The man was going to lose an eye, with the way his face was beaten. He stood there, dribbling blood onto the ground, trying to keep himself upright even as he cowered before Aylen. The other people in the vicinity averted their eyes, looked for somewhere else to be, something else to notice.
The man was blubbering for mercy: “We did what we could sir, but they just—”
Aylen held up a hand to silence him. He made a fist. A tight one. “It’s the same every week,” he said, voice trembling with fury. “You do the same thing every week. How is it that you can’t get it right?” He kicked the man’s foot out from under him, sending the poor wretch crashing into the dirt.
“Please, sir, please!” he cried. “The soldiers, they said the road was closed and we—”
“What road? What road was closed?”
“Down the cliffside. West of the locks, sir.”
Aylen’s fury shifted to his assistant, who was fumbling through papers to stay ahead of the mess. He found what he was looking for, stammering: “Paid on time, Mr Aylen. Access should have been granted to duly-marked members of your—”
Aylen spun around again, grabbing the battered man by the collar and jerking him onto his knees. “Where’s your white sash?” he growled. “If you don’t wear it, they won’t—”
The man’s hand grabbed at the crimson cloth tied ‘round his neck, pulling it up and out. Aylen slowly realized that was his white sash…stained red with his own blood. He let the wretch go.
“Bowen’s upping the price,” he said.
The assistant was tabulating furiously. “We do have a little flexibility to increase payments by as much as fifteen—”
“No,” Aylen with such menace that the assistant stopped dead in his tracks. “You feed a stray, he’ll come back for more. No, we need to work around him. Get to Wright’s workers earlier.”
“Across the river…?” asked the assistant, skeptical.
“Bowen has less influence there. If we can set up some men in the wilds—”
“That would be a mistake,” said a big, booming French voice, and Aylen and the others turned to see Joseph Montferrand striding his way over—flanked by a half dozen men who looked ready for a fight. And a messy one, too.
Aylen turned to face his foe, hands at his belt, right near his knives. “A mistake?” he asked. “Because of the diseases your women would give ‘em?”
Montferrand’s face darkened in a heartbeat. “You joke about it? To my face?”
Aylen scoffed. “Joke about what? How ugly your whores are, or—”
Montferrand stepped closer, his mighty hand tightened into a fist. Aylen’s assistant stumbled back, and even the man on the ground flinched—but Aylen stayed perfectly still, a calm smirk on his face.
“Watch your tongue,” said Montferrand. “Or I will take it out.”
“Are you upset about something in particular, or is it just that you’ve realized you’re French?”
“The girl,” said Montferrand.
Aylen was about to make a pithy remark when Montferrand cut him off: “Do not pretend to be confused. Your men attacked her—”
“Attacked? Hardly. The way I hear it, she led them on…”
Montferrand took another step closer. “Careful, monsieur.”
Aylen saw the other Canadiens, waiting to brawl. They had weapons, and weren’t shy about showing it. If it came down to it, they would be hard to overcome. If it came down to it, though, Montferrand would be hard to overcome all on his own. It would take a flock of Shiners to take him down, and at the moment, Aylen was desperately short in that regard.
He sighed, rolled his eyes. “You left the lads on death’s doorstep. I think you made your point.”
He turned to go, but Montferrand caught his shoulder to hold him back. Aylen spun around, knife at the ready, but hesitated at the sight of the Canadiens readying their own attacks.
“She was an innocent girl,” said Montferrand. “She did not deserve this.”
“It was a youthful indiscretion,” said Aylen. “And it’s over.”
He tried to leave, but Montferrand was having none of it. “Then why did you do it?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Aylen snarled. “You think I have time to choose every skirt my men chase in the night? I’ve got better things to do. Maybe if you did, too, you people wouldn’t be scrounging around in the muck looking for scraps all the time.”
He tried to leave again, but this time Montferrand tightened his grip, and pulled Aylen closer. “Where is the girl?”
Aylen didn’t show his confusion. “Like I said: I don’t dictate every breath they take.”
Montferrand leaned down—he was even more intimidating, face-to-face—and spoke softly so only Aylen would hear: “If I find her body desecrated in any way, I will tear you to pieces. You. To pieces.”
He let go, stepping away a few paces before turning his back to Aylen and storming through the crowd of his own men, who snarled at Aylen like they were upset at having to pass up the chance to gut him alive.
Once they were safely out of distance, Aylen straightened his coat, cricked his neck, and motioned his assistant on over.
“Find Sisk,” Aylen said, eyes narrow with concentration.
“Sir?” asked the assistant.
Aylen grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a nearby house and snarled: “Get me Cedric Sisk before he starts a goddamned war!”
The tavern was busy with the even rush, as supervisors and support staff made their way up from the river to the one watering hole Uppertown allowed to get rowdy. The Irish and Canadiens had vacated back to their own turf as the sun had gone down, but the English and Scottish men who held the ledgers and responsibilities, they came to a higher class of establishment. Not that it was any better than its Lowertown counterparts—it just had a better kind of accent.
Sisk sat in the back, beer at his hand, watching the laughter and song with a critical eye. They were almost all strong men, and proud men, too. They were the ones too stupid to be rich, too dense to be powerful…so they had to, at the very least, have heft to them. But there was a difference between raw strength and fighting strength—you could see the latter in the build, in how their muscles were built. He was looking for someone who could throw a smart punch, not just take one.
The serving girl came by to collect some empties, and Sisk caught her arm, held her still. “Tell me, are all English this pathetic, or just the ones who sup here?”
The girl’s face hardened. “You ought to watch your mouth, with talk like that,” she said. “Lest William smack it silent.”
He pulled her closer. “And who, pray tell, is William?”
William was easy enough to spot, once you knew what to look for. A good height, solid build, but lean where he needed to be—and sporting a black eye, too—he looked like a man who could start and finish a fight. But as Sisk got closer, he saw something else, too: William was standing on a stood, arms spread wide, preaching to a congregation of drunken fools who were giddy with adoration at what he was saying.
“And they come here, and they set up their wretched little hovels at the side of the road, multiplying like vermin, sucking every resource we’ve got, thinking they’re owed because they shoveled some dirt to build His Majesty’s canal!” The men around him pounded their fists into the table in support, which only emboldened him further.
“As if the French weren’t bad enough,” he continued. “But now these Irish bastards, too? One came up to me today, looking for a job. Said:” He made an odd, sing-songy noise like a donkey playing at a tune, and his crowd cackled. “And I said to him: I’m sorry, mate, I don’t hire farm animals on my crew.”
More laughter, and he finished another drink.
Sisk watched from the shadows. Silently.
“No, here’s the thing,” said William, setting down his glass. “We made this town, not them. We made that canal, not them. And if we as a people are going to succeed in living up to the standards Colonel By instilled in us, we need to take back our land—all our land—from the Catholic plague that’s infested us.”
He stumbled, but then raised a fist, and the crowd cheered.
Sisk clapped, too, as his grin got wider.
William was fumbling with his keys when the wind shifted and threw him off balance just enough that he stumbled into the little garden out front of his house. It was a tall brick affair, sharp roof highlighted by the moonlight, looking anything but homey so late at night. The crushed flowers, though, added a tinge of sadness to the picture. Not that he cared. He was too busy trying to get back to his feet.
He grabbed hold of his door handle and used it to pull himself upright, to his knees at least. He was having a hard time focusing, but at least he knew what he had to do.
“Keys…” he muttered to himself. “Keys, keys, keys…aha!” He found them on the step next to him. He reached down to get them, but hit his head on the door and cursed loudly. Then he shushed himself, snatched the keys up, and put the main one in the lock.
It turned without trouble. He braced himself on the door frame, made it back to his feet.
“Quiet, now,” he whispered—again, to himself—and opened the door.
The hallway to the back was narrow, which suited him just fine. He bounced from wall to wall as he stumbled onward, knocking a few paintings askew, but making it to the kitchen without falling over completely.
He sank into a chair by the back windows, catching his breath after such a strenuous excursion. The world around him was spinning slightly, and he felt like he might need to vomit, but he wasn’t sure if he could or not. At least not cleanly.
The drinking pitcher was out on the countertop, not too far away. He reached for it, but his fingers couldn’t quite make it. He tried again, and almost fell off the chair.
He righted himself, fought back the urge to pass out, and reached again—
—and the pitcher was right there. He frowned at it, then focused on the why…and saw a gnarled rat of a man in the darkness, holding it out to him. Part of his brain said to panic, but the rest was just thankful to have the water. He took it without a word and started chugging it, soaking his shirt in the process.
“Heard your speech,” said Sisk, casually.
“Hmm?” asked William, between mouthfuls of water.
“About the English. And the Irish. And…” he waved his hand in the air. “All this.”
William set the water jug down. “How are you in my house?” he asked.
Sisk pointed back toward the front. “Left your door open.”
“Ah,” nodded William, as if that explained everything.
“One thing I can’t dismiss,” said Sisk, leaning against the wall. “You English know how to live well. This place is remarkable.”
William sat a bit taller, proud of himself. “Thank you for noticing. My wife disagrees, but I think it’s rather nice as well.”
Sisk glanced upwards, at the ceiling. “Wife?”
“Yes, quite right,” said William. “She’s sleeping. Shhh.”
Sisk nodded as if he cared. “Married long?”
“A year. Two year engagement before that.” He whispered loudly to add: “Though we were not strangers for long, if you take my meaning.” He gave a wink for good measure.
“How does she feel about the Irish?” asked Sisk.
William rolled his eyes. “Pities them, I’m afraid. Sees them as poor creatures to be rescued, rather than the animals they are.” Just then, a thought came to him, and he frowned: “Where are you from, anyway?”
Sisk shrugged. “Here and there.”
“Well,” said William. with an air of thoughtfulness, “so long as you don’t forget—and don’t take for granted—what we English have built for you, then—”
“You built this house?” asked Sisk.
William’s chest puffed out. “I did.”
“I mean you, yourself, you built it? Hammer and nails?”
“I…”
“‘Cause it seems to me you think too highly of yourself. And you should remember who your betters are.”
William laughed. “What, the Irish? Our betters? You’re really defending them?”
“Oh, I don’t give a toss about the Irish or the English or the French or any of them. I’m talking about me.”
“You? Who are you to—”
Sisk slipped a knife from his belt, turned it around and around in his hand. William froze, terror dampening his drunkenness.
“You think this is your town?” asked Sisk. “It’s not. Sure, you can do your bit, have your fun, and retire to your stone palace, built by the hands you abuse. But me? I live here. I own here.”
“L-Lowertown?” whimpered William.
“All of it. I kept to my side like a good little soldier. I have. I bit my tongue and did as I was told. But you crossed the line, my friend.”
“No, I—”
“You came into my house and pissed on my floor, and thought I wouldn’t notice.”
He put a hand over William’s mouth and pushed back, holding him in place as he drew the knife across the drunk man’s chest: one line across, one line down, then two more, completing a seeping-blood Union Jack. William tried to scream, but he couldn’t get free.
Sisk leaned close and growled: “God save the King.” And slit William’s throat.
Sisk held him there, upright, as the last of the blood and air rushed out of him, and he died with a horrible, gurgling sound. Sisk adjusted the body carefully, making sure it stayed upright, and then slipped the knife back into his belt and adjusted his collar. His shirt was soaked through with blood, too, and his face was covered with it, too. But that suited him just fine.
He heard a stirring upstairs and smiled. “To the victor go the spoils,” he said, and ruined that perfect little house forever.