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Authors: Paul S. Kemp
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and Nix reached Shoddy Way, the downpour sounded like sling bullets against the cobbles. The flames of street torches sizzled, smoked, and danced in the rain.
Shoddy Way was a soup of mud and manure and the storm had mostly emptied the street. Only a donkey-pulled cart occupied the otherwise empty road, and it looked stuck in the mud.
The rain thumped like the beat of war drums off the colorful tents and canvas-covered booths of the Low Bazaar, which filled the plaza nearby. Braziers sizzled in the rain, the smoke carrying the smell of roasted mutton into the slate sky. Raucous laughter carried from one of the tents in the bazaar.
"Gods are taking a piss," Nix said.
Egil grunted agreement.
The simple wood plank sign that hung from rusted hooks over the front doors of the Slick Tunnel rattled in the wind. Weather and time had reduced the lettering to The unnel , but left intact the salaciously drawn image of a cave mouth.
"Needs a new sign," Nix said.
Egil harrumphed from the depths of his cowl. "Needs a lot of new things."
"But not new owners," Nix said, and thumped Egil on the mountain of his shoulder. "Got those, now."
"Aye," Egil said skeptically.
They eyed the building they now owned – two stories of crumbling bricks and warped wood, capped with a roof of cracked tiles. A sagging second-floor balcony overlooked Shoddy Way and would give a good view of the plaza and the Low Bazaar, but Nix wouldn't have trusted its worn brackets to hold his weight.
The building had been the home of a wealthy merchant once. But Dur Follin's rich had long ago moved across the Archbridge to the west side of the Meander, leaving the poor to the east and the very poor to the Warrens. Since then the building had changed hands many times, slowly collecting unsavory neighbors until Shoddy Way was a virtual treasure trove of drug dens, pawneries, and all manner of establishments engaged in illicit mercantilism.
A quartet of cloaked men pelted across the street from the bazaar plaza and pushed their way through Egil and Nix.
"One side, bunghole," said the tallest of the men. "It's pouring out here."
Nix resisted the urge to sink his punch dagger into a kidney. Scabbards poked out from under the hem of the men's weathered cloaks, and each wore a boiled leather jack. The mouthy one threw open the door of the Tunnel . Faint lantern light, laughter, conversation, and smoke leaked out onto Shoddy Way.
"I see manners haven't improved while we were away," Nix observed, his hands doing what they always did when someone bumped into him.
"Fak you," the last of the men said over his shoulder, and the door to the brothel and tavern Nix now half-owned slammed in his face. He stared after them, rubbing his nose. He turned to Egil.
"Are you as offended as I?"
Egil raised his bushy brows and his eyes went to Nix's hand.
Nix looked down and saw in his palm the small leather coin pouch he'd taken from the tall mouthy one.
"I had to lift it," Nix said. "He bumped into me. And rudely so. At that point it's a matter of principle."
"Principle?"
Nix hefted the purse and put the weight at twelve or thirteen coins. "Principle indeed. I'll say twelve. Terns and commons only. Not a royal to be seen, not from those jackanapes. Take odds?"
"From you? On that? Do I look like a fool?"
"I won't answer that so as to spare your feelings." Nix fingered open the pouch and examined the contents. "Nine terns and three commons. Scarcely worth the effort."
They had no need for more coin, so Nix sloshed through the mud over to the donkey cart and driver. The cart was sunk halfway up to the axle in mud. The donkey, ears flat, coat steaming, seemed to have given up trying to pull it, despite the entreaties of the cloaked driver, an old man with a creased face and a wispy beard. Three sacks of grain and a barrel lay in the back of the cart. The old man looked
Shoddy Way was a soup of mud and manure and the storm had mostly emptied the street. Only a donkey-pulled cart occupied the otherwise empty road, and it looked stuck in the mud.
The rain thumped like the beat of war drums off the colorful tents and canvas-covered booths of the Low Bazaar, which filled the plaza nearby. Braziers sizzled in the rain, the smoke carrying the smell of roasted mutton into the slate sky. Raucous laughter carried from one of the tents in the bazaar.
"Gods are taking a piss," Nix said.
Egil grunted agreement.
The simple wood plank sign that hung from rusted hooks over the front doors of the Slick Tunnel rattled in the wind. Weather and time had reduced the lettering to The unnel , but left intact the salaciously drawn image of a cave mouth.
"Needs a new sign," Nix said.
Egil harrumphed from the depths of his cowl. "Needs a lot of new things."
"But not new owners," Nix said, and thumped Egil on the mountain of his shoulder. "Got those, now."
"Aye," Egil said skeptically.
They eyed the building they now owned – two stories of crumbling bricks and warped wood, capped with a roof of cracked tiles. A sagging second-floor balcony overlooked Shoddy Way and would give a good view of the plaza and the Low Bazaar, but Nix wouldn't have trusted its worn brackets to hold his weight.
The building had been the home of a wealthy merchant once. But Dur Follin's rich had long ago moved across the Archbridge to the west side of the Meander, leaving the poor to the east and the very poor to the Warrens. Since then the building had changed hands many times, slowly collecting unsavory neighbors until Shoddy Way was a virtual treasure trove of drug dens, pawneries, and all manner of establishments engaged in illicit mercantilism.
A quartet of cloaked men pelted across the street from the bazaar plaza and pushed their way through Egil and Nix.
"One side, bunghole," said the tallest of the men. "It's pouring out here."
Nix resisted the urge to sink his punch dagger into a kidney. Scabbards poked out from under the hem of the men's weathered cloaks, and each wore a boiled leather jack. The mouthy one threw open the door of the Tunnel . Faint lantern light, laughter, conversation, and smoke leaked out onto Shoddy Way.
"I see manners haven't improved while we were away," Nix observed, his hands doing what they always did when someone bumped into him.
"Fak you," the last of the men said over his shoulder, and the door to the brothel and tavern Nix now half-owned slammed in his face. He stared after them, rubbing his nose. He turned to Egil.
"Are you as offended as I?"
Egil raised his bushy brows and his eyes went to Nix's hand.
Nix looked down and saw in his palm the small leather coin pouch he'd taken from the tall mouthy one.
"I had to lift it," Nix said. "He bumped into me. And rudely so. At that point it's a matter of principle."
"Principle?"
Nix hefted the purse and put the weight at twelve or thirteen coins. "Principle indeed. I'll say twelve. Terns and commons only. Not a royal to be seen, not from those jackanapes. Take odds?"
"From you? On that? Do I look like a fool?"
"I won't answer that so as to spare your feelings." Nix fingered open the pouch and examined the contents. "Nine terns and three commons. Scarcely worth the effort."
They had no need for more coin, so Nix sloshed through the mud over to the donkey cart and driver. The cart was sunk halfway up to the axle in mud. The donkey, ears flat, coat steaming, seemed to have given up trying to pull it, despite the entreaties of the cloaked driver, an old man with a creased face and a wispy beard. Three sacks of grain and a barrel lay in the back of the cart. The old man looked
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