The King's Messenger

Chapter 13

Dressed again in Lias's clothes, Messenger ventured to The Black Cat after a few hours of prep work. He'd found an inn to store his spare clothes in, and there, he'd also left the sheath for his shortsword and his dagger. The sheath was far too ornamental to be convincing; the sword itself was nice enough work to push credibility for why a lowlife would have it. He dirtied his hands, making sure to get grime under his nails. Lias's clothes were fine as they were. His black hair was next, which he oiled up a little with grease from lunch. Rather disgusting, he knew, but effective nonetheless. He looked sufficiently disreputable with the changes. The last step was to wrap his blade; he cut a section of the bedsheet to do so. He'd leave an extra coin or two for the damage, but he didn't want to walk around with a completely bare sword at his hip.

The Black Cat was nearly empty at this time, early afternoon. Still, there were people- employees, Messenger assumed- milling about, mostly hulking men with aggressive features.

"Whaddya want?" one such man demanded gruffly, folding his arms.

"Lookin' for Leben," Messenger drawled, adding a burr to his voice. "Issa 'bout the job."

The man jerked his head. "Follow me. Leben's upstairs."

He stomped up the stairs, Messenger more lightly in tow, and knocked on a door.

"Come in," came a voice, presumably Leben's.

The gruff man pushed the door open. Inside, Leben sat at a desk, leaning back in his chair to give his ample gut room to spread.

"What, then?" Leben said without preamble.

"He's here for the job," the gruff man said before Messenger could speak.

Leben glanced over Messenger, eyebrows raised disdainfully. "You're a fighter?" His eyes ran Messenger up and down. "Don't look it," he said doubtfully.

Oh, right. Messenger wasn't really big, and big typically meant a good fighter in this skill bracket. Well, whatever.

He crossed his arms. "I'm quick with a blade. Quicker'n all your other fighters, I reckon. You want me to prove it?"

Leben considered the suggestion, noddin slowly. "Right then. Let's see it. Mirk?"

Mirk advanced on Messenger, raising his fists.

Almost breaking character, Messenger spluttered, "In an office? Really? There's no room!" Mirk very inconsiderately swung a heavy fist at Messenger's face nonetheless, which Messenger dodged easily. The next two blows that followed were similarly dodged, then Messenger ducked through the third and gave Mirk a solid tap to the solar plexus. Mirk fell to his knees. Messenger heard a light clink to his left. Messenger lunged forward once more to gently catch a falling bottle of gin that had been displaced from the wall, barely managing to get his hand under it before it hit the ground. If Messenger had been a less skillful fighter, Leben would have greatly regretted his decision to have them duke it out in the cramped room.

Leben regarded Messenger with a wide-eyed expression. He nodded at Messenger's bound sword. "You do that with a sword, too?"

Messenger scoffed as Mirk stood. "Of course I do."

Leben smiled broadly. "Then you've got a job," he said. Be at the docks three days from now at sundown. The ship's called Seafarer; the figurehead's a dancer. Can't miss it."

Creative name, creative figurehead. Classic.

Leben continued. "What's your name?"

"Ry Shelling," Messenger said offhandedly.