Death's Reckoning by Will Molinar

obvious he loved his job. Tomlinson was a grey bearded man with a round face and gentle eyes, of middle height with a calm demeanor. He laughed with every customer that bought from him as if they were old friends.
    Carl chuckled as a man drew up with a small cart and threw down some coin on the counter. He shook the man’s hand and ordered some attendants to load him up with enough bags of grain to feed ten families for a month. Muldor wondered what that amount of food could be for. Foolish paranoia on his part, perhaps, but the buyer had enough money to pay so good on him.
    When Carl took a short break off to the side of crates, Muldor approached.
    Carl sucked from a water skin, and in his last gulp, he gave an awkward chuckle as he waved Muldor over. “Well, if it isn’t Guild Master Muldor. How goes your day, sir?”
    “Good day to you. I would like a moment to speak with you, Tomlinson.”
    Tomlinson almost frowned, but he recovered his outer façade of friendliness in an instant. “Of course, Master Muldor. Let’s, um, let’s go here.”
    They went to a space in the noisy marketplace that was a bit more secluded. Surrounded by crates and boxes marked ‘Tomlinson’ with deep red ink, it felt like a child’s fort outside the confines of the main square.
    Tomlinson turned, leaned up against a crate, and crossed his arms. “How may I be of service?”
    “The Guild requires you to make a sacrifice.”
    Tomlinson’s face clouded over. “Oh, yes?”
    “In order to facilitate the proper integration of the city’s trade, and to ensure services remain at peak efficiency, your Guild membership will receive an upgrade in both proportion of payment and responsibilities.”
    “An upgrade, you say?”
    “A promotion. As you know, our marketplace liaison suffered an unfortunate accident.”
    Tomlinson nodded as if it was no surprise. “I see. And you want me to take his place, is it?”
    “Correct. There will be a substantial bonus involved in addition to your regular salary.”
    Tomlinson raised a hand, and his bearded face grew grim. “There’s no need for that. I will do what is right and good for the Guild. It’s time we set things the way they should be.”
    Muldor had expected a stiff rebuttal or at least a reluctant refusal. They spoke for a while longer and went over the details of Carl Tomlinson’s new position. He was loyal to The Guild, and Muldor left the marketplace feeling they were now on their way to righting the wrongs perpetuated by a madman in jail. They didn’t need Castellan after all.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Another lousy night at the dice tables. Even the alcohol tasted bitter. They were watering it down on him, maybe even adding poison. They were also cheating him at the tables. It was so obvious that Jerrod was flabbergasted they would take it this far. They weren’t even hiding the fact. It was too blatant to be anything else.
    Bastard swine. He glared at every single employee, but they continued to ignore him. Serving wenches, dealers, attendants, a few floor managers, all of them laughed at him in the backroom. He’d put a knife in their bellies. They deserved nothing less.
    He plopped down his glass; the liquid sailed into the air and splashed down on the counter. Elbowing his way to the largest dice table in the room, he got more stares. The table centered within a cluster of other tables, smaller ones with nothing but scrubs and cowards playing. The big one didn’t have the prestige of the inner betting rooms with the high rollers, but it would work.
    The table’s dealer, an average looking man with that damn silly leather vest they always wore, dyed with red ink so they stood out, he gave Jerrod a look but took his money and put him third in line to roll for the next game. It wasn’t the best position to be in, not by a long mile, but it was acceptable.
    When the current game finished, now in its tenth and final roller, the cycle would start over, and new rollers could jump in.