Sons of Chenia

Chapter 2

The damp stairs creaked beneath Petrov's feet as he jogged up the narrow shaft. Above him at the top of the staircase, a shaft of soft light peaked through the slit of the door. Petrov knew from the light that the fog outside had burned up a little since he stepped inside only minutes before. Damn it to Hell, he cursed to himself. The Shavice will start their rounds soon. He had hoped that the fog would give them a bit more time to conduct business. No matter. He could cut his words today. The only task he really wanted to accomplish that couldn't wait was to retrieve news from Chenia.

Petrov reached the top. He shoved the door open halfway before it hit a snag. Petrov stopped for a moment, puzzled, before the door swung open all the way. Another Chenian man stood in front of him, glaring into his soul, as if looking for an enemy that did not appear. Petrov knew this fellow based on his previous visits. Petrov strained to remember who he was. What was his name? Agmin? Agmar? In any case, this fellow should recognize me as much as I do him.

Familiar or not, the Chenian who stood in his way did not change his demeanor. He searched Petrov for any reason to deny him entrance. Petrov, knowing he had not violated any code of sort, stepped up to the man. He nodded. The man clenched his fist, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Petrov.

"Let him through," a voice said.

The Chenian stood aside. Petrov strode past him onto the rooftop, thankful that his day, however harsh it would be, did not start out in violence.

What little was on the rooftop hardly had any value worth protecting. A few cages wrapped in chicken wire housed a dozen carrier pigeons along with two falcons. Outside the coop, in rows of pots, grew rows of sweet angelino plants that had yet to ripen. While not illegal, angelinos were considered to have medicinal properties and as such were often confiscated by the Shavice in their raids before finding their way to Maricanian shops and markets. For their efforts to suppress untaxed contraband on the Chenian black market, the Shavice themselves were often richly compensated by the syndicates to whom they would sell the angelinos. Although the Shavice valued the angelinos for their potential income, they had no desire to grow the fruits themselves, knowing it was far easier to steal from Chenians under the guise of upholding the law. So for the time being the plants were safe.

Empty crates also lined the rooftop, where a group of four Chenian men sat playing cards. Every now and then they would look up to watch the younger set, six anxious men in their mid-twenties, as they moved around practicing fencing with dull sabers.

Petrov could not personally vouch for each swordsman. But based on the way they moved, with all the passion of enthusiastic amateurs, he knew that they had never fought before. Perhaps the occasional street fight or two had made them bold enough to face their partners in sparring. But sloppy footwork, unbalanced sabers and overall lack of discipline in how they practiced hinted that they had not experienced a real sword fight.

Petrov marched up to the men seated around the crate. Only one, a gruff man in his early thirties, bothered to break his concentration to address Petrov.

"Petrov."

"Boris."

"You came to teach these idiots a thing or two."

"Not today."

"Too bad Nicolai didn't start coming with you. If you and him could band together to lead this shitty bunch, then we'd start having more joyous conversations."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Speaking of conversations." Boris reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a small bundle of papers and envelopes. "News from Chenia. They only sent a few dozen newspapers from Sagemark, so I had to twist a few extra arms to get that."