solve a logic problem. He readied himself.
‘Rich men shouldn’t come down here. About time you headed home, rich man. But leave your purse.’ The big Beetle put his hands on the table and loomed over Stenwold, who sighed.
A moment later he had grabbed his end of the table and whipped it upwards, as hard as he could. The other man lurched forward as his support was yanked away, and his face met the tabletop as it came up, with the crunching sound of a broken nose and dislodged teeth. Stenwold was up in a moment, giving himself space as everyone else in the den started and stared, some reaching for weapons, others just making sure they were well out of the way.
The big Beetle did not stir, so Stenwold guessed he had been knocked cold. Despite his station in life and his pretence at dignity, he could not help but feel a spark of pride.
A moment later two other men were moving towards him, another Beetle and a Kessen Ant-kinden, and they both had drawn swords. His pride evaporated swiftly. Even thugs have friends. He had his own blade out, waiting for them, his other hand reaching into his tunic. I feel I’m about to attract a little too much attention. His hand inside his coat touched the butt of his other weapon.
He almost missed the little clack of the crossbow, but one of the men was abruptly down on one knee, swearing and tugging at the bolt through his thigh. The Ant whirled, looking for the archer, and a brief shape flitted past his head with a sound like a slap, leaving him reeling drunkenly. His attacker was a young Fly-kinden man, who touched down on a table almost within arm’s reach of him. He had a cudgel in one hand and a knife in the other.
‘It’s chucking-out time,’ the Fly announced. The Kessen stared at him, one hand to his head, sword weighing in his hand. Another Fly, a woman, stepped out from around the table with a little under-and-over crossbow. It would not have done much against a suit of armour, but the Ant-kinden wore nothing but a leather jerkin and breeches.
‘Take him,’ the Fly woman ordered, ‘and clear off.’
The Ant came to the right decision, hauling up his protesting friend and dragging him, limping, out the door. The Fly man hopped to the ground, inspecting the man that Stenwold had knocked out.
‘Backswimmer’s lads,’ he said.
‘He always did hire idiots,’ added the woman. She sounded a little better educated than her companion, or than most of the people Stenwold had been speaking to all day.
The Fly man stepped close to Stenwold, who regarding him cautiously, sword still in hand. ‘Perhaps you should come with us,’ the little man said.
‘And why would I want to do that?’ Stenwold asked. The woman was meanwhile keeping an eye on the den’s other patrons, who were making a grand show of ignoring everything. Her crossbow was not pointed at Stenwold, which was a good sign at least.
‘You have questions, don’t you? Or is this just a way for you to spend an idle afternoon?’ the Fly man inquired, adding, with just a touch too much drama, ‘Master Maker?’
It was said quietly enough not to carry, but Stenwold twitched on hearing it. So, I don’t play the old game as well as I used to, then. And am I surprised, here in my own town? Even in this dive I’m a public figure.
‘I’ll keep my sword,’ he said heavily.
The Fly shrugged. ‘However you like. But Backswim-mer’ll send a few lads out here as soon as he hears, just to hammer out the dent in his pride. So perhaps we should taste our legs, now, Master.’
He gave a grin and then sauntered away, with Stenwold following uncertainly in tow. The woman rested the crossbow on her shoulder, the great huntress in miniature, and then followed them outside.
In the old days, the sea had meant rather more to Collegium, not merely for trade but for the mysterious rituals and mummery that the city founders had placed such reliance on. The Moth-kinden had built this city and named it Pathis, or rather
‘Rich men shouldn’t come down here. About time you headed home, rich man. But leave your purse.’ The big Beetle put his hands on the table and loomed over Stenwold, who sighed.
A moment later he had grabbed his end of the table and whipped it upwards, as hard as he could. The other man lurched forward as his support was yanked away, and his face met the tabletop as it came up, with the crunching sound of a broken nose and dislodged teeth. Stenwold was up in a moment, giving himself space as everyone else in the den started and stared, some reaching for weapons, others just making sure they were well out of the way.
The big Beetle did not stir, so Stenwold guessed he had been knocked cold. Despite his station in life and his pretence at dignity, he could not help but feel a spark of pride.
A moment later two other men were moving towards him, another Beetle and a Kessen Ant-kinden, and they both had drawn swords. His pride evaporated swiftly. Even thugs have friends. He had his own blade out, waiting for them, his other hand reaching into his tunic. I feel I’m about to attract a little too much attention. His hand inside his coat touched the butt of his other weapon.
He almost missed the little clack of the crossbow, but one of the men was abruptly down on one knee, swearing and tugging at the bolt through his thigh. The Ant whirled, looking for the archer, and a brief shape flitted past his head with a sound like a slap, leaving him reeling drunkenly. His attacker was a young Fly-kinden man, who touched down on a table almost within arm’s reach of him. He had a cudgel in one hand and a knife in the other.
‘It’s chucking-out time,’ the Fly announced. The Kessen stared at him, one hand to his head, sword weighing in his hand. Another Fly, a woman, stepped out from around the table with a little under-and-over crossbow. It would not have done much against a suit of armour, but the Ant-kinden wore nothing but a leather jerkin and breeches.
‘Take him,’ the Fly woman ordered, ‘and clear off.’
The Ant came to the right decision, hauling up his protesting friend and dragging him, limping, out the door. The Fly man hopped to the ground, inspecting the man that Stenwold had knocked out.
‘Backswimmer’s lads,’ he said.
‘He always did hire idiots,’ added the woman. She sounded a little better educated than her companion, or than most of the people Stenwold had been speaking to all day.
The Fly man stepped close to Stenwold, who regarding him cautiously, sword still in hand. ‘Perhaps you should come with us,’ the little man said.
‘And why would I want to do that?’ Stenwold asked. The woman was meanwhile keeping an eye on the den’s other patrons, who were making a grand show of ignoring everything. Her crossbow was not pointed at Stenwold, which was a good sign at least.
‘You have questions, don’t you? Or is this just a way for you to spend an idle afternoon?’ the Fly man inquired, adding, with just a touch too much drama, ‘Master Maker?’
It was said quietly enough not to carry, but Stenwold twitched on hearing it. So, I don’t play the old game as well as I used to, then. And am I surprised, here in my own town? Even in this dive I’m a public figure.
‘I’ll keep my sword,’ he said heavily.
The Fly shrugged. ‘However you like. But Backswim-mer’ll send a few lads out here as soon as he hears, just to hammer out the dent in his pride. So perhaps we should taste our legs, now, Master.’
He gave a grin and then sauntered away, with Stenwold following uncertainly in tow. The woman rested the crossbow on her shoulder, the great huntress in miniature, and then followed them outside.
In the old days, the sea had meant rather more to Collegium, not merely for trade but for the mysterious rituals and mummery that the city founders had placed such reliance on. The Moth-kinden had built this city and named it Pathis, or rather
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