wondered what a
constable would want with him. His uniform was impressive. It had
huge brass buckles all along its front and buttons that, with a little
imagination, could have been bronze ashtrays. It was neat, pressed, and
still dry. His visitor must have arrived by coach otherwise he would be
sopping wet from the rain which Harold could hear was still clashing
against the window. The officer wore a full top hat that nestled against
his huge bushy sideburns which he removed and tucked under his arm
as he drew close to Harold’s bed, but not before Harold noticed the
bronzed marking embossed in it. It showed him to be a city guard.
Harold thought that you could bet your day’s takings that the constable
was corrupt and no doubt on O’Brien’s pay; they all were.
“Good, you’re awake. I had half expected to have to sit around and
entertain the nurses. ” The officer jested. “ My name is Inspector Francis Fraser,
and I‘d like to ask you a few questions, my lad.” He said to Harold in a voice
that was deep and dry showing an accent foreign to the city. There were
too many hints of southern Neeska blood chiselled into every syllable
for him to be able to hide his lineage, but strangely he still tried. As
much as he attempted to mask his accent, his bright orange hair, which
grew down through the slug-like sideburns into a full beard, gave his
true heritage away. The inspector was from southern blood, no doubt
from Stratholme and Harold guessed he hid it to allow himself to
progress in force. Most people in the city were still holding a grudge
against the kingdom of Stratholme because they did not send aid
during the Dragon’s Blight, it did not matter to most that they were
being ravaged by a plague that threatened the very existence of the city
at the time. A rounded fat face and a reddened nose showed signs of
heavy drinking and it was not until he sat down on the end of his bed
that Harold noticed the band the officer wore around his wrist marking
him as a high-ranking commander. Francis was stocky and from the
scarred knuckles, Harold knew that he was a man that got the answers
he wanted. Harold did wonder at the time if he was the type of man
who joined the guard force for the good of the city, or if he was just
another crook that had joined to abuse the laws for his own benefit.
The inspector coughed abruptly, and it was only then Harold realised
he had not replied for some time. Harold guessed the concussion made
his daydreaming habit even worse. He had been fortunate to have the
tendency, as had Harold not been daydreaming at the Queens , he might
have been quicker loading that barrel down, and have actually been in
the cellar when it went up in flames. His heart sank as Harold realised
that at some point the O'Brien’s boys would also be in to see him.
O'Brien no doubt had died in the fire and they would be out for the
blood of whoever started it. Harold was probably the only witness still
breathing. That must be why the inspector was with him but once he
left the hospital Harold would be at their mercy, all he could hope was
that he was discharged before O'Brien’s gang found out where he was
being treated.
“Let us get a few things straight shall we? ” The inspector continued
ignoring Harold’s lack of reply. “William Boatswain might have let the guards
go soft, but he isn’t in power anymore. So how about you give me your name and you
get to leave here with only the bruises you came in with?” Francis said, hinting at
his allegiance to Malcolm Benedict. The city had been torn in two ever
since William was superseded in government. Harold truly believed
that if the people of Neeskmouth did not so strongly fear another long
and drawn out war, like the one at the turn of the century, then the
tension between the religious and the common man would have lead to
bloodshed. Those loyal to the extremist Sacellum Malcolm and those
who, like Harold, wanted William back in power.
“Sorry.
constable would want with him. His uniform was impressive. It had
huge brass buckles all along its front and buttons that, with a little
imagination, could have been bronze ashtrays. It was neat, pressed, and
still dry. His visitor must have arrived by coach otherwise he would be
sopping wet from the rain which Harold could hear was still clashing
against the window. The officer wore a full top hat that nestled against
his huge bushy sideburns which he removed and tucked under his arm
as he drew close to Harold’s bed, but not before Harold noticed the
bronzed marking embossed in it. It showed him to be a city guard.
Harold thought that you could bet your day’s takings that the constable
was corrupt and no doubt on O’Brien’s pay; they all were.
“Good, you’re awake. I had half expected to have to sit around and
entertain the nurses. ” The officer jested. “ My name is Inspector Francis Fraser,
and I‘d like to ask you a few questions, my lad.” He said to Harold in a voice
that was deep and dry showing an accent foreign to the city. There were
too many hints of southern Neeska blood chiselled into every syllable
for him to be able to hide his lineage, but strangely he still tried. As
much as he attempted to mask his accent, his bright orange hair, which
grew down through the slug-like sideburns into a full beard, gave his
true heritage away. The inspector was from southern blood, no doubt
from Stratholme and Harold guessed he hid it to allow himself to
progress in force. Most people in the city were still holding a grudge
against the kingdom of Stratholme because they did not send aid
during the Dragon’s Blight, it did not matter to most that they were
being ravaged by a plague that threatened the very existence of the city
at the time. A rounded fat face and a reddened nose showed signs of
heavy drinking and it was not until he sat down on the end of his bed
that Harold noticed the band the officer wore around his wrist marking
him as a high-ranking commander. Francis was stocky and from the
scarred knuckles, Harold knew that he was a man that got the answers
he wanted. Harold did wonder at the time if he was the type of man
who joined the guard force for the good of the city, or if he was just
another crook that had joined to abuse the laws for his own benefit.
The inspector coughed abruptly, and it was only then Harold realised
he had not replied for some time. Harold guessed the concussion made
his daydreaming habit even worse. He had been fortunate to have the
tendency, as had Harold not been daydreaming at the Queens , he might
have been quicker loading that barrel down, and have actually been in
the cellar when it went up in flames. His heart sank as Harold realised
that at some point the O'Brien’s boys would also be in to see him.
O'Brien no doubt had died in the fire and they would be out for the
blood of whoever started it. Harold was probably the only witness still
breathing. That must be why the inspector was with him but once he
left the hospital Harold would be at their mercy, all he could hope was
that he was discharged before O'Brien’s gang found out where he was
being treated.
“Let us get a few things straight shall we? ” The inspector continued
ignoring Harold’s lack of reply. “William Boatswain might have let the guards
go soft, but he isn’t in power anymore. So how about you give me your name and you
get to leave here with only the bruises you came in with?” Francis said, hinting at
his allegiance to Malcolm Benedict. The city had been torn in two ever
since William was superseded in government. Harold truly believed
that if the people of Neeskmouth did not so strongly fear another long
and drawn out war, like the one at the turn of the century, then the
tension between the religious and the common man would have lead to
bloodshed. Those loyal to the extremist Sacellum Malcolm and those
who, like Harold, wanted William back in power.
“Sorry.
Similar Books
