Chapter 10: Inn Trouble

Ash dodged a vicious slash. The long knife nearly took off his ear.

While his vision blurred from the trauma to his head, he remained alert. The two tattooed women, whose meal he had disrupted, began to prowl. With blades drawn, they stalked him with the zeal of a primitive hunter.

One of the ladies slashed. Ash dodged. He felt the nimbleness of his avatar flow through him. Ash moved against to the wall, his body planning faster than his mind. The other lady swung her recurved blade.

[Agility Check Passed]

Ash dodged the blow in the nick of time. Her blade buried itself in the wall.

Ash tumbled from his assailant. As he turned to his spot at the bar counter, he saw the woman struggling to pry her weapon from the wall.

“How’re you doing, kid?” Sander whispered from the side of his mouth. He brandished his semi-automatic pistol. The muzzle threatened to kill.

“I’m okay,” Ash said, panting from his brief exertion.

Bang! Bang!

Ash could barely hear anything. When he opened his eyes, he witnessed one of the tattooed women collapse in the middle of a pounced attack. Sander had shot her twice in the chest. She died before her body made contact with the floor.

Ash stared at the deceased woman. Blood spilled from the chest wounds. Crimson spread along the wooden flooring, seeping into the gunk-filled cracks of its planks. Ash lifted his gaze, catching a glimpse of the woman’s companion. She fled the inn. Only after another second did Ash realize that the immense silence in the bar.

Everyone was stared at him.

“And what do you suppose I do with that?” the inn keeper exclaimed.

All of the patrons of the inn exchanged bewildered looks, their eyes shifting between the two men, the gun, and the dead woman on the floor.

Sander gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulders. “She tried to kill him.”

“That’s not the problem!” Francis exclaimed. “You can’t use firearms in town.”

Sander shifted his eyebrows. “Ah, my apologies. First time.” He holstered his pistol and raised his hands in a sign of disarmament. “Didn’t mean to. I’ll play fair. Sorry!”

The enthusiasm for combat vanished from the room. This bloodshed satisfied their rage.

“Everyone out!”

The guests obeyed the inn keeper’s dictum. Only Filip, the man who had insulted Kiara, twitched uncomfortably. He his revenge remained unsated. He smoothed his broken nose behind his hand, taking an uneven step toward Kiara. His eyes flicked toward Francis and then to Sanders. Filip decided the better of it and exited with the others.

Kiara picked up a barstool from the ground and sat upon it. She brought a half-drunk glass of a thick amber liquid to her lips and drank. She spat it out.

“Eugh! What is that?”

“Our specialty, hun,” the other inn keeper said. Brigid, as the group would come to know her, spoke with a harmonious voice. The notes of her common speech sounded too delicate to belong this drey of drunkards.

“Disgusting,” Kiara replied, insensitive to polite conduct.

“It’s an acquired taste,” said Francis, who roughly snatched the glass from her hand and dumping it into a bucket behind the bar.

“As am I, darling,” Kiara replied. She lightly placed her fingers on his forearm. Francis removed himself from her touch.

“Disgusting,” Francis mocked. “First, you fired two shots in my establishment. For that, I’m going to charge you three bullets per shot. That’s another six bullets added to your bill.”

Sander tried speaking, but Francis silenced him with his palm.

“Then, you killed someone in my bar, which, of course, is never a good look. If you wanted to kill someone in a bar fight, you should have gone to New Cistern. I’m going to charge you three more bullets for that. I’d charge more, but, luckily, your young squire here is indentured.”

Ash felt the inn keeper’s harsh eyes burrow into his skull. Evidently, the man’s anger was kept in check only by intense effort.

“Three times three is nine. Plus four for the room,” Francis counted out loud.

“Thirteen bullets!” Kiara exclaimed. “If I wanted to get robbed, I would walk to Grand Roulette with magazines dangling around my neck.”

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“Well, either you pay up, or it’ll be a noose dangling.”

Sander ground his teeth in anger, but knew the inn keeper spoke the truth.

“Kiara, ante up the last two junks,” Sander said, pulling removing the clip from his handgun. He took the magazine in his hand and pushed out ten bullets into palm. He placed them in an empty glass in front of Francis. Then, he took his pistol, threw back the slide, and unloaded the chambered bullet.

“There, eleven,” he said with a modicum of bitterness.

Kiara tossed the last two junk rounds into the cup as well.

“Drink up,” she said sarcastically, pushing the cup to the inn keeper and his sister. “Now, if you excuse me, you owe us a room key.”

Brigid tossed a key over the counter.

“Room five. Bottom floor, half way down the corridor,” she said sweetly.

Kiara, having caught the key, went toward the dormitories. Sander gathered up one of their bags, but when Ash tried to do the same, Francis admonished him.

“Not so fast, squire. Your friends can unpack, but you have work.”

Ash scanned the main room. Between these four imperfect walls, several tables and chairs were overturned. Across the floor, an assortment of dishes, plates, and glasses lay scattered, many of them freshly chipped, cracked, or wholly broken.

“Tough luck, kid,” Sander said with a snicker. He stepped over the body of the dead woman and exited the room.

Ash sighed. He began to aright the furniture and pick up cutlery. He wanted to ask a question, but hesitated. It remained in his throat until curiosity force him to speak.

“So why does shooting a bullet cost the same as a human life?” Ash stuttered.

Brigid snorted with a laugh. Francis stopped cleaning the bar counter with his rag.

“You really don’t know?” Francis asked.

“No.”

“Ah, Invernstead is neutral territory. Sure, carry weapons -- open, concealed, it don’t matter -- but use of firearms and the law comes to hunt you. The authorities are probably on their way right now, but I’ll smooth the matter with a bribe and a favour. Still, it’s not the sort of thing I encourage.”

“Why can you bring weapons in, but not use them?”

“Like I said, neutral territory. I don’t know how you’ve kept your head buried in the sand, but there’s a war going on between a few cities in the region. They know that war is bad for business when you can’t produce everything yourself. By keeping Invernstead neutral, everyone has access to what they need -- for a price. We don’t discriminate when it comes to business as long as the money is good. But if the war spills into this city wall, the guards won’t care what side you’re on either.”

“And the body?”

“Unfortunately, brawls happen, especially when warring factions come to do business. For that reason, uniforms, banners, and other markers are forbidden. No gang patches. No patriotic songs. No city symbols. Keep your politics to yourself and you’ll find a slice of pleasure. Heck, I’ve even seen soldiers in this dispute become close friends. That’s how hidden politics needs to be.”

“And if someone breaks these laws?”

“Someone will be happy to place your dead body on the governor’s doorstep for a small reward. It ain’t a perfect system, but its good enough. Keeps me with a full stomach.”

Ash did not know whether he approved of this type of governance. It appeared to give its citizens more freedom than he had in his world, but the fact that everything revolved around wealth bothered him.

When Ash finished collecting the broken dishes, Brigid informed him that a ceramist would take the pieces and find some other use for them, like creating mosaic tiles. It wouldn’t be complete economic loss for the bar.

Sander popped his head into the room.

“You finished, kid?”

“What do you think?” Francis said pointed to the dead body on the floor. “He’ll be done in a few. In the meantime, why don’t you take his bags to the room. Once done with the bleeder, he’s going to scrub this floor to a shine.”

Ash looked at the floor and saw layers of unidentifiable stains.

Sander brought Ash’s stuff to the room in two trips, his injured arm still providing him with trouble. When he came back, Kiara accompanied him. She wore a pair of mirrored-glasses that were evidently left in the room.

“The lady and I are off to sell what we can,” Sander said.

“The lady? You better watch it, grandpa.”

“We’ll probably be out for a bit,” Sander said, ignoring the jab.

“I’ll buy you a new pack of cigarettes,” Kiara said, “It’s the least I can do, since, you know.”

Ash thought that if she didn’t act so impulsively, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

“Thanks,” he said. He didn’t mean it.

The two of them exited.

“Back to work, Casper,” Francis called.

Ash wiped the sweat from his forehead. He joined the inn keeper beside the dead body. Both of them turned her onto her back. Francis picked through her pockets.

“Technically, Dina owes me for lunch. Plus, she’s been racking up a bit of a tab.” Francis pulled out a few junk rounds from her pants pocket. “And, Clare, her sister will probably want her knife and pendant.” Francis removed the tattooed woman’s necklace and scabbard. He ordered Brigid to put them aside for safe-keeping. “Alright, take her away.”

Ash looked at the body.

“Where?”

Francis rolled his eyes. “Out back. Go down the corridor and through the door. Drop the body anywhere outside. The town will deal with it. Probably.”

Ash did what he was told, even though the whole process made him feel sick.

In his previous life, death seemed to be treated with more respect. If someone died, they would be transported to the Ministry of Death, where the bodies would be cremated and interred within the Metropolitan Necropolis. He remembered going with his parents to visit unknown progenitors. His family sat upon smooth black benches and rested their eyes upon rows and rows of urns. He never knew what to do, but he always kept quiet. He allowed the silence to sink into his soul. Ash knew each human possessed an inherent dignity. Everyone ought to have been treated well, in life and in death.

In this world, life seemed cheap. People killed without remorse.

Ash pushed through the door at the corridor’s end. He struggled into the back alley. Allowing the door to close, Ash tried to respectfully reposition the body. He straightened her resistant limbs and crossed her arms over her chest. He thought about whispering a few words, but he didn’t know what to say.

Then, he imagined Sander whispering: “She ain’t real.”

The words didn’t make him feel any better.

Ash surveyed the back alley. The backs of several buildings loomed over him. Layers of metal walkways obscured the sun. Every so often, a ladder rose into the metal skeleton above him. On the ground, rail tracks stitched through the main passage. Clearly, the town used these alleys as an alternative artery, one to eliminate waste and refuse. He could imagine workers trotting through these narrow alleys, unloading garbage bins into their trolley, bringing waste into the greater wasteland.

Ash grabbed the handle of the door to re-enter, but it stuck. He tugged aggressively, only to realize that it had locked behind him. He gave the door one more pull, but received the same result. Ash would have to walk through the mazework alley and enter through the front.

He sighed. He hated the afterlife.

Ash followed the railroad, stepping on the wooden ties. He followed the curving alley, until he saw an escape at last. As he picked up his pace, a figure stepped from the shadows.