The tavern was a filthy hole, steeped in smoke and rancid grease. The air stank of days-old spilled beer and poorly burned firewood. Rask drank in small sips from a dented mug, as if every drop might melt away a thought he didn’t want to face. Mirel, beside him, smoked a cheap pipe that spat a bitter smell, almost worse than the house wine.
“You know what I can’t stand?” Rask muttered, staring into the dark liquid. “This fucking waiting. We did the job, clean, precise. And instead of counting coins we’re here drinking dog piss in a place that’s falling apart.”
Mirel blew out a puff of smoke and laughed. “Clean, you say? I still have that customs officer’s face burned into my eyes. He looked at us like he couldn’t believe it. Like he was thinking: ‘Not here, not to me.’ Then crack. End of thought.”
Rask smirked, without joy. “People always think the world is fairer than it is. Then we show up to remind them what it’s really like.”
A loud, coarse laugh erupted from a table in the corner, but it didn’t distract them. Rask went back to staring at his mug, Mirel followed his lead, lowering his voice.
“And here we are, rotting away,” Mirel said. “This guy who owes us… what’s his name again?”
“He doesn’t have one,” Rask replied. “Says names get people killed.”
“What a load of shit,” Mirel spat a peanut shell to the floor. “It’s not the name that kills you. It’s the knife. Or the rope. Or the fire that blows up under your ass.”
Rask looked up, suddenly serious. “And if he doesn’t show?”
Mirel shrugged, as if the question barely mattered. “Then we find him. And when we do, we cut him open and count the coins inside.”
The laugh that followed was more a growl than amusement. Some patrons turned to look at them, but Rask didn’t bother lowering his voice. “You know you scare me sometimes, Mirel?”
“You don’t need to fear me. You should fear ending up empty-handed.”
They both fell silent. The tavern chatter covered their thoughts, until Rask leaned forward again, speaking in that low, tense tone. “You notice something? The whole city’s talking about the port — the fire, the dead. But no one’s saying who the hell did it.”
Mirel smiled, without humor. “Better that way. As long as we stay in the dark, the money keeps flowing. If they drag us into the sun, brother, no one’s saving us.”
Rask raised his mug and toasted the air. “To the dark, then.”
“And to the bastard who owes us money,” Mirel added, raising his glass. “Because if he doesn’t pay, tomorrow this city gets another fire.”
For a moment they seemed like any pair of drunks laughing over bad wine. But Rask went back to wringing his hands. He’d been doing it for two days, ever since that night at the port.
“You know what’s driving me crazy?” he said at last, lighting his pipe and spitting on the floor. “This fucking blood won’t come off. I scrubbed my jacket for half an hour — nothing. Now I smell like a drunk butcher’s shop.”
Mirel laughed, shaking his head. “Christ, Rask… It’s not like we need to smell pretty for what we do.”
“It’s not about smelling pretty. It’s respect. You show up to a job reeking of corpse and what does that say about you?”
“That you did your damn job. Period.”
Rask sighed, then chuckled. “You always sound like the guy explaining the rules of some board game.”
“Better than sounding like the guy whining about a red stain.”
“It’s not sauce, asshole. It’s brain.”
Mirel’s laugh burst loud, drawing more stares. Rask glared. “Careful, Mirel. Next time it might be you I use for decoration.”
“Relax, brother,” the other said, pouring more wine. “Before you decorate me, they have to pay us. And I plan to walk out of here with a full bag.”
“Let’s see if that bastard keeps his word.”
“He will. Trade’s frozen and half the Cheva family died in the blast. If he wants us working for him — and silent — he’d better pay big.”
Rask leaned forward, grim. “And if he tries to screw us, this city will see another fire. Just not at the port.”
Mirel cracked a peanut between his teeth and stared back. Then shook his head. “You’ve been like this for two days, Rask. You look like a priest at a funeral.”
“Something’s been wrong since that night,” Rask admitted. “There’s this buzzing in my head that won’t go away. Sometimes it’s like I hear voices. Laughter, faint, like people celebrating in another room.”
Mirel stopped laughing. “Sure it’s not just the rotten wine you just downed?”
“It’s not the wine,” Rask snapped. “It’s there. Always. And the other night… fuck, Mirel, I had the worst nightmare of my life. Heart hammering like I was about to die. But I don’t remember it. Nothing. Just black, and the feeling that it didn’t end at the port. That something just started.”
Mirel sighed, toying with his glass. “Listen, Rask. Two options. One: you’re losing your mind, which is normal after all the blood we’ve seen. Two: something out there cursed you, and in that case, we’re screwed.”
Rask growled. “You know what? Maybe both.”
Mirel stared at him, not laughing this time. Then drew deep on his cigarette and blew out the smoke as if trying to push the thought away.
“You know what? I don’t give a damn about those voices. What matters is the payment. Two days and we get paid. After that, New World. No one knows us there.”
Rask lowered his gaze, jaw tight. “Yeah. The payment.”
Mirel leaned closer, eyes glinting with excitement. “So? What are you gonna do with all that coin? Open a brothel? Buy yourself a villa on a hill? Drink and screw yourself to death?”
“A villa?” Rask laughed bitterly. “With what we’ve done, there’s no hill high enough to hide on.”
“Then the New World. New land, new people, new rules. Nobody knows us.”
“I don’t believe for a second you want to farm.”
“Exactly,” Mirel grinned. “But over there, we get to start over.”
Rask rubbed his temples. “And if we stay here? Guards pawing through corpses, councilors screaming for blood…”
“If we stay, we end up on a rope. And I don’t like ropes.”
The silence pressed down on their table again. Then Rask nodded, resigned. “Then it’s decided. We get paid… and we cross.”
Mirel chuckled, satisfied. “That’s more like it. Two bastards burn a port and then go play pioneers.”
But Rask lowered his gaze. “Only I’ll never run far enough from that buzzing.”
For once, Mirel had no comeback. He just stared, and for the first time understood his friend meant every word.
Footsteps made them turn. The tavern door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and the smell of rain. A thin boy, too young to be there, searched the room with his eyes and found them at once. He came over without greeting, without even pulling back his hood.
“It’s ready,” he said quietly. “Outside the city, at the Pietragrezza inn. At sundown.”
Mirel nodded without a word. Rask handed the boy a couple of coins, which he took before vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.
They sat in silence until the door shut again. Rask lit his pipe and noticed Mirel was still staring into space.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked after a long drag. “Usually news like that has you dancing on the table.”
Mirel blinked, but didn’t smile. “Nothing,” he said, his tone harder than usual. “Let’s get the money and leave.”
“Not gonna tell me, huh?” Rask blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Turned philosopher all of a sudden?”
Mirel turned to look at him, and for a moment his face looked older, worn. “You want the truth?”
“Always.”
“I heard something.” Mirel’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “A buzzing. Loud. Like someone was sawing through my skull from the inside.”
Rask froze. “Buzzing?”
“And then…” Mirel swallowed — and that was what truly scared Rask; he’d never seen him hesitate. “I heard a laugh. Not a man’s, not a woman’s. Something… big. Like it was laughing at me. Right here.” He tapped his temple.
Rask stared for a long moment, pipe dead in his fingers. “Welcome to the club, brother,” he said at last, voice low and hard as wood. “Now you know what I meant the other night.”
Mirel didn’t answer. He just finished his wine in one swallow, and when he stood up, his usual smile was gone.
“Let’s get that money,” he said. “And get out before that thing decides to show itself.”