The Under Broker: Part Six

Portia spat the glass of wine out, incidentally soaking the prostitute who had been trying to come on to her.

“What in all fucking hells is that?” Portia shoved the wine-soaked woman out of her way, exhausted already by politely warding off her advances.

Portia’s patience was gone.

“I believe it was a Burgundy sixteen, a rather fine vintage,” a man replied with a quirk of amusement on his face.

Cirino, the head steward—and only steward as far as Portia was aware—of The Gilded Sapphire, a brothel in Edgbaston. He was a slender, young man, perhaps twenty-seven years of age. He had medium-length blonde hair and sharp, knowing blue eyes.

Cirino had never done anything overtly hostile toward Portia, either in his words or actions. He was far too clever for that, always ‘accidentally’ spilling something on her, pretending to forget her name, things of that nature. Nonetheless, Portia knew the reason behind the bastard’s sleights, he made Portia’s life difficult at her behest.

“Whatever the vintage is, it’s spoiled.” Portia wiped the sour wine off her lips. “Is she nearly done with her meeting? I need to see her, it’s a matter of some urgency.”

“Ah,” Cirino’s eyes lit up, “if you need taken care of urgently, might I suggest Luco?” He motioned to a young man without a shirt on, lounging on a nearby divan. “Or if you have alternate preferences, Briana is available to see to you as well.” Cirino winked at her, then beckoned a woman with flaxen hair over.

Portia clenched her fists until her nail’s dug into her flesh in effort to suppress the overwhelming urge to stab the man. Instead, she stood to her feet, head spinning for a moment from the overpowering mix of sweat and sandalwood in the air.

“I’m going to see her,” Portia shoved past Cirino while he fumbled a few words of protest out.

Portia ignored him and, stomping up the stairs, marched to the lavish cherrywood door at the far end of the upper hall.

Giggling and various cheers went up from the dozen or so patrons, or perhaps prostitutes, in the room—Portia could hardly tell who was who.

“Fifteen minutes, who had fifteen minutes?”

“I thought for sure it would be less than ten!”

“I can’t believe she made it past five,” one woman giggled.

Another looked dejected, saying, “I thought she was good for at least twenty.”

Portia took in the scene, seething with barely suppressed anger.

Sat among a cluster of half-naked bodies, a woman with midnight black hair, and with eyes so deeply brown they looked like any light that went into them might never come out again, smiled at Portia.

“You must not know my sister very well then,” the woman said, not once taking her eyes off Portia while she collected her winnings, “Took you longer than usual. You’re not getting soft on me, are you, Porky?”

Portia felt her nails bite deeper into the flesh of her palm. Porky had been a rather nasty name her sister called her when they were younger; Portia had been a big-boned, as she would call it, child. Portia attempted to take a few deep breaths to calm herself while her sister smiled on mockingly.

“I need to speak with you.”

Portia’s sister waved a hand over the room, “They can be trusted, speak freely.”

“Not with this.”

Portia and her sister glared at one another for a time, a silent and motionless battle of wills playing out. Finally, her sister relented.

Sighing, she said, “Give us the room.” And clapped her hands to hurry the scantily clothed people out.

The sisters waited, staring at each other until they were alone. When Portia finally heard the door close behind the last person to leave, she spoke.

“Tamora, I need a favor.”

Tamora laughed, “Of course you do, why else would you be here? What is it you want—on second thought, don’t tell me, I don’t feel like being charitable, off with you.” Tamora made a shooing gesture toward Portia and started preening her nails.

Portia could feel her own heartbeat in her head. There were few things she hated more in the world than dealing with her sister. Still, she needed her help. Tamora wasn’t going to give Portia a choice, the woman always needed to be bribed, coerced, or cajoled, usually a combination of the three. Lucky for Portia, she had just the thing.

“The court motion isn’t finalized yet,” Portia said coolly.

Tamora stopped midway through filing one nail, “You wouldn’t.”

“I won’t have to, if you help me.”

Portia had her; she knew it. As one could expect, running a brothel came with a somewhat shaky legal footing on which to operate, and Tegeré and Sons law firm, which Portia owned and operated, had generously gotten the Gilded Sapphire out of trouble a few times.

Portia mused to herself how angry Tamora would be if she were ever to discover the anonymous tips that had gotten her sister’s brothel into trouble in the first place had also been Portia’s doing, but brushed the thought aside before she let a smile slip.

Tamora stared at her sister for a long while, a quiet rage seething at the edges, waiting to burst out. Deciding this wasn’t a battle which she wished to fight today, Tamora’s posture relaxed slightly as she let out a great sigh.

“Fine,” Tamora put the nail file down, “what is it, sister dear, that you need my help with?” She stood and made her way over to a large desk covered with money, paperwork and wine glasses. Taking a seat, Tamora looked up at her sister with not a small amount of contempt.

Portia reached into her pocket, feeling a little rectangular piece of paper. She pulled it out and tossed it onto the desk.

Tamora raised an eyebrow as she picked it up, “I didn’t know you were among our clientele, how amusing.”

“I’m not.” Portia took a seat opposite her sister, “I found it in a warehouse in Digbeth.”

“I don’t believe factory workers can afford the services offered by us,” Tamora put the paper back down, pushing it across the desk back to Portia.

“It’s a front for a drug operation; they’re trafficking opium into the city, then distributing it to the various boroughs.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Tamora seemed to recall something, “Mr. Pillay’s business.”

“Mr. Pillay,” Portia repeated the name as a question.

“Mm, yes. Probably a false name. He’s quite a good client. I believe a few of my girls even trade their services for his… wares. I hope you’re not going to do anything untoward?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of the word,” Portia mumbled under her breath. Then speaking normally, added, “I simply need you to help me get into the warehouse, I trust that isn’t too complex a task for a simpleton such as yourself?”

Tamora’s lips pressed into a white line. She stared at her sister for a tense few seconds.

“Fine, Porky. I can get you into the warehouse, but it won’t be until the weekend.”

“It’s only Wednesday, what am I meant to do—”

“Hardly my problem,” Tamora poured herself another glass of wine.

“Fine.” Portia wasn’t pleased with having to wait; she never was, but she had choice in the matter.

“And we’ll have to do something about,” Tamora paused, then motioned up and down Portia’s body, “that.”

Portia looked down indignantly, “About what?”

“Sister dear, you look like a choir boy who was stuffed into a too-large potato sack. I will not have the Gilded Sapphire’s reputation tarnished by such undesirable goods.”

Portia opened her mouth, then closed it, repeating the gesture a few times.

Tamora burst into a giggle. “Oh, you’ll fit right in.”

Portia could feel her face redden with anger, “I swear to God.”

“Pfft, we both know you don’t believe in God. Regardless, be here at two O’clock on Friday afternoon.”

“Two O’clock, that’s a bit early.”

“Sister,” Tamora looked appraisingly at Portia, “we have a lot of work to do if you’re going to pass as one of mine.”

Portia clenched her jaw, stifling down the little jabs her sister was throwing her way. She stood up, “Fine. I’ll be off, good day.”

“In such a hurry, won’t you stay and enjoy a glass with me?”

“No. I don’t drink in such unpleasant company.”

“Such a shame,” Tamora said sarcastically, “and where, sister dear, are you off to?”

“Home.”

“Oh my,” Tamora covered her mouth with her hand, “absolutely scandalous.”

“Besides,” Portia added as she opened the door, “your wine’s soured.”

“Oh!” Tamora excitedly shouted, “I almost forgot about that. Do you not have a fondness for horse urine? I thought, given how sour you are…”

“You fucking bi—” Portia turned back to face her sister, her dagger, Moyra, drawn from her belt and ready to fly, when a meaty hand fell on her shoulder.

“Walter, please see our guest out,” Tamora looked between the some three-hundred-pound bald man and her sister, “bye-bye!”

Portia groaned as the carriage trundled over the uneven dirt roads on the outskirts of the city; each jostle and rattle of the cab made her newly acquired black eye throb with pain.

Silently vowing to herself that she would get back at Tamora ten-fold, the driver knocked on the roof.

“Pulling up to the estate now.”

“Finally,” Portia said quietly.

As the carriage came to a halt, she got out with a growing sense of unease. She didn’t like her childhood home.

“Will you be needing a return trip?” The pudgy little carriage driver asked.

“Please,” Portia reached into her coin purse and pushed several times the value of the trip into the driver’s hand, “I won’t be long, but I expect you to wait.”

“Oh, oh, of course,” the driver’s eyes gleamed with greed at the money, “whatever you say! For this much I’ll carry you on my own bloody back!”

“That won’t be necessary.” Portia took an ornate brass key out of her cloak, putting it into the rusty lock of the Tegeré manor front gate.

It looked like it always had, a long gravel drive, flanked by two fields of manicured grass on either side. A fountain standing vigil in front of the manor, its tan-brick and grey shingled roof rising up to meet her.

Portia didn’t have a lot of time to waste. Yet, she ambled along the drive at a leisurely pace, a sense of foreboding about having to return to this place. The place that had once held so many fond memories now only held nightmares best left alone.

Portia rounded the fountain and stood several yards before the steps leading up to the big double doors. She sighed, running her hands through her hair. She looked up at the family coat of arms emblazoned on the triangular gable where brick met shingle.

A large moon served as the backdrop to the Tegeré family crest, the scales of justice hanging before it. A stack of coin sat on the lighter side, a skull on the heavier side, nearly dipping below the full moon.

“Iustitia deficit, nox praevalet,” Portia muttered to herself as she unlocked the door and entered her childhood home.

Inside Tegeré manor, Portia fumbled around in the dimming light for a lantern, the smell of dust and mothballs thick in the stagnant air. She didn’t need the light; she knew this place like the back of her hand, but something about the warm yellow glow from the oil lamp made her feel more comfortable, like the light would keep what demons, she knew lurked in the shadows, at bay.

Portia went past the grand staircase, only stopping briefly to look into her father’s old study.

The globe, the book shelves, the liquor cabinet, all now covered with dust sheets. She looked at the study longingly; she could almost see a younger version of herself running around while her father chased her, giggling and laughing together. Portia remembered her father showing her where all the various borders of different countries used to be on the globe, before they had all fought in countless wars. How conflict had shaped the face of the planet. How people had lost their lives so that the men in power could draw the lines where they wanted them to be, instead of accepting where they were.

“Conflict,” he used to say to Portia, “has been part of this family's history, and part of the world, for far too long.” He would cup her face when she was little and say, “Never solve with the blade that which can be soothed with words.”

Portia looked down at the bruises on her knuckles, thinking about why she was there, “Sorry, Father.”

Portia went to the far back of the manor, where there was a small tea room. She approached the bookcase at the back and scanned until she found the volume she was looking for.

Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan.

Portia pulled the top of the book forward until a small click came from behind. She pressed her hand to the wood frame and pushed.

With a creaking groan, the bookcase swung forward, revealing a spiral staircase leading below.

At the bottom of the stairs, Portia went around lighting various braziers. The space hidden below the manor looked like a large wine cellar at first glance. The all brick floors bent up at the sides into an arched ceiling. Various short hallways contained the different tools the Tegeré family had needed to use throughout the generations.

Down one hallway, grand suits of armor and steel swords adorned the walls; these were the oldest of the relics, from when the family was founded.

The family history was a bit spotty there, but it was generally agreed upon that a knight during the crusades had been wronged by his lord. The lord lied and cheated the knight, taking the knight's holdings. Nothing could be done by the knight; it was his word against that of the domain’s lord. This knight, so infuriated by the injustice, took matters into his own hands. He struck down the lord. Then fled the region, leaving mainland Europe and taking refuge in England. The knight left his name, scant holdings he still had, and any friends all behind. The knight took a new name, a name that means to defend, for when those in power act unfairly against those without, who is there to defend them?Even if said defense involves violence.

So it was that the nameless knight came back to England, nameless no more.

The first Tegeré was born.

Down another hall sat various cloaks, meant to conceal one's presence or face. Portia recalled her father showing these two her, all the daggers, she looked down at Moyra on her belt. The dagger that had been her grandfather's.

Another hall contained piles of various currencies, documents used for the protection, extortion or blackmail of various people. The documents were a collection of hundreds of years of the Tegeré family work.

Down the second-to-last hall sat the myriad tools needed for murder. Poisons, razor-thin wires for which to slit a throat with, crossbows to silently end a life from far away.

Portia walked over to a large glass cabinet and sorted through the ampules until she found the one she was looking for.

Eager to get out of this place, Portia eyed a small leather-clad bundle just as she was about to ascend back to the surface.

“Better safe than sorry,” she snatched the bundle up and left the manor.

Two days, Portia thought. Then she could perhaps put an end to the man who killed her husband. She looked out the window, working the plan over in her head.

The poison, the one she had selected from the family reserve, was a contact poison. No need to ingest it, just a small dab of it on a piece of exposed skin was enough.

Portia remembered how it had taken her the better part of a year in her earlier twenties to build up an immunity to it.

Something unpleasant entered her mind.

How long does immunity last for? Do I still have defenses against it? Portia thought about these questions and decided it would be best to test it. She did have the antidote; using this the justification to convince herself she wasn’t entirely insane.

Portia looked down at the swirls forming in the purple liquid and decided that it would be best to take a small dose right before she got back to their temporary hideout at the bakery. If she took it after arriving, and Amos saw that her intentionally dose herself, he would fly off the handle. But if she was already dosed when she got there….

“Better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission,” Portia unstoppered the bottle, covering the top with her finger, and quickly spun it upside down, allowing for just the smallest amount to wet the tip of her finger.

She stoppered the bottle and mused over what she should say to Amos if he needed to administer the antidote.

There was a loud pounding sound on the front of the bakery. Amos always had an excitable way about him, and he almost dropped Agnes the Second, a goose fashioned to look like the mother Mary with a miniature Baby Jesus swaddled under one wing.

“Heavens above, who the hell?” Amos mouth dropped open. There was a small, pudgy man who looked incredibly worried at the front door. Portia was dangling limp between his arms.

“What the bloody hell happened, man?” Amos fiddled with the lock, heaving the door open and ushering the man in.

“I—I— she was fine when she got in, sir,” the poor man looked genuinely upset at Portia’s state. Amos thought that the man could be trusted at least a small amount, since most carriage drivers he knew in the city would steal the coin from your pocket and dump you in the river if they found you unconscious in the back.

Amos was pointing to the bar where the cash register had once been, “Put her down on there, what happened?”

“Like, I—,” the small man heaved Portia up onto the wooden surface, “I don’t know, we came back from that big manor outside the city, and when we got here, I hollered down, but she didn’t answer. So I opened up the door and found her like this, didn’t I?”

“What manor,” Amos barked the words out, taking off his tailcoat and rolling up his sleeves.

“I dunno, the big old one,” the man started.

“They’re all big and old,” Amos snapped, interrupting the man, “Never mind.” Amos suspected he knew where Portia had been. He reached into his pocket and grabbed several coins, pushing them into the driver's hand, “Not a word of this to anyone, not your wife, not your friends, don’t even speak of it in confession, understand?”

The driver stammered a thank you and disappeared out the door, taking one last worried look at Portia.