“Smethyck,” said the barman.
“Arr.”
“Over here.”
As it turned out, Smethyck wasn't quite what Ethan had expected. He'd envisioned a wizened, elderly chap with nicotine stained fingers, a permanent stoop, and a gnarled, knotted face common to those ale house patrons who spent a lot of their time imbibing spirits strong enough to dissolve an elephant's molar.
This guy was young, no older than eighteen certainly, and he looked to be in the peak of physical condition. He was the last person you'd expect to find lurking in the dark recesses of a deserted drinking establishment. God alone knew who the first person would be.
“What is it, Frazzle?” he said to the barman.
(Oh, thank goodness for that. I wish I'd known the barman's name sooner. I've spent ages trawling through my thesaurus try
