Who's the pretty boy?

 
Bian -27-
Yield the Door!
 
by Erin Halfelven

I didn’t have to answer because someone knocked on the door. Valto’s voice came through. “Lord Kelvan, one of your men says there is trouble in the street.”

Kelvan hustled to the door and opened it. Alenna’s tall blond brother towered over a dark fellow who looked as if he might moonlight as a stoat. He had a pinched up weaselly face and wore patched clothes in nondescript colors.

Valto started to speak but the man interrupted. “Nonkel, the Tanner Guild has hired some bullnecks to wait for you to come out.” Nonkel was uncle, another way of referring to one’s boss. Bullnecks (the same word in Bloddish) were porters and stevedores, burly men who made their livings with their strength. The usual sort someone would hire to cause trouble, probably paid in wine or ale.

“You had them under your eye, Welmund? Good work. Are our boys ready to get in their way?” Kelvan tried to leave the room, but Valto did not give him enough room.

“Aye. We’ve sticks and nets, and ropes to knot their robes round their ankles.” The little weasel face split in a grin missing several teeth. He had to lean sideways to talk around my half-brother’s bulk.

“Better than better,” said Kelvan looking at Valto’s hand on Welmund’s shoulder, holding the little man in place. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt.” Again, he tried to get past but Valto had to move only an inch or so to discourage him.

“I need to go see to my men,” the senator said.

Valto was being very coplike. “It sounds like if you go down there, there’s going to be a fight.”

Rotgar appeared at the end of the little passageway outside our conference room and there really was not room for him at all.

Kelvan’s posture lost a little of its starch. “Adelkenner…” he began. Noble acquaintances, meaning roughly, gentlemen, but Rotgar didn’t let him finish.

“Valto’s right. It will be better if we go upstairs where we can see the whole street without being seen,” Rotgar said. “Meddekorin, too.” He meant Kilda, Lillakatye and I, calling us ‘girls’ in effect. Sticking that -ko- in there made it worse, implying that we were little and cute. I got annoyed then distracted for a moment, realizing that the particle, used as an ending, did the same thing in Japanese back in the Other World.

Kelvan’s minion was allowed to go downstairs with a message and Valto led the way for the rest of us, Rotgar pushing into a corner to stand aside so he could bring up the rear. Which left him wide open as Lillakatye passed, taking the opportunity to step on his foot and plant an elbow in his middle.

“Oof,” he said.

“Hit ger mish dor, Garko,” said Katye sweetly, apologizing and calling him a cute little fishie at the same time. I grinned but Rotgar couldn’t see it since I was already past him. I heard him laugh good-naturedly.

We went single file up the narrow staircase to the roof. It didn’t get much use above the level with sleeping rooms for some of the inn workers, but it eventually opened out onto a balcony over the street. In hot weather, the servants probably slept out here but right at the moment, it seemed unlikely that Lundenna ever got hot.

I remembered the baker who had shouted from a rooftop at me on our way into the city. I shook my head, that had been this morning though I had had a nap since then. I looked around the balcony and sure enough, there was a chimney at one end coming up, probably, from the common room below. I avoided it, remembering that the baker had gotten burned.

Time might or might not be relative but it sure moved fast sometimes.

A cold misty ceiling hung above the city with scattered skylights of yellow sun poking through diagonally. It was late afternoon or early evening in the middle of March; the sun would be setting soon. The angle of the light made the city look dramatic, with some walls brightly lit while others were in shadow. The streets appeared rain-washed and clean, except for the gutters running down the middle of most of them.

Not more than a hundred yards away, back toward the North Gate, I could see the rooftop the baker had used to swear love to me. I couldn’t help smiling. The man had been funny, if embarrassing, with his over-the-top proclamation. I turned my attention back to the street below.

The most prominent things were the three groups of men struggling in front of the inn. Some pedestrian traffic like we had seen earlier pooled at either end of the lane, leaving room for the men armed with sticks, nets, ropes and loud voices to push and shove each other. A couple of enterprising fried pie sellers were already working the crowds, the alewives were probably not far behind.

It was a messy situation though no one was actually trading blows yet, it could easily come to that.

“Go back to Sow Boil,” shouted someone and this amused the spectators, several of whom took up the cry. Sudharrow, meaning South Fort, was the settlement across the Temms River where many of the tanneries were located. Suge Wallop in Bloddish, or Sow Boil in English, was a probably traditional insult.

An even ruder version, Suge Stir was being used too. A stir was a cookpot, but also slang for a whore’s bed. Alenna must have been listening at doors when she shouldn’t have to know that bit of vocabulary with her sheltered upbringing. The crowd indiscriminately echoed the catcalls. They didn’t care what the issues were, they just wanted to see some action.

The bullnecks were distinguished by their bullnecks, natch; powerfully built men in rough clothing, some of them armed with staves or cudgels. The quicker ones armed with ropes and nets must be Kelvan’s men, along with some stick wielders who seemed to be helping them. The third set might be servants of the inn, trying to keep the other two groups from forcing the gate. They were better dressed with longer weapons, some of them carrying polearms like absurdly long-handled hammers.

I wondered if anyone had called the cops, or here-and-now, the City Guard. The local cops would be armored and have edged weapons available, totally outclassing any of the three groups below. But there were no callboxes on the corners; someone would have to send a messenger to the copshop which wasn’t that far away. I wondered if Hubrict had already done so.

My guys on the balcony with me, Rotgar, Valto, and Zenner, all had swords. Lillakatye had her axe, and Lang and Cordle waiting on the floor below also had steel blades. And me with my Lightning-in-a-Bell. We didn’t really have anything to worry about from the ill-armed rabble below us.

We watched saying little for a bit. The bullnecks’ aggression kept threatening to turn the confrontation to real violence. The inn’s men retreated, backs to the gate. Kelvan’s guys seemed resolute but overmatched in size and numbers.

I glanced at the councilor-newspaperman. He had the end of his sleeve in his mouth, chewing it. The agitators down there were sent by the guilds to deal with him.

Zenner stepped closer to me. “Say the word, kvinne, and we will clear the street with steel.” He motioned to include Valto and Rotgar in his offer; they nodded, grimly. After a moment, so did Katye, her hand on her belt where her axe hung. Just showing up, armored and well-armed might end the proto-riot. Or make it worse.

I noticed the Remice spy had not called me kvinnikin. Or worse, princess. Just lady, ceding me authority here. I shook my head. “Wait, nothing is happening yet. Maybe they’ll all get tired and go home.”

Kelvan snorted, but said nothing.

Hubricht appeared again, took a look, then disappeared, probably to go downstairs and arm his kitchen staff with cleavers and skewers. Or make that call for the cops.

The other two recruiters for the Greenfeast Pageant stayed out of the way. Being gentlemen of rank, they were allowed to carry steel weapons in the City but neither was so armed. Just as Kelvan wasn’t, though I suspected the old prestidigitator had a gedunker, a weighted club, concealed on his person somewhere. Or something even more lethal.

I listened to what they were saying below.

“Yield the door!” the leader of the bullnecks commanded the inn’s men.

“Bedunkenthusel!” replied the man with the long hammer. Go thump yourself, in English.

“Farthingnarry! Sugeswivver! Skaitaterin! Lekkerhund!” The insults flew on all sides. A farthingnarry was a rent-a-thug, a goon. The others were more vulgar. That last one I didn’t know but I could guess. The crowd was loving it.

“As long as they’re just shouting at each other…” I started to say when the situation abruptly changed.

Down the street, five men approached on horseback, coming from the zAdelkael, the Noble Quarter. Four were dressed like noble retainers in partial armor and one was obviously a nobleman himself. He sat tall and helmet less, his golden hair shining in a stray bolt from the sun. His beard was darker and neatly shaped. I couldn’t see his eye color from this distance but I was sure it must be blue.

“Vad gae hen hier?” asked Katye. “What’s he doing here?”

Something in my chest ached at the sight of this man. My hands trembled. “Vie den dunke erst hen?” I asked. Who the thump is he? Why am I reacting just to his physical presence?

No one answered any of my questions, especially not the ones I wasn’t saying out loud.

But the man himself spoke, with enough volume we heard him clearly on the balcony above. “Vie den guifehren ar demvelke?” Who are the leaders of you folk?

The head bullneck, plus one of the inn’s people, and one of Kelvan’s guys stepped forward enough to identify themselves. Negotiations appeared to begin at a lower volume as the blond noble rode his horse into the middle of what only a moment ago had looked like the beginnings of a riot.

His men arrayed themselves at convenient positions around him, hands on their weapons. They carried steel: swords and spears, and they wore breastplates and helmets. If they attacked the potential rioters, it would be a slaughter.

The man in the middle radiated calm, authority and reason, his face unconcealed and his hands staying away from his weapons. But I found myself worried about the safety of the apparent peacemaker. The bullnecks in particular looked to still be dangerous, especially as Kelvan’s men appeared to be backing off from the confrontation. I noticed their movements only peripherally. It was hard to take my eyes off the noble on horseback.

I licked my lips. “Vie er det skeyn kanobbe?” I asked. Who’s the pretty boy?

Katye and Rotgar both grinned at me and Zenner smiled but it was Valto who answered. “Det ar dura huswarda kvill bevan, swesel.” That’s your husband to be, sis. “Het ar Ondakong Eovil, hensel.” It’s Duke Awful, himself.

When I heard his name, something inside me turned upside down. “Ikk bint sich dunken mikke.” I am so fucked.

“Meyt ikka, sartin,” agreed Katye. Probably, for sure.