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The captain blew out smoke. “You and your people killed my entire crew. This… I believe to be hostile.”
Favian shrugged. “Well, when you put it like that.” He walked behind the captain, grabbed a handful of the captain’s long dark hair, and pulled his head back, hovering the lit end of the roll-up by his nose. “Where?” Favian whispered.
The captain said nothing.
Favian pushed the roll-up inside the captain’s nostril. The captain tried to move away, growling through gritted teeth. Then let out a shriek.
Favian let go. “That’s the left hole.” Favian threw the roll-up on the floor and lit another. He repeated the process on the captain’s right nostril.
When Favian had finished, the captain shook his head around and snorted, tears streaming from his eyes. Mara couldn’t imagine how painful it must have been. Just tell him what he wants to know.
“I’ll do that again in a minute,” Favian said. “I’ll probably light some matches and put them in all your holes—even the little one on the end of that shrivelled up thing in-between your legs. I’ll start cutting bits off after that. You won’t be going hungry cause you’ll be eating the lot.”
“There is nothing you can do that they will not do, to me or my family, if I tell. My family will survive if they remain a secret. You will get nothing from me. Do what you must to convince yourself of that.”
“They, they, they. ‘They’ is no good to me, is it? ‘They’ have a name. A name you know.” Favian removed his blade from underneath his shirt. A gold-handled Vespen blade, just like Mara’s. “Maybe I just skip to cutting bits off.”
The captain looked at Mara. “Look away, boy.”
Favian slapped the captain’s head. “Don’t you talk to him,” he shouted. “There’s only one thing he can?
?t see, and that just shot to the top of the list.”
Favian cut the ropes that held the captain to the chair, leaving his wrists and ankles tied, and heaved him onto the table. “Outside, boy.”
As Mara closed the door behind him, he saw Favian’s trousers drop to the floor.
When Mara was called back into the room, the smell of shit made him gag. The captain was back on the chair, eyes fixed on the floor, sobbing and mumbling to himself. Favian leant against the wall and blew out smoke, then flicked the roll-up at the side of the captain’s head, little orange sparks pinging into the air. The captain didn’t react.
As Mara stared at the captain, he remembered what Silas had said to him in the mountains, about the Wretch being a rapist. If the Wretch got killed for that, why isn’t Favian? He just did that to him. Maybe I should tell the Shadows or the Beast. Then Favian can die. Maybe I can kill him.
Favian continued to burn and cut the captain for a long time, but true to his word, the captain said nothing. Finally, Favian sat back on the table and shrugged. “Always the same. This lot never talk. Must be a scary bunch on the other side of the sea.” He stood, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. “Kill him, boy.”
Mara looked up from the floor. Why’ve I gotta kill him?
“You gone deaf over there? Come on, get it over with. I’ve gotta wash up before my next appointment.”
Mara walked over to the captain, who looked dead already, slick with blood, skin peeled in places, chunks of flesh missing in others, blisters all over. His head hung forward, most of his hair missing, along with both of his ears. Why can’t he just finish him?
Favian walked to the door. “Do it then. Ain’t no wine to be drunk here.”
I hate you.
Silas returned to the Gallinule for three days straight, and each time he’d been told to come back the next. No other ships had softened to his daily visits. Some even threatened him with violence to stop any further attempts.
He felt like he’d grown a reputation, and not a good one. He clung to the hope that the Gallinule would eventually take him. He couldn’t afford to bring any more attention to himself – if Favian found out he was back in the city, he’d have some explaining to do.
Ale helped take the edge off, all his worries slowly disappearing as the nights went on. It’s a shame they come back in the morning. Accompanied by a headache and nausea.
He’d been drinking in the tavern where he had a room, a quiet place with a quiet barman and quiet drunks for company. The ale worked slowly tonight, and the quiet had become too much. The arena, that’ll take my mind off things. Nothing like betting on two people fighting over some trivial matter to make you forget your own problems.
The arena was exactly how he’d remembered it. Even the announcer wore the same uniform. People hate change. The one thing I want more than anything.
A fight was underway. Two men bludgeoned each other with wild haymakers. This won’t last long. They’ll either get tired, or a lucky shot will end it. The crowd screamed for one man or the other, likely desperate for their bets to pay. Silas had seen a man bet away his entire week’s pay on a fight once, then upon losing, get beaten and arrested by the guards for demanding his money back.
He scanned across the crowd. Everyone was captivated by the fight. In contrast, the high-class members at their table looked disinterested. They must be suffering. Having to watch over this as the money rolls in. Poor souls. Not one of them ever had a fight in their lives. Not even wiped their own arse. He continued to scan the crowd. One woman was almost purple in the face from screaming. Two men pointed aggressively at each other. Looks like they’ll be on stage soon enough.
It can’t be. Silas stopped scanning. It felt like a ball had appeared in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. It’s not him. Why would he be here?
