The Only Real Winner

There are no winners in war but one: the undertaker.

The fighting was over. The smoke was clearing, revealing the aftermath. Some buildings still stood, others left as smoldering ruins. The blood cooled amid the mud and filth, and bodies sprawled and slumped everywhere. Bewildered people shuffled along in a state of shock, some of them without any wounds.

To call it a "war" was being overly generous, if one was a scholar of history. It would not register in the annals of the realm. Even locally, it would be forgotten in a couple of decades, but for a lingering twinge in some joints, and perhaps a bawdy tavern song, with the real reason for the fighting long forgotten, altered for a pithy line that met the required scansion of the music.

In the end, it was just one degenerate gang of thugs going to war with another brutal posse of toughs. It might have been over territory, it might have been over a protection racket, it might have been over some illicit trade, it might have been because one leader slept with the paramour of the other. It all just led to the same thing, a bloody, violent day that left smoke and blood and corpses.

The Holdt Crew were the nominal winners, in that there were more of their people still alive after the conclusion. But they'd lost too many people, too much property. Goods put to the torch, resources lost in one way or another. They didn't have the necessaries to retake what they'd lost or stake their claim to new territory. The Pikemen were in much the same situation, without even enough coin to book fast passage out of town.

Regard one Trike Holdt, youngest of his siblings, the only one to have survived the day. Leaning on a crutch, one splinted leg still seeping blood through its bandages (and will likely need to be removed by the end of the week), jaw swollen and bruised, he stood on the wooden planks before the general store which had fronted the crew's business since before he was born. He sighed. "How much is this going to cost us?"

Bazza, who had loyally served his brothers for years, shook his head. "Too much. It'll take months to make enough just to rebuild the tenement." Then, anticipating Trike's question, he added, "We can't drive up the prices in the store to recoup. People will just walk further, up hill to the next borough, and buy there."

Trike sighed again. "Tell me that the Pikemen lost the brewhouse, at least."

"Sure, and the warehouse," Bazza noted glumly. "But we lost ours, too, and enough stills and all will still take weeks to acquire, and since Coop died we don't have an expert to brew up stock. Losing the warehouses means we also lost the barrels."

Trike winced. Losing the barrels meant losing the whiskey being aged within. That was one of their long-term investments gone. He reflected in his head that he was already having to sell some of the family's valuables and fine clothes to recoup some money, but most of that was tied up already with repairs and care for their wounded. Still, the knowledge that Bosun Gilles of the Pikemen was in worse circumstances took some sting out of it.

Bazza tapped him on the arm, then indicated the wagon that had pulled up beside the store. Well-cared for, it was painted in black with subdued gray-silver livery, with a couple of destriers pulling it. The man that climbed down from the seat next to the driver wore a bespoke suit with waistcoat, a pocket watch with a silver chain, and a brief smile as he tipped his hat to them both.

"Mister Holdt, allow me to offer my sincere condolences after the loss of your brothers and sister," the dapper man said, with more solemnity than the faint smile on his face might suggest.

Bazza scowled. "What do you want, Markus?" he demanded, before subsiding when Trike whacked his shin with his crutch.

Markus van der Graaf smiled a little bit wider, but kept the veneer of solemnity in his bearing as he straightened up. "I presume you're going to need some," he paused and made a show of turning to look around at the carnage surrounding them, "disposal. And a respectful send-off with dues paid, et cetera."

Trike nodded, but held up a finger before pulling Bazza aside. "How much can we afford?"

"I mean, we can't do full procession for everyone, boss." Bazza scratched at his jaw. "I can ask around, see if the families are okay with cremation?"

"Do it, we'll find a way to make-do if some of them want more than an urn." Sighing again, Trike swung around and faced the dapper man again. "Please do, Mr. van der Graaf," he told the man. "Just make sure my people are kept separate from the Pikemen's."

"You can trust me, Mr. Holdt," the undertaker smiled again. "I'm a professional." He lifted a hand and clicked his fingers, prompting a quartet of burly men in workmen's overalls to climb down from the back of the wagon and beginning to set to their work.

Trike hobbled off with Bazza, who scowled over his shoulder. "Flash git," he growled under his breath. "D'you see what he's wearing? That's a custom suit from Lorde & Co. Costs more than I make in a month."

"Way of the world, Baz," Trike shook his head. "The only real winner at the end of the day is the man who digs the graves and tends to them as fills them. As long as he sees that my brothers and sister are treated with respect, I don't care how much he charges for it."