A fine layer of dust tried nobly to obscure a much-less-fine layer of splinters over the ill-tended-to chairs and tables lining the common hall. A stage that probably once had hosted a variety of bad acts now stood dark; a single voccaphone stood in their place, playing a tune that was popular back when the guy who wrote it was still alive. Rooms upstairs had probably once held a few prostitutes, if there ever were prostitutes luckless enough to work a township like this. I’d have called the place a mausoleum if it weren’t for the people, but they looked like they might have found a crypt a little cozier.
There were a few kids—two boys, a girl—in the back, sipping on whatever bottle of swill they could afford and staring at the table. Laborers, I wagered—some young punks the locals used for cheap jobs with cheap pay to buy cheap liquor. And behind the bar was a large man in dirty clothes, idly rubbing the only clean glass in the place with a cloth.
He set that glass down as I approached. The cloth he had been polishing it with was likely used to polish something else, if the grime around the glass was any evidence.
No matter. I wouldn’t need to be here long.
Ralp—I assumed—didn’t bother asking me what I wanted. In the Scar, you’re lucky if they give you a choice of two drinks. And if you had any luck at all, you didn’t wind up in a place called Rin’s Sump.
He reached for a cask behind the bar but stopped as I cleared my throat and shot him a warning glare. With a nod, he held up a bottle of whiskey—Avonin & Sons, by the look of the black label—and looked at me for approval. I nodded, tossed a silver knuckle on the counter. He didn’t start pouring until he picked it up, made sure it was real, and pocketed it.
“Passing through?” he asked, with the kind of tone that suggested habit more than interest.
“Does anyone ever stay?” I asked back, taking a sip of bitter brown.
“Only if they make enough mistakes.” Ralp shot a pointed glance to the youths drinking in the corner. “Your first was stopping in here instead of moving on. Roads are going to be mud for days after this. No one’s getting out without a bird.”
“I’ve got a mount,” I said, grinning over my glass. “And here I thought you’d be happy for a little extra money.”
“Won’t turn down metal,” Ralp said. He eyed me over, raising a brow as it seemed to suddenly dawn on him that I was a woman under that wet, stinking cloak. “But if you really want to make me happy—”
“I’ll tell you what.” I held up a finger. “Finishing that thought might make you happy in the short term, but keeping it to yourself will make you not get punched in the mouth in the long term.” I smiled as sweetly as a woman with my kinds of scars could. “A simple pleasure, sir, but a lasting one.”
Ralp glanced me over again, rubbed his mouth thoughtfully, and bobbed his head. “Yeah, I’d say you’re right about that.”
“But I do have something just as good.” I tossed another three knuckles onto the bar. As he reached for them, I slammed something else in front of him. “That is, assuming you can make me happy.”
I unfolded the paper, slid it over. Scrawled in ink across its yellow surface was a leering mask of an opera actor upon a head full of wild hair, tastefully framed in a black box with a very large sum written beneath it and the words DEATH WARRANT above it.
“Son of a bitch!” Ralp’s eyebrows rose, along with his voice. “You’re looking for that son of a bitch?”
I held a finger to my lips, glanced out the corner of my eye. The youths hadn’t seemed to notice that particular outburst, their eyes still on their bottle.
“He has a name,” I said. “Daiga the Phantom. What do you know about him?”
When you’re in my line of work, you start to read faces pretty well. You can tell who the liars are just by looking at them. And I could tell by the wrinkles around Ralp’s eyes and mouth that he was used to smiling big and wide. Which meant he had to have told a few lies in his day, probably most of them to himself.
That didn’t make him good at it.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve heard the name, but nothing else.”
“Nothing else?”
“I know whatever they’re offering for his death can’t be worth what he can do.” Ralp looked at me pointedly.
I looked back. And I, just as pointedly, pulled my cloak aside to reveal the hilt of the sword at my hip.
“He has something I want,” I replied.
“Hope you find someone else who can find it.” He searched for something to busy his hands, eventually settling on one of the many dirty glasses and began to polish it. “I don’t know anything of mages, let alone Vagrants like that… man. They’re funny stories you tell around the bar. I haven’t had enough customers for that in a long time.” He sniffed. “Truth is, madam, I don’t know that I’d even notice if someone like that showed up around here.”
“Birdshit.” I leaned in even closer, hissing through my teeth, “I’ve been here three days and the most exciting thing I’ve seen was an old man accusing his wine bottle of lechery.”
“He has a condition—”
“And before I came in here, I glanced around back and saw your shipment.” I narrowed my eyes. “Lot of crates of wine for a man with no customers. Where are you sending them?”
Ralp stared at the bar. “I don’t know. But if you don’t get out, I’ll call the peacekeepers and—”
“Ralp,” I said, frowning. “I’m going to be sad if you make me hurt you over lies this pathetic.”
“I said I don’t know,” he muttered. “Someone else picks them up.”
“Who? What’s Daiga using them for?”
“I don’t know any of that, either. I try to know as little as fucking possible about that freak or any other freak like him.” All pretenses gone, there was real fear in his eyes. “I don’t make it my business to know anything about no mage, Vagrant or otherwise. It’s not healthy.”
“But you’ll take his metal all the same, I see.”
“I took your metal, too. The rest of the Scar might be flush with gold, but Rin’s Sump is dry as six-day-old birdshit. If a Vagrant gives me money for not asking questions, I’m all too fucking happy to do it.”
“Yeah?”
I pulled the other side of my cloak back, revealing another hilt of a very different weapon. Carved wood, black and shiny as sin, not so much as a splinter out of place. Brass glimmered like it just wanted me to take it out and show it off.
At my hip, I could feel the gun burning, begging to be unleashed.
“As it turns out, asking questions makes me unhappy, too, Ralp. What do you suppose we do about that?”
Sweat appeared on Ralp’s brow. He licked his lips, looked wild-eyed at my piece before he looked right back into the ugliest grin I could manage.
Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t feel particularly great about doing something as pedestrian as flashing a gun. It feels so terribly dramatic, and not in the good way. But you must believe me: I was expecting this to go smoothly. I hadn’t prepared anything cleverer at the time. And, if I’m honest, this particular gun makes one hell of a statement.