The Yellow Silk - Don Bassingthwaite [19]
Lander considered the Shou's saber as he walked. Maybe he should have sold it. The hilt was nicely put together, with a fine grip of some coarse-grained leather he didn't recognize and bronze fittings carved with Shou characters. The scabbard matched it, fashioned from wood, brass, and the same coarse leather dyed red. The only problem was that it wasn't meant to be worn like a normal sword. He figured out how to clip it to his belt, but to draw it properly, he would have to carry it as the Shou had. He could figure out a way to fix that though. He buffed the hilt and nodded to himself. It was a nasty, heavy weapon. No, he'd keep it. For now, anyway.
Lander turned a corner onto a street very close to the waterfront and walked up to a long, low building. Painted along the wall and across the door was the sinuous body of an enormous eel. He went inside. In spite of the hour, there were still people around, though most of them were deep in drunken sleep. Those few who were awake glanced at Lander and then quickly turned back to their beer and whatever whispered conversations they were holding. Lander caught the eye of the bartender, a massive man who was as hairless as an egg, and raised his eyebrow. The bartender tilted his head ever so slightly toward the back of the festhall. Lander went that way. Off to one side, a room of gambling tables lay quiet for the night. Off to the other, a heavy curtain hid the way to a series of small rooms where more intimate pleasures could be had. Lander steered his way between the two, pushing aside another curtain to enter a narrow, dark passage.
The sound reached him first as he groped his way through the darkness. Someone was weeping in agony. Smell followed and Lander wrinkled his nose at the pungent barnyard stench. No matter how often that stink assaulted him, he could never get used to it. He gulped air, though, and forced the grimace from his face as his fingers touched rough wood. He stepped through a door to the wide alley behind the Eel and the pigsty Brin kept there.
Bitch Queen's mercy, most of the pigs were asleep. They made a great mass of quivering, snorting flesh in among the straw under the covered portion of the sty. The heat of their bodies kept the shelter comfortable even in the coldest weather; the snow on the roof was already melting in big, fat drops. The pigs hadn't had a chance yet to churn up what snow had fallen on the ground and the sty looked almost pretty. Lander knew better. He picked his way carefully, trying not to disturb the filth underneath.
To one side of the sty, there was a table with a lantern and a bench. Sitting astride the bench, his ankles bound together underneath it, was a man named Kiril. Lander knew him. He collected extortion coin for Brin from several shops on the east of dockside.
His right hand was tied around behind his back. His left was caught in a screw press. He was the one doing the weeping. Judging from the wet state of his hair and shoulders, he had been outside for some time.
Sitting cross-legged on the table beside the press was Brin. Barely three feet tall, the halfling might have been mistaken for a very slight child except for the pinched cruelty of his face. His mouth was narrow and harsh, and a patch covered his left eye socket. There were various tales of how Brin had lost that eye. Some said he put it out himself. Lander didn't believe that. He did, however, believe that Brin was fully capable of such a thing. "Brin," he said in greeting.
"Lander!" Brin's voice, rich and expressive, was a strange contrast to his face. No matter what was going on, he always seemed to be enjoying himself.