Free Husk: A Maresman Tale by D.P. Prior Page A

nature, to Jeb’s mind. On a low stage tucked away in one corner, a pair of scalawags were barking out a bawdy shanty, one strumming a mandolin, the other pumping a squeeze box. Either they were pirates, or their attire was part of the act: gold loops dangling from their ears, tricorn hats, and salt-stained leather coats that looked like they’d seen their share of storms at sea. Round tables were dotted about the hardwood floor, patrons seated at them on barrel chairs and rickety stools. Most were deep in their ales already, and many were even deeper in furtive conversations. Smoke plumed and coiled about the room from weedsticks and the bowls of clay pipes. It collected beneath the ceiling, weighty, oppressive, like a blanket of cloud on an overcast day.
    From where Jeb sat by the window, he glimpsed a fair bit of coin exchange hands, mostly over the table, sometimes under. A flash of red drew his eyes to where Dame Consilia was holding court with a clutch of middle-aged men, all seemingly vying for her favor. Her two stooges were seated either side of her, chins resting on hands, looking sullenly in opposite directions. A couple of men were setting up a card table close by, and Dame Consilia studied their activity with more than a little eagerness. Jeb recognized them from the Crawfish: the old man, Farly—the one with a nose for the truth—and his stoat-faced accomplice. Looked to Jeb like Dame Consilia had her hopes set on some winnings, and the two hustlers had seen her coming.
    From what he’d overheard already, two men had be found dead, one the night he’d left town following Sweet’s beating, the other yesterday. Word was, it was a whore or her pimp, seeing as both victims had been found with their britches round their ankles in the vicinity of Carey’s Hostelry. Had to be what had Davy Fana so spooked, and the coincidence was too big to ignore, but Jeb couldn’t make the connection with the stygian he’d seen on Boss’s land. Stygians were nasty bastards when it came to killing, but having sexual relations with their victims—and male ones at that… The stygians he’d heard about were in too much of a hurry to eat the still warm flesh of their prey, and by all accounts, they were as sexually active as a castrated Wayist with no hands and feet, and no head to boot. The image would have been ludicrous if it weren’t true. That’s the way the senate of New Jerusalem used to deal with the cultists before the new era of tolerance.
    Jeb was half out of his seat, intending to make his way to the bar, where most of the gossip was taking place, when he caught sight of a man watching him from a table by the hearth. He was robed in coarse brown cloth fastened at the waist by a length of rope. The face was mostly shrouded by a drooping cowl. A jug of water was set on the table before him, and as he saw Jeb noticing, he lifted it and topped up his mug. His other hand tapped out a rhythm on an open book he seemed distracted from reading.
    “Good morning, Maresman.” His voice carried over the din with ease. “Have you broken your fast already, or will you permit me to order you something? I’m told the eggs and ham are good here, but I’ll never know.” He raised his mug and gave a wry smile. “Water’s my lot till lunch, but not to grumble.”
    Truth was, Jeb was starving, but it’d taken the stranger’s offer to realize it.
    He eyed the man up and down—what he could see of him; there could have been any number of things concealed beneath the table, but at least his hands were in sight. The way the man kept up the eye-to-eye, Jeb should’ve felt riled, especially with that smile, which had the danger of turning smug but never quite made it. Instead, he felt invisible threads tugging him closer, warming him with the sort of comfort a child might have on coming home. If his home hadn’t been in Malfen; and if he’d had someone to come home to, besides an aunt and uncle who resented him being there.