8 At Scurvy’s

BLOOD, PISS, ALE, and vomit, stained the splintered floorboards and flaking walls. Smoke, and the lurid orange torchlight, hid the worst. Unfortunately, nothing could hide the stench. A smell added to by dozens of unwashed bodies crowding the taproom.

Sarscha Todralan slouched on the wooden bench, legs outstretched, scuffed boot heels on the table. She lifted the pewter mug and took a slug of ale. A bitter brew to match her surroundings. Discoloured and rank. A lot like her life.

The fight in progress was about nothing, as most were. One idiot said something off-handed about someone’s mother, sister, or ugly aunt, or maybe it was the wrong facial expression at the wrong moment. It never mattered and it was never about anything of import. Words exchanged, and then came the full-belted, knife-in-your-guts insults, which this time were definitely directed at a mother, sister, or ugly aunt. Blades drawn, fists bunched, and furniture began to fly. Half the customers came for the fights. After all, the ale was piss.

Sarscha took another mouthful, swirled it to clean her teeth and swallowed.

‘You know something?’ said Pint Little, a red-headed former Byrsan Bluecloak. He leaned in close on her left side. It was difficult to speak with the sounds of smashing wood, grunts, and the odd screech of a stab victim. So instead, Pint shouted, ‘Some folks should never play Soul & Fury. Now, Gorgon & Grim would’ve been better. Not by much though. Saw three gutted over winning with the Grim. “Grim’s own luck,” they called it. Good as a death sentence if you ask me.’

‘Didn’t ask,’ muttered Sarscha, not that he heard.

‘Why play then?’ asked Tame Vara in a loud voice, who sat on Sarscha’s right.

Pint shrugged. ‘Folks like to win, don’t they? Some just can’t handle losing.’

‘Where’d they go and get a Soul board from anyhow?’ demanded Tame. Everyone knew patricians played the game but on authentic soul boards. She ducked as a boot flew at her head. It smacked the wall.

‘Somebody stole it, I suppose,’ Pint yelled back.

Sarscha drained the cup and checked the jug on the table. She gestured at her sergeant. ‘Fill him up. Don’t spill any on your way back, mind. No excuses this time. I want him overflowing.’

Tame scowled as she snatched the proffered jug. She drew a bronze dagger and headed in the direction of the bar, and the fight. Within seconds she’d rendered two men unconscious. The woman did go out of her way not to kill anyone. Pint could cut several throats per jug. It was why she’d sent Tame. She didn’t want to have to intervene and drag him out with half a jug for her trouble.

‘Uh, Sarsch,’ Pint said, ‘you do know she hates playin’ the serving wench bit? You going outta your way to get on her nerves?’

‘Don’t care.’

‘Huh, well, it isn’t you what has to listen to her bitch afterwards, now is it?’

Sarscha glanced at the corporal. ‘Oh, does she now? Nice to know. Piss off, Pittle,’ as she sometimes called him. ‘I’m busy, thinking.’

Instead, he nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Ah, you got us a plan, don’t you? Knew we weren’t just hangin’ around for no reason. Bet it’s dangerous with lots of killin’ work, right?’

‘Neither of you needs to be here, you know. Told you before.’

‘Well,’ said Pint, ‘course we has got to be. We don’t want to miss a real fight when you get all decided and all.’

A man staggered towards them, blood streaming from his scalp. He held a drink in one hand, a chair leg in the other. Pint rose and punched him in the side of the head. He dropped like a stone. The veteran had managed to grab the man’s drink first, and took a long gulp, draining the tankard before turning to regard her. ‘You’re right, you didn’t order us to be here. But we gotta keep you alive, and that’s the real reason right there. Too many out for your blood, marshal.’ He gestured at the unconscious patron and then kicked him, earning a groan. The ruckus seemed to be tapering off. ‘See, still breathin’ like you ordered.’

Sarscha snorted.

Tame plonked down a jug splashing brown liquid on the battered table. Behind her, the fight had ended, those involved either unconscious or dead. The rest had lost interest. Conversation began to flow, a low murmur rising with confidence. Always the same at Scurvy’s after a fight. Calm settled, followed by a lovely evening and terrible ale, followed by another fight.

Tame half stood with her back to the taproom, resting her butt against the table. She partially turned to stare down at her leader.

Not that I am one, thought Sarscha, not anymore. She refilled her mug and gulped it in one. Her throat burned, but she didn’t care. They call me marshal, but someone else has that job now. Someone better.

This ale was worse than the last. Tame had likely filled it herself with the dregs of a barrel. To pay her back most like. A good soldier, decent friend, and a real pain in Sarscha’s ass.

‘Got another message for you by the way,’ said the pain-in-her-ass. ‘Barkeep near forgot with trying to referee the fight. Anyhow, whoever it was, they’d entered and left during the previous scrap an hour ago. Says everything, don’t it?’

‘Another prime,’ Sarscha muttered. ‘Well, what is it this time? A marriage proposal? Another request to use me to recruit ex-legionaries? Huh, as if they needed help.’ There was no work in Byrsa save what the crime lords, otherwise known as primes, provided folk.

‘It’s your name,’ Pint whispered, now things were quieter. ‘They know it carries weight.’

‘Not the name, stupid,’ said Tame. ‘It’s her title. That name is just dangerous and don’t you dare go uttering it neither.’

‘I don’t belong to either one,’ said Sarscha. ‘That bit of my life is done. I need a new life.’

Tame barked a laugh.

‘What?’ Sarscha demanded, feeling angry. ‘I can change my bloody name and disappear if I want. What of it to you two? Told you both to bugger off.’

‘Fair ’nough,’ said Pint. ‘You can do what you like, but you’d need to go far to manage it. Byrsa’s not far enough. Your face, your name, and that infamous silver-blue hair of yours and most of all your reputation are too well-known, and I mean everywhere. You could sail east, far as Vegoia or even just Tage, or somewhere as dumb. Southern Wastelands might work best though. Heard no one lives down there.’

Sarscha examined the jug and found it near-empty. She growled, smashing it on the floor. No one bothered a glance in her direction. Pint was right. They knew who she was. It had taken a dozen deaths to get any privacy, but everyone knew her. What did it matter? Being who she was hadn’t worked out. She suspected they were glad to see her fall so why disappoint?

‘What is it you expect of me?’ she asked. ‘Why do you keep following me? I’m not your commander now. Besides, there’s cleaner whores and better drink in other bloody taverns. You two got skills. Take up work with a prime, earn some dralans and spend it before the world ends.’

Tame bent closer, eyes glowing in the torchlight. ‘No, I hate to say it; Pittle is right.’

‘You both know I hate that name, right?’ asked Pint with a scowl.

Tame ignored him. ‘Instead of running, use your name and your reputation. True, you’re not the imperial marshal now, but no one cares. Everyone knows you. Use it.’

‘You been swiggin’ from my jug?’

‘Your sister’s been revealed as one of ... well, you know ...,’ said Tame, with the last words a whisper.

Sarscha held up one unsteady finger or was it two? ‘Don’t go there—’

‘And your weirdo brother was disinherited. You’re the last living and breathing member of the imperial family. That’s gotta carry weight and I mean anywhere. You would be everyone’s choice to rule and we need a proper ruler. Whole thing’s fallin’ apart.’

‘My sister’s workin’ on it and she was our father’s choice, not me. The law is clear; I was not in line for the throne no more than my brother. Aiyana has the right.’

‘Well, maybe your father got it wrong. Maybe the law got it wrong. Ever think about that?’

Of course, she had, but it was all in the past. ‘Leave it alone, Vara.’

‘Look,’ said Tame unperturbed, ‘this is the ninth request by a prime for a meet. Your name is like gold. Start spending.’

Realising she was still pointing a finger or three, Sarscha lowered her hand. ‘What did the message say?’ she blurted, and realising they hadn’t understood a word, repeated the question. The room was spinning. Never a good sign. Stupid piss beer.

‘Well, that’s the weird bit. Gave Scurvy’s here as the location for the meet. Tomorrow morning. That’s it. No name, no requests, nothing. Smells off, if you ask me.’

‘Thought you said—’

‘Someone’s coming to see you, but this one doesn’t make sense. None of the primes dared be this brazen before. Not with your reputation. They always chose a neutral spot, right? Something’s wrong about this. We need to be ready for anything. This could all spin out of control fast.’

Sarscha stood and as the room tilted, she realised Tame couldn’t have been righter.

The know-it-all, bitch!