Read Online The Steel Remains by Richard K. Morgan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard K. Morgan
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the uninvited arrivals, if you could. You never know, the next one might be an assassin.”
“Yes, your honor. I'm truly sorry, your honor. It won't happen agai—”
Milacar waved him out. Quon shut up and withdrew, bowing and wringing his hands. Ringil crushed out a quiver of sympathy for the man, stepped on it like a spilled pipe ember. No time for that now. He advanced into the room. The machete boy watched him with glittering eyes.
“You're not an assassin, are you, Gil?”
“Not tonight.”
“Good. Because you seem to have left that big sword of yours behind somewhere.” Milacar paused delicately. “If, of course, you still have it. That big sword of yours.”
Ringil reached the table at a point roughly opposite Grace- of-Heaven.
“Yeah, still got it.” He grinned, made a leg for his host. “Still as big as ever.”
A couple of outraged gasps from the assembled company. He looked around at the faces.
“I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. Good evening, gentlemen. Ladies.” Though there were, technically, none of the latter in the room. Every female present had been paid. He surveyed the heaped table, matched gazes with one of the whores at random, spoke specifically to her.
“So what's good, my lady?”
Shocked, gently rocking quiet. The whore opened her purple- painted mouth in disbelief, gaped back at him. Ringil smiled patiently. She looked hopelessly around for guidance from one or another of her outraged clients.
“It's all good, Gil.” If the room bristled at Ringil's subtle insult in addressing a prostitute ahead of the gathered worthies, Milacar at least was unmoved. “That's why I pay for it. But why don't you try the cougar heart, there in the yellow bowl. That's especially good. A Yhelteth marinade. I don't imagine you'll have tasted much of that sort of thing in recent years, out there in the sticks.”
“No, that's right. Strictly mutton and wolf, down among the peasants.” Ringil leaned in and scooped a chunk of meat from the bowl. His fingers dripped sauce back across the table in a line. He bit in, chewed for a while, and nodded. “That's pretty good for a bordello spread.”
More gasps. At his elbow, someone shot to his feet. Bearded face, not much older than forty, and not as overfed as others around the table. Burly beneath the purple- and- gold upriver couture, some muscle on that frame by the look of it. A hand clapped to a court rapier that had not been checked at the door. Ringil spotted a signet ring with the marsh daisy emblem.
“This is an outrage! You will not insult this company with impunity, Eskiath. I demand—”
“I'd rather you didn't call me that,” Ringil told him, still chewing.
“Master Ringil
will do fine.”
“You, sir, need a lesson in—”
“Sit
down.”
Ringil's voice barely rose, but the flicker of his look was a lash. He locked gazes with his challenger, and the other man flinched. It was the same threat he'd offered the machete boy, given voice this time in case the recipient was drunk or just hadn't ever stood close enough to a real fight to read Ringil's look for what it promised.
The burly man sat.
“Perhaps you should sit down, too, Gil,” Grace- of- Heaven suggested mildly. “We don't eat standing up in the Glades. It's considered rude.”
Ringil licked his fingers clean.
“Yeah, I know.” He looked elaborately around the table. “Anyone care to give up their seat?”
Milacar nodded at the whore nearest to him, one seated guest away from where he held court in the big chair. The woman got to her feet with well- schooled alacrity, and without a word. She backed gracefully off to one of the curtained alcove windows and stood there motionless, hands gathered demurely at one hip, posed slightly to display her muslin- shrouded form for the rest of the room.
Ringil moved around the table to the vacated seat, inclined his head in the woman's direction, and lowered himself onto her chair. The velvet plush was warm from her
“Yes, your honor. I'm truly sorry, your honor. It won't happen agai—”
Milacar waved him out. Quon shut up and withdrew, bowing and wringing his hands. Ringil crushed out a quiver of sympathy for the man, stepped on it like a spilled pipe ember. No time for that now. He advanced into the room. The machete boy watched him with glittering eyes.
“You're not an assassin, are you, Gil?”
“Not tonight.”
“Good. Because you seem to have left that big sword of yours behind somewhere.” Milacar paused delicately. “If, of course, you still have it. That big sword of yours.”
Ringil reached the table at a point roughly opposite Grace- of-Heaven.
“Yeah, still got it.” He grinned, made a leg for his host. “Still as big as ever.”
A couple of outraged gasps from the assembled company. He looked around at the faces.
“I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. Good evening, gentlemen. Ladies.” Though there were, technically, none of the latter in the room. Every female present had been paid. He surveyed the heaped table, matched gazes with one of the whores at random, spoke specifically to her.
“So what's good, my lady?”
Shocked, gently rocking quiet. The whore opened her purple- painted mouth in disbelief, gaped back at him. Ringil smiled patiently. She looked hopelessly around for guidance from one or another of her outraged clients.
“It's all good, Gil.” If the room bristled at Ringil's subtle insult in addressing a prostitute ahead of the gathered worthies, Milacar at least was unmoved. “That's why I pay for it. But why don't you try the cougar heart, there in the yellow bowl. That's especially good. A Yhelteth marinade. I don't imagine you'll have tasted much of that sort of thing in recent years, out there in the sticks.”
“No, that's right. Strictly mutton and wolf, down among the peasants.” Ringil leaned in and scooped a chunk of meat from the bowl. His fingers dripped sauce back across the table in a line. He bit in, chewed for a while, and nodded. “That's pretty good for a bordello spread.”
More gasps. At his elbow, someone shot to his feet. Bearded face, not much older than forty, and not as overfed as others around the table. Burly beneath the purple- and- gold upriver couture, some muscle on that frame by the look of it. A hand clapped to a court rapier that had not been checked at the door. Ringil spotted a signet ring with the marsh daisy emblem.
“This is an outrage! You will not insult this company with impunity, Eskiath. I demand—”
“I'd rather you didn't call me that,” Ringil told him, still chewing.
“Master Ringil
will do fine.”
“You, sir, need a lesson in—”
“Sit
down.”
Ringil's voice barely rose, but the flicker of his look was a lash. He locked gazes with his challenger, and the other man flinched. It was the same threat he'd offered the machete boy, given voice this time in case the recipient was drunk or just hadn't ever stood close enough to a real fight to read Ringil's look for what it promised.
The burly man sat.
“Perhaps you should sit down, too, Gil,” Grace- of- Heaven suggested mildly. “We don't eat standing up in the Glades. It's considered rude.”
Ringil licked his fingers clean.
“Yeah, I know.” He looked elaborately around the table. “Anyone care to give up their seat?”
Milacar nodded at the whore nearest to him, one seated guest away from where he held court in the big chair. The woman got to her feet with well- schooled alacrity, and without a word. She backed gracefully off to one of the curtained alcove windows and stood there motionless, hands gathered demurely at one hip, posed slightly to display her muslin- shrouded form for the rest of the room.
Ringil moved around the table to the vacated seat, inclined his head in the woman's direction, and lowered himself onto her chair. The velvet plush was warm from her
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