said, with genuine concern, as he saw her struggling body kicking frantically, as if animated by the sound of his voice.

He went springing towards the stairwell, where he found her gagged and well tied up. For a moment he felt genuine pity and concern, but his fury returned with a vengeance when five minutes saw him make not a shred of progress in extricating her from her bonds. Even the gag around her mouth was tied so skillfully that his pudgy fingers were no match against the artful knots.

He ran towards the kitchen and grabbed the first knife he could find, which happened to be a large butcher knife. Sarah's eyes grew the size of saucers when she saw his furious person approaching her with an instrument that could just as easily murder her as extricate her.

But he calmed himself as he attacked the bonds of his servant and showed sufficient care so that within the span of six minutes she was free of her bonds and without having suffered a scratch in the process.

"Have they stolen much?" inquired the judge, his mind turning at once towards his hidden, yet occasionally bragged about, collection of gold coins.

"Not stolen, kidnapped," said Sarah, who was a Dachwaldian by birth and had only come to Selegania out of desperation after warfare had left her a desperate widow.

"Kidnapped?!" the judge shouted out in horror, his selfish anger in an instant banished from his mind.

Sarah nodded her head, sobbing.

He then noticed the steel pole wedged against the door, which had caused the beginning of his ordeal. He kicked it aside angrily and was about to sprint outside and tell his footman to head at full speed to the local constable's office, but then he noticed a mysterious package next to the pole.

URGENT CASE MATERIALS IN THE MATTER

OF SELEGANIA V. STEPHENSON

TO BE OPENED BY JUDGE HAUFENSEHN ONLY

"They leave there," Sarah said, fully aware of the interest the package had stimulated in her master.

Judge Haufensehn immediately tore open the package to discover a letter:

Esteemed Judge Haufensehn:

It is with grave solemnity that we have taken this step. We are not terrorists or criminals. We are barbers, grocers, leatherworkers, bankers, and blacksmiths. In brief, we are your fellow countrymen. We are united by a singular desire to rid this country once and for all of the scourge of so-called "Smokeless Green," or, as we think it more properly termed, "Poisonous Green"!

We have stood by long enough watching politicians and policemen tiptoe around the issue while this poison permeates our society, but the district judge's decision in the case of Selegania v. Stephenson was the last straw for us. Beyond you, lies only the Supreme Court, and if you think we are going to stake the safety and wellbeing of our children and our FUTURE on the gutless arbitrariness of men in black robes, then you are hereby undeceived!

The district judge has emboldened both the criminal entrepreneurs who peddle this poison and the addicts who consume it, leaving honest society in the crossfire of these verminous criminals.

Enough is enough!!

If you convince your fellow justices to uphold SISA, your wife and son will be returned in good health. If you fail our republic by intellectual pretension and claim the Constitution forbids SISA, we will return your wife and son to you in pieces, which will represent the devastation you have thereby wrought on this republic's future.

It would be most unwise to tell anyone of this letter or your family's abrupt departure. If we sought publicity, we would have delivered this letter to the press. Efforts via the police will be futile and severely harmful to your family's health. Failure to keep both this letter and your family's disappearance absolutely secret will be treated the same as failure to uphold SISA.

Oral arguments for this case begin soon, so be of good cheer!—if you act wisely you will be reunited with your family and do a great service to this republic.

Sincerely,

Guardians of Selegania's Future

Judge Haufensehn crumpled up the letter and threw it across the floor. Then, he began to weep bitterly and hugged Sarah for comfort, who cried with him, fearful both for the wife's and the son's lives and her future, but she found room in her thoughts to worry about whether this would negatively affect her employment.

Chapter 22

JUSTICES TO STAND FIRM DESPITE

THREATS FROM DRUG KINGPINS

Judge Haufensehn couldn't help but notice the headline glaring at him from where he sat inside his carriage. He whistled to the driver, who stopped immediately, and Judge Haufensehn hopped out of the carriage with the alacrity of a schoolboy, paid the young man for a newspaper, and then hopped back into the carriage, closing the door behind him firmly.

"Inside sources have informed the Gazette that one or more justices of the District of Selgen Circuit have received threats warning them it would be in their corporeal interest to find SISA unconstitutional and fatal for them to find otherwise. Nonetheless, per our sources, the justices insist they will not be bullied by such ignominious criminals, and one even reportedly said that he laments not being a trial court judge, as he would savor the opportunity to send these villains on a well-earned trip to the gallows.

"Some are scratching their heads, wondering why the drug lords want SISA invalidated. After all, it is no secret that a new criminal class is emerging that makes the crime lords of yesteryear seem like filthy paupers, and they have the illegality of SISA to thank, since previously Smokeless Green sold at a scintilla of the price.

"Some speculate the reason may be that drug lords are beginning to look outside Selegania's borders, where Smokeless Green is also illegal and where there is no strong corollary to Article 8 to threaten its illegal status. Some think the drug lords wish to turn Selegania into a safe haven from which they can then export the drug to places where it is illegal, earning unthinkable profit margins in the process."

The newspaper was The Republic's Gazette, a very small newspaper. To the best of Judge Haufensehn's knowledge, its only journalist was its owner, Stephen Randalls. The office was located only a few miles from his home.

This news left his head spinning. First, he had been threatened by a vigilante group that he must not only find SISA constitutional but also convince the other two circuit justices to do the same. Now, he was learning that one or both of them was being threatened to come to the opposite conclusion.

His bowels groaned and his heart ached, as he thought of the weakening prospects of ever seeing his wife and son alive again, and the dilemma of whether to risk going to the authorities weighed heavily upon his soul.

When he arrived at the courthouse, it was 8 a.m., and oral arguments were scheduled to begin at 10 a.m. His worry over his wife and son relegated his interest in the newspaper article to an inferior position, and when he walked into the conference room to meet with the other justices, it quickly caught the eye of Chief Justice Revdel, who said, "May I?" while grabbing the newspaper from Haufensehn before receiving an answer.

"This is outrageous! I've received no such threats. Judge Beckle?"

Justice Beckle shook his head.

"It's settled then. I'll file suit against this two-bit newspaper tomorrow for calumny. Hmphhh! This journalist is trying to make a name for himself by printing a foundationless, sensationalist story!"

"But how can you prove a negative?" Beckle asked.

"Simple, I will call you two as my witnesses, and I myself will testify. With all three justices swearing under oath that no such threats have been received by this office, we'll easily clear the preponderance of the evidence standard!"

"But it paints us in a rather positive light. Even if the story is false, what would the damages be?"

"My dear Justice Beckle, you should brush up on more antiquated case law in your spare time. Rodville v. The Seleganian Post held that, when it is knowingly and falsely published that a judge or officeholder has been subjected to a threat or a bribe offer, this in and of itself causes damage to the judge or officeholder because even if the publication states the threat or bribe offer was ignored it can create suspicion about the integrity of that judge's, or officeholder's, future decisions or acts."

Judge Beckle mostly managed to hide the baleful look he gave to the chief justice, but it did not escape Judge Haufensehn's hawk-like attention. Chief Justice Revdel had an encyclopedic memory of cases, which was at times inspiring and other times vexing.

"It's a lose-lose proposition," Judge Haufensehn said, immediately drawing a curious, yet unmistakably reproachful glare from the chief justice. "If we failed to meet our burden, we would not only give this upstart journalist an unhealthy amount of unwarranted attention—which, of course, is his ultimate aim, you understand—but would also validate his wild claims. And even if we were to prevail, he would still acquire his sought-after limelight and probably even acquire a martyr's sympathy. We would then appear as conspirators who succeeded in covering up the truth due to the collegial bias the trial court judge had for his fellow wearers of the black robe."

"You've had your coffee this morning," Justice Haufensehn. "I can't say I see a flaw in your logic—cynical and cold though it is. But I won't suffer another calumny such as this. The next time, I will file suit, with or without the assistance of my appellate colleagues!" the chief justice said with a bit of annoyance.

"Well, calumnies and future lawsuits aside, let us talk about the legal case at hand," the chief justice resumed. "Do either of you care to state a position on this matter now, or have you entered with an open mind ready to be dazzled by the rhetorical skills of a senator-slash-attorney versus a crack team of the district attorney's best litigators?"

"Constitutional, without a doubt!" Haufensehn said, with far more enthusiasm than he intended.

"I agree!" said Justice Beckle, whose countenance also immediately suggested he had intended less passion to be evident in his voice.

"Well, why waste time on oral argument then?" said the chief justice. "You two walked in with your mind made up!" he added acerbically. "I thought the two of you remembered what it was like to spend a hundred hours preparing a speech for men you hoped to impress and whose favor you badly needed for the sake of your client!" he finished with a self-righteous, yet sincere, tone.

It was at this moment that Justice Haufensehn realized he had given the actual legal merits of the case far less attention than he ought to. Truth be told, he had given them next to no attention whatsoever. Images of his wife bound and being subjected to Kasani only knew what kind of degrading treatment somehow seemed to consistently acquire the dominance of his thoughts.

Seeking to save face, he said, "You're right, Chief Justice. I think I should hear the oral arguments before making up my mind for certain. Perhaps I spoke too quickly just to make it clear I'm not going to kowtow to criminal threats!" This time the enthusiasm he showed was intentional, and it was genuine, but its ostensible source was not.

"Well, that's more like it," Chief Justice Revdel replied. "Remember, this is probably going to the Supreme Court no matter what we decide, so if you two want to just decide this thing based off of gut instinct rather than proper legal analysis, have fun watching your opinion get cut to shreds by the Supreme Court, while my concurring or dissenting opinion gets accolades throughout the world of jurisprudence," he finished with paramount self-satisfaction.

Chief Justice Revdel heard no argument from his two fellow justices after this, but neither could he elicit any discussion from them. Flustered, he called off the meeting and went to his office.

Haufensehn entered his own, buried his head in his hands, and wept, his knees trembling at the thought of the weight he now bore on his shoulders. But at his point of deepest despair, his subconscious brought Justice Beckle's odd behavior to his attention, and he began to wonder if he was not the only one who had been visited by the mysterious vigilantes.

Before he could pursue this line of analysis any further, he saw that it was now 9:59 a.m. He donned his robe and began trotting towards the courtroom.

Chapter 23

"All rise. The honorable court of the District of Selgen Circuit is now in session."

Counselor Megders felt his heart galloping like a herd of wild stallions, and while he was somewhat relieved he would not make his opening argument first, the relief afforded by this small mercy was comparable to that of seeing one's comrade walk the gallows steps first, thereby granting another few moments of life, at the harsh expense of passing them in bitter trepidation.

The three stern-faced judges looked towards the table of the appellant, the Government of Selegania, whose small army of alert-faced attorneys looked ready for war.

"The Court will first hear the opening argument from the appellant."

The eyes of the soldier-like attorneys quickly converged on a confident-looking man in his mid-forties, a veteran of both trials and appeals, whose premature wrinkles made fine substitutes for the honorable wounds a military veteran might bear. Megders recognized him right away as Richard Hollenbough.

"Your Honors," he began, "this is a case about protecting the health of our citizenry. Because SISA is fully compatible with Article 8, the lower court's decision should be reversed, and the trial of the brazen outlaw David Stephenson should recommence with all speed.

"Article 8 does not wholly forbid the legislature from banning substances. It includes an exception for poisonous substances, and Smokeless Green meets all reasonable criteria for a poisonous substance. It is highly addictive. In large quantities, it can cause death. Its users often resort to crime to obtain the drug when they are no longer able to afford it, and as a result violent crime has increased throughout the country and in particular within this city."

After a recitation of the many evils caused by Smokeless Green, he concluded, "In brief, this drug is poisonous both to the individual and to society, and therefore its prohibition is fully permissible by Article 8."

As Counselor Hollenbough made his way to his table, Megders began to feel his knees quiver as he stood and approached the platform to face the judges.

"Your Honors, Smokeless Green is a pernicious substance. Of that, there can be no doubt. No one knows where it originated. No one knows where it is produced. All of which are facts that suggest it is not native to even the most recondite corners of our republic.

"But as for proof that it falls below the rank of poison," Megders said with his voice rising commensurately with his growing confidence and genuine disdain for his opponents, "we need look no farther than the ignominious, so-called 'gentleman exception'! Were the senators of our republic so imbued with concern for the safety of their fellow citizens, they would not withhold for themselves the special privilege of profusely consuming the very substance they claim to be a poison!

"Anyone can read the text of the infamous exception, but few can truly experience the toxic hypocrisy of it, for to do so would require that one be a member of one of the few gentlemen's clubs in this republic where the wealthy stuff this so-called poison up their noses with the full approval of the law! Let history record these words—whatever becomes of this law through the process of the present litigation, it will be forever branded with shame and ignominy by future generations!

"Article 8 was forged in the fires of the prohibition wars that stained this nation red with her citizens' blood centuries ago. It was realized that attempting to eliminate the consumption of alcohol by criminalizing it was little different from attempting to put out a fire by throwing dry wood on top of it. Criminal bands of bootleggers sprang up overnight and were eventually consolidated into rival factions that began buying up portions of the nation's police and military until we were immersed in a bloody civil war.

"Cool minds realized that by removing the prohibition on alcohol it would return to its natural value—uninflated by the threat of prison—and the most powerful opponents to the repeal of prohibition were naturally the bootleggers themselves and those in government who had become accustomed to their steady flow of bribe money. Many senators sacrificed their lives by voting for the repeal, but once it was in effect the bootleggers were immediately sapped of their artificial income, and with time our republic recovered a semblance of lawfulness and normalcy.

"But it was realized that the repeal was insufficient. It had to be made sure that the country never again be immersed in blood and bribes. It was in that historical milieu that Article 8 was passed. It was understood by those wise senators that a true poison will never become an irresistible commodity sought by the masses, and thus state and federal government should be permitted to pass laws restricting access to true poisons.

"Alcohol contains many of the pernicious qualities of Smokeless Green. It drains a man's income, harms his health, and insists on more and more of its user's consumption. Just as many have the fortitude to drink alcohol in small moderation, there are some who are able to do this with Smokeless Green, although I do concede it is much more potent and addictive than alcohol.

"But," and he again raised his tone and looked towards the appellants, "can this substance truly be called a poison when senators exempt themselves from its prohibition under the clever use of the term 'gentleman' so that they can intoxicate themselves with this substance with abandon? To ask the question is to answer it.

"Until the senate passes a law forbidding the use of this substance without any exemptions for the wealthy, they cannot be taken seriously when they deem this substance a poison. Therefore, I respectfully request that Your Honors uphold the district judge's conclusion that SISA violates Article 8."

As he returned to his chair, he did not have the assurance of victory, but he felt convinced he had at least communicated the majority of the arguments he had intended.

When Counselor Hollenbough approached the lectern, he looked like a boxer who had just taken a hard hit to the face, but was not quite downed, and who now prepared to launch himself upon his adversary without mercy.

Yet before he could get the first word out of his mouth, he was cut short by Chief Justice Revdel.

"Counselor Hollenbough, before you deliver your rebuttal, I must say that I am beginning to feel that I am witness to a legislative debate or perhaps a philosophical debate. And while I am not opposed to such endeavors—on the contrary, I find them quite enjoyable—would it be too much to ask you to flatter the court by the insertion of some legal argumentation?"

Counselor Hollenbough looked at the chief justice stunned.

Seeing he was clearly at a loss for the proper words, Chief Justice Revdel explained: "I have heard talk of the dangers of Smokeless Green, I have heard history lessons, and I have even heard logical arguments, but is there no case law you can present to support the government's position that Smokeless Green, or perhaps even a substance similar to Smokeless Green, is a poison?"

Hollenbough's face suggested he had had many things he was ready to say when he approached the lectern but was at quite a loss as to how to answer the chief justice's unexpected questions.

Observing that Hollenbough was still struggling to find the appropriate response, Chief Justice Revdel narrowed his focus: "Can you name one other substance that is banned in Selegania?"

"Completely banned, Your Honor?"

"Or partially banned . . . are you saying you can think of no substance subjected to a complete ban?"

"Not immediately, Your Honor, although I might add that Smokeless Green is not subject to a complete ban," Hollenbough said, carefully, not wishing to be seen as overtly correcting the judge.

"And why is it not? After all, if it is a poison, why is it necessary that gentlemen be exempt from the prohibition?"

If Hollenbough's face could speak, it would say Hollenbough wished he had made a better effort at thinking of a fully or partially banned substance, rather than unwittingly causing the focus to be shifted to the "gentlemen's exception."

"Your Honor," he began carefully, like a chess player who realizes he has made a series of bad moves but who now intends to redeem himself, "it may indeed come to pass that the senate decides to ban this substance entirely and get rid of the 'gentlemen's exception.' But as for the existence of it, there are compelling factors. While a poor, or even a middle-class person, might quickly be impoverished by addiction to this substance and as a result might quickly resort to the vilest means of obtaining it—robbery, burglary, kidnapping, prostitution, even murder—a wealthy individual is unlikely to.

"The senate defined 'gentleman' in such a way that even the most prolific partakers of this substance will have ample resources to satiate their appetites without resorting to such base methods of acquisition. Furthermore, SISA forbids even gentlemen from selling this substance to non-gentlemen. Thus, SISA insulates general society from this pernicious substance by ensuring that the only ones using or transacting it are those whose financial resources enable them to do so without causing harm to others."

"But what about the harm to themselves? If this is a poison, surely they themselves will suffer great harm!"

Hollenbough looked as if he would welcome a transition from this aspect of the analysis the same way a stranded man on a cliff ledge would welcome a sturdy rope.

"Perhaps, but it is limited to them. What SISA recognizes is the reality that, while society can survive the self-destruction of some individuals, it cannot and will not tolerate the destruction of others by individuals."

"Are you saying that the destruction of the wealthy would have no societal consequences? Suppose a gentleman senator—most likely a redundant term, mind you—dies of this poison. He 'self-destructs,' as you might say. His constituents are left without their representative. Is there no societal harm in that?

"Suppose the gentleman owner of a large corporation dies from the use of Smokeless Green. In the event of his unexpected death, a successor will likely have to be elected promptly by the board of directors, perhaps without adequate preparation. As a result, the company's shares lose value, and investors are harmed. Is this not societal harm?"

If Hollenbough had been thrown a shovel, he might have given some consideration to digging a hole right then and there in the courtroom floor with the same determination of a prisoner escaping from his cell.

"It is less harm than an impoverished man breaking into another man's home to cut his throat and steal his gold so that he can satiate his irresistible cravings!" Hollenbough said with indignance, perhaps concluding he had nothing to lose by attempting a slightly more spirited strategy, given that his amiable one had been ineffectual against his merciless inquisitor.

"The board of directors will notice an executive's worsening vice and, likely, will have time to replace him before damage is done to the company and thus to the investors. A senator succumbing to the vice of Smokeless Green will risk damaging his reputation and losing the next election!" Hollenbough said triumphantly.

"So," the chief justice continued calmly, yet doggedly, "it seems you are describing the demise of a Smokeless Green addict as being a slow and predictable one in the physiological sense for both rich and poor, yet precipitous—and therefore far more dangerous—in the financial sense only for the poor, hence making it a poison for the destitute and a mere vice for the affluent."

"Yes, Your Honor," Hollenbough said, believing himself to be out of the woods.

"Then why not repeal SISA so that Smokeless Green will go back to being a small fraction of its current price? Then, with the substance affordable to all, all individuals could make the personal decision you would grant only for gentlemen—the choice to self-destruct or not—without having to commit dangerous crimes to satisfy their addiction . . . something that is happening precisely because of this law!" the chief justice demanded.

Hollenbough now understood the feelings of the man in the desert who thinks he has discovered a clear, blue lake only to find more infernal, sandy desolation.

But, even wounded animals are capable of counterattack.

"Your Honor would risk all society with this pernicious substance while the senate sensibly experiments with permitting the use of this substance by the most financially independent, learned men of our nation!" Hollenbough said with genuine disgust, causing the chief justice himself to blush momentarily.

"So, are you saying this is an experiment? Forgive me, for I am a man of letters not of science, but I do believe that when one is experimenting it is for lack of certainty. Your words suggest experiments must be done to determine if Smokeless Green is a poison? Have I misunderstood, counselor?"

Hollenbough looked like he sensed a trap but felt a show of confidence would serve him better than careful reflection, as he had insufficient time to fully analyze the potential snares ensconced in the judge's question.

"Not entirely," he said, seeking to allow himself room for subsequent evasion. "It may be that after this social experiment has been carried out longer the senate duly decides to ban Smokeless Green entirely. But it should be noted that the brief period of full legality—the time prior to SISA—was itself an experiment. And the barbaric behavior of addicts—we all remember the naked barbarians who invaded our capital's shopping district—proved clearly that this is not a substance that can be entrusted to the baser classes."

Chief Justice Revdel seemed as though he had grown weary of this particular line of questioning and decided to return to an earlier question: "What are some examples of banned substances in our republic, albeit a partial ban?"

Hollenbough gulped, apparently unhappy to end the prior line of questioning, which had perhaps finally begun to take a turn in his favor.

"How about arsenic?" the chief justice asked.

"There are no federal bans, Your Honor, but I believe no shopkeeper would sell arsenic in large quantities without a convincing explanation from the customer for his need and would never sell it to a child."

"So, in the case of a substance that can induce death almost immediately, everything is left to the discretion of the shopkeeper, but for something whose poisonous nature is only financial in the short term and only becomes physically so over a long period of time—if in fact it ever becomes so; no evidence of this has been presented—that substance must be guarded more closely? It must be restricted to all except the most wealthy?"

"The issue, Your Honor, is not whether the senate would be wise in also restricting other substances. Perhaps it should, and perhaps it one day will. The issue is whether Smokeless Green is a poison for the restricted class—the non-gentlemen class. The answer is yes because they will become addicted and, unable to afford it, will resort to heinous crimes to satisfy their cravings."

Hollenbough then turned around and sat down, a slight look of satisfaction on his face, suggesting he had finally gotten to say even more concisely what he had wanted to say all along. The chief justice, who could have hauled him right back to the lectern, allowed his quarry a respite.

"Counselor Megders, your rebuttal," the chief justice said.

Megders' attention had been torn between his auditory and visual senses during the duel between Hollenbough and the chief justice. He had been tempted to feel optimism by the chief justice's harsh questioning of the prosecutor, but he had found the look on Justice Haufensehn's face both intriguing and unnerving. Though mostly indecipherable, it seemed to suggest he strongly disliked the chief justice's harsh tone, though he perhaps dared not challenge him. And a couple glances in Megders' direction had seemed to say, You're next!

Knees slightly wobbly, he stood and headed towards the lectern, unsure whether he would indeed be given the opportunity to provide a rebuttal against Hollenbough, or whether he would be in for an interrogation session with the justices.

"Your Honors, Chief Justice Revdel's observation that the texture of today's analysis has been arguably more philosophical and historical rather than legal is a just one. It is precisely because of the glaringly clear nature of Article 8, as well as the legislative intent behind it, that neither the federal senate nor any state legislature in our republic has ever attempted to pass a law banning a non-poisonous substance.

"In preparation for oral argument, I researched the criminal codes of every state in our republic and found only three states that have substance bans, and these related to manifestly poisonous substances, such as arsenic, aconitum, mandrake, etc. Furthermore, the statutes in question—if I may generalize, though I am prepared to give word-for-word recitations if needed—do not ban possession but rather put limitations on the sale of such items, for example, by requiring that the vendor sell only a limited amount, record the purported use of such substance, etc.

"Thus, centuries have gone by since Article 8 was enacted without anything other than a few states restricting access to lethal substances. The legislative history itself is clear that Article 8 used the term 'poisonous' in the most common meaning of the word—lethal. The nature of Smokeless Green is that, like alcohol, it is taken to increase the pleasure of the user, not to kill him. And the ensuing time that has passed without any legislature passing a law banning the use or sale of any substance, except partial bans on lethal substances, is further evidence that this is the correct interpretation of Article 8: Only lethal substances can be 'poisonous' and therefore banned."

"Yes, but no society before just recently has confronted a substance like Smokeless Green."

It was Justice Haufensehn. Megders now knew beyond any doubt the man would be a bitter adversary.

Justice Haufensehn continued: "No sooner did this substance arrive in our society than our duly elected senators decided to partially ban it. Does not the short time gap between its arrival in our society and its prohibition nullify your argument or at least show that Smokeless Green is such a powerful substance that it cannot be rightly compared with other intoxicating substances?"

"It is a far more powerful substance than alcohol, Your Honor. Of that, there can be no dispute. But it still does not belong in the class of what can properly be called a poison. It is not lethal. I personally have witnessed many gentlemen lawfully ingest this substance on a regular basis, and yet they remain alive and breathing amongst us. No one has produced any evidence of a single fatality from Smokeless Green, and since the nature of Article 8 is that no substance besides poisonous ones can be banned, the burden is on the Republic to show that Smokeless Green is poisonous and therefore compatible with Article 8."

"But are not laws to be presumed constitutional until proven otherwise?"

"Helthers v. Selegania, a Supreme Court case that has not been overruled, held that, when the constitutionality of a statute hinges upon a portion of the Constitution that creates a general prohibition against certain types of legislation and only permits a narrow exception, the burden of proving constitutionality will shift to the Republic once the opposing party demonstrates beyond a preponderance of the evidence that such a constitutional portion is at issue.

"In this case it is clear, not just beyond a preponderance of the evidence but beyond any reasonable doubt, that the constitutional portion at issue is Article 8 and that it indeed creates a general prohibition against laws such as SISA and only provides a narrow exemption for them. With that burden of proof having been met, the burden now shifts to the Republic to prove that the exemption has been satisfied."

"I agree with his interpretation of Helthers and that Counselor Megders has proven Article 8 is at issue and generally would prohibit laws such as SISA and that therefore the burden of proving the exemption—i.e., the poisonous nature of Smokeless Green—has shifted to the Republic," Chief Justice Revdel said.

"But the fact you have not seen anyone die from this substance does not mean it cannot happen or has not already happened," Justice Haufensehn said abruptly.

"I agree," seconded Justice Beckle.

Other than a brief look of possible camaraderie at his fellow justice, Haufensehn did not miss a beat but continued: "The infamous marketplace incident in which Smokeless Green addicts bathed in their own filth went around looting our capital's shopping district in the search for Smokeless Green is compelling evidence in my mind that this substance is poisonous. Their behavior truly evinced a severely deteriorated mind. Regardless of burden shifting as dictated by Helthers, I believe the senate ought to be granted deference in their determination that Smokeless Green is a poison, at least when consumed improperly. Furthermore, the transcripts from the depositions leading up to today's oral argument reveal that the Republic has sworn testimony from many addicts of the powerful effect the drug has on their minds and that they would do anything for their next dose. This seems consistent with a poison to me. It may be that gentlemen, due to their different breeding, are better able to restrain themselves and remain the master of this substance rather than vice versa. Is that not possible, Counselor?"

"I believe not, Your Honor. From what I have witnessed, most gentlemen consume ever-increasing amounts of this drug as their tolerance increases. They may not resort to such desperate acts as the hooligans in the market place, but that is simply due to their greater financial resources. Also, we do not know what the true mental health was of these market hooligans, since none were ever arrested. Perhaps it was some kind of publicity stunt done in order to convince the public SISA was necessary. After all, Smokeless Green was cheap enough at that time for the basest of our countrymen to afford it."

"That is a rather brazen accusation, Counselor! Furthermore, while Smokeless Green was much cheaper then, that does not mean everyone could afford it. If these were idle men, unaccustomed to honest work, it is quite feasible that they did not have the money with which to purchase this drug."

"It is a flimsy basis for an outright prohibition of a substance!" Megders shot back with a tad more zeal than he had intended, but at this point he was hoping to elicit some assistance from the chief justice, who seemed far more sympathetic to his side.

"Furthermore," Megders continued, "crime rates have been steadily rising ever since SISA was passed. So, even if legalization of Smokeless Green would not remove all instances in which malefactors commit crimes to obtain it, if anything the experiment called SISA has demonstrated that by criminalizing Smokeless Green its value has skyrocketed to previously unfathomable heights, and the desperation with which fiends now seek their next dose far eclipses what was seen before!"

"Yes, but could that not be due in part to the fact the district judge's decision invalidating SISA emboldened these criminal scum, who think that they will never be charged for their crimes?!"

"It may be true that unlawful peddlers of this substance hold hope that if they are ever caught in the act they can eventually escape prosecution by the invalidation of SISA, but surely they do this with a double mind. For if SISA is invalidated by Your Honors and the Republic does not appeal, or if the case goes to the Supreme Court and those justices also invalidate SISA as unconstitutional, then Smokeless Green will be back on the shelves of every grocery store, and the price will quickly work its way back down to earth from the artificial mountaintops upon which it currently rests.

"This would mean a lot of lost money to the drug peddlers, so I can't be sure they really want SISA invalidated at all."

"A most interesting observation," Chief Justice Revdel said. He added nothing more because he was really talking to his fellow justices, as Megders' cogent reasoning caused him to further doubt the claims of that three-bit newspaper story saying that the drug peddlers were threatening the justices that they better invalidate SISA.

Megders saw that Justice Haufensehn was visibly perturbed by the chief justice's comment, and Megders felt this to be an opportune moment to seek his seat, which none of the justices opposed.

Hollenbough then rose and gave an uninterrupted closing statement, which essentially repeated his opening statement.

Megders then rose and approached the lectern.

"Your Honors, we are not here to decide whether it is in my best judgment, or in the Republic's best judgment, or even in Your Honors' best judgment to permit the sale, use, and possession of Smokeless Green, a very potent, highly addictive, arguably even dangerous substance.

"The question is narrower than that. It is whether Article 8 permits the ban of a substance whose purpose and effect is to put the user into an altered state of mind. The answer is clearly a resounding 'no'! It is worth noting that while Smokeless Green is often used for the purposes of pleasure that is because it is best known for being used in conjunction with alcohol, as the former provides immense, long-lasting energy, which permits the user to thereby experience the pleasures of alcohol without any of its soporific effects.

"Nonetheless, there are many working class people who use a highly weakened form of Smokeless Green to work longer hours or even multiple jobs so that they can provide more for their family. Based upon the interviews I have done with those who have used this substance in the absence of alcohol or other drugs, Smokeless Green at its heart is a performance enhancer. It quickens the mind, sharpens the senses, reduces pain, and decreases the need for sleep.

"With the proper amount of restraint, this is a substance that could have profound military applications or, as for many working-class people already, work-enhancing applications. Hardly the attributes of a poison! Yet, it is true, that few people can use moderation with this drug, due to its highly addictive properties. Thus, if the senate were to pass a law limiting the amount one could lawfully purchase per month, I believe that would satisfy Article 8.

"I do believe such a law would be doomed to fail because ultimately this would simply open up a slightly more benign black market than the one that is underway now. Non-users would simply buy the maximum amount and then turn around and sell it to addicts who consume more than the amount permitted by law. It would be a waste of the police and courts' time. At the end of the day, we must accept the lesson that our forefathers learned the hard way and passed down to us via Article 8, which is that, both to society at large and to the law enforcement institutions thereof, whatever good is achieved by attempting to ban a substance used for mental recreation will be dwarfed by the innumerable evils that arise from its criminalization.

"Smokeless Green. Addictive? Yes. Potent? Yes. Dangerous? Perhaps. Poisonous? Absolutely not. Your Honors, I therefore request that you uphold the district judge's decision invalidating SISA."

Chapter 24

"Well, gentlemen—where do we all stand?" Chief Justice Revdel asked of his two esteemed colleagues in their private meeting room.

"Counselor Megders made some creative arguments, but SISA's got to stay," Justice Haufensehn stated flatly. "The people are tired of these drug peddlers riding around brazenly in their fancy suits and little by little buying off policemen. It's all because the drug peddlers are emboldened, thinking they won't be prosecuted. We've got to show them they're wrong, or pretty soon the people are going to get out the tar and feathers for us. They are going to see us as subverting the will of the people."

"You sound like a politician—not a judge, not even a lawyer," Revdel said. "This isn't about practicalities. This is about the law!"

"I'm with Haufensehn," Justice Beckle said meekly, looking down immediately after he said so.

Revdel, a rather large man, turned to his right. "You too? Why? Or dare I ask?"

"Precisely because of the reasons Justice Haufensehn gave. Chief Justice, we've got to recognize that the people are fed up. They want to see drug peddlers in chains, not tap-dancing in front of polite society in fancy costumes."

"Well, I'll be. It seems you two are both incredibly more informed about what 'the people' want than I am. Would either of you care to state the means by which you have arrived at such certain knowledge with regards to such matters?" Revdel asked, with a tone that contained nearly an equal amount of sarcasm and genuine curiosity.

"Sorry, Chief Justice Revdel, my mind's made up on this one," Haufensehn said.

"Mine too," was the immediate reply from Beckle.

"Well, this does beat all! You know, I have half a mind—or maybe a full mind—to petition the Supreme Court itself to conduct a full-fledged ethics examination into you two! Reasonable men can disagree on this matter, sure. But I've been on the bench with each of you for over a decade, and never before have I seen such rapid certainty with regards to a constitutional matter. Let's not forget that we're not students in a philosophy class debate. At the end of the day, our decisions have consequences. The defendant who gave rise to this case is a shopkeeper without any prior criminal record who could be looking at decades in prison!

"Do you realize a robber would receive less punishment?! And don't kid yourselves into thinking that the Supreme Court will have to bear that moral responsibility alone. While they probably will hear an appeal to our decision if there is an appeal, there is no guarantee they will. Justice Haufensehn, would you be able to look David Stephenson in the eye and tell him he deserves decades in prison for selling a banned substance from his store? A substance so-called gentlemen use to party with, yet one that is nonetheless supposedly a poison?!"

"He knew the risks, and he took them," was Haufensehn's cold reply. "And if you request an ethics inquiry, I'll do the same . . . into you, Chief Justice, for attempting to intimidate your colleagues into siding with you. You overstep the bounds of your station. My reasons for agreeing with the Republic will be fully expatiated upon in the majority opinion," Haufensehn said with a cold stare.

"You mean . . . ."

"Yes," Beckle said. "Justice Haufensehn and I had a brief conversation before you came into the meeting room, and that is the decision we reached. It quickly became clear to me that he supports SISA for the same reasons I do."

Haufensehn looked like a prison guard who suddenly realizes he's on the inside of a cell looking out at two former prisoners now dangling the keys in front of him. He barely restrained the impulse to shake his head vigorously like a wet dog in order to see if that cleared his confused mind.

As the saying goes, there is power in numbers, and Revdel quickly folded on the ethics inquiry issue.

"Very well, I look forward to reading your expatiation, and I will write a dissent that posterity will not soon forget!" Revdel fulminated and then left the room like a traveling storm.

Chapter 25

Justice Haufensehn finished drafting his opinion early that afternoon, which stated, in pertinent part:

"The issue in this case is whether a pernicious, highly addictive substance of unknown origins called Smokeless Green (apparently due to the fact it is ingested via inhalation rather than by smoking it)—that fuels days'-long orgies of drunkenness and debauchery abhorrent to any civilized society and whose users have been known to raid public market places in broad daylight while covered in human filth and bereft of clothing in order to search for this substance—is poisonous. To ask the question is to answer it.

"The appellee would have us conclude that only if a substance brings about immediate or prompt death can it be deemed a poison, but we must flatly reject this foolhardy, and dangerous, proposition. The evidence clearly shows that Smokeless Green poisons many users' moral judgment, which in the aggregate will lead to—and has already begun to lead to—greatly increased crime rates throughout our society and the deaths of many at the hands of desperate fiends seeking their next dose. The society of our republic may be viewed as a single entity whose body will be greatly damaged and possibly even destroyed by this vile substance. For these reasons, we are left with no choice but to conclude that Smokeless Green is a poison and thus presents no Article 8 problems.

"As for the 'gentlemen exception,' while this may be of great interest to the appellee, who apparently wishes to divert this court's legal focus into the foray of analyzing hypocrisy, this is beyond the proper scope of this court. If the senate wishes to permit an exemption to a very special segment of our society that has extraordinary financial resources, education, and moral judgment with which to safely dabble in the recreational use of this substance, that is fully within the senate's prerogative, and appellee's counsel has offered no convincing evidence or argument as to how this exemption proves Smokeless Green is not a poison.

"Article 8 does not require that all poisonous substances be wholly banned. It merely forbids the senate from banning a non-poisonous substance. For the reasons stated above, Smokeless Green clearly is a poisonous substance, which gives the senate the constitutional right, but not the duty, to ban it. Thus, if it seeks to limit its ban, it is fully within its rights to do so. It may in time decide this substance is so pernicious that it will be banned even for gentlemen, but this is beyond the scope of the current matter.

"For all these reasons, we reverse the district judge's misguided, facile opinion finding SISA unconstitutional and order him to resume the trial with all judicious speed.

"Reversed.

"Haufensehn, J.; Beckle, J."

He showed it to Justice Beckle, who gave it a quick once-over and then signed his name below where Haufensehn had taken the liberty of printing it. Haufensehn stopped by Chief Justice Revdel's office, grumpily expecting him to not have anything ready yet, but to his surprise he handed him his opinion before Haufensehn could even ask for it. His face gave some hint as to the venom contained therein.

Haufensehn acted disinterested until out of sight from Revdel, and then he opened it and began reading voraciously.

"Today our Republic was dealt a grievous wound. But the arrow fired into her Constitution was not fired from a foreign invader but from those specially entrusted to uphold her laws.

"The issue in this case is whether a new substance of unknown extraction popularly dubbed Smokeless Green is a poison. If it is, then its ban under The Safety in Selegania Act ("SISA") is constitutional, and appellee Mr. Stephenson's felony trial for violation thereof must resume with all judicial vigor. If it is not a poison, then SISA is facially unconstitutional under Article 8, and the district judge's decision invalidating SISA and dismissing the criminal charge must be upheld.

"The appellant would have us believe that, although Smokeless Green is an immensely popular ingredient amongst the gentry and is ubiquitous at any party hosted by such, it is a poison. Based upon this information alone, any reasonable mind would conclude this substance is not a poison. After all, unless our nation's gentry wish to exterminate their own kind, why would they retain for themselves the right to continue to use a poison while simultaneously protecting everyone else from it?

"After the vacuous rhetoric has been extracted from the appellant's written brief and oral statement, what is clear is that the appellant's argument is that Smokeless Green is possibly not poisonous in the medical sense—i.e., in the most literal meaning of the word—but rather causes various harms to the individual and therefore does so indirectly to society. Namely, a person addicted to Smokeless Green may soon find himself unable to afford it, and therefore he begins stealing, robbing, burglarizing, etc., in order to obtain his next dose. Since the gentry will not have this financial impediment to their wanton intoxication, they will not have to go down this road of lawlessness.

"However, the appellant would have us believe it irrelevant that it is only because of SISA that Smokeless Green has now become almost unaffordable for non-gentry. We cannot, and will not, reach this absurd conclusion. From the onset of this drug's entrance into our society until the moment SISA was passed, the price of Smokeless Green was not much more expensive than coffee or regular tobacco and was thus well within the financial range of all but the most penurious denizens of our republic.

"It was only after SISA that Smokeless Green entered the black market (with the exception of a handful of elitist gentlemen's clubs, all of whose members could legally obtain Smokeless Green, and at which facilities Smokeless Green has thus lawfully continued to arrive from its unknown source) and rapidly became nearly unaffordable. Undisputed evidence has shown that in many cases the result has been for Smokeless Green to be sold in a heavily diluted form to poorer customers, thus keeping it affordable, while those who are wealthy (yet below SISA's lofty gentlemen criteria) buy it on the black market in its pure form at exorbitant prices.

"In brief, this red herring by the appellant can be justly exposed as a fraud when closely examined. If Smokeless Green is not a poison to the gentry because it is affordable, then it would therefore not be a poison to the masses if it were affordable. And since in the absence of SISA it would be affordable to the masses, the only thing making Smokeless Green a 'poison' is the poisonous SISA law itself.

"Article 8, as the appellee has convincingly demonstrated, has its roots in a bloody era of our nation's history, a period of bloody civil war when corruption shook our government to its very foundations. The corruption and the bloodletting stemmed from our Republic's attempt at prohibiting alcohol. Out of the ashes of that war came Article 8, which was written broadly to prevent the senate from banning substances and only providing a narrow exception, which is for the prohibition of poisons.

"The only slightly credible way in which Smokeless Green could be deemed a poison has been revealed supra to be not based on Smokeless Green's inherent properties but rather on the artificial financial consequences of the drug being banned. It should be noted that even if Smokeless Green led to such financially driven crimes based upon something less artificial—e.g., transportation costs for the drug, production costs for the drug, etc.—it would still require a very minute analysis and exceptionally strong evidence of addicted users committing crimes in order to obtain this drug because they could not afford it. And even then it would only be with great reluctance that a court could properly find that an acceptable means of rising to the level of 'poisonous' as defined in Article 8.

"But since the financial connection to the drug addicts' crimes is not based upon any inherently expensive qualities of the drug—otherwise, why was it infinitely cheaper when legal?—but rather to its prohibited status, it is unnecessary and inappropriate to engage in such an analysis.

"This leaves only the argument that Smokeless Green is poisonous in a moral sense: It is highly addictive and becomes irresistible to many people. While there is little doubt that it is addictive and irresistible to many, this alone cannot make it a poison. Anyone who has lived his life outside of a cave knows of the power alcohol can despotically wield over an individual, causing innumerable destructive consequences to his professional and family life as a result, in addition to damaging his health.

"Nonetheless, it was in the context of the conclusion of the bloody war over alcohol prohibition and the repeals of alcohol prohibition laws throughout the entire country that Article 8 was added to our Constitution. Thus, it is clear that by 'poisonous' Article 8 did not intend to permit the prohibition of substances that were simply injurious to the individual's, or society's, health and well-being but rather those that were poisonous in the more literal sense of the word—substances that bring about death shortly after consumption.

"The majority has decided today to ignore the historical context within which Article 8 was written and instead permit a highly broadened interpretation of 'poisonous' and thereby open the floodgates for what may tragically be a new era of bloodshed and civil war.

"Therefore, not only for the judicial record but also for the record of posterity, I hereby adamantly dissent from my colleagues.

"Revdel, Chief Justice"

Haufensehn swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut tightly to prevent a tear from escaping but to no avail. He was tempted to march down to Beckle's office and apologize and tell him that he was signing on to the dissent to make it the majority opinion and to ask him if he would do the same or become the dissent.

But then his wife and child came to mind. They had to come first. Not the law. Not even the country. His family. But, surely, this would go to the Supreme Court. Anybody with an inkling of common sense knew that. So, this wasn't the end of the road for Mr. Stephenson. And Megders was a good attorney, and he would make sure to keep his client out on bail while the appeal process continued to transpire.

And if the vigilantes wanted to go after the Supreme Court, they would find that a bit more difficult because there were fifteen of them, and they all had at least one security guard assigned to their houses at government expense. So, he wasn't sending anyone to prison. He was just looking out for his family. Heck, he might even report the vigilantes once they returned his wife and son, but one thing at a time. He first needed to get this decision sent to the district judge without delay so that he could see right away whether the vigilantes had any intention of really returning his kidnapped family members.

If they didn't, he would go public about what happened, and he would see to it that the largest manhunt in human history took place. He wasn't without friends in high places in the district's police force or even in the army. He could fight if it came to that.

He went outside, instructed his coachman to take him to the district court's office, and once there, he marched right into the district judge's chambers and set the decision down on his desk.

"The Stephenson case proceeds. See to it."

"This is an outstanding breach in protocol, Justice Haufensehn."

Haufensehn normally did not deign to exercise the arts of hypocrisy, as he rarely had need, but with the convincing skill of an actor, he summoned a look of indignation to his face and plopped down the newspaper on the district judge's desk describing the threats the drug peddlers had made, warning the court to find SISA unconstitutional.

"Not a breach in protocol, Justice Willington. Just sending a message loud and clear to those criminals who would seek to intimidate the guardians of our Constitution."

An indignant look still in his eye, he then turned away haughtily from Justice Willington, whose face had I'm sorry written all over it, and walked outside, feeling a potent sense of self-loathing with every step.

"Take me home, Matthew," he instructed his coachman.

He didn't feel like even attempting any further work today. He had a lot of thinking to do.

When he walked inside the front door to his home, he found all the blinds closed and the interior encased in darkness. After a few steps, his foot struck something hard, and he went tumbling onto the ground, bruising his forearm and giving his head a nice rap against the floor in the process. Furious and spewing profanity like a spitting cobra, he stood to his feet to see what unworthy object had dared molest him in the sanctity of his own home.

He walked gingerly, like a blind man in a room full of snakes, and violently opened up one of the blinds, allowing a powerful beam of sunlight to come punching through the glass and illuminating the source of his vexation.

There was a large chest, worthy of holding the booty of an accomplished pirate, and on top was attached a note. Warily, he picked it up, unfolded it, and began reading.

Congratulations! You have chosen to put the interests of the people over the clever arguments of a snake-tongued lawyer. We told you we were not criminals, and inside this chest is the proof. And your maid is safe and sound too. We tied her up and gagged her—with respect for her dignity in the process—so that she did not spoil your opportunity to be the liberator of your family. We are family men ourselves! Your maid is safe and sound in the kitchen.

A warning, however! Do not make the mistake of thinking that your reunion with your family would make it prudent to seek police action against us. If you do so, we will know. And you will be utterly unable to predict or stop our next visit, which will prove to be a fatal one.

We wish nothing more than to return to our honest occupations. Banditry has never been our calling in life, but we will not stand by and watch our nation destroyed by Smokeless Green. If you betray us, you will come home one day to find your family in a very similar chest but cut into tiny pieces! Don't sacrifice their lives in an impotent attempt to satiate your resentment against us.

Guardians of Selegania's Future

Haufensehn noticed a key attached to the back of the piece of paper, and he rapidly tore it off. He almost put it into the chest's lock without another thought, but something gave him pause. Would his wife and son really be there? Why was there no sound?

With great trepidation he put the key into the chest. Expecting great resistance, he was surprised to find it turned easily. The padlock then snapped open after he gave it just a slight tug.

He took a deep breath and then opened the chest.

As soon as he saw its contents he shrieked!

His wife and son lay lifeless, no hint of a gag on either of their mouths, and yet there they lay, as still as the dead, not a tremor in their chests to be detected. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

He extended his hand to his dear wife's face, expecting to be met with the icy confirmation of death. To his surprise, instead his fingers felt warm, pulsating life. He bent down and kissed his wife's cheek.

"Rachel?" he said softly. He put his finger underneath her nose, and sure enough he felt air coming and going, but in slow, nearly imperceptible breaths.

They've been drugged, he told himself.

He then quickly checked his son's pulse, although not with the same zeal with which he had inspected Rachel for signs of life. His son was alive.

He ran to the kitchen to check on Sarah. Sure enough, she was tied and gagged, but the now slightly audible sounds coming from her gagged mouth and the tears streaming down her face obviated the need for any doubt about her being alive.

After he freed her from her bonds, she began to explain hysterically that she had been overwhelmed by such sudden force that she had never had any chance to resist the masked assailants, yet when Haufensehn inquired delicately about any injury to her person or dignity she assured him that other than being tied up she had not been harmed in any way.

"Rachel and Timmy are by the door," he said somewhat coldly, adopting the more-distant tone with which he normally addressed Sarah now that he was relatively confident of his family's safety.

It was an hour later when they awoke, and although they were both groggy at first, their thrill upon realizing they had been liberated overcame the potent effects of the drug. With hugs and kisses, they assured Haufensehn that they had been well treated aside from having their freedom of movement restrained. He inquired briefly about where they were held, but they had no helpful information, as they had been blindfolded when abducted and then driven around for hours within the city before being taken to an unknown location, within which they were blindfolded until placed into a locked room.

As the tears flowed and the hugs continued, he felt satisfaction for his decision, and, he reminded himself again, the Supreme Court would hear the case. He would see to getting a guard to prevent further attacks, but retaliation for what had happened was unthinkable. The criminal proficiency of these "Guardians of Selegania's Future" was rather alarming, and while he had his doubts about whether a group of sundry professionals could suddenly carry out such well-coordinated crimes while escaping all detection, he realized there was nothing but futility in such speculations.

If you betray us . . . .

No, he wouldn't do that. Of that, he was sure.

Chapter 26

A game of intense chess was underway in King Verwil's court. The Duke of Vurtem sparred in his usual strategy with the king by playing well but making a few subtle mistakes here and there in order to allow the king to save face and the duke to save his life.

"What news do we have on our project?" the king inquired calmly while adjusting his rook's position.

"Mostly excellent. Indeed, almost all excellent."

The king frowned.

"I'll go with the good news first this time. Bad news has a deleterious effect on my chess performance. But first tell me if you have any reports on Irkels."

"None, Your Highness. It is as if he has disappeared."

"He failed to find the pholungs and refuses to return here and accept his execution honorably. Make it known to the new chief of the Varco that a death sentence hangs over Irkels' head. No need to bring him here—he is to be killed on sight whenever and wherever he is found. It will suffice to see his severed head displayed here in my court."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Now, tell me the good news about our project."

"Money is pouring into our coffers in the tens of millions each month. If the whim were to strike Your Majesty, I believe you could raise or purchase an army that would flatten Sogolia!"

"Well, with news like that, I suppose it should be quite feasible for me to stomach whatever bad news exists."

"Your Majesty, while our agents have been mostly successful in staying in control of the distribution of Smokeless Green, things are in a downward spiral in Sivingdel."

"Go on."

"Well, our agent there had retained nearly complete control of the Smokeless Green trade until several months ago; but after the death of Heavy Sam, control of the trade has been slipping from his control little by little to the point that now . . . ." The duke gulped nervously.

"Don't make me drag this out of you word by word, Duke Galdfrey. I'll be immeasurably perturbed. I'm very pleased with your overall progress, and not even I demand perfection. Now, be a man and tell me everything fluidly and with valor."

"Our agent there, according to the latest report, is down to about ten percent market share."

"What's causing this? And where's the other percentage going? Are we talking about a nascent monopoly, oligopoly, or, the worst case—small, independent distributors?"

"A nascent monopoly, I believe, would be the best descriptor."

"Good. That means we only have one man to either bring into line or destroy. For a moment, you had me worried. Why is he successful? What is his source? Our agent should be able to undersell any distributor easily."

"Yes, Your Highness. He should. Inexplicably, however, he cannot. This individual is outdoing him on both price and quality."

King Verwil suddenly stood upright while releasing a loud "WHAT?!!!" his eyes full of fire.

Then, as suddenly as the anger had come he immediately sat back down to the chessboard. Such an outburst from a normal king might come from the most trivial annoyance, but to the Metinvurs, who valued icy calculation, precision, and cunning, such an outburst, even for a king, was nearly unthinkable.

"Your trepidation was well-founded in sharing these most gloomy tidings," the king said with a furrowed brow, "and your head remains attached thanks only to the exquisite news you first shared with me. I pray you did not exaggerate it out of an instinct for self-preservation," the king added, while moving a pawn and taking the duke's bishop.

The king then looked up with icy eyes towards the duke and said, "You may recall that it was your idea, and your idea alone, to release Valder—now referred to most profanely as Smokeless Green—upon the people. It would bring us extraordinary riches, wreck the societies of our morally weak rivals, and forever remain within our complete control, thus allowing us to turn the ocean of Valder into a desert whenever it fancied us. Do you recall these predictions?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Good. Now explain to me what is going on. Is one of our own agents betraying us? How can an outsider undersell one of our agents? We have kept Valder to ourselves exclusively for millennia. No other country has it."

"The only possibility, Your Highness, I believe is the seeds."

King Verwil's brow frowned severely, and Duke Galdfrey gulped nervously.

"Ah, the seeds. Yes, I do recall that those were my idea," the king said, looking carefully at the duke, "yet I also recall that you assured me that these seeds would yield only seedless plants. You do recall that, do you not?"

"Of course, Your Highness."

"And do you still retain confidence that our botanists competently inserted only such seeds in said barrels?"

Galdfrey paused only a brief moment before giving the only answer that would allow his head to stay attached: "Of course, Your Highness."

"Well, then, I suppose there's no point in getting too worked up, is there?" King Verwil said with a chuckle not even Duke Galdfrey could ascertain to be false or sincere, diligent student of the king though he was.

"Perhaps you thought it was a bit reckless of me to distribute those seeds, did you not?"

"His Majesty's stratagems often exceed my own humble understanding," Duke Galdfrey said carefully, with affected sincerity.

"Well, there's no shame in admitting that. But I have faith in you, Duke Galdfrey. Tell me why I suggested it."

There were many times in the king's presence that the duke had to make great mental exertions to affect sincerity in his hypocritical answers, but the truly nightmarish situations came when faced with questions to which the desired answer was not immediately clear. He had assumed the king had suggested sending out the seeds due to the king's eagerness to execute the project with the greatest celerity, and the seeds provided a way by which the product would be disseminated on its own, thus obviating the need for the already overstretched Varco agents to assume the full task of distribution throughout the targeted countries.

But it was clear now that the king was hinting at a shrewder strategy, and he had not even the faintest supposition as to what it might be.

"No need to torment yourself, Duke Galdfrey. Let me explain to you the difference between the way a king thinks and the way a duke thinks. It will be in our interest for the targeted nations not to know we are behind the proliferation of Valder, yes?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Could the threat of prison force a distributor to reveal his source?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And if that source is a Varco agent, that means trouble for us, even if neither the traitorous distributor nor the arresting police officers knows the source is a Varco agent, yes?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"What kind of trouble, Duke Galdfrey?"

"It could require an allocation of Varco agents to free the arrestee. It could require the Varco agent to kill numerous police officers to escape. In brief, it could cause many problems and put Your Majesty's desires in peril."

"Very good. Now do you still fail to see the advantage of the seeds?"

It hit the duke like a bolt of lightning, and he found himself thinking that, perhaps all this time he had believed himself to be allowing the king to win at chess, in reality the king not only did not need his artificial mistakes but was also fully aware of them and laughing inwardly at the duke's misplaced deference.

"If the distributor is planting his own Smokeless Green, there is no one higher up the chain for him to betray to authorities in exchange for leniency. Such a man is entirely and utterly expendable!" the duke nearly shouted, sincerely amazed at what he perceived to be the king's brilliance. "He can be made a scapegoat . . . he can become the main target of police and military action while distributors under our agents are mostly left alone."

"Close," the king said calmly. "Now tell me why I was so furious."

The duke's good cheer quickly left him, as he felt as much at a loss as he did moments before, and with his newfound respect for the king's intellect, he now felt quite doltish by comparison.

"Don't flog yourself, Duke Galdfrey. Even kings miscalculate. My hope had been that a handful of independent distributors would arise from the seeds. Their ambition would be kept in check by the finite nature of their resources and by their rivalry amongst one another. With the seeds distributed amongst several individuals, no single individual would become powerful enough to pose much of a threat to our plans. But if most of the market share of Sivingdel is now in the hands of a single distributor—and we are of course assuming that no Varco agent is betraying us and selling independently for personal gain, a most unlikely possibility, given our excellent returns—it seems quite likely that most of those seeds did somehow end up with one individual.

"That means somewhere near Sivingdel there has to be one very large farm, yes?"

"A likely proposition, Your Highness."

"The other fact that vexes me is you say the quality is reportedly higher. I confess that was a most unforeseen factor to myself, which is why I say even kings miscalculate. I would not have expected the quality of Seleganian soil to be so superior as to make a significant difference in the Valder planted there. But even from this good may yet come, as we may wish to eventually make it our preferred location for harvesting."

There was an awkward pause, as the duke waited for the king to continue, since his pensive face left little doubt that he had more to say.

He then looked directly at the duke and said, "Let us not become overly worried about this lone individual. Let us first find out everything we can about him. Everything," the king repeated with ice in his voice and eyes. "We will then decide whether this is a man who can be ignored for the time being. We may find him useful to our own ends. Or"—and as the king said this his hand calmly pushed his rook into the duke's queen, in a move the duke had genuinely not seen coming, which sent a chill down his spine, as he now felt more certain than ever that the king was well aware of his fake chess mistakes of the past and was fully able to choose between exploiting his fake mistakes or his real ones, "we may find it necessary to destroy this man."

The duke gulped nervously, feeling a bit of peculiar sympathy for the individual.

"Let us hope it is not Irkels. That could create a very nasty reallocation of our already strained resources," the king said.

The duke felt a chill go down his spine. He had not even considered that possibility.

"Tell me everything you know so far."

Chapter 27

IT'S THE LAW OF THE LAND!

SUPREME COURT DENIES REVIEW OF SISA CHALLENGE

The headline, distributed throughout the towns and cities of the fifteen states of Selegania, was met with different reactions by many individuals, a few of which merit attention.

Senator Hutherton nearly fainted in a state of euphoria and had to read, and then reread more than a dozen times, the propitious title, but only after approaching three random passersby in the street and demanding with a wild look in his eye and an even more unnerving expression on his face that they read the headline, did he allow himself to believe it, after which he shucked off his shoes and went sprinting two miles down the street before he realized that not even the inhuman exaltation, and exorbitant amount of Smokeless Green he had ingested, could contend with the limitations of a body long accustomed to lethargy. Charley horses made his calf muscles feel as though they were about to tear to pieces, and he limped home, a wide smile still plastered on his face.

Senator-attorney Megders felt the impotent rage and overpowering sorrow that his now celebrating counterpart had felt when the news of SISA's invalidation had occurred many months ago. Although his client still had a trial ahead of him, with the constitutional defense off the table this left only a fact-based defense or negotiating for a plea bargain. The fact he had been arrested by the chief of police himself in the act of selling Smokeless Green from his store made contesting the facts as inviting as a narrow, icy pathway bordered on each side by a black, seemingly bottomless, abyss. And the prospects of obtaining a plea bargain, or even a semblance thereof, from an enraged, embarrassed, vindictive prosecutor's office were comparable to asking clemency of a man whom one has just seriously wounded in a failed murder attempt and who now stands above his would-be assassin poised to inflict the injury of his choice.

He didn't know how he would face this client, whom he had met under the unethical pretense of already being his attorney and whom he had dissuaded from accepting a most-lenient plea bargain. When the idea of handing the man several hundred thousand falons as an "I'm sorry" and suggesting he abscond until a circuit court struck down SISA—thereby creating a circuit split and virtually ensuring that the Supreme Court would have to hear the case—the idea did not sound as ridiculous to him as he felt it should have.

Righty Rick's reaction was one of careful consideration and deep introspection, as he had no immediate cause for either the triumph of Senator Hutherton, or the dismay of Senator Megders, given that this recent event was to him the apotheosis of the proverbial two-edged sword, for this event virtually ensured his chosen career would be ensconced within the domain of the outlaw, yet had SISA been overturned he may have found his meteoric accumulation of wealth to quickly dissipate, no longer propped up by the artificial value arising from his product's illegality.

The reaction of a perhaps long-forgotten character was of particular importance in the ensuing drama.

Chapter 28

When Irkels had emerged like a cobra on the hunt from the hole that the elusive Tristan had used to effect his narrow escape from the imposing forces aligned against him, he might have continued deep into the forests, chasing the reclusive wizard, who had for a brief time made those trees his home.

Yet a chance visit to the nearby town of Ringsetter had altered his pursuit of the wizard inexorably and set the chief of the Varco on a very different quest.

While in Ringsetter, he had barely been able to believe his eyes when he saw Smokeless Green being openly consumed and sold as if it were no different than tobacco, coffee, or sugar. A small purchase and a quick test had promptly ensured him that his eyes were indeed reporting the events accurately. From there, he had changed his disguise and gone to the city of Sivingdel, where, again, he found the substance he had known his entire professional life as a Metinvur agent as Valder being openly sold and consumed.

Irkels knew that none other than his esteemed countrymen were up to shenanigans on a level even he had never treaded. For such a massive operation to be undertaken without his knowledge, and while he was sent on a mission looking for birds, was more than enough proof to him that he had been deposed as chief of the Varco.

It was an old trick. Rather than killing a deposed Varco chief, it was common to send him on an isolated mission, during which the king installed a new chief and commenced a large-scale operation. Once the hapless Varco chief discovered this, tradition dictated that the only honorable solution was self-imposed exile. He could live the rest of his life without fear of assassination, provided he never approached another Varco agent again for the rest of his life. Failure to abide by this tradition would result in the deposed chief becoming the top-priority target for all of the Varco.

But Irkels felt he was quite a bit too young for early retirement, and he was also nearly certain of who had passed this idea along to the king as his own, given that Irkels himself had once jokingly mentioned it to Selven—whom he was now virtually certain had replaced him as the chief of the Varco—as a potentially effective, but overly risky, operation.

He would be damned if he was going to sit back in self-imposed exile while his erstwhile pupil took the credit for his idea. He had spent the ensuing years in a bit of nostalgic bliss, pickpocketing and shoplifting with an ease that made those dispossessed of their wallets and other small valuables think later that surely they had just misplaced their goods somewhere, for never had they felt even the slightest caress from the man who so casually made their property his own.

Irkels studied the various drug peddlers carefully, for he had a very particular object in mind. He was looking for someone powerful. Someone who could appreciate the skills a man like Irkels could bring to his organization. And then, that man could help him achieve his own ends.

Chapter 29

Righty had an uneasy feeling as he cut through the night sky atop Harold's back. He had told Tats to make sure he had no guards posted in his backyard, because he had something very special to show him tonight and for his eyes only.

Righty felt about as comfortable taking this step as one would stepping onto a fallen tree serving as the only bridge between two sides of a thousand-foot cliff. But Righty knew that not only was this necessary but long overdue.

Many things had happened over the last several months. He had bought up every ranch abutting the mountain range that served as a natural barrier between his agricultural activities and Sivingdel. For most men, the only way to travel from the ranches to Sivingdel was by going far east on horseback past the mountains and then cutting back far west before then heading north slightly towards Sivingdel, a trip that would take at least a couple of weeks. But for him it was around a half-hour flight.

However, his insistence on keeping Harold a secret was starting to impede his ability to expand his business.

Whereas the first ranch Righty had purchased was devoted largely to cattle with only some minor agriculture at the time of purchase, most of the other ranches along the mountain range (fourteen in total) were already devoted largely to agriculture. Righty had been forced to pay all of the ranchers far more than the fair value of their land for the same reason his first ranch had been such a tough buy—the rancher's love of the land—and because the word was getting out quick that he could afford it.

His last ranch had cost him about seven times the value. But he had considered it well worth it.

He now owned approximately 600,000 acres. There was no entry to this land from the west or north without scaling large mountains. It abutted the southernmost border of Selegania. And to approach it from the east would require trespassing over many miles of private property before discovering anything illegal.

About two weeks after his first crop had ripened, Tim Sanders, his senior-most rancher, had discovered approximately an acre's worth of plants that produced seeds. He had paid Tim the promised $100,000 immediately. It had been a jubilant moment for Righty, for he realized now that he was no longer dealing with a finite crop whose destruction or discovery could promptly bring about his downfall.

The moment Tim had showed him the seed-bearing plants, he felt that the gods themselves had descended and handed him a blank check, perhaps as part of some celestial experiment to see what one ambitious man could do with access to limitless money.

He had offered the ranchers the choice between continuing their normal ranch work full-time or moonlighting between that and Smokeless Green cultivation at six times their normal salary, and not one seemed to think handling both would be exceptionally onerous. He had then instructed them to take all the plants with seeds and grind the bulbs into powder so that the seeds could be extracted separately for future harvesting.

He had purchased sophisticated weight scales and begun instructing them each day how many packages he wanted and of what weights. Tim proved himself to be a rather ingenious tinkerer, and, with various odds and ends he purchased, he soon devised a contraption that collected the powder directly from the weight scale and then compressed it tightly into a bundle.

Righty had been impressed by this, and so he brought Tim a large, fashionable coat that any gentleman would have been comfortable wearing in Sivingdel and asked him to create secret compartments in it that would enable him to carry the maximum weight possible.

After numerous failed attempts, Tim eventually found a way to reinforce the inner fabric with leather without it being perceptible in the slightest when the coat was worn, and on the inside he installed numerous secret compartments that allowed Righty to carry up to fifty pounds.

Still not satisfied, Righty had Tim repeat the process with a pair of pants. After repeated experiments, Tim was able to create a thirty-pound carrying capacity.

Tim and the original ranchers were disciplined and dependable and usually kept around ten different coats and pairs of pants stocked and ready for Righty with a total eighty-pound load. But from there, things became rather tedious.

Still uncomfortable sharing with anyone the secret of Harold's existence, he had to hike off towards anything remotely approaching seclusion to be picked up by Harold. Sometimes, the grove of trees between the house and the ranchers' space provided him sufficient cover for him to feel confident calling Harold, but on days with little cloud cover he often was forced to do a half-hour hike up into the forest before asking Harold to pick him up.

Then, there was the issue of Sivingdel itself. Long gone were the days when he could be dropped off near the desolate edges of the junkyard. Tats now owned three palatial mansions inside of some of the most opulent areas of Sivingdel, and while the neighborhoods were calm and quiet, dropping out of the sky mounted on a bird that made an eagle look like a cardinal would probably raise some eyebrows, not excluding those of Tats, who would notice if the bird suddenly landed in his backyard.

Because of this, Righty had to be dropped off at the most isolated locations of Sivingdel within walking distance of an area where he might procure the services of a stagecoach. He had experimented with multiple locations on the edges of the city and found that on average he had to walk for about an hour before finding a coach, after which he then spent around thirty minutes getting to Tats' house. On one occasion, he had Harold set him down inside a small forested area of the city's centrally located park, but when he emerged from the trees dressed like a gentleman with mud all over his shoes this had prompted some curious stares from a couple of patrol officers, and he decided once was enough for that experiment.

Thus, each trip to Sivingdel was taking about three hours when he kept it strictly to business, and he was usually doing two trips per day. He was making approximately $1.5 million falons per day from these trips. On some occasions, he would stay and practice sword fighting and hand-to-hand combat with Tats, who had installed an exquisite gymnasium in each of his mansions. Righty saw this as a valuable investment because Tats was his top-ranking agent in Sivingdel, and the last thing Righty wanted was to lose one of the very few men he trusted due to a robbery, kidnapping, or assassination.

Tats had been making progress both with the sword and with hand-to-hand combat that rivalled Righty's own. Long gone was the skinny frame that had once filled the inside of Tats' loose-fitting clothing. His forearms bulged with muscles so well-developed that a professor of anatomy could have used them to instruct his class without needing to skin the arm of a cadaver. He told Righty that he put in five hours of practice every day with the sword and two hours of boxing and grappling training on a variety of sandbags and wooden dummies that he had, and Righty saw every scintilla of proof of Tats' claims in his meteoric rate of learning.

Just a couple months ago, Righty had surprised him with a superbly crafted sword from Pitkins. Righty had communicated Tats' height and weight to Pitkins, and Pitkins, although he preferred to meet his customer face to face, prepared the sword accordingly. The gift of this sword had appeared to intensify still further the nearly unsurpassable zeal with which Tats already trained.

Righty had less logistical trouble with Rucifus. He met with her once per month, at which time they pored over a map and came up with an excruciatingly detailed agreement of exchanges that would take place in the forest east of Sodorf City. Harold would fly him deep into the woods to the agreed-upon location. Righty would dismount and pick up the money. And then he would leave the agreed-upon product amount behind. He had no need to stuff his coat and pants with Smokeless Green for these drops. Harold carried two hundred pounds in his talons as easily as a man might carry a kitten. One of Rucifus's agents would always be scheduled to pick it up within an hour or two.

Rucifus had been a bit reluctant to always leaving the money there first when they had initially discussed this plan, so Righty had told her, "Fine, I won't accept any money from you today," and then he handed her the shipment he had brought. Then, he said, "From now on, every payment will be for the last shipment you received. That way, I'm taking the risk."

That had broken Rucifus's stubbornness immediately, and the only purpose of their monthly meetings was to make adjustments to the amount of product Righty was leaving behind, which Rucifus was constantly requesting to be increased, and Righty happily obliged her. Due to the large amounts he was providing her each week, and due to the increasing currency strength of the velur, Righty was earning about $30,000,000 falons each week.

Thus, in spite of having bought up an area of land so large that few private citizens, if any, in the history of Selegania could match it, Righty constantly found himself burying barrel after barrel packed tightly with millions of falons in the hills surrounding his house.

As for the structure of his enormous estate, he decided to divide it into a series of zones. The eastern seventy percent of his land was devoted exclusively to the wholly legal activities of farming and cattle-raising. No one in this area had any knowledge of his illicit activities.

The most western five percent of his land was currently being used for the cultivation and processing of Smokeless Green. Beyond that, he kept about ten percent of his land completely off limits to anyone. He wanted this land unwatched for his own privacy and also to keep space available for the expansion of Smokeless Green cultivation.

But between these two extremes was a middle ground, constituting about fifteen percent of his land, that he used as a training ground. He and his original thirty ranchers set up a series of targets for archery practice, areas for sword practice, and a large variety of exercise equipment. Weights, climbing walls, climbing ropes, and other similar things were used here, and Righty usually spent at least two hours every evening with his men engaged in such martial pursuits.

Word spread throughout the ranch of these activities, and for the young men seeking to prove themselves—which was a large percentage of Righty's overall work force—participation in these martial exercises came to be seen as a most-coveted privilege.

Once per week, Righty would have Tim select thirty men to demonstrate themselves in a variety of contests, such as boxing, grappling, archery, and dexterity with the sword. Of these, he usually bestowed upon the best five the privilege—and the subsequent obligation—of regular participation in martial exercises. He referred to these men as the Ranch Guard.

Little by little over the last several months, the numbers had added, until he now had around 130 men in the Ranch Guard. He was purchasing new swords from Pitkins on a regular basis, although this had required a little arm-twisting. Pitkins' strong preference for crafting swords that were equal in beauty and lethality made for a slow turnaround time, but Righty had explained convincingly the constant threat he faced on his ranch from bandits and ultimately persuaded Pitkins to begin crafting swords in bulk that, while just as deadly as his normal product, could not have moonlighted as pieces of art.

Righty enjoyed his time with the men, and he enjoyed the flood of money; but he was beginning to have a crisis of conscience and of purpose. He was growing extremely weary of the constant trips to Sivingdel that robbed him of so much of his time. He was growing equally weary of hiding barrels of cash in the mountains each week, wondering if the money would rot or be stolen before he ever found a use for it. Sometimes, he grew weary even of his martial exercises, as he realized his only motivation therefor was to protect this secret lifestyle that, by virtue of its secret and illicit nature, he was seemingly forbidden to enjoy.

A man with a mere fraction of your wealth might enjoy it a hundred times more, he thought. He began to see each barrel of cash he buried as representative of another fruitless task. If money could not be enjoyed, was it still money?

Janie was now expected to give birth within weeks. Would he ever tell her the truth? Would he ever tell his child the truth? Would his child be safe?

Their relationship was not in the dumps right now, but it was tense. He missed many an evening at home, and he sometimes sensed she approached and hugged him only to see if she smelled alcohol or perfume because often after her embraces she disengaged and spent much of the evening in sullen discontent.

He suspected she had probably stopped by the store on several occasions, and after not finding him there on a single one realized he was up to something. He wanted to buy her fancy things, most of all a palatial mansion, but that would raise questions.

He now earned more money in a single week than he ever would have in an entire year had he become the undisputed bare-knuckle boxing champion of Selegania—rather than the savage pariah banned from the ring for life—and yet he still lived like a lumberman. He was beginning to feel that, while his secretive prudence had once been more than justified, there was no point continuing another day in this illicit business if he was going to continue living like a pauper while burying millions in the ground.

It was this general sentiment that had prompted him to cross the barrier he was now traversing, something that before would have been unthinkable.

It was a dark, but not impenetrable, night, and he could see a lone figure seated on a bench abutting the backside of the palatial mansion below.

Harold's talons touched the ground. Righty slid off.

"Hi, Tats," Righty said, feeling a bit bashful.

Tats' eyes looked like saucers.

Chapter 30

"Aren't you going to say hello?" Righty asked.

Tats was still quiet.

Slowly, he stood, but his eyes were not on Righty but rather the colossal bird sitting calmly behind him like a dutiful German Shepherd.

Large brick walls surrounded the spacious backyard, and trees provided a further perimeter of protection, keeping the scene hidden from the nosiest neighbor. Guard dogs patrolled the edges of the yard, but per Righty's prior request Tats had enclosed them tonight. He didn't want them putting on a raucous concerts of growls and howls.

"Don't be afraid, Tats," Righty said finally, after an awkward silence. "He's the reason you're not sitting inside of a prison right now."

Tats had many times considered the possibility that a bird had flown him out of the alley that night, but stubborn disbelief had forced him to theorize that perhaps he had fainted and been carried to the junkyard by Righty and that he had merely imagined the police closing in on him in the alleyway.

Righty had been faithful in continually providing large sums of money that corresponded to the promised ten percent commission he had promised Tats for arranging the business relationship with his sister, and this had again made him wonder if Mr. Brass had special means of transportation, but he had convinced himself that surely Mr. Brass was using someone else to send the Smokeless Green to Sodorf City.

But now he had the undeniable explanation in front of him, and he was almost as terrified that he had gone insane as he was in fear of imminent physical danger.

"Relax, Tats," Righty said a bit more forcefully and stroked Harold's neck at the same time.

"I found him when he was just a chick. He had a broken wing and was about the size of a cat, but I fed him and nursed him to health, and we've been inseparable ever since. He would never hurt a friend of mine. Never."

Tats still looked uneasy.

"Come here, Tats," Righty said a bit forcefully.

Tats walked forward very slowly until he reached Righty.

"Stick out your hand and touch him," he commanded.

Tats' heart was galloping a mile per minute, but he extended his trembling arm and slowly moved it towards Harold's feathery neck.

Righty was tempted to grab it and speed up the process, but he patiently waited. The last couple of inches seemed to take Tats a minute to traverse, but Righty supposed his trepidation was warranted. He himself had once quivered inwardly before Harold, and he had probably only dared trust him because his fear was diverted by his shock that Harold could speak.

Finally, Tats' hand made contact, and he gave a couple strokes to Harold's neck. Harold remained calm and even let out a barely perceptible purring sound.

Righty could sense Tats' lowering anxiety.

"His name is Harold. You're the first person I've ever introduced him to."

Tats turned around and looked closely at Mr. Brass, wondering if this could possibly be true. His face suggested it was.

"I told you that I would explain the means of your escape from the alleyway if I ever thought it necessary to this organization. Do you remember?"

Tats nodded.

"You've proven yourself, Tats. You're loyal. You're smart. You gave me a superb international business contact. And you're becoming more and more skilled every day as a warrior. I hope for peace, but let's not fool ourselves. You've seized over ninety percent of the market share in Sivingdel. This town is virtually yours. Do—"

"It's yours, Mr. Brass. I know who I answer to."

"Thanks, Tats. But at a minimum you're the prince regent for a sovereign who merely visits. You live here. You grew up here. You have a special relationship to this city I could probably never have."

"Thanks, Mr. Brass. Honestly. But you drastically underestimate yourself. And I say this without flattery. The name 'Mr. Brass' is echoed throughout the four corners of the underworld in this city in deferential whispers. If I haven't been attacked or murdered yet, it's in large part—if not wholly—due to the fact people know I work for you. People know me here, yes. But they admire you."

Righty was genuinely stunned. It had been a long time since his pugilistic encounter with Heavy Sam, and he felt certain that this and his prior scrapes would quickly fade away as being of little importance. But Tats was no flatterer, and Righty was taken aback by the words he had just heard.

"Those are kind words, Tats. But even if they're true, there are other things to consider, and it is precisely because of having considered those things very carefully I have chosen to reveal Harold to you, something I thought I would never do."

Tats looked nervously at Harold, then said, "What things, Mr. Brass?"

"Do you really think this peace can last forever?"

Tats was silent.

"Maybe it can, but I wouldn't count on it," Righty said. "Whether it's from the local police, national police, rival gangs, or even the military, one day we'll face a major conflict. I trust you more than anyone else, Tats, and I know my survival will depend on the complete loyalty of those around me. I chose to make Harold known to you before anyone else so that you would understand exactly where I see you in this organization."

"I'm honored, Mr. Brass," Tats said, practically in a whisper.

"There was a time, Tats, when my biggest fear was Smokeless Green becoming legalized before I became rich. That's because I saw the former as an inevitability and the latter as a near impossibility. Now I'm rich, and it appears Smokeless Green will be forever illegal. It makes me feel a little trapped in this lifestyle," Righty said laughing. "You know nothing about me, Tats, but I'll tell it to you quickly because there isn't that much to tell.

"I'm an ex-boxer, not a career criminal. I nearly won the national championship many years ago but lost due to a wrist injury and then was banned for life because I inadvertently injured the ref. I slaved away for years in a lumberyard as a worthless alcoholic living in the past until an ambition I didn't understand, and still don't understand, plucked me out of that job and caused me to take my chances in the underworld.

"You live ten times better than I do because you're a career criminal and unmarried. You have to lie to no one other than the police, whom you simply must avoid. I live a double life vis-à-vis my wife, who thinks I'm a small-time grocer. I bury money because I don't know what to do with it. My wife's going to give birth soon."

Righty realized he was beginning to sound like a whiny, scared old woman, so he realized it was time to stop spilling his guts about his weaknesses and explain—in a way that would make him appear strong—why he was telling his subordinate all these things.

Tats also looked like he was ready for a change in tone from the man he admired more than anyone he had ever met in his life.

"But I wasn't born to be a man who lives in the cowardly shadows, Tats. Just as I one day left the lumberyard without any assurance I would find a different job, much less a better job, I have grown weary of my pusillanimous existence," Righty said calmly.

"From now on, I'll be flying Harold directly to the mansion of your choice once per day. It will need to be early morning or early evening so that I will have the cover of darkness."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Brass," Tats said, relieved by the renewed vigor in his boss's voice.

"You are to keep Harold a secret until you are explicitly told otherwise; is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Righty's face suddenly became calm and jovial. "Good, this is going to save me a lot of pussyfooting around town. You up for a little sword practice?"

"Always," Tats said smiling.

"Well, let's go work out in that palace of yours that makes my house look like a pigsty," Righty said laughing.

Several sweaty hours later, Righty emerged feeling refreshed. It was good seeing how much Tats was improving in all areas of combat, since he never knew when he might need to count on him in a fight. But above all, Righty felt as if a hundred pounds had slid off of his shoulders now that he no longer had to keep Harold a secret from Tats. This was going to save him several hours each day and allow him to carry far more merchandise. It would probably only be a short time before he introduced his most-trusted ranchers to his aerial companion.

He couldn't see any reason, however, to part with the secret of the konulans. Keeping that ace up his sleeve still seemed like a very good idea.

He mounted Harold and began to take off. No sooner were the houses below beginning to take on miniature form when something whizzed by his ear. He thought for a moment it might have been a fly, but it quickly turned back towards him shouting in its small voice, "Mr. Simmers! Mr. Simmers! It's Janie! She's giving birth early!"

"TO RINGSETTER . . . NOW!!" Righty shouted, not caring a lick if anyone's peaceful slumber was interrupted by the booming voice overhead.

Harold had already started to accelerate, however, by the time "NOW!!" was just making it out of Righty's mouth, and the ensuing speed was so overwhelming Righty immediately found himself hunkering down and hugging Harold's back like a sailor gripping a rope on deck in the midst of a hurricane to avoid being thrown off into the awesome waves all around him. It was only then that Righty realized how little of Harold's power he had ever felt.

Chapter 31

Knock, knock.

A door slowly opened, and a pair of distrusting eyes peered out of the aperture at the visitor as if the setting were a besieged castle rather than a private home.

"Oh . . . it's you," said the voice, with all the enthusiasm of a loafer welcoming the jingling of his alarm clock in the morning.

"May I come in?" Counselor Megders inquired.

Sigh.

The door opened.

Megders walked in cautiously to his client's home.

"Is it safe to talk, Mr. Stephenson?"

Mr. Stephenson looked at his attorney with a mixture of anger and confusion. Seeing him here in person was clearly the last thing he had expected . . . or wanted.

"Martha," he said calmly, giving her a look.

"Come along, kids," she said, sweeping up a rug rat with each hand and then carrying them away.

Mr. Stephenson crossed his arms and looked at Megders sternly. "Well, I trusted you, Mr. Rottweiler, and now it looks like I'm facing a forty-year sentence. Does that about sum it up, or am I failing to see some hidden silver lining?"

"May I sit down?" Megders asked.

Stephenson looked at him long and hard. The two looked like men sizing each other up before a nasty fight.

Slowly, Stephenson sauntered over to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and said, "Be my guest."

"Thank you," Megders replied calmly.

He went and sat down, and Stephenson did the same.

"All right, now what do you want?" Stephenson asked with some hostility in his voice.

Megders hoisted up a briefcase and set it on the table.

"Your next brilliant legal strategy?" Stephenson inquired.

Megders opened it and noticed that Stephenson's eyes increased to roughly double their previous size.

"It's $200,000 falons," Megders said matter-of-factly, then closed the briefcase and shoved it towards Stephenson. "You didn't get it from me, the words I'm about to speak were never really spoken, and I was never here tonight."

Stephenson looked at him suspiciously, neither grabbing the briefcase and claiming it nor shoving it back towards Megders with righteous indignation.

"What are these words that were never really spoken?" Stephenson asked reluctantly, but with apparent interest.

"You got screwed," Megders said.

"Yeah, by you; tell me something I don't already know, why don't you?!" Stephenson said, in an angry voice. Then, he looked a bit unnerved by the intensity of the expression in Megders' eyes.

"Do you really think I would be in here handing you $200,000 falons just because I screwed up? When I could just turn my back on you and let you spend the next twenty years to forty years in prison?"

"No, I don't suppose you would," Stephenson said.

"Truth be told, I did screw up. I should have let you take the plea."

Stephenson's face softened a bit. "Look, I'm no saint. And I'm no stranger to screwing up. I'm the one who sold Smokeless Green to the chief of police!" he said, and for a moment his face looked like it might even smile, but the gravity of the situation prevented it.

"But you won one round of the fight, and honestly I thought you had the second one tucked away too," Stephenson said. "You fought like hell with those appellate judges. I know you tried."

There was a pause, and then Stephenson looked like a man who had suddenly remembered something he had been meaning to ask. "But just what do you mean exactly that I got screwed?" he asked, with an uneasy voice.

"Do you want to hear it even though I can't prove any of what I'm about to tell you . . . at least not yet?"

"Shoot."

"I've been doing this a long time, Mr. Stephenson. I've argued before those appellate judges many times, and I swear to Kasani something was fishy with Justice Haufensehn, maybe even with Justice Beckle."

"Fishy how?"

"Usually, Justice Beckle is a textualist and originalist, very suspicious of any statute that seems to go even slightly beyond what is permitted by the Constitution. Yet that day he sounded like an expansionist liberal."

Megders realized he may as well be speaking in Ridervarian. "What I'm saying is either someone bribed him or someone blackmailed him."

Stephenson looked flabbergasted, which emboldened Megders to continue.

"It's nearly unprecedented for an opinion to be written the same day as oral argument, which in and of itself would be strong cause to conclude at least Justice Beckle was not acting without outside influence."

Stephenson looked intrigued but said nothing.

"As for the Supreme Court not hearing our appeal, that's also rare. While it's understandable they might want to see how this pans out in other circuits, they usually only take such a wait-and-see approach in non-criminal matters. When a man's liberty is at stake, they usually hear the appeal if a legitimate constitutional question has been raised, which is certainly the case."

There was another long pause. Stephenson looked very distressed.

"This breaks numerous ethics rules, not to mention criminal laws, but my sincere advice to you is to abscond. I will hunt like a bloodhound for a SISA case in a different circuit, after which several things could happen. If the district court judge denies my motion to dismiss for violation of Article 8, I will appeal it all the way to the Supreme Court. What will be crucial is a circuit court victory.

"If I can get that, the prosecutor will probably file an appeal to the Supreme Court, and I am confident I can win there. And if the prosecutor doesn't appeal to the Supreme Court, the circuit court victory would give me a basis to re-file your appeal. It would be very bad for the Supreme Court's image to deny the appeal if there is a circuit court split."

"What if you can never get a circuit court victory?" Stephenson asked soberly.

"It would make things very hard. If I can at least get another district court victory or two, that could help my chances, but frankly if I can't get a circuit court victory, the Supreme Court will probably continue to refuse to hear the case. On the other hand, another attorney might get a circuit court victory, and that would also give me a basis for re-filing your appeal to the Supreme Court."

"How long could all this take?"

"Years. Or it might never happen."

Stephenson's face looked gloomy.

"For a lawyer, you're mostly a straight shooter," Stephenson said, grudgingly. "Do you think it will happen, and if so, how long do you think it will take?"

"I think it will happen, and I think it will probably happen within two to five years."

"So, why don't I just go serve my time and hope that you pull this off? Why should I complicate things by absconding? What is that, anyway, a felony?"

"Actually, the offense is failure to appear, and it's only a Class C misdemeanor, for which the maximum sentence is six months. Ironically, I'm running far more risk by giving you this money and encouraging you to abscond. In a peculiar quirk of our laws, defendants only commit the Class C misdemeanor of failure to appear if they have not yet been convicted, yet those encouraging them to abscond and aiding them in the process can be charged as accomplices in the underlying crime itself if the defendant is found guilty—even in absentia. This means I could be charged with a Class B felony SISA offense."

"We could be cellmates!" Stephenson said, laughing.

"Not if you're on the run," Megders replied, with a slight smile.

"But if they caught me," Stephenson riposted.

"Yes, I suppose it's possible," Megders conceded.

"And then I would also be serving a sentence for the Class B felony SISA offense, plus the Class C misdemeanor failure to appear offense."

"That's right. And as for why you shouldn't just plead guilty and start your sentence now . . . ."

Stephenson noticed Megders looked unsure as to whether to continue.

"Heck, just go ahead and say it. You're telling me to commit felonies. Are you afraid I'll laugh at a conspiracy theory?"

"Perhaps I am," Megders said with an icy concern in his voice that sent shivers down Stephenson's spine. "Perhaps I'm afraid you won't take me as seriously as you should and will end up dead."

Stephenson's smile dissipated quickly.

"I believe powerful men are at work behind the scenes on this, Mr. Stephenson. If I were to go win in the 3rd Circuit, for example, and the prosecutor decided not to appeal, there would still be a circuit split that I could use to re-file your appeal, right?"

Stephenson nodded with uncertainty, not sure why his attorney was asking him a legal question.

"Well, what if you were to get depressed and hang yourself in your cell? I couldn't file your appeal at all. The circuit split would be irrelevant."

"Hah!" Stephenson said, laughing. "That is crazy. There would still be plenty of other SISA convicts by then. Even if someone killed me in my cell, any other SISA convict in the District of Selgen could file an appeal!" Stephenson said, still laughing. "Sorry, you warned me you were afraid I would laugh at your conspiracy theories; I guess I should have heeded your warning."

"What if those prisoners die in an unfortunate riot or simply one by one? A suicide here, a fatal brawl there."

"Who could get that kind of muscle? And if they have it, what good would it do for me to be on the run?"

"Under Seleganian law, an attorney can re-file an appeal for a person convicted in absentia, provided the original appeal was filed before the conviction occurred."

Stephenson's smug sneer mostly vanished, as he realized he had underestimated his attorney.

"As long as you're on the run, you'll be harder for them to get to. And with a $200,000 falon head start and these new identification documents here for you and your family, which I can assure you are of superb quality," (Megders pushed them forward on the table towards Stephenson) "I think you will be a rather hard man to find."

Stephenson began scrutinizing the documents carefully.

"I still have a hard time buying that these people, however powerful they are, can take out any potential appellant and thereby prevent anybody from filing an appeal here in the capital once there's a circuit split."

"You could be right. There will soon be a lot of SISA prisoners. But they don't have to take out every prisoner who wants to appeal. They could go after the individual attorneys. Not too many attorneys like getting into criminal appeals. They are very time-consuming, and most defendants can't afford them. Those who can are typically wealthy enough to be defined as a 'gentleman' under SISA, which means they are permitted to use Smokeless Green and wouldn't be punishable under the law anyway."

Stephenson's face grew very attentive.

"Thus, the only prisoners they will have to worry about are ones just wealthy enough to afford to pay an attorney to file numerous appeals but still below the wealth required for SISA 'gentlemen' status. In such cases, they might encourage the prosecutor to offer an incredibly light plea bargain or even dismiss the charges completely. Regardless, there will be very few prisoners they have to contend with that are both wealthy enough to hire an attorney to file numerous appeals and still below the 'gentleman' threshold."

"Then, why are you doing this?" Stephenson asked. "I couldn't have afforded to pay you for those numerous appeals."

"It's partly personal," Megders admitted, "but I do strongly oppose SISA on constitutional grounds and believe it is going to cause our country unspeakable destruction."

"Well, are there other attorneys like you?"

"Maybe some, but not many. And I'm lucky because I was born into wealth, you might say. I was given some land in an inheritance that yields enough annual income to just barely put me into 'gentleman' status. Thus, I have the luxury of occasionally taking legal cases pro bono that I feel have a significant societal importance or involve an individual in particularly unjust circumstances."

"I'm guessing I squeezed in via the first option, considering that as someone stupid enough to sell Smokeless Green in his store to the chief of police—not that he was wearing a name tag, mind you—I'm probably not the most sympathetic client you've ever had," Stephenson said laughing, and Megders joined him while shrugging his shoulders slightly.

"Who do you think is behind this then?" Stephenson asked.

"At least one senator, but I'd prefer not to name names or speculate beyond that."

Stephenson looked as if he had a question he wasn't sure would be appropriate to ask, so Megders prodded him to.

"Well, it's just that if there aren't too many clients that can afford to file these kinds of appeals, and there aren't too many attorneys who do pro bono cases of this nature, then what's to stop these men from taking you out of their path?"

"That's a chance I feel obligated to take. I told you that when you hired me you would have a Rottweiler attorney, did I not?" Megders said.

"Yes, you did," Stephenson said, nodding.

"Well, this is a fight, Mr. Stephenson, and I intend to keep my word. I've hired a bodyguard, something I never thought I would have to do. He's outside right now, in fact. Also, taking a senator out of one's path can be a trickier business than taking out a prisoner, no offense. The investigations tend to be much more thorough. But I realize I'm potentially putting myself in danger. It's a risk I accept. It should be that way. I came to you, not the other way around. I intend to see this through to the end."

Stephenson looked embarrassed as he faked a sneeze and quickly wiped his eyes in the process. He stood up and extended his hand to Megders: "You've restored my faith in humanity, counselor. I'll pay back every last falon. I'll write you once my family and I get settled in some place new, and then I'll just be quiet until either I hear from you or I see in the papers that a circuit has ruled SISA unconstitutional. You take care of yourself, sir."

"You do the same, Mr. Stephenson."

Megders shook his hand firmly and then walked outside into the night.

Chapter 32

"Set me down right by the door!" Righty bellowed, as Harold closed in on the house precipitously from several hundred feet above.

Harold swooped right down next to the door, and Righty jumped off before Harold's talons had even touched terra firma. He flung open the door like a zealous sheriff serving a warrant on an infamous villain and went charging headlong into the house.

Only a low moan served to guide him in his quest, but he followed it with all the acuity of a bloodhound.

"Janie!!!"

She looked deathly ill. Her face was pale white, she appeared only semi-conscious, and the sheet she had wrapped around her showed signs of having absorbed a significant amount of lost fluid, no small amount of which appeared to be blood.

"Richie . . . that you?" a soft voice asked, which sounded as disbelieving as a semi-delirious patient speaking to a long-deceased relative.

"Shhhhh," Righty said softly, touching her head, which felt little different than a hot pot of coffee.

"Our baby decided to come a little early," she said, attempting a small chuckle.

"Tell me where to take you!" Righty said, feeling like a fish out of water.

"To Sally's . . . the botanist's home. She's also a midwife."

"Where does she live?"

Janie's face bore the expression of a person who has just realized some horrible truth.

"She's a mile outside of town . . . northwest. Oh, Richie, I don't think I can make it," Janie said sobbing.

Righty knew what house she was talking about. He had passed it many times far overhead en route to his ranch.

"Shhhh, now you just relax, honey. You're a little delirious, so you're gonna see some things that aren't really happening quite the way you think they are, so no matter what you see you just relax because I'm going to take you over there really comfortably on a nice, soft bed, you hear?"

"Okay, Richie," she said.

He then scooped her up as if she were lighter than a feather. Harold, intuitive creature and of acute hearing that he was, waited patiently outside the door, body as low to the ground as possible. He had already heard enough to know the exact destination, and no sooner had Righty mounted Harold's back with Janie firmly in his arms did he take off quickly, yet smoothly, towards the house in question.

Five minutes later, Harold swooped down right to the side of the botanist's home, and Righty hopped off quickly with Janie in his arms and began pounding on the door.

"It's Mr. Simmers! Janie needs your help! Please!!"

A light turned on, and a small curtain lifted slightly on the front door, revealing a pair of distrustful eyes that quickly widened in horror and recognition. The door flung open, and Sally stepped outside.

"Please, Mrs. Redelmin, I've got no one else to turn to."

"Bring her inside, Mr. Simmers," she said with a look of grave anxiety on her face.

She directed Righty to a bed, where Righty lay his wife down. No sooner had her back touched the surface of the bed than she let out a horrible scream, and Righty thought he could see some more blood join the already large stain on Janie's dress.

"Kasani!" Sally exclaimed as she examined the area. "This is beyond my expertise. You've got to get your wife to a surgeon sometime tonight or—"

She stopped abruptly and gulped.

"Who and where?!" Righty barked.

"Well, the best surgeon in all of Sivingdel is Dr. Ridemern, but it will be awfully dangerous transporting her on horseback."

Righty could tell by the look on her face there was something else in that statement left unspoken: And she'll never make it anyhow.

"Where does he live?"

Sally looked at Righty for a moment like he was crazy, as it just then dawned upon her he wasn't merely considering making the trip but would do so as soon as she stopped dillydallying and told him where to go.

"Well, I don't have his address handy, but he lives about three blocks south of Comfort Hospital."

"Do you have a map?!" Righty asked, with clear desperation in his voice.

Sally began fumbling around with various papers with true zeal, realizing perhaps that if Mr. Simmers was going to fail in his quest to get Janie to Dr. Ridemern it had best not be in any way her own fault.

After about two minutes but what seemed like an eternity Sally produced a map and then began scouring it avidly. Less than a minute later she showed it to him and drew a circle around the hospital.

"Dr. Ridemern's house is about three blocks south. It's red brick and has a white picket fence and—"

Righty was out the door, carrying Janie, and he disappeared into the blackness of the night before Sally could even finish her sentence.

Chapter 33

Sally ran outside but saw nothing.

Hundreds of feet above, Harold was pumping his wings feverishly, while Righty held onto his unconscious wife, tears streaming down his face.

Then, he wiped his face viciously with his forearm, as he realized tears weren't going to save Janie, only quick thinking.

He looked over his shoulders and saw quite a few konulans a ways behind trying feverishly to keep up with the mighty Harold, and he had a couple dozen perched right in front of him on Harold's back, looking down sorrowfully at the ill Janie.

"Once we get near the hospital, I want you to spread out and find a red brick house with a white picket fence south of the hospital."

"Yes, sir!" they cried out in unison.

The city was already coming into view, and Harold knew where the hospital was from his many hours spent flying over the city while Righty conducted business. He began heading for the general area.

As they closed in on the area, the konulans took off into the darkness.

"Circle around while they look," Righty instructed Harold.

Just three minutes later, the konulans returned, shouting triumphantly, "We found it! We found it!"

Righty felt relieved by the darkness because even though the health of his wife and child-to-be far eclipsed his desire to keep Harold a secret the last thing he wanted was fear or curiosity amongst gawkers to impede his quick progress to the home of the doctor.

"Set me down right in front of his house, Harold!"

The konulans flew downwards to show Harold the way, who was close behind them.

It was a residential neighborhood, no doubt full of respectable, law-abiding professionals, but there was not a soul in sight on the street where Harold set Righty down.

Righty picked Janie up and sprinted to the doorstep, while his winged companions dissipated like ghosts into the night, though they still watched fervently from above.

Righty pounded on the door passionately, yelling, "HELP!! HELP!!"

Similar to his experience at Mrs. Redelmin's home, he was met with suspicious eyes, but this time when the door was cautiously opened he was met not with the object of his search but with a servant.

Righty wasted no time for the servant to object.

"It's my wife! I can pay whatever the doctor asks, but I need help quick!!"

The servant's eyes turned to saucers as she looked at the large bloodstain on Janie's midsection and then said in a gasp, "One moment, sir."

Righty almost barged into the house but restrained himself, realizing that he needed to at least give the doctor the opportunity to do his job of his own volition pursuant to a civil request before Righty considered more violent means of persuasion.

Minutes later a groggy-eyed, silver-haired man with thick eye glasses looked at him crankily.

"I'm not on call tonight!" the doctor said grumpily.

Righty realized his manner of simple dress and the even simpler clothing of Janie perhaps did not lend themselves well to the claim of his ability to pay upfront. Righty set Janie down quickly yet carefully and then removed a bag from inside his jacket pocket.

"That's $100,000 falons!" Righty said, extending the money towards the doctor, "and I can double that or quintuple that at your command!"

The doctor looked a bit frightened, even in the faint light afforded by the moon and the candle in the doctor's right hand. He could tell he was dealing with a man who rightly wouldn't take no for an answer.

"We'll talk money later. Bring her in!" he said gruffly.

"Molly, get some hot water and bring my medical bag!" Dr. Ridemern shouted out.

"Yes, Dr. Ridemern!" his servant replied.

"This way," the doctor told Righty authoritatively and led him to a small room.

"She's pregnant, Dr. Ridemern, and wasn't supposed to deliver for a couple weeks."

"Just set her down here," the doctor said, seemingly uninterested in Righty's observations, but as soon as Janie was down on the bed, he said, "Two weeks, you say?" and then began peppering Righty with questions while he began disrobing Janie in front of Righty with the same calm professionalism a mechanic might disassemble the nuts and bolts of a machine.

"Heaven help us," the doctor said in a near whisper, as he inspected Janie's bleeding.

"Fresh towels!" he barked, and Molly was off running to comply.

"How long has she been out?"

"About a half-hour now."

"It's good you got here when you did. I think this is within my capabilities, but I need to work alone," he said and then turned towards Righty. "It's not gonna be pretty."

Molly handed the doctor the fresh towels, and as she led him to the living room to wait for news from the doctor, Righty saw the doctor extract a rather fearsome looking scalpel from his medical bag.

As Righty sat down on the sofa outside what was now the surgical room—perhaps in happier moments it was a guest room—he gave free vent to his sobs, now that there was no pressing action needed on his part to justify their suppression.

But out of the darkness of his impotent despair arose an idea. A solemn oath. He was not a man given to prayer, but whether from some newfound faith or from desperation to do something other than blubber his eyes out, he made the decision right then and there to make a solemn pact.

There were many gods in the Seleganian panoply, but it was generally agreed, and strongly suggested in the Seleganian myths, that Kasani was the most powerful. Thus, Righty decided to bypass his inferiors and go straight to the top.

Kasani, I promise you that if you spare Janie's life, and that of our baby, I will become the benefactor of Selegania's poor.

Righty felt a strange sense of calm descend upon his soul. Not total peace. But he felt his theretofore uncontrollable angst dampen considerably, and what was left behind was like the simmering coals of an extinguished fire, where just seconds ago a forest fire had raged inside his mind.

He lay back on the couch, and although he never would have expected it, Sleep welcomed him with outstretched arms and pulled him down into her irresistible embrace.

Chapter 34

"I don't think I can make it!" the man said in a squeal of desperation.

Righty looked to the side and saw a quivering man holding desperately to the side of a rock. He momentarily felt smug contempt for the jittery fool before he made the severe mistake of looking down and seeing trees that looked like toy soldiers standing at attention.

"Don't go down. You're past the point of no return," a calm, instructive voice said.

Righty looked to his left and saw a gray-haired man smile at him benevolently. He was wearing a helmet with the words "Rock Climbing Coach" inscribed on the front. He said nothing to Righty.

Righty turned back towards the frightened climber, whose arms and legs looked like they were doing some kind of wobbly dance.

"It's too high up! I'll never make it!" the man yelled.

"Maybe not," the coach replied calmly, "but you sure as hell won't make it down. And you already long since entered the death zone."

Righty dared just one more quick peek downwards and had to concede the coach's observation seemed correct, but he quickly brought his gaze back upwards, as even this brief downward glance had sent an electrical spark racing up and down his spine a few times and raised the hairs on the back of his neck up towards the summit above.

"It's too high!" the man shrieked again. "I'm going down. To hell with this!"

Righty glanced at the coach, who gazed upon him benevolently, then shook his head sorrowfully.

Righty looked back towards the man, and he was indeed beginning to make his way down. The jitteriness seemed to have died down a tad, now that he was moving closer to the earth rather than farther from it. But the man's terror quickly returned, as he realized it was impossible to down climb without looking down.

"Oh, hell!" the man screamed in a shriek of desperation. He hugged the wall closely, looking like he wished he was anywhere but there at this particular moment. He then made a loud exhalation, seemingly to psyche himself up, and he began making a few cautious movements of progress in his descent.

But his knees and fingers were getting shakier by the moment, as he had to keep looking downwards, and then Righty felt his stomach nearly fall through his feet when he saw what happened next.

The man's fingers managed to grasp the desired hold, but his fingers were too weak to sustain the combination of his weight and downward momentum.

They slipped off, and the ensuing shriek almost made Righty lose his own grip. He hugged the wall tightly but for some reason couldn't avert his gaze from the terrible scene. The man grasped out desperately with his right hand, and did manage to gain a hold, but he was swinging at this moment, and as he did so his countenance turned towards Righty.

Righty groaned when he saw the man's face was his own. His face was contorted in a rictus of horror as his right hand slipped off. He clawed feverishly at the side of the cliff wall, but his downward momentum was too powerful now for any of these grips to be able to stop it.

He was accelerating faster and faster; then he was in free fall. Righty watched all the way until nearly the very end but looked away just before the man's body crashed onto the stony ground and exploded like an apple.

The sudden cessation of the man's screams left nothing regarding the outcome to imagination.

Righty turned, now horrified, to the coach.

"I told him it's harder going down than up. And staying still's not an option either. You've got to reach the top. Then, you can rest."

"HAAAAROOOOLD!!!" Righty shouted out, expecting the wonderful sound of his loyal friend's wings, that portent of deliverance, at any moment.

But there was only silence.

"Harold can't get you out of this one," the coach said calmly.

A stubborn determination overcame Righty, something the coach apparently sensed.

"Now that's the spirit," he said, as Righty began climbing.

He took his time. He was in no rush. He searched for the footholds and handholds one at a time and began making slow, yet certain, progress.

The coach, well protected with ropes, something of which Righty was dolefully bereft, cheerfully ascended the vertical cliff face with Righty, staying about ten feet to his left.

Righty began feeling more and more confident of his ascent, and soon the old geezer was present in voice only, as he cried out from below, "That's it! That's the spirit!"

Then, suddenly, he heard something far more sinister from the old man: "WATCH OUT!!"

Righty looked up to see some loose rocks tumbling down towards him. He hugged the cliff wall as closely as he could and tried to push his body forward into a small indentation that offered the protection of a slight overhang.

He braced himself, waiting for the impact of the first rocks.

BAM!!

One hit him right on the back of his head, which was fortunately covered by a helmet, but he could feel the force of the blow. He gripped the side of wall even harder. Give me what you've got! I can take a beating!!

Chapter 35

"Sir?"

Righty was a bit confused, since he could have sworn the coach was a man, but now it sounded like a soft female voice was seeking his attention. He gripped hard onto the blankets covering his body and prepared for the impact of the rest of the falling rocks.

He began to feel his body shake, although it seemed the rocks were losing their momentum.

"Sir?" the voice repeated.

Then, suddenly Righty opened his eyes to see a female face not too far from his. He then had a moment of gut-wrenching vertigo, as he felt like he was looking upwards towards the sky while his mortal body fell helplessly through empty space towards the unforgiving ground below.

"You are a father, sir."

This brought Righty out of the lingering effects of his nightmare briefly before plunging him into another.

Molly knew the meaning of that look.

"Don't worry, sir. You are still the husband of a very beautiful woman."

Righty's eyes moistened, and silent tears fell as if from gigantic clouds.

He stood up slowly, his knees feeling as weak as they did in the nightmare.

Though he now felt anxiety was no longer justified, he nonetheless walked with great trepidation towards Janie's room.

He heard soft cooing sounds as he drew nearer, and when he opened the door, he saw the smiling, yet exhausted face, of Janie. Just a few inches below hers was a miniature face.

Righty wanted to jump on top of Janie and smother her with hugs and kisses, but he proceeded with caution. He sat down on the bed and, unable to choose, caressed both Janie's and the newborn's heads delicately.

"Do you like the name Heather?" Janie asked.

Righty hadn't even thought to inquire about the sex, so overwhelmed was he at the survival of the two beings he thought certain to die.

"I love it," he said, a tear in his eye.

"May I?"

"Of course," Janie said with a smile. It was perhaps the most sincere, joyful smile he had ever seen on her. She extended the tiny creature to him carefully.

As Righty beheld his tiny daughter, he felt a love he perhaps had never experienced. He had been in too dark a chapter of his life when Eddie was born to love or appreciate him the way he might have under better circumstances. He had only felt shame from the knowledge that the father of that child was a miserable failure, and he felt unworthy to celebrate bringing a life into this world.

But this was different. As he beheld Heather in his arms, he felt the most potent, yet contrasting, feelings of love and violence. His protective instincts towards this helpless being that would depend upon him for safety and shelter were more powerful than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He became aware, through vague images and powerful sensations, of unspeakable acts of destruction and cruelty he would inflict upon anyone that he even suspected of posing a threat to this tiny, innocent thing.

He kissed her forehead softly, and he noticed the love with which Janie gazed upon him.

"I love you," he said, leaning forward, and kissing her forehead.

"I love you too, Richie. I'll always be yours. No matter what."

Chapter 36

Righty couldn't bring himself to leave Janie's side, even if he did realize that he had a burgeoning business empire to run. Today was for Janie and his newborn Heather, and for no one else.

The maid prepared lunch and dinner for them, and when Janie wasn't looking Righty gave her a tip that probably equaled her monthly salary. Her eyes bulged at this man, who—while not exactly appearing to be a beggar—certainly did not look like he was capable of affording such generosity.

Dr. Ridemern must have made a commensurate appraisal of Righty, for one of the first things he did upon returning that evening—after dutifully checking upon his patient, of course—was to turn to Righty and say, "Sir, with regards to the money, I just want to let you know there'll be no—"

Righty cut him off in midsentence with forty, crisp $1,000 bills.

"Would this be a reasonable compensation?" Righty inquired.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the doctor. "If you've got money like that to spend so extravagantly, you'd be far better off donating it to Comfort Hospital, rather than giving an unnecessary tip to an old dog like me!" the doctor said laughing.

"Consider it done," Righty said calmly, "but I must at least give you fair compensation for your services. A man has his pride, you understand. Just let me know what the usual charge would be."

"Well, I suppose around $3,000 falons."

"I won't part with fewer than ten," Righty responded putting the bills into the doctor's hands and then closing them around the money firmly. "You took us in in the middle of the night, and I'm not so sure Janie would have pulled through had you turned us away, not to mention our little Heather," he added, almost choking up.

"I'm glad you came, Mr. . . . ?"

"Simmers. Richard Franklin Simmers," Righty quickly said in a friendly, even apologetic, tone.

"I'm very glad you came when you did, Mr. Simmers. In my professional opinion, if you had been thirty minutes later, you would be neither a husband nor a father . . . at least not of your Heather," the doctor replied.

Righty felt his throat tighten at the thought.

The doctor did not entirely share Pitkins' knack for discretion, and the curious look that came over his face accurately presaged a somewhat prying question: "May I ask if you live around here, given that arrived in the nick of time?"

"No, doctor. I'm from a little town called Ringsetter, in fact. But Janie started complaining about her symptoms yesterday morning, so I took her to the village midwife. She told me to get to you without delay. Foolish though it may have been, I mounted her on top of my horse and held her while I rode as fast as I safely could, which was a lot slower than I would usually ride. It made for a long ride, and by the time I got here I didn't even bother to tie up my horse. Jesse's probably seen about half the city by know, I reckon," Righty said laughing. "Janie slept through the whole thing."

The doctor, who had been merely curious rather than suspicious, readily accepted the explanation and then invited Mr. Simmers to accompany him while he inspected his two patients.

"She needs two days of bed rest, and I advise you then take her home on your coach. She shouldn't ride on a horse for at least two months. She will stay here in this room for her bed rest, and I won't accept another falon from you," the doctor said with mild, yet genuine, firmness.

"Well, I'll get busy buying a coach so that I can take my two princesses back safely," Righty said with a smile, "and I'll be making that donation to the hospital. I can't thank you enough for saving my wife's and daughter's lives. You have earned a friend you can count on at any time you may need it," Righty said with a benevolent, yet intense, firmness that transformed the usual vacuity of such promises into an oath of immeasurable value.

Righty then kissed Janie on the lips and Heather on her forehead.

"Here's a spare key, should you need to return at a late hour," the doctor said warmly, surprised by his innate trust in the man in front of him.

They shook hands, and Righty disappeared into the night.

Chapter 37

As Righty stepped out onto the street, he could not be entirely sure a set of curious eyes belonging to Dr. Ridemern were not following his curious guest's movements, so Righty waited until he had walked several blocks before seeking a dark place where he might try to summon Harold.

Family matters or not, he had some major business to attend to.

It was only about 8 p.m., but the streets were dark in this residential area, and the occasional lamp light trickling out of a nearby window did little to rob the darkness of its dominion. Urgency conquered patience, and Righty said in a voice just above a whisper.

"If you can hear me, Harold, come in quiet and land."

The fluttering of wings from a nearby tree made him wonder if a konulan was not preparing to deliver the message to Harold in case he had not properly heard the request.

About thirty seconds later, Righty felt a breeze softly lift the hairs on the back of his head, and just moments later a stealthy body glided silently down several yards before him.

Rather than breaking into a run, Righty continued to walk calmly, right next to Harold's prostrated body, which he then calmly mounted.

"Get me out of here, buddy," Righty said.

Harold took off gently, something until then Righty was unaware Harold could do, given his usual high-velocity takeoffs. Harold's arms cut the air so gently that Righty barely noticed he was moving until he noticed that the faintly lit street below now featured miniature homes, any dozen of which could fit in the palm of his left hand.

"I'm a father!!" Righty proclaimed triumphantly.

"Congratulations!" Harold said, not wishing to sour Righty's jubilee by reminding him of his extraordinarily acute hearing, which prevented the comment from being news.

"And still a husband!" Righty added joyously.

"We know!!" a less-tactful creature exclaimed happily, seconded by another, who shouted, "We were right next to the window!"

Righty looked down at the rascally konulans lovingly, a couple dozen of which now resided on Harold's back. He stroked their heads affectionately.

Righty's head quickly turned back to business, however. He needed to pick up a little extra cash for tomorrow, but that was the least of his problems.

"Harold, can you do a solo mission tomorrow?"

"You name it."

"I've got a large drop-off due tomorrow in Sodorf, and I'd like to spend tomorrow with my wife and newborn."

"You've got it. Just take me to the ranch tonight."

Righty did so, and under the cover of darkness of this nearly moonless night he landed right next to the storage facility and secured a hundred pounds. Then, he thought of Tats.

The convenience of Tats knowing Harold was invaluable, and he now thought of this storage facility, unguarded at his own request due his foresight that he might occasionally need to access this location at night. If a few ranch hands—the most trusted—could be introduced Harold also, that would save him the problem of a lot of tiptoeing around his own property and could also enable him to have the storage facility itself guarded, rather than just the perimeter of the ranch.

I'll deal with that later, he thought. There were priorities.

He then asked Harold if he could do a solo mission with Tats.

"Without question," Harold replied.

Righty struggled greatly with the trade-off between the convenience of allowing his secret weapon to be exposed out of the sight of Righty's watchful eye versus the potential danger this could mean for Righty and, ultimately, his family. The near invincibility afforded to him by Harold and the konulans' protection and surveillance would become greatly weakened if his enemies were to discover these secrets.

But if he didn't yield to expediency during the next couple of days, he would have to choose between ignoring his wife and newborn or infuriating Rucifus and losing face with Tats, two things that could sow the poisonous seeds of discontent, which could ultimately flower into rebellion.

"Take eighty pounds to Tats tomorrow. You know the house, right?"

Harold nodded; he had become familiar with Tats' pattern by which he moved amongst his various mansions as a means of staying a step ahead of potential enemies or police surveillance.

"He knows how much money to give you. I'll count it later."

Harold nodded.

"Don't talk to him under any circumstances, but don't hesitate to give him that shrewd stare you give to me all the time," Righty said laughing, yet with a seriousness behind his words.

Harold smiled and nodded.

"Take a hundred pounds to Sodorf and pick up the bag of money that should be there. If there's no money, take this bag back," Righty said pointing to the larger bag.

Harold nodded.

"You're the best!" Right exclaimed sincerely and hugged him, yet keeping his voice low enough to not attract any undue attention.

Righty then mounted Harold, who picked up the two bags as easily as if they were newborn chicks, but per Righty's request they made a quick detour in one of the nearby hills. Righty kept a barrel of cash at all times that could be accessed with minimal digging.

Harold knew its exact spot, and Righty alighted quickly upon Harold's landing. He removed a heavy stone to the side and took several bundles of cash and inserted them into his large coat. He now had $3,000,000 on his person, which he presumed ought to be adequate for the upcoming transactions.

Righty instructed Harold to fly back to Ringsetter, and in the tops of one of the largest trees, they picked a couple of snug spots for the Smokeless Green to be hidden until tomorrow.

Harold then brought Righty back to Sivingdel. It was even darker now, but Righty had the konulans go out and patrol just to make sure Righty could be safely deposited into the darkness about fifteen minutes' walking distance from the house.

At 10 p.m., Righty used the spare key to let himself inside. He kissed Janie on her forehead, but she did not awake. Well-deserved sleep did not, however, prevent the loving gesture from going completely unheeded, as it appeared a small smile momentarily flashed at the edges of her beautiful lips. Righty then approached Heather and lifted her into his arms. He gently held her and rocked her back and forth for two hours, while thinking of the hurdles he would have to overcome to fulfill his promise, to achieve his destiny, and to protect his family at all costs.

He felt a pang of guilt at having never shown or felt similar love towards Eddie, and he wondered about him now more than ever, but his mind assured him that Eddie's steady arrival of letters (about one every two or three months) and the growing maturity and eloquence therein were sufficient evidence that he was in good care. And he was still more certain that Eddie was far safer outside the country with the erudite professor than with a father engaged in a dangerous business.

The sweet tranquility of the present scene was offset by a dark premonition that the most arduous, and most violent, challenges of his career had not yet even shown the whites of their eyes.

The End of The International Businessman

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