Chapter Two:
Why Dark Trousers are Best
“What kind of pit is this, Armand,” the grey cloaked man hissed, “I swear to Ao, I think I see...things swimming in my beer!”
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The man was standing at a corner table in a dingy, cramped tavern in the slums of Chernsburg – the County seat. What the sign outside once said is anyone's guess - a crude carving of what might have once been a crown is all that remains. The only thing that serves to inform outsiders of its purpose is the sharp, acrid stench of sour beer. The inside of the tavern is gloom itself. The dirty, grease-filmed windows let in hardly any light, and the smell is almost unbearable. The place is nearly empty; only three men are inside this afternoon. One is the barkeep, a fat, balding man with a seemingly permanent expression of disgust. Given the conditions, perhaps this is not surprising. The other two men, however, are cut of a different cloth.
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Armand is the shorter of the two, and he is leaned back in his chair, hobnailed boots up on the table. His face is weatherworn, his eyes calculating. His clothes are of simple make, tending toward browns and darker colors. A battered scabbard hangs from his belt, with a well-worn hilt near his hand. All in all, he doesn't stand out from the scenery.
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His companion is a different story. Clearly someone with at least pretensions to if not a actual resident of the Central District, his well-polished boots do their best to gleam in the fitful light shining in the windows of the tavern. Tailored white pantaloons peek out above his boots, while a grey cloak covers most of his body, and a deep cowl hides his face. It might be possible to make yourself more noticeable, but it would be difficult without resorting to drummers and circus performers to escort you around town.
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Armand raised an eyebrow. “Just means it's healthy, your grace.” So saying, he took a swig from his mug, chewed for a moment, and grinned at his companion. “Honestly, it's worth it just to watch you twitch. I'm wondering if you've got the stomach for whats to come, if a little local wildlife is all it takes to put you in such a mood.”
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“You bastard, don't you worry about me. I'll do what needs to be done. The question is, will you be able to deliver on what you promised our...benefactor? He's the reason I'm here, after all.”
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“Benefactor... is that what a would-be traitor is called when he's at home with his feet up?” Armand gave a low chuckle. “Don't you worry chummy, our boss will get the results he needs. My lads and I are solid, just so long as the pay keeps up as promised.”
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Grey Cloak tossed a small purse on the table. “Money is not a problem. But the 'boss' needs to know when your 'lads' will be able to start work.”
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Armand hefted the purse, grunted, and stowed it away in a knapsack by his seat. “Well, most of us'll be at the camp by month's end at the latest. Once we've got our supplies sorted out, we can start work. Should start to see results well before the planting festival. That is, as long as this gent you're paying us to deal with is as soft as you say.”
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“Don't you worry about that. Belleme is a jumped up scribe, not a warrior. Your boys can handle a scribe, can't they?”
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Quick as a flash, Armand was out of his seat. He buried a dagger in the table, grabbed Grey Cloak by the throat and held another dagger under his chin. His cloak fell back during the struggle, revealing a man mostly gone to grey, with a well-trimmed beard and pure terror showing in his eyes.
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“Nobody. I mean nobody, talks about my lads like that. You want to keep your fucking tongue where it is, Peregrinous, you watch what it says. You got me?”
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Peregrinous gave a whimper. Between that, and the rapidly growing dark stain across the front of the gentleman's pantaloons, Armand felt that he had made his point.
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“Good. Now, you say this old friend of yours is just a scribe. Well enough. But Gram's no idiot. You don't send a scribe out into the wilderness to build a settlement all by his lonesome. Don't you worry though, my chicken,” said Armand, patting Peregrinous on the cheek, “we'll sort him out.”
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Armand recovered his dagger from the tabletop, sketched a mocking bow to Grey Cloak, and left the tavern. Peregrinous sank down onto his stool slowly, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. A low, rumbling laugh came from behind the bar.
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"Well, if isn't Baron Peregrinous hisself. If I'd known we had the peerage coming in, I'd 'uve brung out the silver, m'lord!" The fat barkeep gave another guffaw, clearly pleased with his own cutting wit. Peregrinous' eyes narrowed, and he reached into a pocket inside his cloak.
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"Silver, you say? Terrible metal, really. So soft, hardly keeps an edge at all. I prefer...steel."
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Peregrinous pointed his arm at the barkeep, a strange looking tube held in his fist. The barkeep's eyes widened, and he started to lurch toward cover. A loud crack echoed across the room, and a gout of blood sprayed across the already grimy wall. A small metal dart had buried itself half into the skull of the barkeep, and he fell to the floor, gasping and jerking spasmodically.
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The Baron stood, putting the tube back into his cloak with a wince. The spring was damned powerful, and his wrist had been bent back quite badly by the recoil. Clearly something to address in the next design. He took a lantern down from the wall, and stood over the barkeep, whose struggles had begun to slow.
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"Frankly, landlord, I'm doing this pit a favor."
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So saying, he flung the lantern down onto the floor, where the flames began to greedily spread into the stained wooden kegs and walls. Peregrinous pulled his cowl back over his head, and strode out into the deepening twilight.
