Erah’s taverns are scattered about the alleyways, subtle indications of the robust corruption that lingers in the commonwealth. The Anvil is heavily regarded as the better of the worst. It is burrowed within the swordsmiths’ quarter, generally ignored by those of lesser stature.

  Mercenaries line the bar top, paying in silver. They are rugged and leather-bound. Various blades adorn their person, as well as ones not visible to the eye, bulges and worn spots in their clothes as the only indicator. Hand-rolled cigarettes burn vigorously on each table as their fumes carry up to the rafters. The noise is a roar.

  Drair sits to the right of the door, running her olive fingers along the ridges of the many drink rings stained into the table. Her cigarette smolders in a bowl nearby, leaving scorch marks in the wood. She allows the burning smoke to enter her nostrils, masking the caustic scent of body odor and fermented wheat. In the nearby corner, an elderly blacksmith clears his throat amiably and continues his animated story about the prince.

  “Now I met a stable boy that’s helped run the place. He told me their masters’ve cut wages far below the running standard in Bedar,” he declares. “Meals are rationed. Even the horses see better hay than they’ve to sleep upon. If we were smart, we’d run to the hills now before we watch Larynth fall. I’m telling you, with this Lynac business, there is nowhere to go but the Pfeists.”

  He pauses for effect. Drair hears a drag on a cigarette and a gulp of beer.

  “We know good and well where those orders for wage cuts and rations came from, yeah? The Prince. He’s got his mother all wired up down there. I reckon he’s taken control over the place and she hasn’t the strength to take it back. He’s nuthin’ like his father was. I think he may even keep her poisoned. Slips it in her morning tea, yeah? To keep her obligin’.”

  Drair moves her attention to a group of whores at her left, seated at the table to the left of the door, garish in rouged cheeks and ready to pull patrons into their net. There are four of them, three wearing nothing but knickers. A dark-skinned woman no older than twenty stares in Drair’s direction. There is a purpling spot growing on the side of her neck. Her hands are tucked timidly between her legs.

  “Why is she wearing an eye patch?” she says, blinking.

  Her partner slips a look in Drair’s direction and rolls her periwinkle eyes.

  “She’s just a merc like the rest of ‘em. She won’t hurt you, Prana.”

  “But…”

  “Oh hush, you’ve seen lady mercs before. And I’ve seen tons who wear those.” She unfolds her arms and combs a rough-looking hand through her dirty blonde hair. “You don’t pay enough attention. You could learn a lot from these people. That’s how you get ‘em.”

  “Plus, the mercs are the ones with the most money,” another girl whispers, sniggering, “I wonder if she likes girls…”

  The desert spits a gust of air into the stale heat of the bar as the door yawns open. “Speaking of liking girls,” the blonde says pensively, sliding down from her barstool and sauntering in the direction of a dark-haired mercenary coming through the door. The other girls watch. Drair follows the woman as she teeth into her prey, leading him down the stairs to the left of the bar. The barkeep, a bearded tank of a man, monitors the whore’s every move. Across the bar from him is a muscular woman, older than the girls, who dons a puffy black and red dress of chiffon and silk. Leaning against the bar, she pulls aggressively on her cigarette. Her hair is a graying braided rope running halfway down her spine.

  Drair stunts her cigarette, pushes her chair away from the table, and skulks to the front of the bar. She takes a stool near the older woman and quietly orders a mead from the barkeep, looking directly into his eyes as he hands her a mug. His pupils are small and dark, nearly blending in with the iris around them, giving him an intensity that most would turn away from. He holds out a meaty hand for payment. Drair drops silver into his sweaty palm, then turns her ears to the woman in the dress, who is holding a brusque conversation with the man behind the bar as he skips from customer to customer.

  “The lords provide me with the best marketing in town. They understand the needs of these men. I have spent too much of my wretched life groveling at the feet of men like these to care for their needs anymore. Funny thing is,” she sips from her drink, “they also know all the dirt on them. They’re blasphemous pigs, the lot of them.”

  “The lords or the mercs?” the barkeep grunts, wiping away a spilled drink.

  “Ah, both of them,” she says, laughing. She shifts her weight around her left foot to face the crowd. Drair can see the lines on her face, working around a layer of powder. “Regardless, we keep on like we are, there won’t be a worry for us if the whole country goes up in flames.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  “If the whole country goes up in flames, we go down with it, dear,” the barkeep states.

  “You think so, huh? Why would we not gallivant off to Tauris? The land of the dead? Desert of bones? We could start the first Larynthian brothel in the south. Make riches off the starved men. I’m sure they’re hungry….and thirsty. More so than these lot. They’ve been spoon-fed their entire lives. A bar around every corner.” She waves her hands dramatically as she speaks.

  “I don’t believe the south is for women.”

  “From what I’ve heard about the dead ones, no. Not even for me,” she replies.

  A crashing of wood and metal interrupts. A fistful of bedraggled mercenaries is tumbling over each other in the pit. A rogue cup is flung through a southern window. The barkeep watches silently. Drair watches as The Anvil’s madam deposits her cigarette between her mauve-stained lips, pushes off the bar, and pulls her skirt above her ankle, revealing a pair of leather-wrapped boots. She tramps forward, stopping only inches from the heads of the men brawling on the floor. A throaty cry emerges from her mouth.

  “Fighting is prohibited in the Anvil! You want to fight wars, go to Denand! ANY person caught damaging property on this premises will be removed!”

  The mercenaries continue scuffling. They bump into a second table leg, spilling the drinks of the clientele it hosts. The madam does not move, instead scathing the audience with baleful eyes. As if ordered, two powerful men from the crowd of customers step forward and grasp the wrists of the men shuffling on the floor. Three older men in the front join them, hauling the offenders up from the hardwood. Curses continue flying off the walls as their boots scrape along the dirty floor. Dragging their arms and shoving their shoulders, the men haul out the two unknowing mercenaries, planting them in the dusty road outside.

  The madam scowls at the crowd. She watches as they begin to pick up pieces of broken glass and wood, chucking them out the front door. She smiles then, dropping her hands from her hips and pacing back to her perch. The bar raises another decibel, settling back into its old routine.

  “As I was saying,” she calls across the bar, “Tauris is always a place to start if Larynth does happen to catch on fire. Who knows, maybe you’re right. I’ve heard too many whisperings from these old lords passing in and out. Something about the desert people from the west.”

  The barkeep pours whiskey for a man in a green vest. The man downs it in one go and falls, stone cold, to the bar floor. The madam doesn’t flinch.

  “And what about the dead ones, Sicily?” her barkeep says.

  “Oh! The dead ones, yes.” She flicks her cigarette and downs the rest of her drink. “Constable Gerric was in about a fortnight ago now. I meant to tell you earlier. Really it was only one dead one, but I suppose there could be more. Gerric was all upset about it, I’ve never seen him such.”

  Her eyes peel sideways to peek at the door as another customer enters. Her voice is low and raspy as she speaks.

  “The Constable mentioned a boy…well, what looked like a young man tripping around in the dark near the eastern edge of town. Said he’d had multiple reports of a skeleton on the loose. I didn’t believe ‘im when he told me. Wearing a cloak like a lord, yet it was ratty and grimy.” She grimaces.

  The barkeep grunts. “Did he approach him?”

  “Of course he did! Gerric’s not one to pass up an opportunity, you know.” She leans in closer.

  “When the kid turned around, all Gerric could see was a hole where his nose otta be. Shaved clean off. Screamed like a ninny, he did. Said his skin was pale and dry.” She motions for more drink.

  The barkeep looks puzzled.

  “The kid’s skin, not Gerric’s,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, after the Constable got over his fear, he asked the kid where he was coming from. ‘From the mountains,’ he said. The mountains by Denand. Odd thing is, Gerric said he was real nice, a gentlemanly kid. Just a dead one,” she remarks, flicking her ashes to the bar top. “Said he just walked away after that and he hasn’t seen him in a week.”

  The barkeep huffs.

  Drair sips her mug dry and snuffs her last cigarette. From the door, there is an abrupt entrance, the clop of hard-soled boots on the floor. Drair sighs hard, feeling the breeze on her back, as the idiot is standing in the doorway letting out all the good stink.

  Several mercenaries pause in mid-motion to take in the newcomer. He is younger than most elected military officials, tan-skinned and tall. The noise level fades to a murmur. The barkeep and the madam shake themselves from their lax conversation, turning all attention to the man standing in the doorway of the Anvil. The madam snuffs her cigarette hurriedly, pulling her silk skirt up above her ankles again. She steps toward the door as Tygoh Dacre begins stamping in Drair’s direction.

  Drair turns her head to the left, her uncovered eye looking over her shoulder. She can see the madam dip into a curtsy, putting on good behavior for a castle Guard. “Good afternoon, General. Can we oblige you with a beverage, or a-”

  “Abidan!”

  Drair does not turn her head toward her surname. She orders another drink and pays the confused barkeep for his time, tossing three silver onto the bar top, watching them spin and tumble about, ringing and clinking. She hears footsteps from behind approach her seat at the bar. Through the drone of the room, Tygoh’s low voice drifts in from behind her.

  “Guard conference for all existing and introductory members, including you. Two hours. In the drawing room. Pay your dues, Abidan. A horse is waiting for you outside.”

  He turns away, his half-cape fluttering, and makes his way out the door again, this time slamming the door behind him. She waits for the sound of hoofbeats. The barkeep and his madam stare in her direction. Drair, uncomfortable under the attention, chugs her drink and swings her legs around the barstool. Her brows drop and she steps across the sticky wooden floors, eye locked on the door. She can feel the madam watching her leave, smell the cigarette she lights up. Drair slips carefully through the crowd and out the door, swinging into the saddle of the bay charger left behind, Tygoh nowhere in sight.