The Plan of The Night

City Under Threat

Frans, a well-acquainted man within the district's social and political elite, personally knew every victim—and unfortunately their grieving families as well. Their demands for justice were relentless, and Frans made promises he struggled to keep up with, swearing that the Marquis would be caught, and thus no more lives would be lost. Yet, deep down, he knew they were far from capturing the culprit. He kept lying and lying to soothe public outrage.

By the time of the fifth murder, the unrest within the citizens was unanimous. Even citizens from other districts clamored for answers. The Marquis was just a couple of murderers away to shake the blame out of him, so the guard could take it for themselves.

"These guards couldn't protect their own hides, let alone ours," scoffed a woman in a apothecary as Frans stood nearby, waiting in line to get himself a bottle of hippocras.

Leaving the shop flushed with anger, He soon calmed down, begrudgingly admitting there was some truth in the woman words. Last week, for instance, a thief slashed his wrist during a daylight robbery. The culprit disappeared into the crowd like a stream flowing through a river, leaving Frans with nothing but the memory of a brown coat and a feathered hat.

For days, Frans had nervously been polishing the tip of his cane, aware that failure to capture the Marquis would surely mean his dismissal as captain—and the ruin of his political aspirations in Amsterdam.

He left his residence by mid-morning surrounded by conflicting thoughts swirling in his mind. Walking past the apple market and across the ancient Heisteeg Bridge, where children were chasing a wheat-colored dog, his focus centered on the discord brewing silently but steadfastly within his company.
From the very start of the business, imposing authority over a group of privileged men always on the commanding side of affairs instead of the shut up and follow orders front, had been to say the least, a quarrelsome challenge.

He still remembered Sergeant Rombout questioning his very first patrolling orders in front of the group, his halberd in hand, threat like posture. Frans always relished remembering shutting him up by recalling his desertion during a Battle against the Spaniards. The sergeant's pallor making a noticeable contrast against his dark clothes of a mourning life —The thought of it never failed to make Frans smirk.

Another insulting fellow was Keijser, the veteran sergeant at arms, whose mouth watered at the prospect of replacing Frans as captain if tonight's plan failed. With some allies eager to back his claim at once should he announce it, due to his vast war experience and bold charisma which Frans found repulsive. He had in Keijser the main target of his revenge, should they be able to get hold of the Marquis, hopefully due to an unbearable shame he might step off the guard.

The City Council, concerned that the Marquis might be a Spanish infiltrator intending on destabilizing the Republic from within, had dispatched emissaries demanding results. They even suggested Frans to have help from other districts watch companies—an idea the captain abhorred. He couldn't stomach the thought of a watchman from a lower neighborhood capturing, or worse, killing the Marquis.

But today, the city hummed with renewed energy. Queen Medici's visit, the France's regent, had everyone bustling with excitement. Merchants stocked their stalls with delicacies and spices brought in by the East India Company. Aromas of cinnamon, cloves, and the prized black pepper wafted through the air, Frans, who had had a light breakfast today, found his stomach grumbling. Although by the time he passed along the stand of a woman gutting anchovies, his appetite was immediately curbed.

The firework importers were making the necessary arrangements on the eastern side of the port to portray a night to remember. The different guilds were preparing lavish parades to demonstrate their glorious status, artists were rehearsing all around their songs and dances after furious contests held a week ago for a spot in the main event. The city was teeming with life.

The uncountable vessels crowded the canals as cattle on a corral, the inner transit doubled the outer. Frans wondered whilst his fingers fidgeted the ways of his beard if the assassin was inside one of those ships. It certainly wasn't a coincidence that the attacker always acted when the people were celebrating and the city at its fullest.
His gaze and thoughts were placed on a particular vessel with yellow sails and green stripes, a mustached sailor sharping a knife by one of the boards met his sight and looked away on a rapid fashion.

Willem, the lieutenant making use of his typical arrogance, was convinced that the killer was no foreigner but someone deeply familiar with the district's ways because of his successful escapes. Frans, in contrast, was never to contemplate on William's statements, as no one ever did. The man loved some attention for himself, making his voice loud and clear, spreading of opinions and lectures when no one asked for them. Always wearing controversial clothes that made him look like a fool not to be taken very seriously, the group found very difficult to not hold any resentment for the man.