Hired Blades

Reunion The lord lived through the day. Mission accomplished. It’s time to celebrate. I smile in anticipation of the coming fun, barely noticing the neat houses swooshing by beyond the coach window. I haven’t been able to relax like this in a week, but the job is over, I no longer have to vigilantly watch my surroundings for signs of an attack. It already happened and I’ve dealt with it. The lord was grateful, even though I knocked over his antique vase when the assassin bashed my head against the table. I broke the vase’s fall, but couldn’t catch it, and it chipped on one side. There’s only so much you can do while a man twice your size tries to squeeze the life out of you. The Lord didn’t mind the vase, he was glad he survived. He offered for me to stay at his palace, which I turned down, but I let him arrange a coach and write a letter of recommendation for me to the city’s most exclusive inn. I won’t use the letter. The job is over, he should no longer be associated with me, especially since I have no intention to continue acting like a noblewoman. The coach stops in front of a mansion. Little red flowers and frilly white curtains frame the real glass windows. Elderly ladies gossip over their teas inside. The place reeks of tranquility. There won’t be brawls or noises of the night to disturb my sleep here. Which reminds me… “How do I get to the Square Barrel?” I ask the coachman. He looks taken aback and his voice holds scorn as he answers. “Missus shouldn’t go there. That’s no place for a lady.” My muscles tense, but I control my temper. He didn’t earn the right to judge my choices, but I stepped into his couch as the lord’s niece, hitting him or answering I’m not going there to meet ladies would be unprofessional. “Tell me where it is, then, so I can avoid it,” I reply. He looks doubtful, but answers anyway. “It’s on the main road, about ten minutes’ ride toward the river.” I thank him with a fake smile and a handful of coppers. He appreciates the coins more. I leave him to unload my luggage. A bellhop hurries out of the Teacup Inn to assist. He holds the door for me as chivalry dictates. The lavender smell of the lobby is a little intense for my taste, but not unpleasant. Dressed like a noblewoman, I have no problem booking a room for a week. I pay in advance. It’s a reasonable precaution before meeting my friends. There’s a good chance I’ll lose, gamble or drink away my money or get robbed by the end of the night and it’s nice to have a place to stay. Smiling servants haul my belongings upstairs. The smiles freeze on their faces when I leave my room an hour later, looking like a warrior, wearing pants and weapons in plain sight. The proprietor gapes at me and the color drains from his face as he undoubtedly envisions the damage I might do to the intricately carved railing of the stairway, the expensive glass windows and, most of all, his reputation. His concerns are mostly unsubstantiated, I’ve learnt a long time ago not to trash the tavern I stay in. Looking at it this way, the Teacup Inn is probably the safest place in town tonight. I’m headed towards the riverside. The heat from the torches lining the cobblestoned street is unwelcome in the warm summer night, but Easy Port is too small a place to afford magical illumination even on its main road. It is prosperous enough, though, to have several taverns, and that’s what counts. “Nice legs, when do they open?” a drunk yells after me from the door of one. I don’t dignify it with an answer. I could bash his remaining four teeth in, but what would be the point? Also, I don’t want to be late. I probably have time for a quick fight, but since I’m new in town it’s hard to judge how long it takes to walk to the Square Barrel. I’ve only been here a week and spent that time in the noble quarter. I’m a high-end bodyguard specializing in playing arm-candy at some rich man’s side until the unsuspecting assailant reveals himself and I can neutralize the threat. This means I have to relocate frequently, because after a few jobs rumors start to spread and I lose the element of surprise. I can manage without it as any other bodyguard, but Control doesn’t like to waste my talents on average jobs when I could be more useful elsewhere. I don’t mind moving a lot, I’m not the settling type. I like to travel the world, see new places, kill new people… just kidding… sort of. I’m a guardian at heart, I only kill when necessary. I even left today’s would-be assassin alive, wrapped up in a bow for the local authorities, and let the lord take credit for taking him down. I’m certain the assassin won’t tell either that a girl kicked his ass, so booking a week in the Teacup Inn felt like a safe bet. I arrive early to the pub. I step into the smoky twilight room and look around. My friends are nowhere to be seen. A bard sings a frivolous song in a pleasant bass tone accompanying himself on a lyre. The place is not packed yet, but there aren’t many empty tables left. Out of habit I check how many people wear weapons. Almost everyone does. The Square Barrel is frequented by travelers, vagabonds and free-lance mercenaries, most of them rugged and tan with visible scars. There are also quite a few people clad mysteriously in black, hooded capes, and they could be anything from thieves to wizards. It would have been wise for me to wear a cloak because I’m the only woman in the joint and people are staring, but it’s hot. I don’t want to hide that badly. I sit down at a table for four with my back against the wall, facing the entrance. The good thing about arriving first is that I can choose the best seat, the bad thing is that waiting is boring. I order a drink and settle in for the long wait. Okay, it won’t be that long, maybe ten minutes, it just feels endless. I haven’t seen the guys in years and I’m eager to meet them. I look around again, seeking entertainment this time, but nothing interesting is happening. Let’s do something about that, shall we? I empty my cup and wave the barkeeper over. “I’d like three more glasses of wine, please.” “Won’t that be a little too much?” he asks. It’s annoying. I don’t think he’d ask the same question of a man. Despite my ire, I smile at him sweetly. “Oh, only one of those is for me, one is for that gentleman,” I discretely nod towards a random stranger in a cape “and the other is for that fidgety little guy over there.” “What?” the innkeeper asks brightly. “Just tell them the other guy sends his regards,” I say sliding money across the table. He looks baffled but goes along with my request, maybe because of the few extra coppers I give him, or more probably because his livelihood depends on selling drinks. He shortly returns with the wine, surprising both men. The confident, tall stranger goes over to the worried-looking one. He grabs and turns a chair and sits down resting his right arm leisurely on the back of the chair, raising his cup to the fidgety guy with his left. He appears to be at ease, but he keeps his sword-hand free. “Dude, I hope this is about a job, otherwise it’s a bit strange,” he says with humor in his voice. “Whatever do you mean?” the smaller man asks haughtily. They scrutinize each other. They push back their hoods. The tall guy is a dark-haired, handsome man in his thirties, the other is thin and bald with hollow eyes and pale, yellowish skin. He could just as easily be twenty as sixty. All right, this should be fun, these two will have nothing in common. “I’m talking about this, man!” the handsome one raises his cup in explanation. The bald furrows the smooth skin where his brows should be. He’s creepy. “I can assure you I do not understand what you are talking about.” “Look dude, you send drinks to people for two reasons, you want to pick them up or offer them a job.” “I agree with your assessment,” Baldy answers cautiously. “So, what do you want?” Handsome asks, and a vein starts to throb on his temple. “Whatever do you mean?” Baldy asks back again. Handsome loses his temper. He stands up and pushes his cup into Baldy’s face. “This, man, I’m talking about this. Why did you send me this?” “I did not!” Baldy answers indignantly, as if assuming he sends drinks to strangers was an insult. Maybe it is. “Whatever do you mean?” Handsome asks back, mockingly imitating his tone. If the smaller man was a tad bit more temperamental, they’d be at each other’s throats by now, but I’m in no luck, Baldy is admirably level-headed. “I did not send you a drink,” he explains slowly, as if talking to a child. “In fact, the bartender told me you sent this for me.” He raises his cup but resists the urge to push it in Handsome’s face. Maybe he doesn’t even want to. He looks calm. How disappointing. “Why would I send you a drink?” Handsome asks, visibly confused, getting out of Baldy’s face. If it was me, I’d answer something snarky about offering jobs or picking people up, but Baldy is no fun at all. “Clearly there is a misunderstanding,” he points out and waves the barkeeper over. “What can I get you?” he asks the usual phrase, trying to hide his nervousness. “Answers would be nice,” Handsome says in a threatening tone while Baldy asks the actual question they want answered. “Who sent us these drinks?” His levelheaded, controlled demeanor is somehow scarier than Handsome’s flashy irritation. Handsome reminds me of a dog barking behind a fence while Baldy’s like a coiling snake. The bartender’s eyes dart between the two, trying to figure out how much trouble he’s in. “The lady sent them,” he betrays me in a heartbeat. I’m not surprised he sold me out but I expected him to first try to say it was a misunderstanding or some such. I ponder how upset this should make me, but I can’t really blame him, especially since he looks so pathetic groveling and apologizing to the men. “I’m sorry, Sirs, I meant no harm. I didn’t think it would upset you,” he says. Handsome seems to enjoy feeling superior to someone subservient, but Baldy is fully focused on me. He waves his thin, long fingers dismissively and the bartender bows and backs away. Baldy tries to catch my gaze, but I don’t want to get into a staring contest with a snake. I look at the scene in general, not at him in particular. I stay in a relaxed pose, lounging on my chair. I take a sip of wine, then raise my cup to them with a hint of a smile. Baldy furrows the eyebrowless skin of his forehead, c***s his head and keeps staring. I can almost see thoughts crossing his mind in swift succession, yet I don’t know what he thinks. It’s odd. I was trained to read emotions and I’m usually very good at it. Well, not the emotions themselves, I’m not magically inclined, but the facial expressions and body language. Handsome displays a wide array of emotions. He’s angry, confused and frustrated but interestingly he looks to Baldy for direction, as if the smaller man was his leader. The shift in their dynamics happened around the time he lost his temper when Baldy remained cool, and then the way the bartender addressed Baldy and not him deepened their… well, hierarchy is not the word for it, because it is not set in stone, and I think Handsome will shake it off. I think he’s used to being independent and now he’s confused and frustrated finding himself in a secondary role, not knowing how he got there and what to do about it. Baldy looks cold and calculating. Come to think of it, he might not be entirely human. I’ve never heard of snake-men before, but the world is full of secrets and I’m still young. Whatever he is, I think his calculations lead to the conclusion that I’m not an imminent threat and the situation merits further inspection. He comes over to my table. Handsome follows suit.