mates. His gnarled hands shuffled and dealt by feel.
A thought not his own occurred to Jaren: What’s bothering you?
Shame warmed Jaren’s cheeks when he realized his transparency. Nakvin had noted his watchfulness and was communicating in her peculiar way of skipping words and going straight to ideas. He ignored the question, preferring to stay alert rather than repeating his blunder at the fortress. His sense of impending doom had returned, and it centered around Dan’s table. As Jaren watched, Dan folded his hand, excused himself, and vanished through the door behind the bar.
Jaren remembered his drink but found he wasn't thirsty. He picked absently at Teg’s plate of heavily salted, breaded vegetables and watched the kitchen door for Dan’s return. What was his gut telling him? Was Dan walking into an ambush? Jaren was about to have Teg check the kitchen when his eyes began to burn and the muscles in his neck and shoulders to cramp. Jaren reached for his zephyr, but his head was swimming. His vision clouded and went black.
Nakvin was contemplating her wine glass when her vision briefly fogged. I hope I'm not allergic to the vegetables , she thought just before her three companions slumped face-down onto the bar.
With a start, Nakvin cast frantic glances around the room. All of the other patrons sagged unmoving in their seats or lay sprawled upon the floor. Most of them still seemed to be breathing, but none stirred. She checked her associates’ vitals and was relieved that their pulses, though slowed, were still detectable.
Nakvin realized with growing alarm that someone had meant to sedate the whole conclave, yet she alone remained awake. Calming herself, she weighed her options. A glamer would rouse a few of the victims, but singing might alert the culprits. The best course of action was to wait for her enemies to show themselves. She dropped back into her seat, let her upper body collapse upon the counter, and lay still. Her half-closed eyes stayed focused on the door.
The front doors banged open, admitting a pair of men whose slurred Byport accents, staggering gaits, and pungent odor betrayed their drunkenness. Nakvin doubted that these two had masterminded the mass poisoning. Their indiscreet entrance, combined with their dumbfounded expressions, convinced her that their timing was mere dumb luck.
The two besotted latecomers took a moment to digest the scene before them; then they began looting the comatose pirates with frantic glee.
One of the men: a scraggly bear of a fellow, swaggered up the center aisle toward the bar; leaving his younger, slimmer, and even filthier accomplice to work the area near the door.
An unwelcome note of recognition lit the larger man's face. “'Ey! I know them folk!” he announced like a priggish exam candidate. “That there's old J. P. what's supposed to be one o’ them ever-buggerin’ Gen!”
“Them's just stories!” his partner snorted. “Don't nobody live more'n a hundred years; ‘specially not no jacker!”
Nakvin's muscles tensed. The years had acquainted her well with all the slurs lobbed by sodden louts. Those who took offense at Gen could be unruly if given a free hand, and these two were mice in a granary.
“It's ‘im,” the stout one said. “And ‘e's got this rich little pudding with ‘im. Lets ‘er take the Wheel they say, but she's more useful when a bit o’ trampery's called for.” The bearish sot drew a short, hooked knife. “Seems game for a bit of pro bono work.”
Nakvin's hand was inching toward the hilt of her own blade when the kitchen doors swung open. Dan emerged from the back wearing a bug-eyed gas mask and packing a scatter gun with its barrel cut down to a nub.
“Stand down, Blackwell,” the old man's muffled voice warned. “You got your share. Now why don’t you and Jones there crawl back into the sewer?”
Blackwell stared dumbly as if struggling to understand Dan’s ultimatum. But he drew so quickly that his
A thought not his own occurred to Jaren: What’s bothering you?
Shame warmed Jaren’s cheeks when he realized his transparency. Nakvin had noted his watchfulness and was communicating in her peculiar way of skipping words and going straight to ideas. He ignored the question, preferring to stay alert rather than repeating his blunder at the fortress. His sense of impending doom had returned, and it centered around Dan’s table. As Jaren watched, Dan folded his hand, excused himself, and vanished through the door behind the bar.
Jaren remembered his drink but found he wasn't thirsty. He picked absently at Teg’s plate of heavily salted, breaded vegetables and watched the kitchen door for Dan’s return. What was his gut telling him? Was Dan walking into an ambush? Jaren was about to have Teg check the kitchen when his eyes began to burn and the muscles in his neck and shoulders to cramp. Jaren reached for his zephyr, but his head was swimming. His vision clouded and went black.
Nakvin was contemplating her wine glass when her vision briefly fogged. I hope I'm not allergic to the vegetables , she thought just before her three companions slumped face-down onto the bar.
With a start, Nakvin cast frantic glances around the room. All of the other patrons sagged unmoving in their seats or lay sprawled upon the floor. Most of them still seemed to be breathing, but none stirred. She checked her associates’ vitals and was relieved that their pulses, though slowed, were still detectable.
Nakvin realized with growing alarm that someone had meant to sedate the whole conclave, yet she alone remained awake. Calming herself, she weighed her options. A glamer would rouse a few of the victims, but singing might alert the culprits. The best course of action was to wait for her enemies to show themselves. She dropped back into her seat, let her upper body collapse upon the counter, and lay still. Her half-closed eyes stayed focused on the door.
The front doors banged open, admitting a pair of men whose slurred Byport accents, staggering gaits, and pungent odor betrayed their drunkenness. Nakvin doubted that these two had masterminded the mass poisoning. Their indiscreet entrance, combined with their dumbfounded expressions, convinced her that their timing was mere dumb luck.
The two besotted latecomers took a moment to digest the scene before them; then they began looting the comatose pirates with frantic glee.
One of the men: a scraggly bear of a fellow, swaggered up the center aisle toward the bar; leaving his younger, slimmer, and even filthier accomplice to work the area near the door.
An unwelcome note of recognition lit the larger man's face. “'Ey! I know them folk!” he announced like a priggish exam candidate. “That there's old J. P. what's supposed to be one o’ them ever-buggerin’ Gen!”
“Them's just stories!” his partner snorted. “Don't nobody live more'n a hundred years; ‘specially not no jacker!”
Nakvin's muscles tensed. The years had acquainted her well with all the slurs lobbed by sodden louts. Those who took offense at Gen could be unruly if given a free hand, and these two were mice in a granary.
“It's ‘im,” the stout one said. “And ‘e's got this rich little pudding with ‘im. Lets ‘er take the Wheel they say, but she's more useful when a bit o’ trampery's called for.” The bearish sot drew a short, hooked knife. “Seems game for a bit of pro bono work.”
Nakvin's hand was inching toward the hilt of her own blade when the kitchen doors swung open. Dan emerged from the back wearing a bug-eyed gas mask and packing a scatter gun with its barrel cut down to a nub.
“Stand down, Blackwell,” the old man's muffled voice warned. “You got your share. Now why don’t you and Jones there crawl back into the sewer?”
Blackwell stared dumbly as if struggling to understand Dan’s ultimatum. But he drew so quickly that his
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