Cicero part 3: Vende's story (part 1)

How Vende despised the rest of his green, mottled, selfish race; goblins in his mind, fed the capitalist prison which both invigorated and subtly destroyed society. He had never dreamt for great change in his life, but Vende was definitely not stupid and had his priorities and beliefs in check; growing up on a ship had kept him open to diversity from the multi-cultural crew and given him a strong sense of equality. There was no ranking system at sea; every man could die as easily as the next, in a storm, climbing the rigging or almost any job. There was no status, only different uses; a strong, clever and light hearted captain kept the ship in line and the wheel steady; a quick, far sighted and tall Elf kept watch; a deadly, efficient and sly Vampire kept the crew in check and hunted rats beneath deck and an ogre pulled down the sails, tied secure lines and bashed heads together. No one was above another and that was how life should be, or so Vende thought. 

This is what invigorated his hate for the thin, gaunt goblin which stood behind the desk, he smiled deceptively as if he knew far more than his guests; he looked down upon Vende’s dark master as an adult patronizingly does to a minor and spoke his name gleefully like he had trapped them in some elaborate trap. Vende didn’t even want to think about the goblin’s ignorance of his own presence, for want of evoking anymore of his own fiery anger; he chided himself silently.

[i]In a politician’s world we must leave emotions by our bed side to fight our enemies with reason and rationality.[/i]

On closer inspection, Vende spotted the tell-tale suit of an entrepreneur and pockets filled with sheets of information; in 'Protector' the currency was words; painful, destructive and weakening words. A huge library of gossip, Vende had taught himself long ago that every man had a bane and it was knowledge that could identify it. The question he was asking himself was, how much did they know of Cicero’s efforts and identity? However, far back in the recesses of his mind, a question swirled like a controversial thunderstorm.

[i]Did the clandestine, ancient Nyctari lord actually have a bane?[/i]

“Let us not keep Farq waiting, I have heard his notorious impatience is only fractionally greater than his legendary weight.” Cicero retorted in a voice completely devoid of emotion, he gave the goblin that same cold stare he gave every man, woman and child; a stare one could only master with absolute power, Vende imagined. He smiled inwardly, he knew his master could see right through the duplicitous steward’s masquerade.

“Follow me this way…sir.” The goblin said half-submissively without losing any of his confidence; he leapt from his stool behind the desk to reveal his true tiny stature, Vende was sure Cicero had found any other revelations in his calculating head. The steward led them down the office-like corridors painted in darkness by the recent power-cut, Vende could imagine it as the dimly lit passage ways beneath the deck of his old ship, almost feeling the floor sway, he adjusted his legs before quickly adjusting them back, the old sailor had to keep his wits about him in a place like this. Soon the white-washed walls of the traditional office were replaced by a foray of pipes and wires which seemed to cover every inch of the wall; this was where information passed like hidden streams through the passages. A forest of electronic systems surrounded them as they made their way through 'Protector’s' CCTV department consisting of hundreds of employees monitoring the ‘red light district’ in tiny cubicles covered in screens to capture all the clienteles' residences for security purposes…

[i]Obviously…[/i]

It seemed the steward had taken them for a long tour as he reasoned there must be a quicker path to their restless master; probably some tactic to unnerve or intimidate his silent guests.

“Do you know what the position of Farq means Mr. Cicero?” The goblin guide questioned through the tapping of keyboards which filled the office with constant noise, his sly, wheezy voice annoying Vende increasingly. The inquired only tilted his head in question, an action so commonplace in his master, he thought Cicero probably did it instinctively.
“Farq is a title that was given to the most cunning and Machiavellian spy in the ‘Goblin thieves’ guild’. The rewarded replaces the title with their own name making them untraceable and legendary. It was awarded centuries ago and is passed down through assassination, that is, the only way to acquire it is to outwit and kill the Farq.” The steward’s smile only grew ever wider as they neared the manager’s room; and for a fraction of a second the sailor gave into the presentation remembering the infamous ‘thieves’ guild’ hidden in the great forests of Russia. Tales had been passed around on ship about the goblin assassins who could crawl on ceilings or walk on water; and spies that were so convincing in act that they could replace your own mother. They had never scared him, only sounding like stories you’d tell your children or joke about with friends; now they seemed a little more real facing the real life Farq but in Vende’s hardened life little frightened him. In fact only one thing had ever scared Vende Barrow.

[i]Cicero…[/i]

The goblin opened the door to Farq’s room softly, letting the visitors enter first, gesturing politely towards the dimly lit chamber with a wicked smile, before shutting the door behind him.

“Cicero…what a refined name.” Farq said in his slurred and bored tone.

“I would give you the decency of a reply but I have heard of your disgusting mannerisms and activities and find you wanting in almost every sense of the word ‘dignity’. Would you care to disprove my notions?” His voice was cool, calm and collected with a slow tone that seemed to be perfectly harmless until it was registered as a whole, like the unsuspecting sting of a beautiful lion fish that would shock its victim minutes after first contact.
A vile and annoyed snarl spread across Farq’s face as he turned his chair towards his insulter for the first time. “You walk into my threshold and insult me, now that’s hardly dignifying. I can assure you…Cicero… you do not want to make enemies with me.” He remarked, the laziness and indifference replaced by a strong antipathy, which was only emphasized by the way he almost spat Cicero's name.
 
“I would hardly call you my enemy that implies you pose a threat. Power is given to the worthy and can be taken by neither a name nor title nor managerial position. Let us dither from petty interactions and talk of your importance.”
The goblin had grown red-faced and angry under the constant, impassive gaze of Cicero causing him to spout spittle from his mouth in numerous attempts to utter a counter.

“I…I…You claim that I hold no power but wish to discuss my importance, doesn’t my importance imply power?” He rebutted in petty defiance.

“I do not own the time to teach such lessons and I believe my advice would fall on uneducated ears as a dog interprets civilization. To be precise I have come to this establishment to take ownership of all its business, assets, information and clientele.”

For a split second, Farq looked flabbergasted by the response; however he quickly retained his calm demeanor before flailing in his chair in outright laughter. Wiping tears welled up in humour from his tiny eyes with his huge, podgy fingers, Farq replied. “And what, makes you think you have any right or even the power to take it from me. It seems to me a dog asks for the ownership of civilization without explanation.”

“Who funds Protector and its equipment?” Cicero replied faster than the swift parry of a rapier.

“Private sponsors of course.” Farq replied with a confidence; neither confusion nor doubt entered his voice.

“I am sure your steward can… enlighten us by providing the name of your most prominent sponsor.” His rapier parried again faster and this time cutting deep into Farq’s confidence.

“Veer, come on!” The goblin steward who seemed instantly flustered, fumbled with his notes looking for the correct one without his prior ease; much to the discomfort of his master.

“Sir, our major sponsor is ‘Night’s Crown’ a new investor he seems to have bought the majority of the sponsorship and therefore owning 80% of the company, they recently bought it from a chain of prostitution houses known as the ‘Purple pillars’.” The steward said with a defiant grin. On the inside, Vende felt slightly sorry for the pair, they still hadn’t worked it out.

“Unless you hand over your company, information, clientele and equipment; I’ll be forced to take my shares of this establishment and stop any further funding.” Cicero replied quickly and sharply his rapier striking centre.
Farq fell silent and still, the steward seemed to mirror him as realization coursed through their brains. If Cicero pulled his support their business would go bankrupt, their clientele would leave them in their inadequacy and their information would become stale and useless with age.

“What if I say no…” Farq said in cold fury, defiance sewn into his face like a new mask.

“Then the police will come into contact with some incriminating information about you and your dealings. Last time I checked aiding illegal gangs is against the law.”

The defiance fled from Farq’s huge crumpling face, his eyes pleading and searching for some kind of hidden savior in the room; his leisurely pace and bored tone was gone, and replaced by a stuttering mess of anxiousness. “But, but, but…”

“Well, this concludes my visit…” Cicero turned to leave before remembering a final command and turned to the terror filled goblin. “I so rudely forgot to introduce my dear friend, ‘Farq’...” He spoke in his calm tone but with a glimmer of retribution in his penetrating gaze, as he gestured towards Vende.

“Take control and report back to me as soon as possible, we have work to be done…” He muttered to his small goblin companion and then left abruptly.

Vende pulled out a large revolver from his inside pocket and quickly shot Farq in the neck. 

[i]A life on a dangerous sea had taught me that when you have to tie a knot, make sure you do it the first time…[/i]

Blood poured from the bulging flab of rippled flesh Farq called a neck, he didn’t even have time to scream; and then another smoking hole erupted from the steward’s chest. He looked down towards the wound in a sullen, melancholy way before tripping over his legs and falling onto his back; there he lay unmoving and dead like his swollen master. 

Cicero muttered a phrase as he stepped out into the night air. “Abrenuntias satanae et corpore et animo…”