Free Night's Haunting by Matthew Sprange

goods kept on plodding wearily down the street. Harker's own cart was about half full, and he tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for his thieves to return with more ill-gotten gains. One more trip after that, and they should be done, he reckoned.
    Looking back up the street, he noticed the labourer had stopped opposite one of the many alleyways that ran between the warehouses. He squinted to get a better look, then realised with alarm that the labourer was gesturing towards him. Seconds later, a squad of six Vos guardsmen shot out of the alley, and started running toward him. They did not shout after him or demand his surrender, but their spears were levelled with clear intent.
    "Fire!" he shouted into the open door of the warehouse, the pre-arranged warning he had agreed with his team. Bad experiences in the past had taught him that shouting "Guards!" when being pursued was a very, very bad idea.
    Trusting his team to make their own escape, he slapped the rump of his mule and dragged it forward into an uneasy trot, hoping it might outrun heavily armoured men. Another squad of guards appeared from an alleyway ahead and he cursed as they spotted him, drawing their weapons.
    Hauling his mule around, the animal rumbling its protest at his mistreatment, he headed for the side street the labourer had appeared from.
    He skidded to a halt, the mule bucking its head in confusion. In front of him, a third squad waited, spears lowered to receive him, forming a prickly barrier. Behind, the first two squads appeared, the soldiers manhandling Terri, one of his team.
    "Excellent work, men," said one of the Vos soldiers, a sergeant Harker saw from the golden insignia woven into the chest of his red uniform. "Are the secondary squads in place?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Good, they'll catch the rest of the scum." He cast a disgusted look at Harker. "Someone arrest that man. I want to get at least one more lot before shift's end."
     
    Leaning against the wall of the alley, Sebastian fumed as he watched what was happening in the Square of True Believers. He knew exactly what Vos was doing but, as yet, he could not see a way around it.
    The square was filled with street traders, entertainers and, of course, believers seeking to make their prayers known to the priesthood of the Final Faith in the new Cathedral. They all stayed away from the western side of the square, however. That had been reserved for the beggars.
    Even now, they watched the beggars with a strange mixture of contempt and pity. Massive wagons had been brought into square, and there was polite applause from onlookers as Vos guardsmen began throwing bundles from the wagons into the outstretched hands of the beggars. More soldiers were on the ground, ready to break up any fights in the desperate crowd clamouring for alms, but there was a strange sense of order in place. The beggars had been promised that there was more than enough for everyone and, looking at the size of the wagons, it was easy to believe, despite the many hundreds of needy people that had gathered.
    The bundles were ripped apart, and cries of delight rang across the square, as the poorest citizens of the city discovered that the benevolent Empire of Vos had gifted them not just bread, but fruit, new clothes, a skin of wine, and even a small pouch of silver. These cries fuelled more applause as the richer citizens saw their taxes at work, bathing in their own charity.
    Sebastian knew better. Those were his people that had been herded into the square, members of the beggars' guild, all of them.
    Someone in the Vos-led government had been very, very clever. He had to give them that. Any other official might have just tried to bribe the beggars with bread, believing them to be poor and hungry. That had been tried before and, predictably, it had not worked. Beggars had still lined the streets after weeks of donations.
    What had not been understood before was that the beggars of Turnitia were not necessarily poor and