Liquidation

[Pembleton]

It was dark on the streets of Radasanth. The moon, as paltry a sliver of light it was this time of month, sat shrouded behind the remaining clouds from the evening's rain showers. Making matters worse, several of the street lamps had been extinguished by the rain as well, opening up long stretches of eerie blackness between the soft yellow pockets of light strew across the city. Given the time of night, even the illuminating glow often provided via the windows of houses and businesses that sat alongside the street was absent; the occupants of these buildings long since having retired to bed.

Put plainly, it was too dark on the streets of Radasanth - darker than these normally bustling city streets had any reason to be.

Click, click, click...

Richard Pembleton Jr.'s hurried gait was as audible on this night as anything else, his hasty footfalls echoing off the buildings around him as the hard leather soles of his shoes clipped along the cobblestones. It was obvious from the man's demeanor that he was in hurry, and judging by the way he kept glancing over his shoulder and giving each of the especially dark alleyways a wide berth, that he was watching out for something.

Richard Pembleton, or rather just "Pembleton" as he preferred to be called, feared that he was being followed.

You should have left at ten, like you planned. The accountant chastised himself as he strode briskly along, cursing the very moment he'd decided to stay longer at the Gilded Tankard than originally intended. Lured by the comely advances of a woman at the bar, Pembleton had stopped paying any mind to the time in the hope that he might not sleep alone in his small, immaculate apartment tonight. As droll and charming as he might have tried to be, however, the accountant's lady friend had retired for the evening alone - leaving him little recourse but to do the same.

Somewhere in the distance, across the rooftops of the slumbering city, the bells in a church tower tolled the early morning hour - three crisp, clear clangs of hammer on bronze to denote the time. Hearing this, Pembleton shook his head, berating himself even more harshly for staying out so very late.

It was still another ten or eleven city blocks to the townhouse where he rented an apartment, so Pembleton changed course onto Downtown Avenue - the main thoroughfare that shot like an arrow to the city's famed Bazaar district - when he came to it. Passing buildings numbered 58, 56, and 54 - all even numbered on this side of the street - the accountant rounded the corner into the alley between 52 and 50. Once in the alley the fidgety man mounted the wooden stairs up to the second floor. The door there lead into Pembleton's office - a much closer safe haven than his home.

Not like you haven't slept under your desk before. Richard stopped at the top of the stairs to fumble around in his vest pocket for the key. Not the most comfortable place to sleep, but certainly a far lesser punishment than getting mugged passing through the Downer's Four Corners.

Finally managing to locate his key, which had somehow burrowed its way into the deepest recesses of his pocket, Pembleton unlocked the deadbolt and gave the door a good shove. Wood swollen from the muggy weather the city had been experiencing lately, the door opened hesitantly - scrapping loudly against its frame. The accountant frowned at the noise as he stepped inside, his hand reaching now for the lighter that could offer some illumination in the gloom...

A hand shot out of the darkness on the right side of the entryway - strong finger's closing around Pembleton's reaching hand. As he gasped in pain, his assailant's powerful grip nearly crushing his wrist, Pembleton shouted the first thing that came to mind.

"Ah! Please don't kill me!"

[Bloodrose]

Holding the accountant by the wrist with one hand, Teric clapped his other over the man's mouth as he started shouting.

"Richard! Richard, calm down. It's me." The mercenary pulled the accountant deeper into the office, kicking the door shut with his left foot. Pembleton was wriggling like a fish out of water, the man's face puffed up with air as he tried to scream through the hand covering his mouth. Teric gave the man a jerk on the arm, putting a swift stop to the squirming as he tried again. "Richard, it's me, Teric!"

The screaming against his palm stopped, and for a second both men stood still in the darkness. Pembleton was breathing hard through the nose, his breath hot against Teric's hand. As the accountant started to calm down, Teric eased up on the pressure he'd placed around his friend's wrist. When he didn't try to break away, the mercenary slowly lifted his hand from over Pembleton's mouth.

"Teric? Is that really you?" Pembleton sounded skeptical as the mercenary let go of him completely. Rather than answer directly, Teric stepped over to the accountant's desk and slipped open the top drawer. Inside he felt around for the matches he knew were kept there, and after pulling one out, struck the sulphur end off the drawer face and used it to light the lamp on the corner of the desk. Soft yellow light flooded the small space as the flame took to the oiled wick, causing both men to squint as their eyes adjusted. Once they could properly see each other, the accountant relaxed visibly.

"You fucking bastard." Pembleton sighed. "You scared me half to death."

"Yes, well, I wasn't exactly expecting company this late at night." Teric replied, peering out the windows behind Pembleton's desk and then drawing the blinds. The office was a quaint little space - originally intended as a studio apartment but later converted into business space by the accountant once he'd taken possession of the building. The financier's large desk dominated the center of the space, and stood between the two men now. Behind the desk was Pembleton's high-backed swivel chair, the brown leather on the armrests and seat faded and stretched with obvious use. Aside from those two articles of furniture, the office was mostly bare. A couple wooden stacks of filing drawers and the stripped remnants of the old studio apartment's kitchen were all that was left to interrupt the blank, paneled walls. "I figured you for a burglar."

"A burglar?" Pembleton sounded incredulous. "This is my office!"

"And you're usually in bed at home by eleven." Teric shot back. "I didn't expect to see you until morning."

"How do you know what time I go to-" Pembleton left the question unfinished, his hands reaching up to rub at his temples like he was trying to alleviate a headache. "You know what, nevermind." The accountant said instead. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm back in town, and I needed a place to sleep." Teric replied simply, indicating the bedroll rolled out on the floor in the back corner of the office. "Those creaky wooden stairs of yours woke me when you came up them."

"That's not really what I meant." Pembleton appeared to close his eyes for a second as if thinking. "You disappeared off the face of the planet without even so much as a note to tell me where you were going. It's been a little over six months now with no word, and then all of a sudden you think you can just break into my office because you need a place to sleep?"

"Why Pembleton, I never knew you cared so much." Teric flashed the man a sarcastic smile. "And what's the big deal? You're my accountant. It's not like I'm going to steal from you."

[Pembleton]

"Former accountant." Pembleton replied.

The look on Teric's face when he heard that was both quizzical and dangerous - a look the accountant had seen several times before. Despite being twenty years his senior, the mercenary was as impressive and as intimidating a figure as Pembleton had ever come across. The man was wider of shoulder, and even though he stood only an inch taller, the fighting man's muscular form made the accountant feel much, much smaller. Really the only visible suggestion that Teric was in fact as old as he claimed to be was the cropped grey hair and thick beard that concealed most everything but the man's nose and eyes.

"What do you mean 'former accountant'?" The mercenary replied coolly.

"Like I said," Pembleton started, "you just up and vanished like a fart on the wind. Your little venture there, The Company? You didn't leave anyone in charge - nor did you tell anyone else involved that you were leaving. About two months after your disappearance the shareholders started grumbling. They wanted returns on their investments and you weren't around to provide them."

"So what happened?" Teric's voice was still cool, but some of the dangerous glint in his eyes had faded.

"Lawsuit." Pembleton replied simply. "Your shareholders demanded that I give them their money back, but without your authorization neither I nor the bank could give it to them. The lot of them have all gotten together and filed a class action suit against you."

"The charges?"

"Breech of contract, fraud, deceptive business practices; the usual blanket of charges that arise in situations like this. The class action suit, and your failure to respond to the charges within 60 days, has attracted the attention of the paper-pushers over at City Hall as well. Seems they are interested in the possibility of pressing criminal charges in addition to the civil suit. That and there is the small issue of back taxes levied against the property you 'bought'."

Silence reigned in the small office for a couple minutes as the accountant let his former client absorb all the information he'd just had dumped in his lap. Teric just kind of stood there - all bite and no bark - but with nothing to chew on. Pembleton could see the gears turning in the fighter's head as he appeared to gnaw on his lower lip. Teric wasn't necessarily an unintelligent man, but Pembleton had figured out some time ago that talking to the mercenary about legal or financial matters was like trying to talk to someone in a different language.

"So all of that money?" Was the obvious first question.

"Still in the safety deposit box at the bank." Pembleton answered as he moved around the opposite side of the desk. As he sat down, Teric seemed to instinctually move around to the front, stopping to lean against the desk for want of a chair. "Can't get into the box though - the Court had ordered the account frozen."

"And if I went to try and get the money?" Was Teric's second question.

"You'd likely be arrested." Pembleton dropped his gaze from the mercenary long enough to slide open a bottom drawer and pull out a half-empty decanter of whiskey. Placing the decanter on the desk, he reached back down to fetch a glass. By the time he looked back up with the glass in hand, Teric had taken possession of the decanter and was holding it to his lips - drinking slowly as he puzzled over the notion of being arrested trying to fetch something that belonged to him.

"Uh-hrm!" Pembleton cleared his throat loudly, which the mercenary thankfully took as his cue to place the decanter back on the desk.

"Why would I be arrested?" Teric asked as Pembleton wiped the neck of the glass bottle on his desk with a handkerchief.

"Probably to compel your appearance in court." Pembleton quipped smartly as he poured himself a double. His chair squeaked as he reclined back in it, bringing the liquor to his lips and taking a small draw on the fiery liquid. The flavor was earthy with a hint of vanilla, or so the guy he'd bought it from had told him. Pembleton mostly just enjoyed the fact that it kicked like a mule.

"The good news, however," the accountant added dryly, "is that if you stay out of sight and out of mind for another year or so, the court will simply rule you deceased and issue a summary judgment."

"And how is that 'good news'?" Teric asked, rolling his eyes.

"They don't send dead men to jail." Pembleton fired back quick as a whip.

[Bloodrose]

"Smartass." Teric grumbled, his brow furrowing as he crossed his arms in front of him.

When he'd left Corone six months ago for Salvar, this was hardly the situation the mercenary had imagined himself returning to. Maybe it was a lifetime of going where he pleased when he pleased, never being tied down to any one spot for very long, but the mercenary hadn't even thought to place an officer in charge of the Company in his absence. To be fair, he hadn't even considered the possibility that his shareholders - those fine individuals who had entrusted him with thousands of their hard earned Coronian marks - might get restless and revolt while he wasn't around.

While the mercenary was lost in thought, Pembleton was sitting quietly in his chair, reclined back as far as the swivel action would allow while he sipped slowly at his drink. From outside came the muffled single clang of the half-hour mark, and the accountant seemed to stir restlessly as if his body was suddenly more aware of the time.

"How much prison time are we talking about?" Teric inquired finally, after a couple minutes of thought.

"With the criminal charges for fraud and deceptive business practices - assuming you're found guilty of course - you could be looking at two to four years. Likely closer to four, since Radasanth's courts are notorious for coming down harder on people that annoy them by failing to appear." Pembleton reasoned.

"What if I have a damn good reason for 'failing to appear'?" Teric came back. "Assume I was a few hundred miles away in the Salvic States."

"Ah - so that's where you went." Pembleton seemed more interested in the little tidbit than he did the question. "Isn't your hometown in Salvar? Did you go to see how it was weathering the war that's broken out there?"

"That's a personal matter." Teric warned the accountant with a stern finger. "Just answer the question."

"Fine, no need to get touchy." The accountant seemed genuinely taken aback, setting his glass down on the desk to raise both hands in mock surrender. Leaning forward, the chair he was sitting in rocked forward, and Pembleton crossed his arms to lean forward on the edge of his desk. "I suppose if you could find a witness to verify your story - whatever your story is - then you might get away with a slap on the wrist." The accountant added at last.

"So then we could get the lawsuit dismissed and go back into business?" Teric was almost hopeful.

"Oh dear, no." Pembleton shook his head. "The 'I was off fighting a war in Salvar' alibi might undercut some of the more serious criminal charges, but the civil suit is likely to go against you no matter what at this point. Once the shareholders have taken their fill, the Company is likely to be insolvent; and that's before the state taxman comes to pick your bones cleans."

"Fuuuck." Teric sighed. "How much do I stand to lose? Or rather, what does the Company have in its frozen account right now?"

"Just over thirteen thousand marks." Pembleton replied. "A respectable sum, to say the least. It's a pity really, to see all that money languish in a bank until the court decides what to do with it."

There was a moment of quiet between the two men, and then Teric turned to stare at the accountant with a familiar, devilish glint in eye.

"Yes..." the mercenary nodded his head sagely, "pity."

[Pembleton]

The glass was almost back to Pembleton's lips when the gravity of what Teric said dawned on him. Not necessarily what was said, but how the mercenary said it. While their professional relationship wasn't a long standing one, the financier had heard that tone before, and knew exactly what it portended.

The last time he'd heard it, the events to follow had cost an innocent man his life.

"No." The accountant warned. The glass he'd been holding literally slid across the surface of his desk, so quickly did Pembleton discard it. He stood up forcefully, nearly knocking the chair over behind him as he did so. This time it was the accountant's turn to point a stern finger in the older man's direction.

"Yes." Teric was ice-cold serious, his blue eyes boring holes into the accountant's forehead. "It would be remiss of us to just let all that money sit there unattended."

"But it's not unattended!" Pembleton nearly shouted - catching himself and lowering the volume of his voice despite the fact that he had no neighbors. "The money is sitting in a BANK. A bank with GUARDS! They're not about to let you just waltz in and take the money!"

The financier was trembling now. Whether it was the drinking earlier in the evening, the incredibly late hour, or the maddening direction in which their conversation was rapidly turning, Pembleton couldn't say. All he could do at the moment was collapse back into his chair and wring his hands nervously while a wanted, armed, and very dangerous mercenary hatched a ludicrous scheme in his aging, senile head.

"Alright," Teric sounded almost apologetic, "no need to get all worked up."

"Frankly, I think I have every reason to get 'all worked up'." Pembleton shot back darkly. "Not fifteen minutes ago I was leaving a bar after getting blue-balled by an attractive middle-aged woman. In those fifteen minutes I've almost been mugged, found out my office was broken in to, and now I have a mercenary - already wanted by the law nonetheless - hatching a bank robbery right in front of me!"

"Someone tried to mug you?" Now Teric sounded concerned, rather than apologetic. The older man moved to the entranceway to the accountants office and peered cautiously out the window in the middle of the door.

"I... no, I don't know." The accountant faltered. "It's not important."

"Were you followed?" Was Teric's next question.

"No!" Pembleton snapped. "Look - it's been a very long and unforgiving day. It's late, and I am very tired, and I simply cannot deal with any of this right now. I'm going to crawl under my desk, close my eyes, and hope that in the morning this all turns out to be a bad dream induced by to many spirits."