“Can't help it. I like ta express myself,” she replied giving him a wolfish grin, showing him as many teeth as possible.
A few moments later the drunk sat down next to her with a mug of beer in each hand and a content look on his handsome face. He needed cleaning up and then he'd be a right pretty sight to look at.
Henry noticed Thorn narrowing his eye at the drunk. “I've decided ta keep him,” she told them both.
“That good is he?” Thorn asked, still eye-balling the drunk. Henry just grunted in reply. “He have a name?”
“Um...” It hadn't even occurred to Henry to ask.
“I do, my good sir. I have the pleasure of being called Anders. And it is most certainly my... uh... pleasure to meet you, Mr Black Thorn.”
Henry saw Thorn's right hand go to his axe. Her own found the hilt of one of her daggers. She didn't want to kill this Anders, not in her own tavern, though the place might look better in red.
“Might be ya wanna explain how ya know my name,” Thorn said with a level voice.
“Huh,” Anders grunted with a mouthful of beer and then swallowed when he saw weapons drawn. “It was easy to deduce. My good lady here called you Thorn.” Henry quite liked being called a lady; made her feel important or such, but she wasn't about to show it. Not when she might have to kill the blooded bastard. “Taking into account your... um... face. You must be the Black Thorn; notorious murderer and thief.” Anders finished by grinning and then swallowing down another mouthful of beer as if it might be his last.
Thorn didn't look convinced but he put his axe away all the same. Henry followed his example. “No sudden moves, eh,” Thorn said to Anders. Anders just smiled the smile of the drunken fool right back.
“How'd ya come by this place then, Henry?” the Black Thorn said leaning his chair back against the wall. His one eye peering at her.
Henry sniffed. “After...” she felt the anger rising again and decided some stories went better if you started in the middle. “After I got ta Solantis I started hangin' out here. Seemed a good place as any an' nobody paid too much attention if one or two o' the locals went missin'. Only way ta earn a bit o' money sometimes.
“The owner was a older lady, wrinkled an’ past her prime. Called herself Aliss an' the old bitch seemed ta take somethin' of a shine ta me. Said she saw herself only a fair bit younger. Let me live here she did an’ said I could work here too long as I stopped murderin' fer money.
“'Bout a month back she jus' said the place was mine now. Told Josef too an' then, she jus' up an' left. Ain't come back so... place is mine.”
“Never took you as the type ta run a tavern, Henry,” Thorn said. He was scratching around his eye-patch with his maimed hand. “Didn't reckon you'd have the know how.”
“Fuck me, Thorn. I don't got the first idea how ta run the place. I jus' let Josef get on with it an' prance around like I got some sort o' clue.” They both had a laugh at that. Anders glanced up at the sound of merriment, waved his mug around a bit then laid his head back down on the table.
“So you got some sort of plan, Thorn?” she asked him.
“Gettin' a bit tipsy ain't a plan?”
“Far as I'm concerned you can get shit-faced as Anders here.”
Thorn smiled, at least Henry thought it was a smile, seemed a bit sad if truth be told. “Don't really drink so much no more, Henry. But if ya got a few spare bits wouldn't mind a loan, get myself cleaned up an' dressed proper 'fore findin' me a job.”
“Aye,” Henry grinned her wolfish grin again. “One condition. Ya take Anders an' get him smartened up some.”
Thorn let out a loud groan but agreed all the same.
Thorn
Truth was Anders smartened up well. He looked almost like a proper member of a blooded family once the filth and sweat and stale booze had washed off and once he was dressed in more fitting clothing. He wore his dark hair in a long ponytail, had shaved off his stubble to show his strong jaw and high cheekbones and had chosen a simple set of riding leathers with an old, worn, green overcoat. He'd also insisted on being bought an old rapier which he kept sheathed by his right hip. Betrim had asked what happened to his last sword but Anders insisted he had no idea; he had woken up one day and it was gone. Most likely he had woken up in a ditch and it had been stolen.
For his own part Betrim had washed, shaved his head back to bald; hair seemed a right nuisance now he didn't have much of it, and had bought himself a light padded-leather jerkin and a heavy brown duster to wear. Good thing about a big coat was plenty of places to hide knives. The Black Thorn had long ago decided as he never knew when someone might need a good stabbing, it was best to always make sure he carried enough sharp implements to stab everyone around him. He'd seen a right fancy eye-patch in the market too; a black circle of leather with a red gem set in the centre as if to look like a gleaming, demonic eye. Of course Betrim knew first hand that demons had yellow eyes as bright as a flame but most folk wouldn't know that. After a heated argument during which Anders had used a fair few number of complicated words like; garish and lurid, Betrim had backed down but not without giving the blooded drunk a real good stare with his eye.
Fact was, walking next to Anders as he was gave Betrim something he'd never had before; a certain amount of respectability. The Black Thorn may have crewed with Swift for over a year but there had been no mistaking the bastard blood in that one. Anders hid it well; looked almost like he belonged to a family, well, as long as folk looked past the acrid smell of alcohol on his breath and the occasional drunken stumble.
“Reckon havin' you around might open up some nice new doors,” Betrim said with a side-long glance at Anders.
“I presume you're referring to my lineage, Mr Thorn?” Anders said with only the barest hint of a slur, impressive given the amount of booze he’d put away already this morning.
“Your... um... linage... right. Yeah.”
“Are you offering me a job?” Anders asked.
“A job?”
“On your crew.”
“What crew?”
“I accept.” Anders smiled at Betrim. “Boss.”
“Wait,” Betrim wasn't sure what had just happened but he knew he didn't want to lead any crew. Folk who followed the Black Thorn tended to end up on the dead side of life. “This ain't a crew. I ain't got no crew. Jus'... need some work is all an' havin' you around might open up some doors. You havin' some blood in ya an' all.”
“Right. Whatever you say. Just know I'm ready for work, boss.”
“Stop it. An' don't call me boss,” Betrim complained. Anders had a way of complicating the issue with all of his words.
“Sorry. I'm ready for work, BT.”
“B...T? Eh?”
“It’s an acronym... of your name. Your initials.”
“How do you know my initials?”
Anders looked confused for a moment. “Black Thorn... B.T.”
“Oh. Right.” Betrim wasn't used to dealing with learned folk. Gave him a distinct feeling in his gut that Anders wasn't likely to last long.
Betrim pushed his way through the door of
the Dog's Laugh
and took a moment for his eye to adjust to the gloom within. Anders slipped past the motionless Black Thorn and danced over to the bar. Henry was sat at the centre table in the common room with her feet well and truly up, picking at a plate full of bacon and soft bread. She looked up at Betrim with a strange look on her face. Thorn couldn't rightly say what the look was, nor what it meant but it was far from happy.
“Year ago I'd killed fer a breakfast like this,” the little murderess said, staring at Betrim. Thing about Henry was her gaze was like a laughing dog's bite, once she had hold she didn't like to let go and it seemed she was in the mood for a good stare. “Now I have it every day an' it don't sit well no more. Find myself longin' fer the dried meat an' stale bread an' whatever else we could find out on the plains.”
Betrim sat down opposite Henry and took a good long look at the bacon. He thought about trying to take some but Henry looked like she might be in a stabbing mood and the Black Thorn wasn't about to risk getting stabbed over a slice of bacon. “Don't reckon the settled life suits ya, Henry.”
“Josef, my good man,” Anders said in a cheerful and slurred tone. “Would you mind fetching me a few drinks? I find myself terribly parched.”
Henry tore her gaze from Betrim and instead inflicted it on the blooded drunk. “Reckon you've earned some more of my booze, do ya?”
Anders span around, his mouth open and just about to spew some eloquent nonsense but he faltered at the sight of Henry's cold eyes. She looked him up and down.
“Reckon he scrubs up pretty enough,” she turned her gaze back to Betrim. “Ya coat ain't black.”
“Thought I'd try somethin' new,” Betrim said.
“Ya hair...”
Betrim sniffed. “Way I see it folk are lookin' fer the Black Thorn. Same folk are lookin' fer a man all in black with black hair an' two eyes. Might be it's worth not throwin' my name around fer a while.”
Henry nodded at that. Anders sauntered over and sunk into one of the chairs around the table; a sad, dejected look on his face. Henry glanced at him once then snorted and spat onto the floor. Betrim just about heard Josef sigh from behind the bar, no doubt Henry gave him the job of cleaning the floor.
“Reckon I can find us a job,” Henry said after a while.
“Us? Ya thinkin' of joinin' me on this job are ya?” Betrim asked.
Henry's mouth twisted into the same old wicked grin that Betrim was used to seeing. The scar on her top lip pulling it into a sneer. “Reckon three is a better number than two fer a crew.”
Betrim shook his head. “This ain't a crew an' I ain't no boss.”
Anders perked up a bit at that. “Right you are, B.T. But you said you needed some money, correct?”
“Well... yeah... but...”
“Then three it is,” Henry said, still grinning. “Reckon we could all use the bits.”
Some men might have sighed but the Black Thorn wasn't the type so he let out a low growl instead. “Where do we meet the fixer?”
Her smile faded. “There's a little problem with that. Fixer's name is Carlston Barrow. Operates out of a gamblin' joint on the east side of the pits. Surrounds himself with heavies...”
“I'm sensing a catch,” Anders slurred up at them from the table.
“Ya can't mention my name... at all,” Henry said. “He ain't too fond of me much on account of me murderin' his nephew a few weeks back.”
“Did he deserve it?”
“Not met many that didn't. Come across him beatin' on a girl fer lookin' at him funny. Hard not ta look at him funny fer the size of the boil on his nose.” She paused and a slow smile spread across her face. “He bled... a lot.”
“Ya sure this Carlston is good fer it?” Betrim didn’t much like the idea of working for a man with a grudge but needs must.
“Aye. He specialises in the sort o' work we lookin' fer. The sort o' work me an’ you are good at. An' he don't filch nor bitch o'er methods. Got a strange sort o' honour. Unusual fer a fixer.”
“Right then. I'll take Anders,” Betrim stood up from the table. “Ya know where the pits are?”
Anders looked up, then looked at the bar and then back to Betrim. “Um... I do... but do you think it might be best if we... um... had a drink first?”
“Jus' past the pits,” Henry said ignoring Anders. “Big buildin'. Ya can't miss it. It's the one with all the people outside, most of 'em armed an' dangerous-lookin'. They'll search ya 'fore they let ya in, take ya weapons off ya.”
Betrim snorted. “If they can find 'em all.”
Anders was already up and sauntering towards the bar. “Josef, be a dear and fill this up with something strong and cheap. Preferably something with a burning sensation on the way down but not so much on the way back up.” He handed the barman an old battered hip-flask.
“Where the hell did ya get that?” Betrim asked as Josef took the flask and started filling it from a bottle filled with some golden liquid.
Anders turned with a startled look on his face. “You know I'm not entirely sure. I just sort of... found it this morning... while we were shopping. Would you believe somebody left it entirely unattended in their pocket?”
Henry laughed. Betrim just shook his head and started for the door. After a few moments Anders caught up with him, already swigging from the flask.
Henry wasn't wrong about Carlston's building being unmissable. It boasted a good five floors whereas most of those surrounding it had to put up with a paltry two or three. Built out of solid grey stone with large windows and no less than two balconies facing out onto the street. On one of the balconies stood an ageing man, a little overweight by the looks of his jerkin, with a thick mat of dark hair, flecked with grey. He held a pipe in one hand and stared out over the street as if he were looking down on something he owned. He wore a black waistcoat faded with use but no less smart for it. Beside the ageing man stood a tall, slim man with his hair tied into a warrior's tail and almost as many scars on his face as the Black Thorn.
“You a bettin' man, Anders?” Betrim asked in a low voice.
Anders was busy looking around the street, his eyes flicking from one armed heavy to the next. Betrim had seen folk do such before, he did it himself on many occasions. It was the look of a man who expected imminent violence and expected himself to be at the centre of that violence. “If I was I'd bet that this is a bad idea, B.T.”
“Thought I told ya ta stop callin' me that.”
Anders lowered his voice. “Would you rather I call you Black Thorn? In this company?”
Betrim reckoned the drunkard wasn't wrong about that. He counted twelve armed heavies outside the building, no doubt there would be more inside, and all wore a strip of cloth either around their arms or legs or head, with a symbol that looked to be one of the giant cats of the plains but with greatly enlarged canines.
“Ya recognise these mercs?” he asked his blooded companion.
“I do,” Anders was keeping his voice down. “Long Tooth company. Widely known for being diametrically opposed to pacifism.”
“Dia... what?”
“It means completely.”
“Right... an' pasfisem?”
