A bouncer stood out front, short and squat, with a scar running up his cheek, across his forehead, and onto his scalp. He gave Veil a critical looking-over, but didn’t stop her as she sauntered—full of confidence—into the tent. It smelled worse than the other pub, with all these drunken people crammed together. The tents had been sewn to create partitioned-off areas, darkened nooks—and a few had tables and chairs instead of boxes. The people who sat at them didn’t wear the simple clothing of workers, but instead leathers, rags, or unbuttoned military coats.
Both richer than the other tavern, Veil thought, and lower at the same time.
She rambled through the room, which—despite oil lamps on some tables—was quite dim. The “bar” was a plank set across some boxes, but they’d draped a cloth over the middle. A few people waited for drinks; Veil ignored them. “What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?” she asked the barkeep, a fat man in a takama. She thought he might be lighteyed. It was too dim to tell for certain.
He looked her over. “Veden saph, single barrel.”
“Right,” Veil said dryly. “If I wanted water, I’d go to the well. Surely you’ve got something stronger.”
The barkeep grunted, then reached behind himself and took out a jug of something clear, with no label. “Horneater white,” he said, thumping it down on the table. “I have no idea what they ferment to make the stuff, but it takes paint off real nicely.”
“Perfect,” Veil said, clacking a few spheres onto the improvised counter. The others in line had been shooting her glares for ignoring the line, but at this their expressions turned to amusement.
The barkeep poured Veil a very small cup of the stuff and set it before her. She downed it in one gulp. Shallan trembled inside at the burning that followed—the immediate warmth to her cheeks and almost instant sense of nausea, accompanied by a tremor through her muscles as she tried to resist throwing up.
Veil was expecting all this. She held her breath to stifle the nausea, and relished the sensations. No worse than the pains already inside, she thought, warmth radiating through her.
“Great,” she said. “Leave the jug.”
Those idiots beside the bar continued to gawk as she poured another cup of the Horneater white and downed it, feeling its warmth. She turned to inspect the tent’s occupants. Who to approach first? Aladar’s scribes had checked watch records for anyone else killed the same way as Sadeas, and they’d come up empty—but a killing in an alleyway might not get reported. She hoped that the people here would know of it regardless.
She poured some more of that Horneater drink. Though it was even fouler-tasting than the Veden saph, she found something strangely appealing about it. She downed the third cup, but drew in a tiny bit of Stormlight from a sphere in her pouch—just a smidge that instantly burned away and didn’t make her glow—to heal herself.
“What are you looking at?” she said, eyeing the people in line at the bar.
They turned away as the bartender moved to put a stopper on the jug. Veil put her hand on top of it. “I’m not done with that yet.”
“You are,” the bartender said, brushing her hand away. “One of two things is going to happen if you continue like that. You’ll either puke all over my bar, or you’ll drop dead. You’re not a Horneater; this will kill you.”
“That’s my problem.”
“The mess is mine,” the barkeep said, yanking the jug back. “I’ve seen your type, with that haunted look. You’ll get yourself drunk, then pick a fight. I don’t care what it is you want to forget; go find some other place to do it.”
Veil cocked an eyebrow. Getting kicked out of the most disreputable bar in the market? Well, at least her reputation wouldn’t suffer here.
She caught the barkeep’s arm as he pulled it back. “I’m not here to tear your bar down, friend,” she said softly. “I’m here about a murder. Someone who was killed here a few days back.”
The barkeep froze. “Who are you? You with the guard?”
“Damnation, no!” Veil said. Story. I need a cover story. “I’m hunting the man who killed my little sister.”
“And that has to do with my bar how?”
“I’ve heard rumors of a body found near here.”
“A grown woman,” the barkeep said. “So not your sister.”
“My sister didn’t die here,” Veil said. “She died back in the warcamps; I’m just hunting the one who did it.” She hung on as the barkeep tried to pull away again. “Listen. I’m not going to make trouble. I just need information. I hear there were … unusual circumstances about this death. This rumored death. The man who killed my sister, he has something strange about him. He kills in the same way every time. Please.”
The barkeep met her eyes. Let him see, Veil thought. Let him see a woman with a hard edge, but wounds inside. A story reflected in her eyes—a narrative she needed this man to believe.
“The one who did it,” the barkeep said softly, “has already been dealt with.”
“I need to know if your murderer is the same one I’ve been hunting,” Veil said. “I need details of the killing, however gruesome they may be.”
“I can’t say anything,” the barkeep whispered, but he nodded toward one of the alcoves made from the stitched-together tents, where shadows indicated some people were drinking. “They might.”
“Who are they?”
“Just your everyday, ordinary thugs,” the barkeep said. “But they’re the ones I pay to keep my bar out of trouble. If someone had disturbed this establishment in a way that risked the authorities shutting the place down—as that Aladar is so fond of doing—those are the people who would have taken care of said problem. I won’t say more.”
Veil nodded in thanks, but didn’t let go of his arm. She tapped her cup and cocked her head hopefully. The barkeep sighed and gave her one more hit of the Horneater white, which she paid for, then sipped as she walked away.
The alcove he’d indicated held a single table full of a variety of ruffians. The men wore the clothing of the Alethi upper crust: jackets and stiff uniform-style trousers, belts and buttoned shirts. Here, their jackets were undone, their shirts loose. Two of the women even wore the havah, though another was in trousers and a jacket, not too different from what Veil wore. The whole group reminded her of Tyn in the way they lounged in an almost deliberate way. It took effort to look so indifferent.
There was an unoccupied seat, so Veil strolled right in and took it. The lighteyed woman across from her hushed a jabbering man by touching his lips. She wore the havah, but without a safehand sleeve—instead, she wore a glove with the fingers brazenly cut off at the knuckles.
“That’s Ur’s seat,” the woman said to Veil. “When he gets back from the pisser, you’d best have moved on.”
“Then I’ll be quick,” Veil said, downing the rest of her drink, savoring the warmth. “A woman was found dead here. I think the murderer might have also killed someone dear to me. I’ve been told the murderer was ‘dealt with,’ but I need to know for myself.”
“Hey,” said a foppish man wearing a blue jacket, with slits in the outer layer to show yellow underneath. “You’re the one that was drinking the Horneater white. Old Sullik only keeps that jug as a joke.”