Chapter Seventeen

The Bells Brother’s Pub was the cheapest bar Secrat and Brutus could find under the circumstances. Every other reasonable establishment was buried in visiting civilians, and even Bells was reasonably crowded given it was a bar in the lower, poorer districts of Italina.

This was – as it so happened – the same district that Secrat Copé grew up in. The visit to his old stomping grounds brought him no feelings of nostalgia. He hated the district, the Arclon district, and he hated all of Italina, for that matter. The only upside to revisiting the district was that he now visited the district in a much better off position than when he left. This allowed him to see the district in a different, more pleasant perspective. It still sucked, but it sucked a little bit less. He was poor then. Poor even by the standards of the district.

With wooden tables scattered about and a sign behind the counter with the menu written in chicken scratch, The Pub resembled something more out of the neighboring cities of Maharris than it did Italina. It was neither fancy nor well kept, and on some level, The Thief liked that about it. The counter was wooden as well and felt like it may have very well been on an old door that had been smoothed out and propped up beneath something. Copé couldn’t say for certain that was what it was though, as it had a gray tablecloth draped over it, riddled with beer stains and rings left by the mugs.

This didn’t concern Secrat very much though, and it certainly didn’t bother Brutus Ess, who threw back alcohol like a regular beer glutton. The stuff was cheap, however, so The Thief didn’t mind. Brutus had explained the coin would be coming out of Secrat’s share of the stolen haul, and given the hole in Brutus’ chest, Secrat decided not to argue against him. As Copé brought a glass of the liquid courage to his lips, he was able to see why their booze was as cheap as it was.

“Italina’s finest, I see,” Secrat said aloud to Brutus.

They sat on two makeshift bar stools that, like everything else, felt thrown together and home made.

“I have had worse,” Brutus called back, having already finished two cups’ worth.

“As have I,” Copé said, his memory thrown back to his time in the Whispey Deserts, and how everything was grotesquely expensive and delectably deplorable.

“I figure we are ahead of everyone else in The Red Flux with the statue,” Secrat said, looking around at the different men and women at the bar, most of them sitting at tables or roaming about away from the counter.

The sound of laughter was abundant, the kind that sounded exaggerated by intoxication rather than by a joke that was very funny.

“I would sure as hell say so!” Brutus exclaimed. “All Marc Sero has thrown in the wagon are a bunch of gimcracks and a full set of Italina knight’s armor.”

“I still have no idea how he left with that,” Secrat said, impressed. “Either we can sell that, or it might come in handy during a different heist.”

“Sero’s a crafty one, he could kill a man before he even realizes he is dead.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That is what I am saying – Marc Sero is a craft one!” Brutus quipped, finishing another glass of beer and slamming the cup onto the table.

The bartender walked over to Brutus; he was a large man, exceeding Copé’s height by more than a couple feet. His face was scarred up and he wore a stoic state of readiness when he moved. Perhaps uncharacteristically, the bartender smiled, his teeth were large and jagged, like an exaggerated painting, and it made for a peculiar visual. Brutus didn’t have to task the bartender – with the fifth glass already done, there was no need. The bartender brought out a large bottle from under the table and filled his glass.

“He’s my kind of man, this guy,” Ess said, striking against the wooden table with a loud and very drunken holler.

The large man flinched at the sound, and soon after, Ess was holding his chest, remembering the ache from where he had been stabbed.

“I am glad you are enjoying yourselves.”

The bartender’s voice sounded nothing like what Copé had envisioned in his head. The colossal man’s tone seemed friendly and more feminine than he had imagined, but something else to it that Copé couldn’t find the word to describe. Brutus smiled and chuckled at the sound of his voice but made no comment.

The bartender tensed up with a reddened face and added, “My brother and I are new to this business.”

“Well, if my vote means somethin’, I would say you are about made for this business.”

“Thank you so much for saying that! It really means a lot!” He offered back with more of that friendly, ‘not high-pitched but something like it’ tone.

The bartender flashed a final smile and went over to some of the other customers, carrying the big bottle of alcohol with him. The bottle, dark green with the words “Brother’s Beer’ sketched on it in black ink, in the bartender’s hand reminded Secrat of how Father Toucan Veras made his large sword look between his hand.

“Lukey-boy and Syi haven’t done a whole lot of nothing either,” Ess said, a look of admiration in himself over their success.

“Samuel’s one of the finest thieves I have ever seen, but Lukey-boy’s holding him down.”

“Maybe,” Copé stated.

“It is all a little different than what I thought it would be though, and maybe they really just haven’t found the right angle to take yet.”

“Taison made it seem like the boy almost got them in trouble. He said Samuel was pick pocketing from some of the wealthier civilians and that Lukas damn near blew everything for ’em. I would be surprised if he doesn’t bring a world’s worth of hurt on us for his mistakes one of these days.”

Secrat couldn’t think of a time when Brutus Ess’ loud voice didn’t make him feel insecure.

The sound of two glass bottles being clunk together could be heard by a neighboring pair of drinkers, a smaller, older man with wrinkled, worn skin (not an Italina native) and a pale fellow with long, wet black hair (like an Italina native). Copé found himself drawn to their presence out of paranoia, but his interest waned soon after.

“And you preaching to the heavens about it will surely bring us a world’s worth of whores and coin,” Copé said in a shouting whisper.

“Everybody has their reason for being here, me shouting is like shouting in a room filled with others shouting, not a whole lot to give a damn about over here. But you better be careful with those whispers, my friend. People will think you have secrets to hide.” Ess answered with a smile, twirling around his empty glass bottle with his fingers, Secrat hadn’t even noticed him finish it.

“But, maybe this time, when I ask for a glass of what you call Italina’s finest wine, you will give me a glass of that, and not whatever shit you just poured me!” A man sitting at one of the bar stools fired out, directed at the large bartender.

The fellow was hefty and thick-set, but far from the type to be barking orders at the bartender, whose muscular frame would easily outmatch his barrel-shaped one.

“I am very sorry, sir!” The bartender cried out, and once more, Copé found it a struggle to describe his voice, not high pitch, but … boyish flamboyant?

“I am very new to this business, my brother and I only recently arrived from Olzaric, and, we don’t have a lot of, …,” before the bartender could finish, however, the hefty man slammed his fist against the counter.

The loud sound of cracking would could be heard beneath his large arm.

“Spare me your life story,” the man quipped fast, “And what is this shantytown made of, tin?”

The bartender fidgeted with his fingers like a child did when he was in trouble, or like Secrat did when Father Toucan lectured him. At once, the pale skinned man with black hair left his chair and ran over toward the counter. The whole act happened fast, as the man leaped onto onto one of the bar stools, as if it was a stepping stone, before jumping to the other side of the counter beside the bartender.

“Excuse me,” the pale-skinned man said, flashing a confident smirk, his face was handsome and without blemish, “But, for our table, I will have to ask you reimburse us in full, and I will have you know, it was a very, very expensive table.” His voice sounded arrogant and sarcastic but was unafraid of the angry man.

“You can’t expect me to believe anything in this damn hellhole’s even worth the wood it was built on,” The man yelled back, his voice sounding aggravated as he let out a loud laugh.

“I can expect you to believe that, and you will, either that, or you will leave,” The pale skinned man informed, his small demeanor and yet, fearless tact, was an antithesis to the giant’s tepidness.

“I could rip you in two,” The Heavy Man said.

“Many could, but I would bet you my bottom dollar that you are not going to try and fight me and my brother both,” The littler brother countered with a proud of himself grin.

The Heavy Man looked at him with red-faced anger, certainly disrespected and provoked. Copé thought the liquid courage might rile him enough to take littler brother up on his offer, but he didn’t. The Heavy Man let out a sigh and arose from his bar stool. Secrat heard a crackling sound on the chair, which had likely had its stability challenged. The burly fellow groaned at it before kicking it with all his might. So much might, in fact, that it looked like he was about to lose his balance and fall on his ass, but he managed to save himself after some stumbles. The chair flew forward and drove into the counter, the legs breaking off in the process.

The bigger brother jumped and grunted worriedly, although, it might have been something closer to a squeal. The littler brother’s face held firm, watching the Heavy Man as he left. A small crowd of drinkers cowered in one corner of the bar, with eyes distraught and befuddled. The other side was Secrat Copé’s indifference and Brutus Ess’ chuckling excitement.

The littler brother, one of the two to make of the Bells Brothers, it seemed, walked the bigger brother away from Secrat and Brutus, over to a very large portrait of a ship, withstanding the hurls and waves the Amisoic Sea pitted it against.

“You need to stick up for yourself, little brother. This is a new time for us, a new life, a new opportunity, and you may not feel it, but against any man you are at a distinct advantage. Use that. Nine times out of ten, they will back off.” His voice was quiet, but Copé could hear it well, and found himself very taken by his reference to the giant as his ‘little’ brother.

The ‘little’ brother nodded, his face upset and reddened, the smaller sibling patted him on the back with a half smile. The pale man’s glance went off at his brother over to the counter, rubbing his hands together from a situation handled, he approached Secrat and Brutus.

“I must apologize to each of you, and to the whole bar,” he said, raising his voice once realizing he had the attention of everyone in the pub. “The Aer Festival should be a time of celebration, or something. I am not really too certain, being from Olzaric, the only thing I ever knew was angry men like that. I am not really sure about what this whole ‘celebration’ word means.”

A light laugh came next, his eyes staring off to the ground. Some chuckles came from those outside the counter and he offered his best fake smile. With the excitement having died down, the crowd dispersed and lost interest soon after, returning to their own affairs. A piece of lumber hung from the ceiling on one side of the bar, pierced already with several knives, several of the drinkers throwing knives at it for sport.

The pale man walked over to Secrat with a small smirk.

“Life of a bartender, I guess,” he said, shrugging it off. “My name’s Ezik Bell,” he said, putting his hand out over the counter in front of Copé.

Secrat smirked, shaking the man’s hand, “Secrat Copé,” he said. “Your brother said both of you were new to this? Why would you decide to set up shop in Italina?”

“I wasn’t aware of the other towns to choose from,” Ezik confessed, pretending to be embarrassed and tugging at the neck collar on his gray tunic.

“You said you are from Olzaric?”

Ezik nodded his head. “And, before you ask, it is every bit as grim and miserable as they say it is. At least for anyone without a stick up their ass. Right, Ricar?”

The giant, who had his back leaned against the wall, still visibly bothered by the altercation, looked up at Ezik, making eye contact.

The ‘little brother’, Ricar, flashed a smile, “The men in Olzaric make the guy that left look like an absolute saint.”

Ezik laughed. “And what brings you fine folk to Italina? All here for The Aer Festival, I presume?”

“You caught us, we are suckers for the useless knickknacks,” Copé said, putting his hands up like he was being arrested.

“Are you, … ahem, … together?” Ezik Bell asked.

“No, absolutely not,” Brutus fired back fast, seeming downright offended by the assertion.

Ezik smiled. “I don’t judge. The same can’t be said about everyone else you will find in Italina though.”

“I could do much better than Brutus anyways,” Secrat returned.

“No, … absolutely not!” Brutus exclaimed, seeming even more offended than before. “If I ever did that I would be the absolute king of that!”

Copé smirked some more. This was the same man that earlier in the day approached a woman with clenched fists and cold blooded murder on his mind. Secrat knew himself to be no different than that but he found it off putting to see the same man so indignant.

“Do you enjoy Italina?” Secrat inquired.

“It is absolutely terrific!” Ezik exclaimed. “The folks are rude and pompous, the cost of living is damn near impossible, it is almost always crowded, and I can’t hardly hear myself think, let alone sleep.”

“It sounds terrific,” Secrat said, finishing off his first full glass of beer.

“You have dealt with much worse, brother,” Ricar Bell reminded.

His voice frightened The Thief, more so for his location, he was scooping up the remnants of their bar stool, but Secrat didn’t recall seeing him move from the counter. The man was very stealthy for a man of his stature.

The sound of the entrance door being kicked in came soon after, and once more, Copé jumped, as did just about everyone else in the bar. The Heavy Man walked forward, back into the pub, his footwork was sluggish, expressing his own inebriation. His hands were clenched tightly, and beside him, several more men had now entered into the fold. Each man was every bit as hefty as the man, and all of them were every bit as drunk.

Secrat left his bar stool and ventured off to the side of the bar and he saw a knowing look from Ezic that told him it was the right decision. Copé knew it wasn’t wise to draw attention to himself. Brutus Ess, however, stayed planted in his seat, watching it all unfold like it was a stage play, a show for his enjoyment.

“You seem lost,” Ezic said, a worry on his face that was hardly masked by his tough guy demeanor.

“Far from it,” the Heavy Man argued, reaching over the counter and grabbing Ezic by the tunic, yanking him over the counter over to him like he was a rag doll. “Let’s hear some more of that pretty boy mouth of yours.

“I,” Ezic stopped, as if uncertain if he wanted to poke the bear with his reply. At last, he thought better of it, “… I don’t want any more trouble.”

“Of course not,” the Heavy Man said, shoving Ezic forward with all the might he could muster.

Ezic’s back slammed hard against the counter, and Copé could clear hear a yelp come from him upon impact.

“Damn you!” Ricar said, … like a child unused to swearing, and then, without a second thought, drove his boot into the large man.

The large man was caught off-guard, but the moment the impact registered with him, he let out a loud noise that said it all. It was the sound of ribs cracking and a bad decision being made. Like lions on a gazelle, the Heavy Man’s friends quickly went on the offensive against the giant, Ricar. There were three of them. One mid-sized and short, he was older looking, maybe mid to late forties with an average built, with graying brown hair. The second was fit and muscular, was about ten years younger, but also seemed to be several beers drunker. The second’s hair was long and straight but looked polluted by a night of debauchery. And, finally, the third, was every bit as prodigious as The Heavy Man, whereas his face showed a man who was not as much old or young as it was hair. That is, his face was engulfed by a long beard and mid-length brown hair.

Ricar fought back, at first, shoving them all away and demonstrating the sheer height advantage that he had on all of them, standing at about seven and a half feet.

Copé watched on, knowing the numbers would soon be too much for him, and he even felt a little bit of guilt over the fact.

That is, until he watched as Brutus Ess bashed one of them over the side of the head with his glass. The man fell instantly as the glass connected to the side of his skull. It caught him off-guard more than anything, as it not draw blood from him or cut his flesh. Rather, the glass grazed him and only broke upon impact with the ground. Seconds after, the rest of the guys’ mates piled onto him, and after a single fist to Ess’ injured midsection, he dropped like a rock. Copé looked on for only a moment. The death of his colleague would not be very convenient. He ran forward, taking a page from Ezik by leaping onto one of the bar stools, alas, however, it was simultaneous with the smaller brothers’ unexpected return to a standing position. The Thief made a valiant try to sway himself mid flight, but nothing changed, he collided into Ezik Bell, clocking heads with him and falling down against the hard floor. Ezik reacted fast, twisting and turning his body until he squirmed out from underneath Copé and pinned down his arms.

“Whose side are you on, exactly!?” Ezik asked with a confused look on his face, dirt riddling his face from the fall.

“Yours?” Copé answered, though, he did answer with some admitted uncertainty.

Ezic laughed sarcastically then frowned, “Well, let me just say that you have been a big help to us.”

In that moment, the Heavy Man drove a fist to the side of Ezic’s face. Copé heard in connect, in fact, he saw the blood spurt out of the pale man’s mouth upon impact. The spit left his mouth and he dropped off to the dirt floor. Meanwhile, Copé fought back to his feet. Brutus Ess was lying lifelessly on the ground, thus, leaving the giant battling against the three men.

Secrat found it almost curious, that is, the simple fact he wasn’t losing in said battle.

The Heavy Man attempted a club-like fist down on Secrat, who moved out of the way, causing the Heavy Man to drive his fist onto the counter again. This time, breaking through it. The Heavy Man seemed unaffected, in spite of a considerably large piece of wood splintering deep into the bottom of his fist. Blood dripped down his fingers. Wasting no time, Secrat kicked him between the legs. Leave the nobler attacks for nobler men, he decided. The Heavy Man held his crotch as Copé reached down to grab a piece of wood broken off from the counter. However, right as he reached his hand down, he felt the Heavy Man’s boot stamp down over his fingers.

A cry of agony and dismay came from Copé as the Heavy Man’s shoe lifted off his hand. He yanked it out of reach and tried to suffer in silence. Tried being an important word.

“Aw, fuck, aw fuck!” Secrat yelled repeatedly.

When Toucan had done that, about half a year ago, it took away The Thief’s ability to make a fist. Now, he would be lucky if he would ever be able to move any of his fingers again.

The Fat Hand Smasher did a quick movement, dragging The Thief back to his feet by the collar of his shirt. Copé felt the heavy hyperventilating of the man, already drenched in sweat. He felt the warm and odorous breath of the man on his face and then, The Thief headbutted him. He had no doubts that it would hurt him more than the Fat Hand Smasher, but he needed to buy some time for himself.

In the end, that was what it did, as the Fat Hand Smasher held his head angrily in dismay. Secrat had heard the man’s jaw slam shut like a door kicked in and thought it was likely he bit his tongue while waggling it on reflex. Cupping a spot on his face, once he freed his hands, Copé could see the blood gushing out from his mouth, confirming The Thief’s suspicions.

Behind him, Secrat could see Brutus and Ezic had both made it back to their feet. However, they were each preoccupied with helping Ricar against the other three men. The Heavy Man glared angrily at The Thief. There was blood covering the bottom half of his face with the crimson goo. The sight was almost more frightening than Not Azlak Temps in Acera. Not Azlak Temps had been completely, however, which offered him a distinct edge. The Heavy Man charged at Secrat, lugging the body he was not in full control of. Secrat did the only he could think to do … which was run. Run, in the opposite direction, that is.

He noticed the bar had seemed to have entirely cleared out of its other customers by now. Whether that would be good news or bad news for them, however, remained to be seen. Secrat snatched an unfinished glass of alcohol from the vacant table and tossed it in the man’s direction. He was not surprised to discover it doing no real damage. The Heavy Man kept running at him like a large, rolling boulder, and it left Secrat having to use all of his skills to defend himself. Unfortunately, he thought of nothing before it was too late.

The feeling of the man running into him felt like being being run over by a carriage. Nay, it felt like if a chariot reeled itself off from the Sanchi Tower onto him. And not a small carriage either, one of those three story carriages Secrat had seen earlier when entering The Aer Festival the first time around. The wind was knocked out of him, whereas ricocheting off the man and into the wall only knocked the wind out of him some more. As Copé fell to his knees in anguish, he watched as Ezic was flipped onto one of the wooden tables by the muscular man. The table broke under him after a short delay.

At least someone is having a worse time than him, he thought.

“You should have stayed out of it. It would have made it a lot easier on yourself,” Ezik spoke.

His voice broke off occasionally between breaths, with blood and sweat drooling off him like a big dog during a hot day.

“But, …,” Secrat began, but, then, stopped, “I have never been one for making things easier for myself,” Secrat said.

There was a dizzy feeling in him that made it fee as though the whole room was spinning around him, but in its spinning, he noticed something special off to the side of the bar that he had forgotten about. He had a rusty and metallic taste of iron in his mouth – the taste of blood.

The Heavy Man paid him a little half smile, fairly content with his revenge. He turned his back to him and began to make his leave to assist the others. Copé climbed to his feet soon after, a malfunctioning equilibrium made his body stumble some. But then, acting like he had a death wish, he threw a half full glass to the back of the man’s head. Mid-throw, Secrat had some second thoughts for his decision. But once the shattered sound came as it smacked against the back of his head, The Thief realized there was no going back. The Heavy Man turned around fast and immediately went after Secrat. Blind rage had taken the reins for him now. Copé, same as before, ran away, this time in a different direction. Now, he was running toward the hanging piece of wood punctured with knives. He ducked beneath it and assumed the Heavy Man would go around. As he met the wall, Copé put one foot in front of the other.

He ran up the side of the wall without fear, his goal to flip over the charging man. Alas, an acrobatic wunderkind, Copé was not, and he found himself landing with his stomach draped over the shoulder of the man; trapped.

The Heavy Man ran him into the wall. The Thief was met with imminent pain, but The Thief swallowed it to premeditate a revised attack. The Heavy Man walked around with Secrat in his arms, squeezing tightly. Copé reached around aimlessly, the life and consciousness in him fading. In a desperate attempt, Secrat raked the man’s eyes with his finger nail, causing The Heavy Man to free him from his clutches. Secrat did not change positions, and instead, climbed further up the man, reaching his hands out until he could finally make a grab for the plank of wood that dangled from the ceiling by a rope. It happened fast, so fast Secrat didn’t stop to think of what he had done in his desperation. Secrat Copé took the plank of wood, punctured with knives and then, slammed the blade end side of it into the Heavy Man’s back.

Copé freed himself from proximity and watched as the man reacted. At first, he reacted with big, bulging eyes of sheer shock and a grunt, and then, he dropped to the floor, bringing the plank of wood down with him. It was now “attached” to his back.

Secrat let out a big sigh, fully depleted. Though, it wasn’t for certain the man was dead, it was safe to assume. The Thief looked on over to the others. Brutus Ess was back on the ground. No surprise there, but Ezic and Ricar were at least both handling their own well against the two conscious men. A man was dead by Secrat’s hands, and whether it was just or not, Father Toucan would be displeased. On the bright side though, having already committed his sin, it freed Copé’s hands. With nothing more to lose, The Thief walked over to the inside of the counter, walking through the newly made doorway – created by the Heavy Man breaking the table in two. Once finding it, he lifted the heavy bottle of beer, sketched with the words “Brother’s Beer” on the side, it was more than half full and was even heavier than it looked, exceeding forty pounds.

The cavalryman would arrive soon, once they caught wind of the fighting. It had been awhile since Secrat Copé had been in the district, but if it was anything like he remembered it, knights just as easily may or may not respond to a criminal report. If they did, it usually wasn’t to help out. At any rate, Copé knew he needed to finish the altercation off. But, before Copé could do anything, he found himself attacked by the muscular man.

The bottle fell out of his hand and rolled somewhere else, and from the fist being driven to his back, Copé dropped to one knee. The ache of everything on his body was evident. His hair felt a yank, and his relenting body followed, falling and slamming to the ground. Secrat looked to the ceiling in a daze, feeling a deep and full hatred for Brutus Ess. It was because Brutus Ess he would die today. Not on his accord, and not because of an ambitious heist, but fighting in a bar in the defense of some strangers. Secrat saw the pale and petite fist of Ezic fly forward, over him. His body was damp with blood as well. The fist returned from the muscular man on the other hand was stronger and sent Ezic back down to the floor.

In a final wind, Copé muscled himself to his knee again, though, he had half a mind to lay and accept his death. Instead, he took a chance and launched himself at the man, shoulder tackling his leg. The muscular man reacted, falling back, he almost fell from his feet, but managed to keep his balance. That was all Copé could bring himself to do. But, seconds after, the giant Ricar, who had gotten his hands on the large glass bottle, brought it down over the man’s head like an ax. The bottle shattered, and from the force involved, it looked as though the man’s skull did as well.

Copé let out a sigh. This man was dead. Beneath him, Copé felt a waterfall of alcohol spill onto him, along with a small shattering of glass among probable left over fragments of the man’s skull. The man fell, and after, Secrat heard the entrance door swinging open, and turned his head in time to see the remainder of their opposition fleeing from the pub. Turning back, Ricar was, without a doubt, the second scariest thing The Thief had ever seen in his life.

His hand dripped with blood, and he still had the neck end of the bottle in his hands. Having known him a prestigious several minutes, Secrat saw his face for what it was. It was a man who was scared and upset. However, someone who didn’t know him that long would have seen someone completely manic. Ricar released the glass from his hands. Secrat could see tears streaming down his face. The Thief double checked to make for certain his brother Ezic hadn’t been accidentally killed in the scrimmage somehow. He hadn’t been. No, Ricar’s older “bigger” brother would live to be pale another day. And so, why did the giant cry? Secrat fought back to make it back to his feet. His back ached. Everything ached. But he had endured worse. The worst pain was in his hand. He was doing better than either of the dead people though. So, there was that.

“You can blame both of the murders on me when the knights stumble upon the bodies. Tell them it was self-defense and give them an improper description of us, but do point them in our direction. There is no reason for you two to face any type of fault for this,” Copé stopped, looking over at Brutus in all his beaten glory.

His shirt had dark red bloodstains and his face looked bruised and swollen. He was alive though, and that was all that was important. Father Veras would only care if he died, not if his bones were broken. Secrat noticed the giant still crying and felt confused.

“Did you not hear me? I said, we will take the blame for all of this; you and your brother won’t face penalty.

But Ricar’s streaming tears and bloodshot eyes continued.

“I killed this man,” the giant said with an upset stutter.

The Thief looked on in amazement of the spectacle. The giant felt guilt over the murder. He felt a bad feeling. He felt a bothersome feeling. And when he wept, he wept out of remorse for what he had done. It was something that Copé had never done before.

As Ezic Bell returned to his feet, his arm favoring his back, Secrat felt it was as great an opportunity as any to pursue elsewhere endeavors. The Fat Hand Smasher with the knives jutting into him like some kind of inverted porcupine took his eternal slumber with a pool of blood surrounding his lifeless corpse. In his pockets, the man had a bag of coin. It wasn’t a huge amount, but it was some. Copé shoved it down into his leggings. At least it was something small to show for the whole altercation.

He could hear Ezic Bell comforting his brother with words and phrases like, “It was an accident,” “You didn’t mean to,” and things of the sort. But the words fell on deaf ears, and, perhaps, rightly so. No one smashes another man’s head in by accident.

Brutus showed the first signs of life with laughter, offering a hearty chuckle that took everyone’s attention.

“This could have gone better,” he admitted, and then laughed some more.

Ezic smiled, stepping away from his brother.

He threw his hand out to Brutus and assisted him back to a vertical base. Brutus accepted, and once standing, patting him softly on the back, still laughing quietly to himself.

“Thanks for the assist,” Ezic said, graciously as he looked around at his wrecked bar and stepped past him, looking at the Heavy Man, blood ridden and all. “Why couldn’t you have just left?”

In his eyes was another look, it was every bit as foreign to Copé as the look he had seen on Ricar. The look wasn’t of any kind of guilt. Ezic wasn’t guilty, so what was it? Was it still remorse? But, remorse for what? Ezic looked over to his brother with a comforting smile, but his brother chose not to return the favor. Perhaps because he couldn’t.

Secrat thought about giving him some of the Heavy Man’s coin to cover the damages, thinking maybe that would make him feel better. He only thought about it though – as there was no way he would actually do it.

The wind brushed the door open some, startling The Thief. The latch must have been broken earlier when it was kicked. The door drifted shut once more, but before that, Copé could see the pitch blackness outside. It was even later than he thought.

“Brutus, we need to leave now.”

The gates would only be opening for a few hours longer, and even with the bag of coin, they wouldn’t have enough for a night’s stay at any of the inns.

“Not interested in a second round with the Italinian knights?” Brutus jested back.

“No, and neither are you,” Copé said, looking down toward the gash on Ess’ stomach.

“Where will you go?” Ezic asked.

His voice was firm and curious, his mouth no longer bleeding from where he had been attacked.

“Hardan,” Secrat answered. “We will return back home to Hardan.

Ezic offered a smirk that showed his skepticism. “You may have the skin, but you don’t have the look of someone from Hardan.

The Thief offered a smirk in return but made neither a rebuttal nor defense. Instead, he met Brutus at the door. Ess walked with a limp, beaten and worn down by the day’s trials. His large smile no longer expressed bad oral hygiene, but shared a mouth layered with blood – which, then again, wasn’t exactly good oral hygiene. Secrat took a look at everything that had happened. The broken counter top. The broken table. All of the shattered glass. All of the dead bodies. One whose head had been decimated by a large beer jug and the other with eight or nine knives plunged into his back. He looked at all the blood.

Brutus still giggled as they made their leave.