me since I
came in. Now I might have pissed off folk up and down this fair Land, but I don’t reckon we’ve met before, so don’t you think it’s a bit early for the
“we
don’t like strangers in these here parts”
crap?’
‘For an old bastard you got a big mouth on ya,’ the farmer growled, pushing himself to his feet. Turned out he looked bigger standing than hunched over a beer. ‘Strangers in
these parts we don’t mind, but troublemakers get thrown out on their arses and I reckon I know which you is.’
Morghien rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to let the man talk his way into trouble. He could frighten off the brainless mule easily enough, but he really didn’t need the trouble of a
public display. Old he might have been, but Morghien had a few tricks lurking in the dark corners of his mind – tricks even his friends in the Narkang Brotherhood wouldn’t choose to
tangle with.
All around him the room had fallen silent, tense and twitching like rabbits waiting to run. He took a moment to inspect the faces watching him from elsewhere in the tavern, determined not to
rush into a confrontation for a change. Most of the onlookers seemed apprehensive at what the farmer was looking to start, but not all. A small woman sat at the end of the bar with a thin-faced man
and they both simply watched the scene unfold.
Dispassionate, iron-grey eyes watched him while the woman idly played knotted black threads through her fingers. Morghien had noticed her as soon as he’d arrived and done the right thing
when he had, bought the witch a drink as a mark of respect before retreating to a table of his own. The man – her husband or something approximating it – had long dark hair, a thin
beard and hollow cheeks, but the piercing eyes of a crow. He was at least curious and watched Morghien with a strange intensity, while the witch hadn’t decided to pay him much attention.
‘Is this how strangers are greeted in these parts?’ Morghien asked the room in general, his eyes on the witch. ‘When you first came here, Mistress, were they so
friendly?’
The witch took a sip of beer and considered the question. ‘Not so much,’ she said finally, prompting the man beside her to smile. ‘But you know respect sometimes has to be
earned, sometimes taught.’
The farmer glanced between Morghien and the witch, unwilling to back down, but not so stupid as to go against the witch’s wishes.
‘I’m a bit old for teaching anyone about respect,’ Morghien said.
He glanced down as surreptitiously as he could at the axe that hung from a loop on his pack. He wasn’t sure he could reach it in time, which was a shame. It would be enough of a threat to
make an unarmed man back off, while the dagger at his belt was more likely to get him killed than anything else. Every man wore a knife, certainly in parts such as these. Lady Midday might not be a
spirit one feared, but there were plenty of others around that would do more than whisper at you.
‘Who says you’ll be doin’ the teachin’?’ the farmer snapped, trying to regain the initiative.
‘Oh I think you’d learn somethin’ any road,’ the witch drawled. ‘Might be a good lesson too. Or you could show our new friend here that you’re a real man and
buy him a beer instead. Brawling’s for little boys after all, drinking’s for men I’m told.’
The farmer pursed his lips, then gave a sharp nod and sat back down. He didn’t look happy with the outcome, but the witch’s tone had been clear enough; the fun was over. With an
approving nod the witch touched the hand of the man beside her and he slipped behind the bar. When two beers had been poured the witch herself brought them over, sitting at Morghien’s table
as she did so.
Her grey hair was seamed with black. Looking closely, Morghien realised she wasn’t as old as he’d assumed – a good ten years younger than he himself appeared – but the
eyes were cold and knowing. This close he
came in. Now I might have pissed off folk up and down this fair Land, but I don’t reckon we’ve met before, so don’t you think it’s a bit early for the
“we
don’t like strangers in these here parts”
crap?’
‘For an old bastard you got a big mouth on ya,’ the farmer growled, pushing himself to his feet. Turned out he looked bigger standing than hunched over a beer. ‘Strangers in
these parts we don’t mind, but troublemakers get thrown out on their arses and I reckon I know which you is.’
Morghien rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to let the man talk his way into trouble. He could frighten off the brainless mule easily enough, but he really didn’t need the trouble of a
public display. Old he might have been, but Morghien had a few tricks lurking in the dark corners of his mind – tricks even his friends in the Narkang Brotherhood wouldn’t choose to
tangle with.
All around him the room had fallen silent, tense and twitching like rabbits waiting to run. He took a moment to inspect the faces watching him from elsewhere in the tavern, determined not to
rush into a confrontation for a change. Most of the onlookers seemed apprehensive at what the farmer was looking to start, but not all. A small woman sat at the end of the bar with a thin-faced man
and they both simply watched the scene unfold.
Dispassionate, iron-grey eyes watched him while the woman idly played knotted black threads through her fingers. Morghien had noticed her as soon as he’d arrived and done the right thing
when he had, bought the witch a drink as a mark of respect before retreating to a table of his own. The man – her husband or something approximating it – had long dark hair, a thin
beard and hollow cheeks, but the piercing eyes of a crow. He was at least curious and watched Morghien with a strange intensity, while the witch hadn’t decided to pay him much attention.
‘Is this how strangers are greeted in these parts?’ Morghien asked the room in general, his eyes on the witch. ‘When you first came here, Mistress, were they so
friendly?’
The witch took a sip of beer and considered the question. ‘Not so much,’ she said finally, prompting the man beside her to smile. ‘But you know respect sometimes has to be
earned, sometimes taught.’
The farmer glanced between Morghien and the witch, unwilling to back down, but not so stupid as to go against the witch’s wishes.
‘I’m a bit old for teaching anyone about respect,’ Morghien said.
He glanced down as surreptitiously as he could at the axe that hung from a loop on his pack. He wasn’t sure he could reach it in time, which was a shame. It would be enough of a threat to
make an unarmed man back off, while the dagger at his belt was more likely to get him killed than anything else. Every man wore a knife, certainly in parts such as these. Lady Midday might not be a
spirit one feared, but there were plenty of others around that would do more than whisper at you.
‘Who says you’ll be doin’ the teachin’?’ the farmer snapped, trying to regain the initiative.
‘Oh I think you’d learn somethin’ any road,’ the witch drawled. ‘Might be a good lesson too. Or you could show our new friend here that you’re a real man and
buy him a beer instead. Brawling’s for little boys after all, drinking’s for men I’m told.’
The farmer pursed his lips, then gave a sharp nod and sat back down. He didn’t look happy with the outcome, but the witch’s tone had been clear enough; the fun was over. With an
approving nod the witch touched the hand of the man beside her and he slipped behind the bar. When two beers had been poured the witch herself brought them over, sitting at Morghien’s table
as she did so.
Her grey hair was seamed with black. Looking closely, Morghien realised she wasn’t as old as he’d assumed – a good ten years younger than he himself appeared – but the
eyes were cold and knowing. This close he
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