The Sword of Wisimir

Chapter 2: Scheming (Part 1)

"What do you Southsiders want?"

Jack tugged his hood further over his face and let Orri do the talking.

"We're 'ere t' settle up Von Drey's account."

It was the morning after his robbery and Jack had returned to the Bell and Horse, the Inn near the centre of the city where he'd been drinking the day before, and where he'd kept a room for the last three years since his mother died. At the bar stood Brejyt, owner of the establishment and a woman Jack had known nearly all the time he'd lived there. Either she didn't recognise him or didn't care. Instead she faced down Orri Garner.

"Careful. Your nose bleedin' this far out of the cheapstreets?"

Orri smiled through clenched teeth. "C'mon Brejyt, y'know me—"

"Doesn't mean I like you." Brejyt folded her arms. She was taller than Orri, six foot to his five foot five and she used the inches to maximum effect. Jack guessed she probably had six stone on him as well and comfortable living hadn't softened her much.

"There's no way you're getting in that room," she said and her brown eyes flashed at them both. She'd been married before, but her husband disappeared long ago. Jack couldn't imagine any man measuring up to her standards.

Orri glanced around, stepped forward and beckoned her closer. "How much does he owe?"

"You trying to buy me?" Brejyt accused.

"No, I'm trying to settle his debts and get his stuff for him. How much does he owe?"

Brejyt frowned and thought about it. "Three and a half crowns," she said finally.

Jack bit his tongue to keep quiet.

"So, he's not paid you for six months?" Orri sounded shocked.

"Three and a half crowns and you get twenty five minutes, that's my price." 

Orri managed to feign reluctance in handing over the money in exchange for the room key, then they headed up the stairs.

Jack elbowed Orri out of the way and opened the door with his own key. "She's conned you, three and a half crowns? I was never more than one behind on the rent."

Orri shrugged. "She's conned us, but we can afford it. Grab your stuff an' let's get out of 'ere."

Jack looked around the room, the last stand of Jack 'Von Drey'. The surname meant nothing, an affectation of his mother who – in her last years – had pinned her hopes on one of her mysterious lovers whisking them away. Now 'Von Drey' was dead at thirty-three, cut off in his prime, like the ponytail in Orri's wash basin. He couldn't use the surname. If he wasn't already linked to the theft, he would be soon.

Broken wine bottles littered the floor. Jack realised he hadn't been this sober for a long time. He pulled the bed out from the corner and took a stained sheet from the straw mattress. Then he gathered up all the things he wanted to keep. There wasn't much. A small mirror his mother gave him with strange marks on the frame, some clothes, a few coins and little else.

"Shouldn' bother'd w'this," Orri grumbled from the doorway. "What you got that crowns can't buy?"

"Stop pushing me, this is my whole life!"

"Two hunnerd crowns'll buy plenty more."

Jack frowned. "And the rest? You counted out three hundred and twenty four."

Orri looked solemn. "Well fair's fair. I am helpin' you out 'ere."

"So you thought you deserved that much as a cut?"