golden eyes, fear and lies.

the righteous rise

the righteous rise / with burning eyes / of hatred and ill-will

madmen fed on fear and lies / to beat and burn and kill

-Witch Hunt, Rush (1981)

"—then I strangled 'im like this, while he was turning black 'n blue, you should've seen the look on 'is face!" The bartender burst out into uproarious laughter, pounding one fist into the splintered wooden table between us.

I kept the smile up and running on my face, although it was taking some effort. "Mmm. Fascinating."

"Then he was apologizing after that, said he'd never come back—damn near pissed himself—and I said, 'not in my bar, no siree!' The lout was refusin' to pay up the proper amount, y'know, an' you know there's got t' be consequences." The burly man clenched his fist until the veins popped up on his bicep like fat blue worms. He grinned at me. I counted around three teeth still in existence within his mouth.

"Absolutely right," I agreed politely. "Now. Erm. About those stews?" I reached into my pocket and sent a few coins rolling across the counter. They fell into the bartender's cupped fists with a pleasant clinking sound, and he jerked his head at one of the tavern's empty tables.

"Take a seat," he said. "Stews'll be out in a bit. Will you be wantin' a room?"

I nodded my head and tossed a few more coins his way, then went to find George.

He was waiting outside with the bags, rain coursing over the brim of his hat, looking miserable and cranky. Bert's rope was held in the crook of his arm; when I drew near, the mule lifted its head and whickered gently. George started, looked up—he glowered at me.

"Took you long enough," he said grumpily. A passing carriage careened through the mud and sprayed us both rainwater. There was a mutual groan.

"The barman wouldn't stop talking about strangling people," I said in exasperation.

"Great. I love this place already." George's expression looked anything but loving.

I grabbed my bag out of a puddle and darted a glance up at the cloudy gray sky, blinking through the rain; we left Bert inside a stable stall trudged back inside The Blackbird Inn, trailing mud as we went.

As London's oldest inn, The Blackbird Inn was relatively (no, make that surprisingly) clean. The floors were swept, the steps leading to the rooms were labeled as thus, and the water that gushed out of rusting faucets was a clear blue rather than brown.

Best of all, their food was said to be quite something. So as I sat at the table examining the map, illuminated only by a single swinging light bulb, my chubbier companion 'oohed' and 'aahed' over their menu.

"It takes maybe two weeks to get to Glasgow," I was muttering. "Depends on how much Bert can take."

I looked up from the map to see George rolling up tiny bread balls, seemingly bored as he scanned the crowded room. "George. Hello. Are you even listening?"

"Yep."

"Good, because this is important."

George sniffed, seemingly unperturbed. "I did all that before we left town. You're just telling me what I already know . . . Oh, the stew!"

Two bowls of beef stew were set down in front of us, hot and steaming. Despite my exhaustion and irritation, I felt my mouth begin to water. George picked up his spoon and then paused. "You won't be needing that map anyway. I've got the route memorized."