The Dale-lands, a long time ago…
Trate sat upon a large chair in the centre of the room, his feet resting upon the main table whilst he twiddled his large fingers, staring up at the ceiling. The man had a unique ability to sum up a person through the smallest of details. In this case, he noticed the owner of the room had neglected the ceiling due to the dry rot which had surfaced there. Which, in turn, would suggest that he spent little time in this dwelling. That was easy, basic, boring in fact; the prize lay with the maroon curtains which hung beside each window and the large fur rug situated beneath his feet. Now those would make more than a shiny coin, he thought upon first entering, taking the time to rub his finger and thumb against the fabrics to weigh up their worth. The man in question was heavily overweight, poorly spoken and had quite the reputation for his quick temper. It was clear to anyone with eyes that he made no attempt to improve his rough appearance. He sported a bushy ginger beard which ran down to his collar, matched with hair which naturally stuck up like a twisted bush. It was ironic, therefore, that this man went out of his way to prune his adopted children into being gentleman from an early age. He would often use himself as an example, teaching the lads to be the complete opposite of what he was. He wanted the boys to grow to be gentleman, or rather seem to be gentleman in order for his own devious plans to succeed.
“Appearance is everything!” he would often preach, especially toward Remis Locke and Rook Hakeswell who, in the beginning, thought it would be amusing to wear dresses with matching bonnets purely to test his temper. “Yer to act like gentleman, how many gentleman do you see walking around in frocks?!”
Remis, who was only seven years of age at the time, decided to brave Trate's wrath by answering “Well, that depends on the gentleman, doesn’t it?” For that, he received a smack round the head and was forced to do the cleaning for an entire week.
Trate’s soul ambition was to teach talented youngsters with potential in the ways of ‘seeking’. Seeking is in every way the work of a con-artist, although Trate always thought the name he had given the profession sounded much more impressive. To accomplish this, taught his adopted children in the ways of subtly, patience, planning and appearance. Those were the easier parts of the trade, the more difficult to teach were the correct pronunciation of words, manners, etiquette and customs which took years for them to understand given their complexity. Finding targets proved risky, life-threatening even, if they were targets worth seeking. Trate taught the boys how to avoid danger and to expect the unexpected. He even taught them how to fight, as a precaution should the need arise. Some caught on more quickly than others, but in the end, Trate had succeeded in what he intended to do and created his own little army of coin-making con-artists.
The reason for Trate’s visit was simple; he wanted to advertise his little band in order to expand their reputation out into the reaches of the Dale-lands. The village they were settled in was, in short, a poverty-stricken pigsty with all the charm and character as Trate himself. The man he had come to visit was a wealthy client of a questionable character, who had taken to Trate in the nearby tavern. After many rounds of drinking, he had decided to see what his band of seekers had to offer. In return, he wanted to know everything about Trate and the four young men he had raised into his service. Trate had the papers ready on his lap, deciding to quickly scratch his backside as the master of the house entered the room.
“Trate Hawthorn, a pleasure…” the gentleman said as he crossed the room, wrinkling his nose slightly as he offered his hand. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting; you understand that I am quite a busy man.”
Trate smiled a toothy smile, ceasing scratching his right cheek only to offer the same hand to gentleman, who grimaced. “Stanley Bloxwich! Good to see yer again, fancy display yer have here, make no mistake!” Trate adjusted himself in his seat once they had shaken hands.
Bloxwich moved to the other side of the desk, dwarfed still by Trate who was twice his size in both height and width.
“I wish I had me a place just like it!" added Trate. "Not so sure about the rug though, seems a little over the top don’t yer think?”
Bloxwich gave Trate a thin smile, placing one leg over the other to rest his hands upon his knee. “Down to business, shall we? I trust you have brought the papers so that I may review your little group? I feel it is a necessity of business given that I will trust you with secret information concerning my possessions.”
Trate sniffed as he slid the papers across the table, patting his chubby hand upon the pile. “You’ll find them all there. Remis, Rook, Filburn and Webley. All fine lads by all accounts, the cream of the crop having been raised by yours truly with care and considera-”
Bloxwich cut in, snapping the papers away from Trate’s hand. “I am sure you have…” he paused, squinting at Trate’s handwriting which was surprisingly elegant, as if written by a noblewoman. “Yes, I think we will start with this one here, Rook is it?” Bloxwich held the paper up to the light and read aloud. “Rook Hakeswell, adopted at the age of six when found in a stable.” He cleared his throat, “Talented in swordplay and strategy, quick-witted by nature though both obedient and trustworthy. You have named him your successor?”
Trate nodded, his double chins wobbling slightly as he opening his mouth to speak. “My first adopted son, I’d trust him with my life! I couldn’t say the same for the rest of them, truth be told. Although they each have their own qualities. Like Remis, for example!” Trate lifted the second piece of paper from the pile, flinging it across the table towards Bloxwich who held it to the light to read.
“Remis Locke, found on the streets at an early age having been abandoned by his mother. A charming and confident young man-” Bloxwich paused for a moment before continuing “Womanizer. Proving to be a potential master of deception having passed himself as a young Lord on numerous occasions. Skilled in persuasion, handling himself in dangerous situations” he paused again, "Exceedingly skilled in improvisation” Bloxwich raised his eyes to stare at Trate. “Dare I ask?”
Trate grinned, folding his arms as if reminiscing upon a favourite tale of his. “He’s a handful, so he is. The lad loves himself more than a dragon loves its gold. Took my teachin' of becoming a gentleman too much to heart if you ask me. But when it comes to escaping, I’ll tell yer; this one time he mounted a catapult wearing nout but his smallclothes and hurled himself into the window of a-”
He was yet again cut off as Bloxwich began to read the third piece of paper. “Filburn, brute…” he frowned, looking up from the piece of paper “Is that it?” Quickly realising his mistake, Bloxwich turned the page over and continued to read. “A mountain of muscle, ideal for manoeuvring heavy loads as well as being well-trained in hand-to-hand combat” he nodded approvingly as he set Filburn sheet down before reaching out for Webley’s. “So we have a strategist, a fighter and a fop. I wonder what the next lad has to offer…”
The table screeched upon the wooden floor as Trate knocked it with his leg whilst adjusted himself. “Webley ain’t nothing special, he’s me last adopted child. A little wet around the ears. Even so, yer always need a mouse to gather information. What better than to pick a boy that already has the features?” Trate laughed at his own joke, it wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“So this rodent of yours listens to whispers, gathers stories and plans and reports everything back to you?” Bloxwich stroked his pointed chin, “A little dangerous don’t you think? To trust such boy with the most cultural task?”
Trate shook his head, “That’s just it ain’t it? No one would think twice to look at a scrawny little git lingering by the fire like a lost pup would they? He’s bright, got a good memory and all. I don’t pick any old lad off the streets you know, I know potential when I see it!”
A loud thump came from upstairs causing dust and pieces of wood to fall from the rotten area above. Both men looked up for a brief moment and stared. “It must be my chambermaid, she is quite heavy footed.” Bloxwich gave Trate another thin smile before continuing. “I do like what I see here Hawthorn, you seem to have mustered a find group of lads each with their own set of skills and merit. Given your reputation and the stories I’ve heard from one Lord Caswell in the Inn, I would be a fool not to take you up on your offer.” As he finished a second loud thud came from above, this time a large piece of timber fell from the weak spot in the ceiling. Trate gritted his teeth as Bloxwich got to his feet. “What the devil is going on up there?!” he bellowed, turning his gaze to the door at the far side of the room. “Tom! I say Tom, are you even there?!”
Trade quickly rose to his feet, stretching out a large arm to stop Bloxwich as he began to walk towards the door. “Bah! Sure he’s just buggered off for a piss! Standing guard all day can get the better of yer, I’m sure!”
A large crack began to spread across the section above the desk, Bloxwich’s eyes widened at the sight. “Something is amiss here, Trate. I better go go and investigate!”
Trate began to wave his arms around in an attempt to bar him form leaving the room. “Amiss? Don’t be daft! What could possibly be amiss?” CRACK! The ceiling above fell inwards sending dust and timber falling upon the table and two chairs in which they once sat. Several shapes also fell with the debris, what seem to be a large man followed by two others whose faces were hidden among the devastation.
“You stupid arse!” shouted Rook who lay across Filburn's chest. “Place the bed back carefully; not drop it on the floor like a sack of meat!” The raven haired youth attempted to climb to his feet finding something preventing him doing so. “Remis? Remis! Tell me you’ve still got it!”
The hand of Remis Locke slowly emerged from a pile of wood, clutching a roll of parchment tightly inside a gloved fist. “Yes!” he spluttered “Just about! A bit frayed around the edges but no real damage done!” The young man shook his head, dust and splinters falling from his scalp. “My back is killing me!”
“How do you think I bloody well feel? Get off!” protested Filburn, jolting upwards sending his adopted brothers tumbling down from the collapsed table.
Rook and Remis stared at each other for a moment before bursting into a fit of laughter, only pausing when they noticed the two men standing across the room from them, Bloxwich pointing a shaking finger towards Remis.
“You!” He bellowed, “Lord Caswell, you are-!” Unfortunately this time it was Bloxwich who was cut short, on the account of Trate’s fist which struck him across the jaw rendering him unconscious.
“Yer a useless bag of horse dung the lot of ya!” Trate shouted, promptly coughing as the dust continued to cloud the room. “At what point did I say once you get the map then feel free to crash through the bleedin' roof?!”
Rook, Remis and Filburn had each climbed to their feet by the time Trate had finished shouting, each of them rubbing their injured backs and heads apart from Remis who was more interested in fixing his hair. “Covered in dust!” he moaned “Thank you so much, Filburn! Not to mention the rip in my sleeve, look at it! You’d think I’d been mauled by a pack of hungry dogs!”
Filburn picked up a small plank and threw it. It struck Remis on the shoulder, to which he decided to retaliate with a rude gesture towards his brother.
“That’s enough of that!" shouted Trate, "We need to get out of here and fast! What did you do with that Tom fella, the one who was guardin' the gate of the house?”
“I smacked him one. Remis and Rook hid him in a cupboard” said Filburn smiling, his large tombstone teeth protruding from his mouth. “I doubt he’ll be waking up in a hurry, though that can’t be said about half the street having heard all this.” The brutish young man gestured around the room which lay in utter ruin. The curtains ripped and the rug no longer visible beneath the fallen upper chamber.
“Right!" said Trate, "Filburn, grab them papers and bring them with us. Remis, go outside and cause a distraction. I’m sure you’ll think of something; draw everyone away from the gate so we can get out without anyone seein' us.” He turned to Rook who was massaging his temples, “Rook, pull up yer hood and attack Remis at the right moment. Give them something else to talk about when they've cleared off."
Remis glared at Trate. “I hardly think that’ll be necessary, I’ve already got a role thought up in my head which will be more than convincing.” He looked at each of his companions in turn, a silence falling as they stared at him with a vacant expression upon their faces. “Alright, just don’t hit me in the face, Rook.”
Trate grunted, clapping his hands together sending more dust flying around the room. “Get out and get back to Blakedown once yer done, don’t mess this up. I’ll take the map…” he marched over to Remis and snatched it from his hands “Best of luck!”
