Brutus Weaver Chapter 3 - Part 1: Finding an Old Friend
The morning greeted Brutus as it often did, with a lump in his stomach, crust around his eyes, and a thick layer of cottony saliva on his tongue. He liked to tell himself it was the musty old room he slept in and not the frequent drinking – most days he could convince himself. It was always a tossup though.
He went through his morning routine as he always did, but something was bothering him. It wasn’t right – none of it was right. The heavy bag of coins he’d hidden behind the stove was right, but nothing else felt on the up and up. Sarina had clearly been lying. Reggie was very, very dead. He knew that better than anyone. He had no idea where to start – for that matter he didn’t really know what he was investigating; but he had been bored, and despite all of his misgivings a rush of adrenaline that he had first felt the night before when she had knocked on his door continued to course through his veins – even if it was tempered a bit by the circumstances of her patronage.
Brutus didn’t waste any time though – he had enough coin to keep him in his apartment for the better part of six months so he felt at least a little urgent to get started. When he got paid, his loyalty always increased a bit.
After washing his face briskly with a pitcher of freezing cold water and brushing out a cloud of cigar ashes from his overcoat, Brutus was ready to get started. And the first place he needed to go was to the one and only connection he still maintained. Steadman was going to kick his ass.
***
Steadman wasn’t exactly an old “friend” in the traditional sense. The man was about ten years older than Brutus and had been one of the gruff old men who had spent days on end screaming civility into Brutus’ head when he attended the academy all those years ago. They had never quite gotten along – Brutus had been a consummate smart ass – the only thing that really got him through training had been his incredibly keen eye and ability to ace any test put in front of him. Respect for authority had never really been his forte.
What kept Steadman in Brutus’ pocket for information when he was forced to inquire of the Upper City was that Brutus had saved his ass on a particularly sticky situation a few years before Brutus had been kicked from the Guard. The old guard captain had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, the first man to arrive when the son of a Duke had murdered his wife. The Duke had done everything in his power to discredit Steadman and have him kicked from the Guard – he had even called in his own detectives to plant evidence and destroy the man’s credibility.
Luckily for Steadman, Brutus was the best detective in Willemshire – probably in the whole Kingdom. It hadn’t taken much to see through the machinations of the frightened old Duke. A few greased palms, the right information leaked and the Duke’s son wrapped in the arms of a needly whore had gotten the information he needed and suffice it to say – Steadman was still on the guard and that particular Duke was tending to a Barony in the frozen reaches of the North.
All of that seemed like such a long time ago now though. Brutus had long since been kicked from the guard – he hadn’t seen Steadman in three years (since the last time he needed information) and the two were barely still on the good terms they once had. Steadman was not the smartest man, but he was an honest man – one that didn’t take well to deception or rule breaking. It was one of the reasons the Guard Commander had given Brutus the time he needed to clear him – no one could believe he’d do such a thing.
It also meant that Steadman would spit on Brutus’ shoes whenever he saw him and could barely look him in the eye. Brutus was not a popular man in the guard. He knew what would happen if Steadman was caught talking to him though so he appreciated the old man’s willingness to do so, no matter how much crusty, tobacco filled spittle he had to scrape from his shoes afterward.
