The youths jerk to attention, stumbling back to get out of Folke’s way. I can hear from their heartbeats that they’re on edge—they were even before we set foot inside. I can also hear the muffled breathing of another man—older, judging by the rasp in his throat—not visible, but somewhere nearby.
I sniff the air.Cheap brandy.
It’s Gaez.
I grab Rian’s arm and shove him inside. I’m not giving the bastard a second to slip away—I have to fucking fightandbabysit.
We burst in, and I spot a gap behind the water barrel and shove Rian toward it. Then, in the same move, I puff myself up big and stomp loudly toward Folke.
“Jacko, you ass! Latrine is outside!” I shout.
Folke pinwheels toward me sloppily, taking the opportunity to stumble toward the only other door; a backroom with a suspicious number of locks.
“What, you blind? It’s right here!” Folke slams his shoulder against the door, acting drunk, but it doesn’t budge.
The young dishwashers jerk toward us, arms outstretched to herd us back toward the alley. The taller one grunts, “Hey, you pissers. Get the fuck out.”
The shorter one quietly picks up a knife next to a pile of potatoes.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “My ass of a friend here downed too much booze. Get over here, Jacko?—”
I swipe for him, but Folke dodges my hand with a drunken giggle, and I slam my fist into the back room door instead.
Shit—itstilldoesn’t break open.
At the same time, loud footsteps sound in the back room. The locks click on the other side, and the door swings open.
General Gaez’s face, bruised and red-cheeked from drink, scowls back at me.
“What the fuck’s going on out here, boys?” he snaps to the dishwashers.
I grin beneath my handkerchief as I shove my foot in the door so he can’t shut it again. At my side, Folke drops his drunken act, smoothly drawing his sword.
I tug down my handkerchief and grin. “We meet again.”
Gaez is well trained enough as a fighter to show only a flicker of surprise before grabbing for a meat cleaver just inside the back room, as he shouts to the dishwashers, “Kill them!”
I slam my elbow into his forearm, smashing the meat cleaver back into his own face. A cut bursts over his left temple. He falls backward but catches himself, blood dripping down into his eye.
“Folke, handle the boys,” I call. “I’ve got Gaez.”
Folke spins his knife around, grinning at the dishwashers. “Hello, there.”
The shorter youth jabs the peeling knife at him, but Folke picks up a potato and catches the blade it in, twisting it out of the boy’s hand and tossing it, knife and all, into the water barrel.
I slam my shoulder against the back room door, pushing my way in. It’s barely more than a pantry. A cot on the floor, a small cache of weapons, plenty of booze. Gaez has been holed up here for a while.
Gaez lunges for me, a fist swinging toward my head, but I block it.
I sigh, because this is almost too easy.
Then, a shout comes from behind me, and I immediately swallow my words.
Sentinels flood into the kitchen from the alley. The dissidents who fled along with Gaez. One, two, three, four. They’re all armed—I recognize the bartender among them and a few pub patrons. They’re armed to the teeth with swords and crossbows.
The nearest one clocks me immediately and aims his crossbow.
Fuck.
