“Gizzit!” the gaunt man snarled, darting closer to snatch the bottle from the northerner. He drew back in guarded puzzlement at his adversary’s lack of a reaction before turning to regard the object of his interest. They exchanged a brief glance of mutual decision then slowly began to advance towards the grate. The gaunt man attempted a smile which would have failed to instill trust in the most addled fool. His companion seemed incapable of such artifice and kept his features free of expression though his eyes shone with hungry interest.
“New arrival, eh?” the gaunt man asked. Lizanne maintained her unblinking, blank mask as they drew closer. To her slight annoyance they both stopped a foot short of the grate, crouching to peer at her through the iron bars. “Aren’t you lucky, dearest one,” the gaunt man said, his inexpert smile broadening to reveal an incomplete set of rotted teeth. Even amidst the fetid stink from the river Lizanne could still smell his breath. “Finding us here to greet you, I mean,” he went on, inching closer. “Decent folk are hard to come by within these walls.”
Lizanne said nothing, continuing to stare and bunching her fists in her blanket.
“It’s alright, dearest,” the gaunt man said. “No need to be feart of us, is there Dralky?” He glanced at his comrade, who gave an unsmiling shake of his head. Lizanne didn’t like the keenness of the larger man’s gaze, having hoped to find it more dulled by drink.
“The . . .” she began, adding a shake to her voice, “the constable said I need to go to the Miner’s Repose.”
The northerner gave a grunt of smothered laughter whilst the gaunt man managed to conceal a smirk before replying with an assured nod. “O’course he did, dearest. We know the place well. Work there most days, in point of fact. No mining for the Furies. See?” He turned to tap a finger to the yellow-and-red patch on his shoulder, Lizanne seeing it clearly now: a flaming match. “It’s like a club,” he continued. “A club for those with skills. You got skills, dearest?”
“Yes.” Lizanne’s eyes flicked from one to the other as she drew back a step or two. Appearing overly trusting too early was unwise. Men such as these might spend most of their lives several sails to the breeze, but they invariably shared an innate cunning and instinctive nose for danger. “I’m a seamstress,” she said, drawing back farther.
The larger man’s arms twitched as he restrained the impulse to grab at her through the bars, earning a warning glare from his friend. “Good,” he said, once again revealing the awful spectacle of his teeth. “That’s good. Skilled folk got value in here, y’see? You come on with us to the Miner’s Repose and we’ll introduce you to a nice lady who knows best how to make use of your skills.” He extended a bony hand through the bars, beckoning. “Come on now, dearest.” He was unable to resist the impulse to lick his lips as she edged closer. “Come on with me and Dralky.”
Lizanne crouched, reaching out towards the bars, making ready to push the grate aside, then stopped. “On second thoughts,” she said, returning the gaunt man’s smile, “I think not. You stink so much I’m amazed your friend here can stand to stick his cock in your mouth.”
As ever with the more low-rent thug, anger always outweighed cunning. They both lunged in unison, Lizanne dancing back as their hands shot between the bars to claw at her. The blanket unfurled in her hands with a snap, looping over their wrists before they had time to snatch their arms back. She exerted her well-honed muscles to good effect, drawing the knot tight with sufficient force to extract a pained shout from both men. They had time to voice a few expletive-laden threats at her before their shouts turned to screams as she stepped closer, jumping as high as the tunnel would allow to bring her weight down on their trapped limbs. She had never been particularly gifted in body-weight, so it took two attempts before she was rewarded with the satisfying crack of breaking bone.
“Now then, gentlemen,” she said, unknotting the blanket from their wrists and allowing them to collapse in sputtering agony, “let us have a little chat.”
? ? ?
Lizanne encountered little trouble finding the Miner’s Repose. She had followed Constable Darkanis’s advice and waited for darkness before exiting the tunnels, choosing another entrance well away from the river. True to his description, the sign hanging above the door was an illegible, mud-spattered square offering no clue to the name of the raucous tavern it guarded, but the directions provided by her two greeters had been sufficient to guide her steps. She lingered outside for a short while, listening to the loud but largely laughter-free babble seeping from the lit windows. It consisted mostly of the raised voices of men engaged in competition or argument. Cards, drink and women were always a potent combination. Amidst the general din she detected the faint sound of a pianola being played with unexpected artistry, recognising the tune as the Mountain Breeze Cadenza from Illemont’s third concerto, a classic of North Mandinorian composition.
I wonder if they know the full piece, she thought, hefting her sackcloth-wrapped bundle and making her way inside. It would be nice to hear it again.
The interior of the Miner’s Repose was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco and hazy with smoke from a poorly maintained chimney. Overall-clad men stood around in thick clusters, earthenware tankards in every hand as they jostled and exchanged dull-voiced conversation. Thanks to Dralky and Jemus she knew the ground floor of the establishment was for drinkers only, those who either couldn’t afford or had no interest in the entertainments found on the upper floors. Predictably, the conversation grew more muted as Lizanne made her entrance, many falling silent to regard her with various expressions of lust, some desperate, others resentful as it was never pleasant to want something you couldn’t have. One man, a stocky fellow with a jaundiced tint to his skin, took a large gulp from his tankard before starting towards her, then coming to an abrupt halt as a strident female voice rang out from the bar.
“Y’know the rules, cock-brain!”
The stocky man hesitated a moment, teeth bared in a grimace of frustration as his gaze roamed Lizanne from head to toe before he retreated back into the crowd.
“Eyes on your drinks, lest you want me to fetch Anatol down here,” the female voice continued, the crowd parting to allow a tall woman in a red skirt and surprisingly clean lace blouse to make her way through. She approached Lizanne with a confident stride, coming to a halt to tower over her by at least ten inches. She stood in silent appraisal for a long moment. Lizanne took note of the burn-scar marring the flesh around the woman’s right eye, the socket filled with some kind of smoothed yellow crystal. She had the fine bones and length of limb that would have made her a sought-after fashion model in a corporate holding, but for the scar.
“Constable sent you, I’m guessing?” she asked, Lizanne recognising a Corvus accent, though not as coarse or thick as Hyran’s. “Which one?”
“Darkanis,” Lizanne replied.
The woman gave a satisfied nod. “Good. He doesn’t charge as much as the others. I’m Melina.” Her good eye went to the sackcloth bundle in Lizanne’s hands. “What you got there?”
“It’s for Electress Atalina. May I see her please?”