Free The Hammer and the Blade by Paul S. Kemp Page B

behind him.
      On the stairs, Tesha, still staring at him, raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
      "Maybe I would," Nix said philosophically. "I've bloodied an edge over less. But that's neither hither nor yon, since she's more than that to me. It happens she's a rent-paying tenant. My rent-paying tenant, since I own this place."
      A few murmured comments, one soft "huzzah" from one of the teamsters.
      The hiresword guffawed. "You own this place? Ha! You lose a wager or something? I heard you was called 'lucky.' This place is a shithole."
      The slam of Egil's tankard on the bar, as loud as the report of a blunderbuss, cut short the chuckles of the hiresword's companions. All eyes turned to the priest. The stool groaned with relief as Egil rose.
     
    Rakon sat his horse, blinking in the drizzle, Rusilla's slouched form before him in the saddle. The eunuch sat a horse beside him, his ham hands clutching Merelda's limp form to prevent her from falling off the mount. Rakon's men stood around an uncovered, horse-drawn wagon. All but Baras, the head of Rakon's personal guard, had cloak hoods drawn against the rain.
      "That's it there, my lord?" Baras asked, pointing at the decrepit building across the street.
      Rakon squinted through the drizzle at the sign that hung over the building's door. He couldn't make out the faded writing, but the image limned on the board looked like a dark tunnel.
      "That's it," Rakon said.
      "And they're inside, this Egil and Nix?"
      "They are," Rakon said. Or so his informant had told him.
      Baras nodded. His face wrinkled in a question but he did not give it voice.
      "What is it, Baras?" Rakon asked.
      Baras looked up at Rakon, droplets of rain adorning his beard. "My lord, why are we bothering with these two? I don't see–"
      "We'll need them when we reach Afirion," Rakon said.
      "Yes, but these two men are thieves by reputation. There are others–"
      "No," Rakon said sharply. "It must be these two. Now do as I've said, Baras. No more questions."
      Baras stiffened. "Aye, my lord."
      "I need them alive. Bring them to the warehouse in the docks, the one we've used before. I'll meet you there."
      "Aye, my lord."
     
    "It may be a shithole, slubber," Egil said to the hiresword, "but it's our shithole. And you and yours are no longer welcome in it."
      Nix smiled, pleased to see Egil taking some pride of ownership. "I'm glad to hear you own up to–"
      The hiresword let Lis go and put a hand to his blade hilt. His three companions pushed back their chairs and stood.
      "Is that right?" the hiresword said to Egil. "You mean to kick us out? Of here?"
      He chuckled darkly and his comrades echoed him. The chuckles died, however, as Egil walked toward them, shoving empty chairs out of his way as he went. Nix fell in behind him, seeing how it would go.
      "This is our place," Nix hissed. "Whatever you break is our lost coin."
      The priest seemed not to hear him and went nose to nose with the hiresword. "I'm not kicking you out. I'm telling you and them to leave. If I was kicking you out, my boot'd be in your arse."
      Anger colored the man's pockmarked face. His mustache and stubble twitched. With his narrow chin and large nose, he reminded Nix of a river rat.
      "Ain't you a priest or something?" the man said, his eyes flicking over the scalp tattoo.
      "Or something," Egil said. "Now, get out."
      The man looked over at Nix. "Is this slubber serious?"
      Nix rubbed his chin and made a dramatic show of studying Egil's face, the furrowed brow, the narrowed eyes, the way his chest rose and fell. Egil's eyes never left the hiresword's face.
      "Hmm. Not yet, I'd say, but–"
      The man whirled back on Egil, spraying spit as he spoke. "Then tell him to stop wasting my fakkin' time, eh? And maybe get out of my face? I want to get drunk and then laid."
      "Ah, don't we all," Nix said, nodding sympathetically.
      "You'll do