Page 13 of Reap & Sow

A few curious eyes flitted her way. Most were deep in their cups, staring forlornly into the ether or bantering between themselves.

I need a drink. That would help me blend in.

Eda hoisted herself onto a rickety stool by the bar. “Excuse me—cider, please.”

The gruff barkeep stared at her for a moment before grabbing a cup.

She wanted to smack herself. Excuse me? People here don’t say “excuse me,” you fool. She was too embarrassed to meet the man’s eyes when he slid over her drink. Eda shoved her face in it and took a deep swig. It was more malty than she was used to, and she wondered if they’d watered it down with ale, but she wasn’t here to critique the Crooked Hand’s underwhelming selection of beverages.

Eda scanned the room.

A man who smelled vaguely of fish sat two stools down, staring miserably into his cup as though he wished to drown himself in it. Perhaps. Gathered around a nearby table sat some old codgers smoking pipes and arguing with one another. No. Too carefree. A pair of women with drawn faces and knotted, sore-looking hands huddled by the window. They cackled over something, baring black teeth. Gossips. Too risky.

Suddenly, a roar of outrage. Eda craned her neck to look.

In the far corner beside a dying hearthfire, four men surrounded a table cluttered with playing cards and toppled cups. One stood so quickly his chair fell over. “You’re a filthy cheat!”

A seated man raised his hands, not bothering to hide his smug grin. “Them’s the breaks, fella. Don’t be a sore loser!” The others laughed.

The first man was red-faced and stiff as a board. “I can’t lose that much. It’s all I’ve got left. Here, let me play another hand. I’ve a gold tooth—”

“Bah!” Another, bald as a babe, waved his hand in disgust. “We don’t want your nasty tooth, you silly bastard.”

“Aye, I’m content with my lot.” The winner pulled a pile of dull coppers and a hip flask toward himself.

“I’ll—I can find something else. Let me have another game now, and tomorrow I’ll bring you what I owe for the raise. On my honor.”

“You’re wasting my time. I said no.”

The tone at the table shifted. The laughter died. Their breeches were clean of grime and their frames stocky with good eating, Eda noted, unlike most of the patrons. But they were here in a Gaffham shithole all the same, growling over scraps like starved dogs.

For a moment, it seemed that the loser was set on arguing further. Then his shoulders dropped. He stepped back, nearly tripping over his chair. “Goat shaggers.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”

The table erupted in jeers.

The man stumbled toward the bar. Paused, swaying. He changed his mind and made for the entrance instead.

Eda’s pulse spiked. She turned to the barkeep and slapped a copper down. “Thank you.”

The loser staggered through the door, drawing in a crisp chill that sent the oil lamps flickering. She caught it before it swung shut again and slipped outside.

He stood just beyond the glow of the Crooked Hand, crouched in the middle of the street with his head in his hands, muttering curses. He looked small inside his oversize rough-spun jerkin. Vulnerable.

Eda steeled herself. She couldn’t allow herself to feel anything at all—no guilt, no sympathy. He’s just another mark. If he barters away enough years, he could be our very last.

“How much did you lose?” she called.

The man jerked around. “Ey?”

“Couldn’t help but overhear. Seems they rinsed you good.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing at all. But…I could offer you a way to make it all back. Everything you lost and then some.” She thought of Mr. Night. Of his effortless confidence and the tall self-assured way he held himself. Eda straightened her shoulders, trying to emulate the same. “I could make you rich as a king. Richer.”

A snort. “Ha! That right? Know any kings, by chance?”