Warm air rolled out of the Anchor the moment Morven pushed the heavy oak door inward. The heat carried the thick smell of stale ale, wet wool, and cheap tobacco. Steam rose in lazy coils from soaked coats hung near the iron stove in the corner.
That damp smell mixed with the sharp tang of a root stew left bubbling too long on the back burner. The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the foggy, grease-stained windows, sealing the tavern off from the rest of the harbor.
Men hunched at scarred tables with their mugs pulled close to their chests. Some kept playing cards half hidden under their thick fingers. Others stared blankly at the floorboards while their boots dripped dirty water onto the wood. The low hum of harbor conversation thinned and died out as Morven and Kell filled the doorway.
One by one, faces turned toward the entrance. Eyes narrowed on the pair. Most of the stares stuck to Kell and the ugly purple swelling across the left side of his face.
Mara lingered behind the long wooden bar. She had a gray woolen scarf tied tight under her chin to keep the harbor chill off her neck. Her hands worked a damp rag over the exact same patch of counter she had already polished twice that morning.
Her eyes flicked up the second the door hinges groaned. A small Night charm hung from a cheap leather cord at her wrist, slipping half out from beneath her sleeve as she moved.
She spotted Kell right away. Her throat worked in a hard swallow, and she immediately looked back down at the wood, rubbing the rag in faster, tighter circles.
Morven ignored the quiet crowd. He crossed the room toward the counter without hurrying his pace.
The barkeep was a thick man with bright red cheeks and watchful pig-like eyes. He stood behind the counter polishing a glass in slow, lazy circles as if the repetitive motion might somehow ward off the approaching men. He kept his head down, hoping perhaps they would take the hint and vanish back into the storm.
"We're here for Finch," Morven stopped at the bar and set both hands flat on the wood. "That clerk from the lower yard. Skinny sort. He came through after sunrise and settled his debts with you."
The barkeep set the glass down with a soft clink but kept his gaze on the rag in his hands. "Plenty of fellows wander in when the skies open up like this. Faces blur together after a while, especially on a day when the rain chases everyone indoors."
Morven didn't budge. "Finch. He paid with notes so clean they practically shone. No dirt ground into them, no creases from being stuffed in a boot or a pocket for weeks."
Finally the barkeep glanced over, his eyes landing square on the purple mess of Kell's face. He let out a low, dismissive huff. "You two look like you tangled with the wrong end of a dock brawl. Maybe you ought to hunt down a healer instead of chasing some clerk who probably just wanted a quiet pint. Vale's got enough shadows hanging over it these days without dragging my tavern into the mess."
Kell eased himself against the bar, shifting his weight off that left side where the ribs screamed with every breath. The pain sharpened, but he pushed through it. "Save the bedside manner for the paying drunks. Tell us what happened with Finch. Don't make me ask twice."
The barkeep crossed his thick arms over his stained apron. He scowled deeply, his face twisting as though he had bitten into something sour and rotten.
"Is the young master sending his fresh bruisers down here to do his asking now? Chasing after lost little clerks to drag them back to the desks? The last time I checked the harbor talk, you lot had your hands full with dead men on your own lawn. Why borrow my headaches from the back tables when you have plenty of your own?"
Morven brought one hand down on the bar, not slamming it but firm enough that the empty mugs rattled and jumped. The barkeep rocked back a half-step, eyes widening for a beat. Morven kept his tone even.
"Finch paid his tab right here," Morven said. "With money that did not belong to a frightened clerk. Now tell me exactly where he went after he handed you those notes."
"He handed over what he owed me, and that's that," the barkeep shot back, voice rising a notch. "Whatever happens between him and the counter stays there. I run a business, not a confessional."
Kell leaned in closer, willing his face to remain blank despite the fire burning along his side. "Finch slunk in here looking ready to hide under the nearest floorboard. He ordered an ale he barely sipped, slipped out the side door with a man in a crisp blue coat …and sat by the best table near the wall. You stood right here behind this till and pretended none of that caught your eye?"
The barkeep's face tightened, lines deepening around his mouth. He glanced across the counter at Kell, then toward the side table by the window, then back again. "Who spilled all that garbage to you, then? Nobody in this room said a single word about where that clerk sat."
Kell gave a short, pained chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "You just did. Your gaze darted straight to that table the second I mentioned the blue coat. Sloppy, friend."
"You're awfully bold with that mouth for a fellow who's held together by little more than bruises and stubbornness," the barkeep growled, but his shoulders hunched a fraction.
"I'm bold because too many men keep feeding me the exact same weak excuses," Kell replied. "I'm tired of listening to liars."
The barkeep's eyes flicked past Kell toward the back of the room. The young potboy stood completely frozen near the kitchen door. The boy held a wooden tray loaded with dirty plates, his youthful face draining of all color as he realized the men were arguing about things that led to broken bones.
He lowered the heavy tray to the nearest table with agonizing slowness, clearly hoping he might melt into the floorboards before anyone noticed him.
Kell caught it and straightened as best he could. "Leave the lad out of this. He's got nothing to do with your games."
"I'll decide what happens in my own tavern," the barkeep snapped.
"You can decide whatever you like once we've found Finch," Kell answered, not backing down an inch.
The barkeep's stare shifted abruptly away from the terrified boy and landed squarely on Mara. She kept wiping that same spot on the counter. Her rag had long since gone dry. Her knuckles were bone-white from gripping the cloth so hard.
"Mara," the barkeep said. His voice cracked like a leather whip across the quiet room.
She didn't lift her head to look at him. "What is it now?"
"You served that table over there."
Mara stopped wiping the scratched wood. She left the wet rag resting near the sink and slowly lifted her head. Her face looked pale and exhausted under the dim tavern lights. A sharp tremor worked its way through her jaw. "You pointed at that table. You ordered me to carry the tray over there."
"And now this battered street dog knows every single word spoken over those cups," the barkeep shot back. His face flushed a dark and angry red. He leaned his heavy frame over the counter. "I pay you to wash the glass and serve the drink. You should keep your mouth shut."
Mara planted both of her hands flat on the wet counter. She refused to step back.
"I serve the ale to these men. I stay away from their cups and I stay away from their talk. You know that."
The barkeep opened his mouth to shout her down.
Mara refused to yield the space. "You pulled me into the back room the second he walked out the door. You grabbed my arm and told me to forget everything I saw! You knew exactly what kind of men they were and you took their coin anyway. Stop blaming me because you lack the spine to deal with the trouble you invited inside!"
The roar died in the barkeep's throat. He swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed against his thick collar. The angry color drained rapidly from his cheeks and left behind a sickly pale hue.
He glanced nervously at the surrounding tables. He realized half his regular customers were listening to his cowardice being dragged into the open light. She had just proven to every man in the room that he allowed a stranger to threaten his staff without lifting a single finger in her defense.
The barkeep's eyes darted frantically between Mara and Kell. His nervousness spiked into suspicion, then certainty. "You paid her off. That explains it! Vale House is walking the streets buying tongues on my floor."
Kell let the accusation hang in the damp air.
"I pay for what people see with their own eyes," Kell said smoothly. "I'll pay her. I'll pay your potboy hiding near the kitchen. I'll pay anyone sitting in this damp room whose memory is worth a few silver coins. You can scream about it later, long after you figure out if that blue coat slipped you enough coin to make you a formal enemy of Vale."
"I didn't sign my name to any paper!" the barkeep yelled. He reached for a dirty glass, realized his thick fingers were trembling too much to hold it, and shoved it away.
"No, you didn't," Kell pressed. He leaned an inch closer to the wood. "You just gave them a clean stage. People can now swear to the magistrate that Finch paid his debts and left smiling."
"You think I planned this?" the barkeep's voice hitched and climbed into a high panicked register.
"I think you took their money and convinced yourself it was only a table rental," Kell replied. He let the heavy silence stretch out across the tavern. He forced the man to sit with his own guilt.
The barkeep scrubbed a hand over his sweaty face. He looked like a rat backed into a brick corner. Slowly and almost against his own will, his gaze flicked downward. His eyes aimed straight for the shallow wooden shelf built beneath the brass cash till.
Morven caught the subtle shift in focus. He stepped right up to the counter and leaned his massive shoulders over the edge. He cast a long and heavy shadow over the till. "What else are you hiding down there?"
"Nothing!" the barkeep yelped. He took a fast step backward and raised both hands in a useless defensive gesture.
Mara stared at the heavy man across the wet wood. She had spent the entire morning suffocating on her own fear while the blue coat smiled at her. She had watched her boss cower in the back room and order her to keep quiet to protect his own skin.
Now she looked at the sweat dripping down his red face as he backed away from Morven. The illusion of his control shattered. He looked like nothing more than a frightened coward, and her fear turned into pure disgust.
"Don't you dare try to lie to them now," Mara said. Her voice shook with adrenaline. She pointed a finger right at the wooden shelf. "Let him look under the till."
The direct challenge to his authority snapped his frayed temper. The barkeep could not tolerate his own server ordering him around in front of the morning crowd.
"Mind yourself, girl, or you're out in the cold street tonight!" the barkeep snapped. He struck the counter hard enough to rattle the cups, then pushed through the gap beside the bar with his hand already lifting. Mara jerked back, but not fast enough to get clear of the backhand aimed at her face.
The blow never landed. Morven moved with the speed of a beyonder and clamped his hand around the barkeep's thick wrist in midair. The heavy impact of flesh against flesh cracked through the quiet room. Morven shoved the man backward with enough force to send him stumbling against the back shelf. Bottles rattled against the wood.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Morven warned. His voice carried a low threat that promised broken bones.
Chairs scraped hard against the floorboards as the room erupted. Several patrons surged to their feet. Their expressions turned hostile toward the owner.
A heavy-set rigger with a tarnished pure-silver charm at his throat kicked his chair aside and marched toward the bar. The charm had been rubbed nearly smooth by years of handling, but the faint shape of a crimson half-moon and scattered stars could still be seen on its face.
"Keep your hands off her," the rigger shouted over the noise. "You Storm believers might preach about keeping women under the boot, but the rest of us don't stomach that kind of cowardice here!"
Other men murmured their agreement. The mood of the tavern shifted firm against the humiliated owner. The barkeep rubbed his bruised wrist. His eyes grew wide and panicked as he realized the room had turned on him.
He scrambled upright. He snatched a folded piece of thick paper from under the till and slapped it onto the bar. He shoved it away from his chest as if the parchment carried a plague.
"That blue coat left this for you." the barkeep wheezed. His voice trembled with fear. "He told me to leave Finch's empty mug right on the table with this underneath it. He wanted Vale House to find it. I swept it under the till. I thought if I hid the damn thing I could play dumb and keep my tavern out of your goddamn bloody war."
Morven picked up the paper with steady fingers and unfolded it flat against the wood. The handwriting was painfully neat. It utilized perfectly spaced letters stripped of any human personality.
Attendance before the noon hour is requested at the upper room of the former sailcloth premises on Cutter Lane, where counsel duly retained in connection with the matter may provide clarification as to the relevant witness's standing, obligations, and available protections under proper procedure.
Morven's face remained a flat mask of stone. Kell read the neat letters. His bruised jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
"Finch was already leashed and walking when this was written. This is an invitation. They want us to walk into Cutter Lane.," Kell said softly.
"Yes," Morven agreed. He tucked the stiff paper safely into the inner pocket of his heavy coat. "But we still need to go."
A man with a tangled wet beard sitting near the iron hearth banged his heavy mug against his wooden table. "Maybe old Finch finally found his conscience before Vale House silenced him for good," he sneered. He made sure his voice carried loud enough for the whole room to hear.
The tavern went dead silent once more.
Kell turned his head slow. He fought the stiffness in his neck. He recognized the man sitting by the fire. He was a lower-yard rope hauler who always managed to find his courage at the bottom of a cheap pint of ale.
"Do you want that pretty tale written down on an official ledger with your name signed at the bottom?" Kell asked. His voice sliced clean through the damp heat of the room. It carried zero warmth.
The hauler's shoulders sagged under the direct attention. He looked down at his boots. "I'm just repeating what the harbor might whisper later."
"People whisper smarter things when they're sober," Kell fired back. He refused to let the man retreat so easy.
"Finch came in here shaking so hard he could barely stand. He paid off old debts with dirty money. He left with a stranger who buys silence with silver. That is the truth. If you want to spin him into a local hero, you better make the blue coat pay you for the creative effort."
"I didn't mention that man," the hauler mumbled to his half-empty mug.
"No," Kell said. He offered the man a grim bloody smile that showed his stained teeth. "You're way too much of a coward for that."
The barkeep vigorously wiped his sweating hands on his dirty apron. He wanted this over. "There. You have your piece of paper. You got what you came for. Now get out of here and let my tavern breathe."
Mara glared at her boss. Her knuckles remained white as she gripped the edge of the wet counter. "You only handed it over because they cornered you," Mara said. Her voice started low but gathered a sharp cutting edge. "Don't stand there making yourself out as the injured party."
The barkeep's face darkened, but he stayed behind the counter now, careful to keep distance between himself and Morven. "She can work out the day for her keep, and after that she can gather what little she owns and find somewhere else to work. I'm not paying wages to a girl who brings this sort of trouble through my door."
Mara's mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. For all the anger still in her face, the mention of her wage struck harder than the threat of his hand had.
Morven reached into his coat, drew out three soli, and set them down hard enough for the sound to carry across the room. "That covers today and the trouble you'll pretend she caused. Her shift's over."
Mara stared at the soli resting on the counter. Her throat worked as she tried to find her voice. "I didn't ask for your charity."
"Take the help," Kell said. He kept his voice low enough that only she and the barkeep could hear the words clear. "He owes you for the trouble. This buys out your time so you don't owe him another minute."
Kell leaned closer to Mara. He kept his posture relaxed despite the agonizing throb in his ribs. "Grab your coat," Kell told her quietly. "Leave the tavern and just stay put somewhere safe for now. Don't go back to your rented room."
"I understand," she whispered back.
Mara turned her back on the counter and started walking toward the coat hooks near the stove.
The barkeep's face twisted with humiliated fury as he watched her walk away with Vale money. "Take your clerk and go. When that blue coat comes back asking about his private note, I'll tell him Morven threatened my life."
"Tell him I asked nicely," Morven said without missing a beat. "Just the once."
Kell followed Morven toward the heavy side door. Outside, the narrow alley was a freezing slick tunnel of rain and gray light. The storm hammered the cobblestones and washed away the stench of the tavern.
Kell slumped hard against the damp brick the second the door thudded shut behind them. He clutched his side and dragged in a ragged hissing breath through his teeth. For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.
"She talked," Morven said at last.
Kell gave a rough laugh that turned into a cough halfway through. He bent his head, spat blood toward the drain, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah. She did."
"You sound surprised."
"I am," Kell said, not looking at him. "Girls like Mara learn early that talking only gives men another reason to make them suffer. I thought she might point us in the right direction if we pushed hard enough, but I didn't think she'd stand there in front of the whole room and say it plain."
Morven looked back toward the closed door. Rain ran down the warped wood and gathered along the bottom step. "She was frightened."
"She was," Kell agreed, his voice quieter now. "That's the part that makes it worse. She was frightened, and she still talked."
Morven's jaw worked once, but he said nothing.
Kell pushed his wet hair back from his face and let out a slow breath. "We need to tell Mr. Lucian about her."
Morven turned his head. "Mara?"
"Who else?" Kell said. "That barkeep won't forget this. Maybe he won't raise a hand while the room's still warm from watching him get shamed, but once we're gone and the cups are washed, he'll remember she made him look small. Men like him always find a bill for that."
Morven was silent for a moment before he nodded. "Then we tell the young master."
"Yeah," Kell said, pushing himself away from the wall with a pained grimace. "Finch first. But after that, Mr. Lucian needs to know there's a girl at the Anchor who put her neck out for us and may pay for it before nightfall."
Morven adjusted his collar against the rain and started toward the mouth of the alley. "Cutter Lane, then."
Kell followed a step behind, one hand still held close to his ribs. "Cutter Lane."
AN: Hi everyone, sorry for the late update. I've been pretty busy these past few weeks, and this week will probably be even busier, so there most likely won't be any new chapters until after that.
Also, while continuing to write, I've realized that the pacing of the story is a little slower than I'd like. With the direction I have planned for the future, keeping this pace would make the story take a very long time to reach the later arcs. Because of that, after I finish these next few chapters, I'll probably start moving the plot a bit faster and cutting down on some of the smaller details.