Sharon accepted the dagger from Aven. Sheathed it as carefully as she had holstered her guns.
Aven was a still a guard. An unorthodox guard, but a guard nonetheless. Allowing her to rearm herself—a perplexing action to be sure. Every other encounter with local authorities she had involved them taking no chances, eliminating any threats. Drop your weapons. Hands in the air. Down on your knees. The humilating procedure of compliance to force, to surrendering one's freedom.
She wasn't down on her knees, holding up the sky with the palms of her hands, this time. But, as Aven made clear, she may as well have been. A captured bird without a cage. It could fly if it so chose, but, under the vigilant eye of its captor, it would always loop back around to its destined perch.
"I know," she said. "Just do what you have to do."
She was ready to follow him. To walk the only path before her.
* * * * *
Jorge had his mask pulled down. Scratched the burns on his face.
The Tipped Hand was indeed crowded tonight. Rain stood little chance of detering vice among the downtrodden. A hazy mist wafted through the tavern, a thick, pungent scent of smoked weeds and plants smothering the nose. Patrons were gathered around the hearthfire, lighting and inhaling their individual vices. Many more were at the bar and tables, tossing back glass after glass of ale, drowning away the world. Some merry few were in the corner, hands on each other's shoulders, swinging back and forth, singing a dirty song as the beer from the mugs splashed out of their cups and onto the sticky floor.
A fight broke out at one of the tables. Chairs fell over. The merry men kept singing.
Jorge glanced over his shoulder. Ah, shit. One of the fighters was Lonergan, a guy who owed him a couple gold.
Jorge took another swig from his mug. Wiped his face with the back of his hand and stood up and stepped toward the brawl.
"Aw, come on, fellas, there's no need for—" He punched as soon as he had the opportunity. Hit the other man in the soft central spot just below the ribcage. All the wind sucked out of him, the man toppled backward, stared at the ceiling, gasped for breath. The merry men reached a high point in their song.
Jorge looked at Lonergan. Shrugged his shoulders. "Guess that's three gold now."
Lonergan rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, yeah." He winced. "Next week good?"
"Good enough." Jorge clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Gotta work on that left hook, buddy."
Jorge turned back around. Saw a new person at the bar. Someone he recognized. Part-timer.
"Gabe, is it?" Jorge said as he approached the tattooed man and sat down next to him, sliding his own mug over some. "Think I remember you. Got that two hundred gold debt from that one stingy fuck. Guy pissed himself after you said two words to him, that right?"
He held out his hand. Grinned. "Jorge. And it looks like you found my favorite little hole in the wall."
