Sterry the Bastard
Berend leaves the tavern with a bit of a swagger, and it’s enough to draw the patrons’ eyes away from Isabel in her blacks. She slips out after him and tells herself not to run.
It isn’t often that a Sentinel needs to hide. They are dressed to stand out—if there were to be a sudden outbreak of the reanimated dead, or, gods forbid, the appearance of a vampire, it would waste precious time to have to find the nearest Sentinel by asking everyone for identification. Isabel’s conspicuousness had served Berend as a distraction, but now she needs not to be followed. She tucks her hat under her arm and keeps her head down.
Berend is waiting for her around the corner, in the darkest stretch between two grimy gas lamps. It’s late enough that the streets are empty and quiet but for the doorway of the tavern.
“That went well,” he says. Isabel can just make out his cocky smile.
She sets her hat back on her head. “Did it?”
“Well, I have a location to go to,” says Berend. “No doubt that fellow is dipping out the back door as we speak to run ahead and warn our friend Sterry, but I think in this instance it’s best not to surprise him. Shall we?”
“Where are we going?”
Berend crosses his arms and takes a slow look around. “The Jeweled Chalice,” he says. “It sounds like a brothel. With any luck, it’s a fine one. I’ve got enough filth stuck to my boots for one evening.”
Isabel looks at him blankly. She has no idea as to the nature of the establishment. The last time she was in Mondirra was years ago, and she had spent the entire time in the Temple District, as one might expect. She’s about as far from the intended clientele of a place like the Jeweled Chalice as it is possible to be.
She follows Berend for a few blocks before they come across a row of hanging lanterns covered in torn red paper. A painted sign at the end of the street might have once showed a gilded goblet, but the paint is peeling and the lettering all but indecipherable.
“This must be it,” says Berend.
He removes his hat with a flourish and gives the door a push. It opens into a dimly lit vestibule, occupied only by a broad-shouldered man in a patched vest and shirtsleeves. Behind him is a curtained doorway. The room is almost dark enough to hide the fraying at the bottom hem.
“No weapons,” the man says. It’s a small space, and he’s a large individual. There’s no way to slip past him.
Berend places one hand casually on the hilt of his sword. “I understand, my good sir, but I would prefer to keep my weapons. I have business with a man inside—lucrative business. He is likely expecting me.”
The man scowls. He has a scar under one eye, climbing up from his jaw, and it twists with the movement of his face. “Rules are rules. No weapons.”
“I’ll wait out here, if you’d be so kind as to let the gentleman in question know I’ve arrived,” Berend says.
“Sterry don’t know you,” the man replies with a sharp shake of his head.
So he is here. Isabel takes a step back toward the door. The last thing she wants is an altercation with any of Sterry the Bastard’s associates. She reaches out and touches Berend’s elbow to get his attention. They know this is where Sterry is. They can come back another time.
Berend doesn’t notice, or he ignores her. “I really think you should let me speak to him,” he says, reaching for his pouch of coins. “He’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
The man doesn’t move.
“We should go,” Isabel says.
Berend raises a hand to silence her. He’s staring the doorman down.
This is pointless.
Isabel is about to leave without him—she thinks she won’t go far, in case he gets injured in the fight that is about to happen—when a woman pushes the curtain aside and enters the vestibule. She’s dressed in a corset festooned with feathers that have seen better days, and her ruffled skirt comes down to just below her knees. There are more feathers in her hair.
Even in her tall heels, she doesn’t come up to the doorman’s shoulder. He leans down, and she whispers something in his ear.
With another scowl and a grumble, the man straightens up and steps away from the curtained doorway.
“If you’d follow me,” the woman says. Despite her tiny stature, her voice is rich and sonorous.
Berend tips his hat to the doorman as he passes. “I appreciate you seeing reason,” he says.
It is all Isabel can do not to roll her eyes. If Berend manages to get himself killed, she hopes he’ll linger long enough for her to call him up and tell him it was entirely his fault.
It’s an unfair thought, and she pushes it aside with a shake of her head. She should only wish for smooth passage into the world beyond, regardless of the circumstances of one’s death.
With her feathers bouncing in ragged jauntiness, the woman leads Berend and Isabel through the dim taproom, where more costumed women and sour-faced men converse over the sound of clinking glass, and up the staircase at the back.
The second floor is one long hallway lined with doors, most of them shut. Isabel tries not to hear the sounds coming from behind them.
Their guide opens the door at the end of the hall and ushers them in. The room isn’t much brighter than the rest of the building, lit only by a single lantern perched on the edge of a desk. Behind the desk, with his booted feet up, sits a young man. He’s maybe twenty-four, his patchy beard far from enough to hide his youth, and he wears a fine wool coat and a silk vest in multicolored stripes. His boots are of good quality and look new.
He’s flanked by a pair of women, similarly ruffled and corseted but with no feathers. One glances up with disinterest from the ledger in front of her and its columns of figures, while the other regards Berend and Isabel with suspicion. Standing on either side of the desk is another large man, each with a long knife and a pistol at his belt and a glower on his grim face.
The young man takes his feet from the desk and sits up in his chair, setting his elbows down and steepling his fingers. “So, you’re the ones who have been poking around my district,” he says.
This is Sterry the Bastard—there aren’t many others who would claim ownership of the Shell District from the back room of a brothel. Isabel isn’t sure what she expected. He’s making no mention of business, or whatever ruse Berend had come up with. Perhaps this entire endeavor had been a terrible mistake.
Berend takes it in stride. “We are,” he says, removing his hat again with a bow. “My name is Berend Horst, formerly of the Sons of Galaser, and this is Isabel Rainier. Do I have the distinct honor of addressing Mr. Sterry the Bastard?”
The young man smirks. “You do indeed. What is it you think I can do for you?”
“Actually, I am here to discuss something I can do for you,” says Berend.
“Is that so?”
“As someone with a vested interest in the Shell District’s well-being, I’m sure the recent, gruesome murders concern you,” Berend continues. “You would have known of the last ones, but do you know how many have taken place?”
Sterry leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the floor. “Enlighten me.”
“We know of at least four.” Berend leans in, as though he’s sharing a secret. “I know that in order to maintain your position, you need to maintain a certain level of fear and respect, and I also know that doing so will be difficult if you no longer hold a monopoly on violence in your territory.”
“I wouldn’t put it in such fancy words,” says Sterry, rocking the chair back and forth.
Berend returns his hand to his sword hilt. “So, unless you were the one who murdered my brother in arms, someone has taken that power away from you, and continues to commit violence throughout the city.”
All eyes in the room fall on Berend. The woman on Sterry’s right puts her pen down on the open page, and her hands disappear under the table. Both of the guards reach for their pistols.
Isabel glances back to the door. She might be able to run, and to hide if the lights stay low, but she isn’t certain she could take Berend with her. She hopes he knows what he’s doing.
Sterry holds up a hand. “Now, listen,” he says. “I had nothing against Mikhail. He was a fine individual; he didn’t come round here all that often, but when he did, we had no problems. I’m sorry about what happened to him, and I’m not responsible for it.”
Berend removes his hand from his sword. “I appreciate that. I did not think you were.” He takes a breath, straightens his back. “I believe we can help each other. We are both men who understand violence, and we have a common enemy. The murders that have taken place required a great deal of logistics and planning. I am capable of moving about unrestricted, and you have eyes and ears everywhere in this district.”
Sterry’s chair rights itself, hitting the floor with a crack. He levels a dubious glare at Berend.
“I intend to get vengeance for my brother,” Berend continues. “In doing so, I will remove a troublesome thorn from your side. If you help me, I can help you.”
“Fair enough,” says Sterry. “After your friend’s unfortunate demise, I checked in with my old friend, Matthias Crookshanks, to see if he was looking to challenge me again. He ruled himself out once the mushrooms started growing. There is no person on the gods’ green earth who is less magically inclined than Matthias Crookshanks. So, I had my people patrol, and we found a place. A warehouse, just outside this district.” He folds his hands on top of the desk. “There was quite a lot of blood there. Not much else.”
“It’s a start,” Berend says.
“I can have one of the boys take you over there.” Sterry gestures to the man on his left, whose bushy mustache connects to a pair of bushier sideburns.
“We would be much obliged,” says Berend. “Thank you for seeing reason in this matter.”
Sterry smirks again. “Gregor will take you up to the warehouse. I’m warning you, we already looked. There isn’t much there.”
“I’m sure we’ll find something.” Berend turns toward the door, but he looks back. “One last piece of advice, and I urge you to take it, and to continue to act reasonably. The murderer may be impersonating a priest of Alcos. Be wary, but do not begin harassing priests. You’re no fool—I trust you know what that would do to your image and your ability to operate.”
Sterry gets to his feet. Like his men, there’s a pistol and a long knife at his waist. “I don’t need your advice, old man. Go to the warehouse. Maybe you’ll find something we didn’t. And if I see you again in my district, I expect you’ll remember to whom you’re speaking.”
The guard—Gregor—approaches, and Berend gives Sterry a stiff, shallow bow before turning on his heel.
Isabel doesn’t breathe easily once more until they are back out onto the street. She’s never had a head for the politics of the living. Such things were of far less import to her training than ritual and the seeking out of necromancy, something that hasn’t been credibly reported in hundreds of years. It’s the first time in her life that she wishes her education had been different. No one has ever taught her what to do if a living person takes offense and draws a weapon.
As horrific as the warehouse is likely to be, she finds she’s looking forward to it, as much as she has anything since arriving in Mondirra. There will be answers there, and she has the tools to be able to find them. She only worries she will not like what she finds.
Thank you for reading! May you have a happy and peaceful New Year.
Space Whales Press 
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