Act I: The Aftermath
The ruined velvet coat hung in Abelard’s bedroom closet, its silk lining torn beyond repair, the fabric stained with the memory of that single night of terror when a desperate offer had been the only thing that saved his life. Everywhere Abelard turned, something reminded him of how close he’d come to death. The dining room where the assassin struck, the plush carpet where he’d fallen, the money belt ripped from his person, its coins useless in the ensuing negotiation.
Staving off a shudder, Abelard slid the coat away before the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach grew any worse. He selected the next available, a forest-green jacket, before slamming the wardrobe door closed. Sighing, he ran his fingers along the wool to ensure no tremor remained in his hands. Two weeks. Two weeks of methodical investigation, careful questions posed over brandy and cigars, and favors called in and debts leveraged. Two weeks of playing the concerned businessman while hunting the person who wanted him gutted like a fish.
The mirror reflected a face that had aged years in a fortnight. Dark circles shadowed Abelard’s eyes despite the rouge his valet had applied. His jowls, usually full from prosperity and rich living, now hung with the weight of sleepless nights. Only his smile remained intact. The weapon that had built his fortune, the charm that opened doors and loosened tongues, the practiced warmth that made even rivals believe they were dealing with a friend.
He would need that smile today.
Inside the Silver Gentlemen’s Club, old money mingled with new ambition in an atmosphere of leather-bound respectability. Gas lamps flickered in their brass fixtures as afternoon shadows stretched across the plush carpets, and the air hung thick with pipe smoke and the kind of whispered conversations that moved markets and toppled governments. Abelard paused at the entrance, adjusting his cufflinks—a nervous habit he’d developed since the attempt on his life—before stepping into the familiar embrace of privilege and power.
“Whitfield! Good to see you, old friend.” Lord Sebastian rose from his leather chair near the fireplace, crystal tumbler in hand, his face flushed with the ruddy health that came from never missing a meal. “I wondered if you’d disappeared entirely. I haven’t seen you at the club in what, two or three weeks?”
“Business, my dear Sebastian.” Abelard clasped the man’s soft hand, thankful his grip remained steady despite everything. “You know how it is during harvest season. The vineyards demand constant attention. My Seacean holdings have been particularly demanding.”
The lie, polished smooth by years of practice, flowed easily. In truth, he’d spent his time outside the club mapping every shadow that might hide an assassin, every alley where a knife might wait, and every face in every crowd that might belong to the man who’d paid for his death. The investigation had become his obsession, driven by the knowledge that failure meant more than professional embarrassment.
It meant his death.
“Ah, the coastal vineyard,” Sebastian said, nodding approvingly. “I’ve heard wonderful things about your latest vintage. The critics are calling it revolutionary. Something about the sea air giving the grapes a distinctive character?”
“The climate creates unique growing conditions,” Abelard agreed, settling into the chair opposite Sebastian. A waiter appeared carrying a silver tray with crystal decanters. “But enough about my ventures, my friend. Vineyard concerns have left me so preoccupied that I feel entirely disconnected from the pulse of the city. What news from the wider world?”
It was a carefully crafted opening. A casual inquiry that invited gossip while seeming conversational. Abelard had learned that information flowed most freely when people thought they were engaging in pleasant conversation rather than suffering through an interrogation.
Sebastian leaned forward, lowering his voice to the intimate tone reserved for truly valuable intelligence. “Well, since you mentioned it, some rather unusual happenings have occurred in recent weeks. Market volatility, you understand, but not the usual kind driven by supply and demand.”
“Oh?” Abelard selected a small glass of amber liquid from the tray, noting how the waiter’s hands remained perfectly steady while his own required conscious control. “What sort of volatility?”
“The peculiar kind that speaks to sizeable sums moving through unusual channels.” Sebastian took a sip of his drink, savoring both the whiskey and the drama of his revelation. “Lockley’s Depository has seen some rather significant withdrawals. Foreign currency conversions. The sort of financial activity that suggests someone is either leaving the kingdom or funding something requiring discretion.”
The words sent a chill down Abelard’s spine, though he maintained his expression of polite interest. Foreign currency conversions. Large withdrawals. Exactly the sort of financial maneuvering required to hire a professional killer.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I suppose in times of political uncertainty, people seek to diversify their holdings. Though I must admit, I’m surprised Lockley’s would handle such transactions openly. They’ve always prided themselves on discretion.”
“It’s all in who you know, isn’t it?” Sebastian’s eyes gleamed. The man liked nothing more than sharing information no one else knew. Abelard intended to fully exploit the weakness. “This person did not make the deposits through normal channels. Someone specifically requested services that Lockley’s rarely advertises. Currency exchanged with no questions asked, immediate access to funds, and arrangements for discreet messaging services to, let’s just say, less reputable districts of the city.”
The Shambles.
Sebastian was too polite to name it directly, but Abelard knew exactly which district he meant. The Shambles was a rough-and-tumble sort of place where skilled craftsmen plied trades that law-abiding citizens preferred not to acknowledge, where a man with enough coin could hire services ranging from simple burglary to complex assassination.
“Messaging services?” Abelard kept his tone neutral, though his pulse quickened. “How remarkably thorough of them.”
“Indeed. And here’s the truly curious part. The gentleman making these arrangements seemed particularly nervous. He asked very specific questions about reliable ways to communicate with ‘craftsmen who work with steel.’” Sebastian’s voice dropped even lower. “We both know what that sort of terminology usually means.”
Abelard’s blood turned to ice water, but years of negotiating hostile business deals had taught him to mask shock behind polite interest. ‘Craftsmen who work with steel’ was indeed code, a euphemism used by those who needed deadly services but lacked the vocabulary of the criminal underworld. Someone unfamiliar with assassination protocols, but educated enough to know such codes existed.
“How very intriguing,” he managed, taking a sip of whiskey while he processed this revelation. “Though I suppose in our current economic climate, many legitimate reasons exist for someone to seek such specialized metalwork.”
Sebastian chuckled, a sound that held no genuine humor. “Oh, come now, Abelard. We both know there’s nothing legitimate about that sort of inquiry. Someone wanted blood spilled, and they were willing to pay handsomely for quality work.”
“A sobering thought,” Abelard said. “I trust this mysterious patron found whatever services he required?”
“That’s the curious thing. No one seems to know. The inquiries stopped abruptly about three weeks ago. Either the gentleman completed his business, or . . .” Sebastian shrugged. “Well, sometimes these arrangements don’t conclude as planned.”
Three weeks gave the assassin a week to plan the job before slipping into Abelard’s dining room two weeks ago wearing the face of Edward Beaumont, a spice merchant from the Steel Islands. The timing wasn’t a coincidence but confirmation that his investigation was finally bearing fruit.
“I imagine such disappointments are expensive,” Abelard said, fishing for more details while maintaining his facade of casual interest.
“Devastatingly so, from what I understand. Premium services command premium prices, and failure to deliver typically results in forfeiture of the entire fee. Plus, word spreads quickly in those circles. A failed contract can destroy a craftsman’s reputation permanently.”
“Well,” Abelard said, raising his glass in a mock toast, “here’s to reliable craftsmen who complete their projects on schedule. Though I confess, all this talk of metalwork makes me grateful for my peaceful vineyard ventures. Nothing more dangerous than the occasional thorn or aggressive wasp.”
Sebastian laughed, the sound echoing off the club’s wood-paneled walls. “Quite right. Give me honest commerce over whatever shadows these mysterious patrons inhabit. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you brought any samples of that remarkable Seacean vintage? I’ve been telling Rolen about it, and he’s desperate for a taste.”
“As it happens,” Abelard said, smiling, his first genuine expression since entering the club, “I have a bottle in my carriage. Consider it a small token of appreciation for such an illuminating conversation about current market conditions.”
The offer wasn’t entirely altruistic. A bottle of his finest wine would solidify Sebastian’s goodwill while opening doors to further conversations with other club members. Once Abelard summoned a waiter to retrieve the wine, he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. His investigation progressed exactly as he’d hoped. Piece by piece, conversation by conversation, he was assembling a picture of his enemy. Someone with access to significant funds but unfamiliar with criminal protocols. Someone nervous enough to require intermediaries but determined enough to pay premium prices. Last, someone who stopped making inquiries after the assassination attempt had failed. The profile was becoming clearer, and with it, the path to identifying the man who wanted him dead.
Abelard shared a glass with Sebastian, who had nothing but wonderful things to say about the vintage, before excusing himself under the pretense of catching up with others.
“Do check in with Rolen before you leave,” Sebastian said in parting, along with where to find the airship magnate.
The smoking lounge, which occupied the club’s eastern wing, was always a rich mine of information. Here, tall windows caught the afternoon light and filtered it through heavy velvet drapes. The city’s most influential men gathered in leather chairs arranged around small mahogany tables, cigars glowing like fireflies in the perpetual twilight. Abelard smiled and prepared to work the room, wine and charm his weapons of choice in a war fought with intelligence instead of blades.
He found Rolen Fairwind exactly where Sebastian had promised, holding court near the grand piano, regaling a small circle of listeners with a highly animated story involving airships and questionable customs inspections. The merchant’s laugh boomed across the room, a sound that spoke of a man comfortable with his place in the world’s hierarchy. Though he’d lost his wife under dubious circumstances, he allowed neither the mystery nor the tragedy of the event to bother him.
“Abelard!” Rolen’s face lit up. “Sebastian said you might grace us with a sample of that legendary coastal wine. Please tell me the rumors are true, and it actually tastes of the sea itself.”
“Not quite the sea,” Abelard replied, settling into an empty chair and placing the bottle ceremoniously on a table where others already sat. “But I believe it captures something of the ocean’s mood.”
The gathered men leaned forward with the eager attention of connoisseurs presented with genuine rarity. Once a server filled glasses, the assembled gentlemen properly appreciated the wine by making the appropriate sounds of approval and offering the expected compliments about complexity and finish. Abelard allowed the conversation to flow naturally before steering it toward his true purpose.
“I must say,” he began, swirling the wine in his glass, “it’s refreshing to gather with men who appreciate the finer things in life. Though I confess, recent weeks have made me somewhat nervous about enjoying such luxuries too openly.”
“Oh?” Rolen raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Perhaps I’m being overly cautious,” Abelard said with intentional casualness, “but some rather unsettling rumors have been circulating lately. Talk of foreign merchants asking unusual questions, strangers making inquiries about established businesses, that sort of thing. Makes a man wonder if his success might attract the wrong sort of attention.”
The effect was immediate. The small circle of men exchanged glances, their meaningful looks indicating that they had information to share but were uncertain whether it was appropriate to do so.
“You know,” said Harrington, a thin man whose import business rivaled Abelard’s own, “now that you mention it, I had a rather odd encounter about a week ago. A gentleman approached me at the docks. He claimed he was researching investment opportunities in local businesses.”
Abelard’s pulse quickened, but he maintained his expression of polite concern. “Investment opportunities? It’s refreshing to hear that capital is flowing into our fair city. I wonder why you mention it, though. Did something about the nature of his inquiries seem strange?”
“Indeed,” Harrington nodded, warming to his tale. “He seemed particularly interested in successful merchants who might have made enemies through their ventures. His line of questioning revolved around recent acquisitions, hostile takeovers, that sort of thing.”
The wine soured in Abelard’s mouth. Someone researching successful merchants, looking for those who might have created enemies through ruthless business practices, might indicate the kind of research that preceded targeted violence—the kind someone had targeted at him.
“How very curious,” Abelard said. “I trust you found his inquiries merely academic in nature?”
“That’s just it,” Harrington continued. “The man seemed anything but academic. Nervous, agitated, constantly checking his pocket watch as if he operated under a deadline. And when I mentioned your name—purely as an example of successful vineyard expansion, you understand—his reaction was quite pronounced.”
Abelard’s blood chilled, but years of high-stakes negotiations had taught him to appear calm even when it seemed his world crumbled around him. “My name came up? How flattering, though I can’t imagine why it would provoke any reaction at all.”
“That’s what made it so peculiar,” Harrington said, clearly enjoying the drama of his revelation. “The moment I mentioned your Seacean acquisition, the fellow went absolutely rigid. Started asking very specific questions about your business practices, your methods of negotiation, and whether you’d encountered any resistance from previous property owners.”
The pieces were falling into place with terrifying clarity. Someone had researched his business history, focusing on his most recent major acquisition. The Seacean vineyard represented his most aggressive business move in recent years, a takeover that had crushed the previous owner despite generations of family ownership.
“I hope you were diplomatic in your responses,” Abelard said carefully. “One never knows how someone unfamiliar with the complexities of modern commerce will interpret such information.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Harrington assured him. “Though I must admit, the gentleman’s interest seemed far more personal than professional. Almost as if he had some connection to the matter himself.”
Personal connection. The words echoed in Abelard’s mind as he processed their implications. Not an active rival wishing to eliminate a successful businessman, but someone with a deeper relationship—a personal one, it seemed—to his acquisition of the Seacean vineyard.
“Did this gentleman provide a name?” Abelard asked, fighting to keep his voice level.
“He claimed to be Steven something-or-other. Steven . . .” Harrington frowned, searching his memory. “Steven Holland? No, that’s not quite right. Holloway! That was it. Steven Holloway. He said he represented certain parties concerned about market stability.”
The name hit Abelard like a physical blow. Steven Holloway. He knew that name, although it took a moment for the memory to surface. The brother. William Holloway’s brother, the one who had stood helplessly by while Abelard systematically dismantled their family’s financial security, forced the sale of their ancestral vineyard, and, depending on who you believed, drove William to his death. Steven Holloway, who had made that empty threat about payment and consequences. Steven Holloway, who had watched his family’s legacy crumble while Abelard walked away with their most precious possession for a fraction of its true value.
“Holloway,” Abelard repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with anyone by that name. Though our paths may have crossed in some professional capacity.”
It was a necessary lie. Admitting recognition invited questions Abelard wasn’t prepared to answer, especially in front of witnesses who might later connect his interest to whatever fate ultimately befell Mr. Holloway.
Harrington took a long sip of his wine. “Well, wherever he came from, he certainly wanted to know a great deal about you. He inquired about your daily routines, your social calendar, even your household staff. The sort of detailed inquiries that seemed rather intrusive for a simple investment researcher.”
Mr. Holloway had been conducting systematic surveillance, gathering the operational intelligence needed for a second assassination attempt. The anxious man making inquiries at Lockley’s Depository, the foreign currency conversions, and the discreet message services to the Shambles were all parts of an elaborate plan orchestrated by William Holloway’s grieving brother. Abelard was sure of it.
“How very thorough of him,” Abelard observed, proud of how steady his voice remained. “Though I must say, such detailed interest in a stranger’s personal life seems rather excessive for investment purposes.”
“Precisely what I thought,” Harrington agreed. “Which is why I mentioned it to Rolen here, and why I’m sharing it with you now. In times like these, with all the political uncertainty and market volatility, a man can’t be too careful about who’s taking an interest in his affairs.”
Around the table, the other men nodded, their faces reflecting the comfortable concern of those who faced problems in theory rather than practice. They understood business rivalry and competitive intelligence gathering as abstract concepts. Still, none of them had ever looked into the eyes of a paid killer or felt the cold kiss of steel against their belly.
“Quite right,” Abelard said, raising his glass in a toast. “To vigilance in business and caution in all our dealings. May we all prosper without attracting undue attention from mysterious researchers.”
The men drank, their laughter carrying the easy confidence of those whose most concerning worries involved market fluctuations and social standing. As they returned to safer topics—airship innovations, guild politics, and the eternal complaint about increased taxation—Abelard allowed his mind to work through the implications of what he’d learned.
Steven Holloway.
The grieving brother had spent weeks, possibly months, planning his revenge. Systematic research, careful financial preparation, and professional execution that Abelard had spoiled only because of an assassin’s penchant for fine wine. Mr. Holloway had dedicated himself to Abelard’s destruction with the same methodical approach that Abelard himself might have used to acquire a rival’s business.
Abelard appreciated the irony. In Steven Holloway, he faced not just an enemy but a dark reflection of his own ruthless pragmatism. But knowledge was power, and power could be leveraged. Now that he knew his enemy’s identity, Abelard had every intention of turning the tables. Steven Holloway might have the advantage of anonymity and initiative, but Abelard had resources, connections, and all the institutional support that money could buy.
The game was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning.
Act II: A Plan Revealed
The Land’s Edge Trading Company occupied a sprawling warehouse district near the airship docks, where the sound of alchemical engines mixed with the creak of cargo nets and the sharp commands of dock workers. Abelard’s office sat above the main floor, its windows providing a commanding view of the organized chaos below. Here, surrounded by ledgers and shipping manifests, he could think without the pretense required at the club.
He spread the documents across his mahogany desk like a general planning a campaign. Customs records from the past six months. Passenger manifests from airships arriving from Seacea. Currency exchange reports from three different banks. Each piece of paper represented another thread in the web Steven Holloway had woven.
Someone knocked.
“Come!” Abelard cried out.
The door slid open, and there stood Viktor, one of his dock foremen.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Viktor, yes. Come in.” Abelard gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I need to ask about some visitors we may have had. People asking questions about my business dealings and commercial ventures.”
Viktor’s weathered face creased into a frown. He possessed the dock worker’s natural suspicion of anyone sticking their nose where it didn’t belong. “What sort of questions?”
“Excessive business inquiries. Someone claiming to research trade routes or market conditions, perhaps, but pressing for details beyond normal commercial interest.”
“Ah.” Viktor’s expression darkened. “The nervous fellow with the fancy clothes. Came around maybe six weeks ago, saying he was writing an article about successful merchants for some trade publication. Asked about your shipping routes, your major clients, whether you’d had any recent business disputes.”
Six weeks. That placed Steven Holloway’s initial research well before the assassination attempt.
“Did he ask about anything else?”
“He wanted to know about properties you’d purchased. If there’d been any complications with previous owners. Said it was for a piece about how expansion affected local communities.” Viktor spat into the brass spittoon beside his chair. “Didn’t believe a word of it. Man was sweating like he’d been loading cargo all day, and his hands shook when he wrote in his little notebook.”
Abelard nodded, making notes on a separate piece of parchment.
“Anything else you remember about him?”
“He asked about your competitors, whether anyone had threatened your business interests recently. Seemed particularly interested in the Seacean vineyard acquisition.”
The pieces were not fitting together as precisely as Abelard would have liked. Steven Holloway already had a reason to want him dead. Why all the research?
“You did well to be suspicious,” Abelard said. “If anyone else comes asking similar questions, I want to know immediately.”
Viktor paused at the door. “Is this fellow the reason you’ve been looking over your shoulder lately?”
Abelard met the dock foreman’s eyes. Viktor had worked for him long enough to recognize the signs of a man under threat. Loyalty earned honesty, within limits.
“He represents certain complications in my business affairs. Nothing I can’t resolve. Still, I appreciate your discretion.”
After Viktor left, Abelard turned his attention to the financial records. Banking was a language he spoke fluently, and Steven Holloway’s transactions told a story of systematic preparation. Large withdrawals from a Seacean bank, followed by currency conversions in Alchester. The timing suggested Holloway had liquidated significant assets to fund his revenge. But questions remained. Abelard supposed good assassins didn’t come cheap, but the level to which Mr. Holloway had increased his liquidity seemed irrational.
A knock interrupted his analysis. His secretary entered, carrying a leather portfolio.
“The additional records you requested from Lockley’s Depository,” she said, setting the portfolio on his desk. “Mr. Lockley was most cooperative once you mentioned the Silver Gentlemen’s Club connection.”
Abelard opened the portfolio and found exactly what he expected: detailed transaction records showing Steven Holloway’s financial preparations. But the amount was staggering. Fifty thousand crowns, all moved through various accounts to create a layer of subterfuge, were more than enough to hire the finest assassin in the Four Fiefdoms and then some.
What in Uhl did Mr. Holloway plan to do with all the extra money?
Then it hit Abelard. The first assassin had failed. Did he need the extra funds to hire another?
Abelard leaned back in his chair, studying the airship docks through his window. Cargo vessels descended from the clouds like mechanical birds. Somewhere in the city below, Steven Holloway waited and planned, driven by grief and armed with the resources to see his revenge through to completion.
Steven Holloway wanted a reckoning? Well, then, Abelard intended to give him one, on terms that favored the man who controlled the game.
It was time to visit the scene of his greatest triumph and Steven Holloway’s deepest failure.
#
The airship to Seacea departed at dawn, its brass propellers cutting through morning mist as Alchester fell away below. Abelard claimed a window seat in the first-class cabin, watching the countryside unfold beneath him. Rolling hills dotted with farms, rivers threading silver through green valleys, and the occasional manor house standing proud among manicured grounds. Each mile brought him closer to the vineyard that had started this bloody chain of events.
The coastal winds hit the airship as they neared Seacea, salt spray from the ocean below mixing with the mechanical smell of the engines. Abelard pulled his coat tighter and studied the approaching coastline. There, nestled among the cliffs, lay the vineyard that had cost William Holloway everything and might yet cost Abelard his life.
Stretching across thirty acres of prime coastal land, ancient grapevines traced geometric patterns across the rolling terrain, their roots deep in soil that had nurtured the Holloway family for three generations. The manor house sat at the property’s heart, a modest but elegant structure of local stone that had weathered decades of sea storms.
Abelard’s carriage was waiting for him when he disembarked. Not wanting to waste a second of his visit, he directed the driver to take him directly to the vineyard. Soon, the carriage wound through the estate gates, past workers tending the vines with practiced efficiency. They bowed respectfully as he passed, but their eyes held a wariness that suggested they remembered the previous owner and the circumstances of his departure.
His estate manager, Gregory Thorne, met Abelard at the steps of the manor house. When Abelard assumed ownership of the vineyard, his first task was to do away with the Holloways’ loyal retainers, like the manager, who had served their family for fifteen years. No doubt where that man’s loyalty lay, and Abelard needed someone he could trust. Gregory Thorne, who had served Abelard through good times and bad, was his one and only choice to fill that role.
“Mr. Whitfield, sir. We weren’t expecting you until next month for the harvest inspection.”
“Business concerns brought me to Seacea unexpectedly,” Abelard replied, stepping down from the carriage. “I wanted to review some of the estate documents to ensure everything remains in order.”
Gregory’s expression suggested he found this explanation thin, but years of service had taught him when not to press for details. “Of course, sir. Shall I prepare the study?”
The study had been William Holloway’s private sanctuary, a room lined with leather-bound ledgers documenting three generations of vineyard management. Abelard had left it largely untouched, partly because of practical considerations—the records contained valuable information about soil conditions and weather patterns—but also out of something approaching respect for the man he had destroyed.
Gregory brought tea and departed, leaving Abelard alone. He pulled the property acquisition files from a cabinet, spreading them across the heavy oak desk. The documents told a story of systematic financial pressure applied with surgical precision. William Holloway had borrowed against the vineyard to fund expansion, confident that increased production would cover the debt. Abelard had quietly bought those debts from three different banks, then called them due simultaneously. The trap had been elegant in its simplicity. Holloway faced a choice: sell the vineyard at Abelard’s price or lose everything to foreclosure. No bank would extend additional credit to a man already drowning in debt. No competitor could match Abelard’s offer while the foreclosure sword hung over Holloway’s head.
William Holloway had fought the inevitable for three months, desperately seeking alternative financing, pleading with creditors for extensions, even attempting to sell portions of the vineyard to raise funds. Abelard had blocked every avenue, using his influence with banks and merchant guilds to ensure Holloway’s financial isolation.
The final negotiation had taken place in this very room. William Holloway, broken but still dignified, had signed the papers that transferred his family’s legacy for a fraction of its worth. Abelard remembered the man’s hands shaking as he wrote his signature, remembered the way Holloway’s wife had wept silently in the corner while their children waited outside.
And he remembered Steven Holloway’s face, hopeful that some last-minute reprieve might save the family business. The moment William signed the documents, something cold and implacable came over Steven, and he spoke the words Abelard had dismissed at the time as empty threats.
“You’ll pay for this, Whitfield. Maybe not today, but you’ll pay.”
Abelard had laughed then, secure in his victory and dismissive of threats from beaten men. The laughter felt hollow now, echoing in a room that still smelled faintly of William Holloway’s pipe tobacco.
He rose from the desk and walked to the window, gazing out at the vineyard that had cost so much in human terms. The afternoon sun slanted through the grape leaves, casting intricate shadows across the ground. Workers moved between the rows with practiced efficiency, their labor maintaining the legacy that had passed from Holloway’s hands to his own.
William Holloway had died six months after losing the vineyard. The timing couldn’t be a coincidence. Gregory had mentioned it in passing during one of their business meetings: the former owner’s sudden death from what doctors called heart failure, but everyone understood as a broken spirit. The shame of losing three generations of family legacy had killed William Holloway as surely as poison or a blade.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding. Gregory entered, carrying another file.
“Sir, apologies for interrupting. I discovered this among some of Mr. Holloway’s personal effects a few weeks ago. It didn’t seem pressing to sift through everything the Holloways left behind after the sale, so I’ve only recently begun that process.”
When Abelard had assumed ownership of the vineyard, he took possession of everything—the furniture, the family portraits, even the sheets on the beds. His priority, then as now, was to ensure the vineyard remained solvent, so trivialities like sorting through Holloway sentimentalities remained low on his list.
“The final correspondence may prove interesting, sir.”
The file contained personal correspondence—letters between William and his brother Steven, detailing the vineyard’s financial troubles and William’s desperate attempts to save the family legacy. But it was the last letter that caught Abelard’s attention, dated just days before the sale.
“Steven, I fear this business will destroy our family. Whitfield has trapped us completely. If something happens to me, if I cannot bear the shame of losing everything our grandfather built, promise me you won’t let this stand. He has taken everything from us with the calculated precision of a predator. Such cruelty should not go unpunished.”
William Holloway signed the letter in his careful script, but someone else had added a marginal note: “I promise, brother. He will face justice for what he has done.”
Steven Holloway’s handwriting. His oath, written in the margin of his brother’s final plea. If Abelard had known of this letter some weeks ago, perhaps he could have headed off the attempt on his life before it nearly reached its conclusion. But he doubted at the time if he would have given a note in the margin of a correspondence the seriousness it deserved.
Abelard set the letter down, but instead of the chill he might have expected, he felt something else entirely—a cold satisfaction. He knew now what it meant to face death, to see cold steel and know it was meant for him. Abelard understood his strengths, and so he knew courage was not amongst them. But that was before. Now he felt as sharp as the assassin’s knife. With an assassin’s cold detachment, he plotted his next move.
Steven Holloway thought himself bound by honor and family duty. The man had liquidated his assets, hired an assassin, and now planned to continue his vendetta with whatever resources that remained to him. But Steven had made a critical error. He had revealed himself, shown his hand, and demonstrated his methods. And in doing so, he had given Abelard every advantage he needed to crush him.
Gregory still stood in attendance, so Abelard said to him, “I need detailed information about the Holloway family’s current circumstances. Where Steven lives, what assets he might still possess, and any business connections he maintains. Use my contacts in Sirron—bankers, merchants, anyone who might have dealings with him.”
“Of course, sir. Might I ask—”
“You may not.” Abelard’s tone carried the ice that had frozen countless business rivals. “But you may rest assured that Mr. Steven Holloway’s interest in my affairs is about to become substantially more complicated.”
After Gregory departed, Abelard returned to the financial records he’d brought from Alchester. Steven had moved fifty thousand crowns through various accounts—a fortune that represented his family’s remaining wealth, probably everything they had left after the vineyard sale. The man had bet it all on revenge, liquidating assets to fund his campaign against Abelard. A campaign that included murder and—a sudden realization hit him—buying the vineyard out from underneath his corpse.
Like ice water splashed in his face, he was awoken to the entirety of Steven’s plan. Fifty thousand crowns weren’t enough to purchase the estate outright, but it made for a sizeable down payment. With Abelard out of the way, Steven Holloway meant to reclaim his family’s assets and, in doing so, his honor. But converting so much of his real property to monetary wealth left him vulnerable in ways he probably didn’t realize. A man with fifty thousand crowns in liquid assets was a target. A man who hadn’t hidden those banking transactions adequately was a fool.
Abelard smiled, the expression carrying none of the warmth that had charmed countless business partners. Steven Holloway wanted to play games with a master? Excellent. Abelard would teach him the difference between amateur revenge and professional destruction.
The plan crystallized as he sat in William Holloway’s former study, surrounded by the ghosts of the family he had already destroyed once. Steven thought he was hunting Abelard, but the reality was about to reverse itself. The hunter was about to become the prey, and Abelard intended to strip Steven of everything—his money, his hope, his ability to continue this vendetta—before confronting him as a broken man.
Just as he had done to William.
Time to return to Alchester and remind Steven Holloway why Abelard Whitfield had become one of the city’s most feared businessmen.
Act III: The Counterstrike
The return journey to Alchester took place under clear skies, but Abelard’s mood was anything but peaceful. He spent the airship ride reviewing his options, calculating angles of attack, and identifying Steven Holloway’s weaknesses with the same methodical precision he brought to hostile acquisitions. By the time the airship docked in Alchester, Abelard had planned his strategy. Steven Holloway had made three critical mistakes: he had revealed his identity, shown his financial resources, and demonstrated his emotional investment in the outcome. Any of those errors might have been survivable. All three together were fatal.
Abelard’s first stop was Lockley’s Depository, where his merchant status ensured immediate access to the bank’s most senior officials. Within an hour, he had detailed records of every transaction Steven had made, every account he had touched, and every financial institution he had dealt with in the past six months. The picture that emerged was both encouraging and pathetic. Steven Holloway had indeed liquidated virtually everything—property, investments, family heirlooms, even his modest inheritance from distant relatives. The man had converted his entire net worth into liquid assets for the sole purpose of funding his revenge campaign.
But liquidity was a double-edged sword. Coin could be moved quickly, but those with the right connections and sufficient motivation could also trace and appropriate it.
Abelard’s second stop was the offices of Brennan & Associates, the most exclusive—and most discreet—legal firm in Alchester. Theodore Brennan had built his reputation on finding creative solutions to complex problems, particularly those involving asset recovery and financial disputes.
“Mr. Whitfield,” Theodore rose from behind his mahogany desk, extending a hand that had signed more controversial agreements than perhaps any other in the Four Fiefdoms. “Always a pleasure. What can I do for you today?”
“I need to recover funds from someone financing illegal activities against my person and property.” Abelard settled into the leather chair across from Mr. Brennan’s desk. “The individual in question—Mr. Steven Holloway—hired an assassin to kill me. I have reason to believe he intends to hire another.”
Brennan’s expression didn’t change. The man had heard far worse in his career. “Do you have documentation of these illegal activities?”
“I have financial records showing payments to known criminal intermediaries in the Shambles, communications arranging for ‘craftsmen who work with steel,’ and witness testimony regarding surveillance of my personal and business activities.” Abelard produced a leather folder containing copies of all the information he had gathered. “I believe that constitutes sufficient grounds for asset seizure pending a criminal investigation.”
“Indeed, it does.” Brennan reviewed the documents with the practiced eye of a man who specialized in creative interpretations of existing law. “I can have preliminary seizure orders filed within the hour. Given the severity of the allegations and your standing in the community, I doubt any magistrate will hesitate to freeze Mr. Holloway’s remaining assets pending a full investigation.”
“How long before he realizes what’s happened?”
“When he next attempts to access his funds, Mr. Holloway will discover his financial situation has changed quite dramatically.” Brennan smiled, the expression of a predator anticipating a successful hunt. “I assume you want this process to proceed with maximum efficiency?”
“I want Steven Holloway to wake up tomorrow morning and discover that his crusade has cost him everything.” Abelard’s voice carried the cold satisfaction of a man who had turned the tables on his enemy.
#
By late afternoon, Abelard was back at the Land’s Edge Trading Company, reviewing reports from his various contacts throughout the city. Steven Holloway lived in a modest apartment in the middle district—the sort of place where failed merchants and broken bureaucrats scraped together enough coin to maintain the illusion of respectability. But more importantly, eyewitnesses placed Steven at several taverns in the lower districts, places where men with questionable skills sold their services to those with sufficient coin and flexible morals. He was actively recruiting for another attempt on Abelard’s life, just as Abelard had suspected.
Or rather, he had been recruiting. By now, lenders had frozen Steven’s financial resources, eliminating his access to funds and therefore compromising his ability to hire additional assassins.
Abelard smiled as he reviewed the final reports. Steven Holloway had played his hand with the passion of an amateur and the resources of a moderately wealthy man. But he had made the mistake of challenging a master of financial warfare, someone who understood that money was both weapon and shield in the battles that mattered.
Tomorrow, Abelard would pay a visit to Mr. Steven Holloway, not as the potential victim of an assassination plot, but as the architect of Steven’s complete and total ruin. He would offer the man a final lesson in the difference between wanting revenge and actually achieving it. The student would learn firsthand how Abelard had so thoroughly outmaneuvered his brother, and why challenging Abelard Whitfield was always a losing proposition.
Act IV: The Reckoning
Abelard climbed the three flights of stairs to Steven Holloway’s apartment, noting the threadbare carpet and the way the wooden steps creaked under his weight. This was where his enemy had made his home, plotting revenge from surroundings that spoke of financial decline and diminished expectations.
Abelard knocked twice, firmly but not aggressively. “It’s Abelard Whitfield.” No point in trying to hide his identity. He wanted Mr. Holloway to know he’d come to bask in his victory.
“Go away!” The voice from inside carried the raw edge of a man who had recently discovered that his world had collapsed. “I know what you’ve done!”
“I rather suspect you do, Mr. Holloway.” Abelard maintained a conversational, even friendly, tone. “Which is why I thought we should discuss the situation like civilized men.”
The silence that followed stretched long enough that Abelard wondered if Steven might attempt to flee through a back window. Then came the sound of Steven unfastening multiple locks, and the door opened to reveal a man who looked as if he had aged a decade in a single night.
Steven Holloway had the same dark hair and strong jawline as his late brother, but where William had carried himself with the dignity of a man who had built something worthwhile, Steven appeared hollowed out by grief and now, clearly, by the realization that his crusade had cost him everything. His clothes, while clean, showed signs of careful mending. His face bore the pallor of sleepless nights—none worse than last night, Abelard figured—and the particular desperation that came from watching one’s carefully laid plans crumble into dust.
“Abelard Whitfield,” Steven said, his voice carrying a mixture of hatred and defeat. “Come to gloat over your latest victory?”
“I’ve come to discuss terms,” Abelard replied, stepping into a sparsely furnished room that served as both living space and office. Papers covered a small table—maps of Alchester, schedules of Abelard’s activities, and contact information for various unsavory characters. The tools of a man who had planned murder with methodical precision until his prey had stripped his resources away.
“Terms?” Steven’s laugh held no humor. “What terms? You’ve stolen my money, just like you stole my family’s vineyard. You’ve left me with nothing.”
“Not quite nothing,” Abelard observed, settling into the room’s single chair while Steven remained standing. “You still have your life, your health, and your freedom. For the moment.”
The threat was subtle but unmistakable. Steven’s face went pale as he grasped the implications.
“You see,” Abelard continued, “attempting to assassinate someone of my standing is a serious crime. Conspiring to commit murder carries a death sentence in Kallendor. The evidence against you is quite comprehensive—financial records, witness testimony, and documented communications with known criminals. I could have you arrested within the hour.”
Steven sank onto a wooden crate that served as seating, his body language screaming defeat. “Then why haven’t you?”
“Because I’m a businessman, not a prosecutor. I prefer solutions that benefit all parties involved.” Abelard leaned back in his chair, studying Steven with the same detached interest he might show a ledger entry. “Your brother made the mistake of thinking he could outmaneuver me in a financial negotiation. You made the mistake of thinking you could outfight me in a game of violence and intimidation. Both of you failed to understand that I excel at these things because I’ve made them my profession.”
“What do you want from me?” Steven’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“I want you to disappear.” Abelard’s tone remained conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. “Leave Alchester. Leave Kallendor entirely, if you’re wise. Find some distant kingdom where the name Whitfield means nothing and build whatever life you can manage with whatever skills you possess.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll destroy you the same way I destroyed your brother, except this time there won’t be any pretense of legal business practices.” Abelard’s smile carried all the warmth of winter stone. “I’ll have you arrested for attempted murder. You’ll hang within a month, and whatever family you have left will spend the rest of their lives knowing that Steven Holloway died a failure.”
Steven stared at the papers scattered across his table—the remnants of his revenge campaign, now utterly worthless without the funds to implement any of his plans. “You’ve won again.”
“I always win, Mr. Holloway. The sooner you accept that fundamental reality, the sooner you can start rebuilding some semblance of a life elsewhere.” Abelard rose from his chair, straightening his coat. “You have until sunset to be gone from the city. After that, my generous offer expires.”
“My brother was right about you,” Steven said, his voice heavy with defeat and disgust. “You’re a monster who destroys families for sport.”
“Your brother was a poor businessman who overextended himself and paid the price for his incompetence.” Abelard’s tone hardened. “And you’re a would-be murderer who lacks the skill to execute your ambitions. The difference between us isn’t morality, Mr. Holloway. It’s competence.”
Abelard moved toward the door, then paused. “Oh, and Steven? If you ever return to Alchester, if you ever again attempt to threaten me or my interests, I’ll make sure you spend your final days wishing I had simply killed you quickly. Are we clear?”
Steven nodded, his shoulders slumped in complete surrender.
“Excellent.” Abelard smiled one final time. “Enjoy your new life, wherever it takes you. Try to choose your enemies more carefully in the future.”
Abelard left the apartment and descended the narrow stairs, stepping out into the morning air with the satisfaction of a man who knew success. Steven Holloway would disappear, his threat neutralized not through violence but through the application of superior resources and strategic thinking. By evening, the man would be gone. The vineyard would continue producing excellent wine, the Land’s Edge Trading Company would remain profitable, and Abelard would sleep soundly knowing that Steven Holloway had learned the same lesson as his brother.
Some men were predators. Others were prey. The wise learned which category they belonged to before challenging their betters.
As Abelard walked through the streets of Alchester toward his waiting carriage, he reflected on how thoroughly he had solved the problem that had threatened his life just weeks earlier. First, he neutralized the deadliest of assassins through negotiation. Then, he crushed Steven Holloway through financial manipulation. It was, he thought with considerable satisfaction, exactly the sort of elegant solution that separated successful men from the failures who challenged them.
The game was over. Abelard had won. And Steven Holloway would spend the rest of his life understanding exactly what that meant.
Now, another game was afoot, involving cultists and secret societies. Bolstered by his newfound courage, he wondered if it was a game he should involve himself in next.
This story and many more are available to listen to on my YouTube channel, Fantasy Audiobooks by Scott Marlowe.
