by D.D. Poey
deal with a powerful man. A man, I might add, that could have you murdered at any time and for any reason.”
"And you're any better?" Wayra took another bit of meat. “Last time I remember you were the one that chased me around Bylanth like a mad man.”
“No, I'm worse." Cy grinned, “but you're not making a deal with, are you?"
Wayra shook his head and stood. Under the eyes of the entire tavern, he crossed the room and stood beside the Smok table. Kilroy nodded and two of his men stood and stepped aside. Wayra took a seat and Kilroy lifted a drink to his lips.
“So,” he said politely, “what can I do for the infamous Wayra?”
Wayra looked about the room at all of the ears and eyes that were now focused on the table. “Can we talk in private?” he asked.
Kilroy gave a wry smile and nodded. “Follow,” he answered, pushing the table away from him almost spilling his ale as he got up.
Wayra noticed the way he weaved when the man stood, and the confidence which radiated from him. He might have been piss drunk, but he was still the boss in this place, and no one said a word.
They moved through the room and came up to the bar under the watchful stares of those in the tavern. Kilroy paused and flagged Yorner to him. “We need a little privacy,” he said to the barkeep.
Based on the resolution in Yorner’s expression, Wayra assumed they would have absolute peace. The bartender tipped his head and crossed his thick arms over his chest.
Kilroy smiled back at Wayra and tipped his head at Yorner, whose glare was as cold and hard as steel.
Wayra followed Kilroy around the end the bar and into a small room. Wayra entered and looked about, finding a small space lined with shelving along the walls and laded with many jugs and barrels. The center of the room held a small table and four chairs. Kilroy pushed the door closed behind them, then grabbed the door's lever and made sure it was locked.
He smiled at Wayra and held an open hand out toward a chair. “You have a lot of nerve coming here,” he said in an odd tone. Wayra wasn’t sure if the man was offended or proud.
“I heard you seek that quality in your men,” he answered as Kilroy took a seat.
Kilroy chuffed and narrowed his eyes. “That was strictly business and so is this,” he answered simply. “So, get to it."
“I have a proposition for you,” Wayra answered.“You see, a certain wealthy individual will be making his way up to Whitestock tomorrow,” he said slowly. “He will have with him a small fortune , and much of it will be in gold.”
“Exactly how wealthy of a man are we talking?”
“Two hundred pounds of gold,” Wayra answered casually. “That, and maybe more.” He sat back and watched Kilroy carefully, straining to read his thoughts.
The man contemplated Wayra for a moment, then ran his finger up a scar which stretched from above his left eye all the way to the top of his head. He scratched his thin hair and shook his head doubtfully. “I don't like it,” Kilroy confessed. “Something’s just not right here. Who is your so-called wealthy individual that goes moving through these roads with a king’s store in tow?” He chuckled disbelievingly and eyed his guest. “Also,” he added as an afterthought, “how is it that you have come to know so much?”
“You hear a lot, living in the shadows,” Wayra said almost playfully. “You become good at listening, or else you find yourself in a set of chains rather quickly or dead.” Wayra paused, but it was clear that Kilroy would need a more clear answer. “He’s just a spoiled brat that acquired from his father a pile of wealth. I’ve been watching him for months.”
Kilroy kept silent for a moment, still eyeing Wayra skeptically. “Well?” he asked finally. “How do you want to do this?”
Wayra cracked a smile. “That's wanted I want to hear,” he replied. “I’ll need two of your finest men, or I guess three good ones would do just as well. We leave first thing in the morning. Their path will take them around the south end of Tiger Paw. We will intercept him and take everything of value.”
“And your cut would be?” Kilroy asked in a tone void of emotion.
“Cut?” Wayra asked, shaking his head. “No. I'm not interested in gold or jewels or any other shiny bits in his wagons. I just want one thing from him, and the rest is yours.”
Kilroy furrowed his brow and cocked his head to one side. “And that one thing you want?” he asked. “What is it?”
“Nothing of any value to you,” he replied evasively.
Kilroy looked directly into Wayra eyes and promised, “If I find out you’re screwing me, I will personally rip out your heart while you live and feed it to the dogs.”
Wayra's smile held, though there was violence at the corners of his lips.“I guess that’s fair enough,” he decided. “Do we have a deal then?”
Kilroy swung his massive arm toward Wayra and both men shook hands.
“Good,” Wayra said with a satisfied smile.
“I’m not sure I should trust you,” Kilroy confessed.
“The feeling is mutual,” Wayra replied.
Kilroy laughed freely and stood. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Have a drink before you make me a very rich man.”
Wayra gave a sly look and rose from his seat. The men left the room and Kilroy gave instruction to Yorner that Wayra was to have whatever he wanted. He then nodded to his new partner and returned to his table. Wayra shrugged at the plainly upset Yorner and took a seat at the bar. He ordered an ale and tried to convince himself that he hadn’t just signed his life away to a living monster. He was sure that he could defend himself, but there wasn’t much to be done if Kilroy decided to ambush and overrun him. Wayra’s name took with it a bit of respect wherever he went, but that also presented itself to many dark individuals as a challenge. His head was a trophy, and there was certainly more than one brigand in this very room who would love to boast that they were the one that cut down the great Wayra.
He shook his head at the thought and took another pull from his drink. He was once a respected man, revered in every circle, but now here he was, lowered to this slimy tavern and surrounded by criminals. This night would not go quietly, and Wayra wondered what would come first. His question would be answered before he could even finish his first mug, as Cy's voiced blasted throughout the building.
“I have been challenged!” he screamed.
Everyone turned at the cry, drawn from their drinks and conversations by the possibility of a fight.
“Me! The one and only Cy, challenged to a duel!”
As though on command, men stood and began to move the tables out of the way, making a large empty circle in the middle. The scene gave Wayra the impression that this was not an uncommon sight at the tavern.
“He challenges me for respect?” Cy continued, railing like an excited madman. “But!” he added holding up a finger to the ceiling, “Can he acquire it?”
Men throughout the hall laughed and banged their feet against the ground, making the very walls shake form their pounding. Men took their seat or stood along the wall, hands full of ale, meat, and anticipation. Wayra spun all the way around and caught sight of the challenger. He was a small man, wiry and filthy. He gave the impression of one desperate to prove himself. The man's legs swayed like soft reeds as he stood to one end of the cleared space, holding an old rusty dagger. Wayra didn’t see a killer in the man’s eyes. He saw nothing more than a broke and piety thief, but that didn't stop Cy from accepting the duel.
“This man!”Cy cried, leveling his finger at the opponent. “He thinks he will have the best of me tonight. Well?” he asked the man directly, who swallowed hard and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Go ahead.” Cy took a little bow and showed his empty hands.
The silence pressed against those in the room with a tangible force. Everyone was locked in, including Wayra, waiting for the first move.
The man rocked back and fort
h on the balls of his feet, debating his first move.
“In this world,” Cy taunted, “there are takers and there are beggars. Come now. What will you be, brave fool?”
The man suddenly hoisted his knife and charged, screaming a wild battle cry. His arm flailed wildly at Cy, who easily dodged it and gave the man a shove in the back. The thief stumbled into a table under the stares and laughter of the crowd. He pushed himself up and straightened his stocking cap. Cy bowed to the crowd, soliciting even more cheers. Wayra pushed few of the spectators aside and moved up to get a better view.
The thief ground his teeth and gave a little snort. Again he flung himself forward and again Cy effortlessly tossed him aside. This time, Cy kicked him in the pants and cackled like a crazy old woman. Men were laughing so hard tears were leaking down their cheeks. They slapped each other and pointed at the thief, watching a cat toy with a mouse.
Not waiting, the man pushed hard off the table and brought the knife slicing through the air in a great overhand arch. Cy stepped into the stroke and deflected his arm with a thud. As fast as Wayra could process the move, Cy had stripped the knife from the man’s hand and held the blade at his throat.
“It’s not long now, friend,” Cy whispered into his ear.
He stepped back and threw the knife into the floor where it stuck beside the thief’s foot with a crack. Cy chuckled and turned around. The thief bent over and in a single movement, he quickly
