One of them, either fearless or possessed of the sensibilities of a dull stone, stepped up to the bar and called for service. His companions, wiser and therefore more nervous, began to whisper back and forth. Every eye in the tavern was upon them.
There was a scraping sound as a tough-looking woman at one of the officers" tables pushed her chair back and slowly stood up. Within seconds, all of her companions, uniformed or otherwise, were standing beside her. The motion spread across the bar in a wave, first the other officers and then the common sailors, once they saw that the weight of numbers would be eight-to-one in their favour. Soon enough, four dozen men and women were on their feet, saying nothing, simply staring at the six men by the door. The tiny knot of folk around Locke and Jean stayed planted in their seats; at the very least, if they remained where they were, they would be far out of the main line of trouble.
"Sirs," said the oldest barkeeper on duty as his two younger associates reached surreptitiously beneath the counter for what had to be weapons. "You" ve come a long way now, haven't you?"
"What do you mean?" If the constable at the bar wasn't feigning puzzlement, thought Jean, he was dimmer than a snuffed candle. "Came from the Golden Steps, is all. Fresh off duty. Got a thirst and a fair bit of coin to fill it."
"Perhaps," said the barkeep, "another tavern would be more to your taste this evening."
"What?" The man seemed at last to become aware of the fact that he was the focal point of a waiting mob's attention. As always, thought Jean, there were two sorts in a city watch — the ones that had eyes for trouble in the backs of their heads, and the ones that used their skulls to store sawdust. "I said—" the barkeep began, clearly losing patience.
"Hold," said the constable. He put both hands up toward the patrons of the tavern. "I see what's what. I already had a few tonight. You got to forgive me, I don't mean nothing. Aren't we all Verrari here? We just want a drink, is all."
"Lots of places have drinks," said the barkeep. "Lots of more suitable places." "We don't want no trouble for anyone."
"Wouldn't be any trouble for us? said a burly man in naval tunic and breeches. His table-mates shared an evil chuckle. "Find the fucking door." "Council dogs," muttered another officer. "Oathless gold-sniffers."
"Hold on," said the constable, shaking off the grasp of a friend who was trying to pull him to the door. "Hold on, I said we didn't mean nothing. Dammit, I meant it! Peace. We'll be on our way. Have a round on me, all of you. Everyone!" He shook out his purse with trembling hands. Copper and silver coins rattled onto the wooden bar. "Barkeep, a round of good Verrari dark for anyone who wants it, and keep what's left."
The barkeeper flicked his gaze from the unfortunate constable to the burly naval officer who'd spoken earlier. Jean guessed the man was one of the senior officers present, and the barkeep was looking to him for a judgment.
"Grovelling suits you," the officer said with a crooked grin. "We won't touch a drink with you, but we'll be happy to spend your money once you're out that door for good."
"Of course. Peace, friends, we didn't mean nothing." The man looked as though he might babble on, but two of his comrades grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back through the door. There was a general outburst of laughter and applause when the last of the constables had vanished into the night.
"Now that's how the navy adds money to its budget," yelled the burly officer. His table-mates laughed, and he grabbed his glass and held it up toward the rest of the tavern. "The Archon! Confusion to his enemies at home and abroad."
"The Archon," chorused the other officers and sailors. Soon enough, they were all settling down into good humour once again, and the eldest barkeep was counting the constable's money while his assistants set out rows of wooden cups beside a tapped cask of dark ale. Jean frowned, calculating in his head. Drinks for roughly fifty people, even plain dark ale, would set the constable back at least a quarter of his monthly pay. He" d known many men who'd have chanced a chase and a beating before parting with that much hard-earned coin.
"Poor drunk idiot," he sighed, glancing at Locke. "Still want to make yourself a barking public embarrassment? Seems they" ve already got one in these parts." "Maybe I'll just hold fast after this bottle," said Locke. "Hold fast is a nautical—" "I know," said Locke. "I'll kill myself later."
The two younger barkeeps circulated with large trays, passing out wooden cups of dark ale, first to the officers, who were mostly indifferent, and then to the ordinary sailors, who received them with enthusiasm. As an afterthought, one of them eventually made his way to the corner where Locke and Jean and the other civilians sat.
"Sip of the dark stuff, sirs?" He set cups down before Locke and Jean and, with dexterity approaching that of a juggler, dashed salt into them from a little glass shaker. "Courtesy of the man with more gold than brains." Jean slid a copper onto his tray to be sociable, and the man nodded his appreciation before moving on to the next table. "Sip of the dark stuff, madam?"
"Clearly, we need to come here more often," said Locke, though neither he nor Jean touched their windfall ale. Locke, it seemed, was content to drink his wine, and Jean, consumed by thoughts of what Caldris might challenge them with the next day, felt no urge to drink at all. They passed a few minutes in quiet conversation, until Locke finally stared down at his cup of ale and sighed.
"Salted dark ale just isn't the thing to follow punched-up wine," he mused aloud. A moment later, Jean saw the woman seated behind him turn and tap him on the shoulder.
"Did I hear you right, sir?" She looked to be a few years younger than Locke and Jean, vaguely pretty, with bright scarlet forearm tattoos and a deep suntan that marked her as a dockworker of some sort. "Salted dark not to your taste? I don't mean to be bold, but I" ve just run dry over here—"
"Oh. Oh!" Locke turned, smiling, and passed his cup of ale to her over his shoulder. "By all means, help yourself. My compliments."
"Mine as well," said Jean, passing it over. "It deserves to be appreciated." "It will be. Thank you kindly, sirs." Locke and Jean settled back into their conference of whispers.
"A week," said Locke. "Maybe two, and then Stragos wants us gone. No more theoretical madness. We'll be living it, out there on the gods-damned ocean."
"All the more reason I'm glad you" ve decided not to get too bent around the bottle this evening."
"A little self-pity goes a long way these days," said Locke. "And brings back memories of a time I'd rather forget."
"There's no need for you to keep apologizing for… that. Not to yourself and certainly not to me."
"Really?" Locke ran one finger up and down the side of the half-empty bottle. "Seems I can see a different story in your eyes whenever I make the acquaintance of more than a glass or two. Outside a Carousel Hazard table, of course." "Now, hold on—"
"It wasn't meant as an unkindness," Locke said hurriedly. "It's just the truth, is all. And I can't say you're wrong to feel that way. You… what is it?"
Jean had looked up, distracted by a wheezing sound that was rising behind Locke. The dockworker had half-risen out of her chair and was clutching at her throat, fighting for breath. Jean immediately stood up, stepped around Locke and took her by the shoulders.
"Easy, madam, easy. A little too much salt in the ale, eh?" He spun her around and gave her several firm slaps on the back with the heel of his right hand. To his alarm, she continued choking — in fact, she was sucking in absolutely nothing now with each futile attempt at a breath. She turned and clutched at him with desperate strength; her eyes were wide with terror and the redness of her face had nothing to do with her suntan.