They bundled the shirts together and slung them over Wist’s back. It was his bright idea and a silver in his boot that got them the alley bow from the publican, and so he would be their standardbearer to return as valiant heroes. Owl tied them to the alley post that held up the walk, using their belts and pants for their bonds. It was Crane’s idea to soak them down with the remaining clay vessels they had got from the tavernkeep, and now the three brutes were soaked to the bone in the chilling air.
Just as the children got their work done the rain began. Anyone who had lived in the valley long enough knew this wasn’t a sprinkling, but the start of the great rains. Floods would come to the streets, and while it would be a piss warm rain soon, now it was a rain to give chills.
“We’ll remember this. You know that, right? You little shitmouthed brat, your prized pig beater, and that cunt of a boygirl you brought with ya will go down. But it’s the one carrying our kuttes who will get it worst of all.” Blade croaked, trying to see through tear bleeding swollen eyes each of them in turn as he fought his improvised chains. “Those are the sign of us, and anyone who steals from a Black and White will earn their death.”
The lordling smiled, then looked up to the sky to catch the rain. They all smelled boozy, but they seemed so quick. Dirk hated them for it, and knew Blade would be ready to murder them if it took burning the Barrow down. They had to be Barrow rats, cryptsleeping little asses who decided to come uptown and start trouble. The lordling was probably trying some new con, moving in on their territory.
“The rain. The Father’s tears falling onto Mother’s body. Now, to think I had forgotten to help the Mother.” the brat said, reaching for the laces of his britches. He unlooped them then, pulling himself out, and began to spray the soldiers of the Black and Whites. “Ahh, that does feel better. When we get back to our place we’ll do the same to your little shirts, and then we’ll bury them in a cesspit. It’s only right, as the Black and Whites are only fit to be shat on by a King.”
At this Stab jerked up from his slumber. The Kings. The largest gang of the Barrow, ready to strike out at the Black and Whites? Dirk knew he had fucked up, and cursed his rotten luck. One dumb beating and now he had made war without consulting the boss. And if they decided to try to fight, the Kings would kill them down to the last man like a prisoner peeling potato pots, and no one would remember their gang in a year.
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“Gentlemen? We have no further quarrel. Take your beating today, as it was delivered. Tell your leader you lost your shirts to four children. Keep it quiet, scream it loud, but soon all the right folk will know you lost your way.” the tall one smirked as he spoke, his hands at his back like a true lordling. “You can die tomorrow, or next week, or in a month. That is, if you decide to fight further.”
“Or,” the girl came in, “you can shut your whoremothered mouths and take your medicine, then keep out of the Barrow until the last of us is in the ground. Then, and only then, will you live to see nightfall on our land.”
“All is clear, ma’am.” Dirk said, bowing his head in defeat.
“And now, Lord Oriole, I believe these men struck you? I guess it would be your turn to take satisfaction.” the girl handed the boy her basher, and he began his work. By the end Dirk had a broken knee, bruises all up his ribs, and was missing teeth. Blade fared little better, though the kid was beginning to tire. Stab was the safest from his blows, though the fat one busted his nose with a nicely done headbutt and then made him cry like a child with a swift and full kick to the coinpurse.
“Now, our work is done. The light comes, and we go. Go in peace then, friends, in the Tannery. Cross the Fleasbridge, take her gate, or ever attempt to send one, and we will find you. We will find your women, your children. And as the Father as witness I will burn you all to the ground.” his voice was harder than the boy Dirk heard before, and the kid’s eyes seemed to gleam with hatred and some other passing something. As they walked away Dirk thanked them silently for their beating, then passed out against his bonds hoping someone would see him before emptying the chamber pots on his comrade’s heads.
He came quietly on them. The kids had done good work, but some work needed to be done by men.
The swollen faced one was first. His head was at just the right angle, and it took only one swift stroke through the heart to take him. A hand over the mouth and bracing against his struggling form and he was out. The blade was wiped clean, and he moved to the next.
In all it took ten breaths, shorter than a child’s game. They bled like pigs, and he had to wipe the blood away on a pile of rags that laid beside the midden heap for the tavern. Three deaths, a tally not too bad. And if it started something? Well, there was work to be done, and a war to be won, and he’ll find what he seeks as soon as the fool pokes his head over the wall.
