The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(85)

3



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By the third hour, Chelson’s personal guards have questioned the foremen of the three companies that handle most of Hanosh’s night soil, starting with the one owned by the Shield. None had serviced Brimurray yet. It’s too far down Lesser Silk to have received such early service.

They then returned to Brimurray to question Tristaban’s neighbors, who didn’t appreciate being woken up, especially after their earlier inconveniences. Although most didn’t like Tristaban or her partner, they helped because they feared Chelson more. Only one had something promising to report.

A junior assistant from Blue Island and his partner, both drunk, said that after Livion had come and gone, they had gone downhill a few blocks for a glass. As they left the lane, they saw a barrowman loitering in the boulevard. They didn’t like the looks of him and told him so. His beard was trimmed with a carving knife, the woman said, and he wore a black shift her girl wouldn’t have used to wipe a floor. His pants were the strangest leather, the man said. And he smelled, his partner said, like nothing she’d ever smelled before.

The barrowman said his looks were his own, as was his business, and the boulevard belonged to everyone. He spoke more directly than they would have imagined, and he spoke well too, almost like a junior, which only made his impudence more aggravating. They reported him to a guard outside the Quick Nip, who said he would look out for the man.

The guard told Chelson’s men that when he patrolled uphill, he didn’t see the barrowman, but he admitted he wasn’t looking very hard. He wished he could’ve spoken to the couple with such impudence.

Hanosh has no end of freelancers in every trade, however despicable, which leaves Chelson’s guards with the unenviable task of looking into them. To speak with the person who can probably tell them where to start, they repair to an after-hours in Workers called the Salty Dog.

The tunnel entrance extends so far into the Hill that the Dog is rumored to have a door directly into Gate’s dungeons so prisoners can come out for a glass. And the ceilings are so low that some patrons flee the place, too strongly reminded of their time on the benches. Smoke collects between the beams, letting the meanest men stand to get a snort they couldn’t otherwise afford.

Holestar, the man with the half-red eye, spins his pint between his hands. Skite of the Crooked Nose works on his second. The third man, Derc, who has no distinguishing features beyond his size, considers a man at the bar.

The man, a tanner by his reek, says to a corner full of cronies, “We found out where he stored his cart and waited for him. The Aydeni walks right up to us, like we’re customers. Hah! First we let him watch us smash his cart, then we smashed him with the pieces. I never knew a wheel could do so much wrong to a man’s face.”

The men laugh. The tanner says, “One more round, then we’ll get back to drafting folks for the morning.” Ayes are said. Beers are brought.

Derc says, “You volunteering, Strig?”

“When Ayden gets here, I’ll volunteer,” he says. “In the meantime, we’ll give a slap to anyone who doesn’t want anyone volunteering. General orders, as it were.”

Derc says, “So you’d rather fight Hanoshi than for Hanosh?”

“They aren’t Hanoshi,” Strig says. “And anyone fighting for Hanosh is just fighting for some company. Useless drones.”

Derc says, “I fought, and I’ll fight again. Hundreds will. Good men.” He stands up. “Am I a fool? Are they?”

Strig looks at his cronies, and reluctantly stands. His cronies don’t. Holestar hisses sharply. Derc sits down.

Strig says, “That all he has to do to pull your leash?”

All talk ceases. The smoke stands still.

“I’m going to make you a bet,” Holestar says. He takes a silver coin out of his pocket and holds it up. “This whole coin says you can’t beat me senseless.”

Strig says, “I don’t have a whole coin.”

“What do you have?”

The tanner fumbles in his pockets. He finds ten pennies. “Half.” He drops several pennies, which other patrons corral and return, a fair price for their amusement.

Holestar says, “That’ll do.” He puts the silver between his teeth and gnashes the coin in half. He drops one shard on the barrel he’s drinking around and pockets the other. “Now, you could concede our bet, pay me my ten pennies, and leave, or we can play this out.”

Strig hesitates. A broken old tar in the corner fondles a shark’s tooth and says, “I’ll bet a penny he pisses himself before he can answer.”

Strig rubs the pennies off his sweaty palm onto the plank and runs from the Dog. His cronies follow sheepishly. Holestar gives the pennies to the tapman, who raises one in appreciation.

A woman comes in. Her face has the skin of a much larger face. The veins ridging her arms and hands are almost as thick as her bones. She says to the tapman so everyone can hear, “What’s the story of that guy who left? I swear he pissed himself just looking at me.” The after-hours patrons laugh. “Fakkin Tawmy,” one says, shaking his head.

She grabs a pint, spots Holestar’s crew, and comes over. “Need some help,” Holestar says. He pushes the half coin to her with his cup.

“So generous,” Fakkin Tawmy says, pocketing the shard. “Must be company business. No receipt, of course.”