He knew they needed a job, he just wished it didn't have to be this one.

Sitting in the too nice to be a dive, but not nice enough to be high-class tavern on the edge of Braighden, Boyko nursed his ale. Best to let Sanna deal with the particulars of the negotiations, he felt. She had a much better personality for that side of the business.

In between sips, he stole a glance at her and their potential client at the other table. As he did he traced his thumb over the pommel of his sword, not expecting any trouble but soothing nevertheless. The bartender caught him.

"Oi, Boyko. You keep that sword of yours sheathed in my bar."

"Sorry Bil," he said, putting his hands up in apology.

Leaving his weapon be, the sellsword gave his drink another swig. He couldn't make out what Sanna and their would-be employer were discussing from his barstool, only read their expressions. His wife, she of the strawberry blonde hair that suggested a sweeter disposition than she actually possessed, laughed heartily at what was without doubt a terrible joke.All the better to schmooze the jerk.

Their client ate up her falsehood eagerly. Staring at him, something about the man rankled Boyko. Though neither fat nor balding, he gave off the impression of someone who was both. The kind of well-to-do gent who's aware he isn't at the top of the heap, but still considers himself better than most people. He and Sanna encountered many of the same sort of man during the civil war. They were usually at the back of the lines, safely barking orders at everybody in front.

But at the moment, this hopeful source of income was at ease and negotiations appeared to be proceeding well. As well as a straightforward sellsword like Boyko could tell anyway. He returned to his ale and let his better half handle things.

After another vivacious fake laugh, she excused herself and came over to the bar.

"Bil, another,"

"You got it."

"So," Boyko asked, "What's the story?"

"Uh uh," she put a finger to his lips, "Drink first."

The bartender slid over a mug Sanna caught without looking. Some foam sloshed onto her hand, and she chugged down almost a quarter of it in one go.

With a satisfied "ah", she answered her husband. "Pretty simple. Bodyguard job. He's some kind of minor official for a publishing house, the one that put out that romance novel everybody's reading, A Long Night of Summer Passion. Went on for Templin knows how long about how impressive it is. Important thing is, he's got some company secret he's transporting to Lancester and feels he needs some protection."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

"From what?"

"Heck if I know. I think he's just a paranoid softie, but he's willing to pay. Seems like easy money to me."

"Hrrm."

Sanna glared at him. She knew that "hrrm." It was the "hrrm" he gave when he wasn't happy, but didn't want to say so. Her hangdog husband exasperated her sometimes. Boyko was more reserved than shy, as though he was always vaguely embarrassed to be seen anywhere. With his unkempt black hair and stubbly face, he resembled a stray dog that'd been beaten a few too many times. But Sanna still loved the poor dope.

She flicked a little ale foam at his face and said, "Come on. I can tell you're not happy about the job. Tell me why."

He sighed and stole another glance at their potential employer, who was dribbling an expensive wine on his shirt.

"It's not the job I don't like," he said, "it's the client. Something about him doesn't sit well with me. Guys like him always have some secret they don't tell you about because they think they're so damn clever."

"So it smells wrong to you?"

Her husband resembled a dog in more than looks. Boyko had a bit of a sixth sense, a nose for danger, as she liked to say. That nose kept them alive more than once during their soldiering days, so Sanna wasn't keen to dismiss his intuition out of hand. But they weren't at war anymore; they were running a mercenary business. A certain degree of risk was inherent to the profession.

"Yeah, it smells bad."

"Okay," she said, "I appreciate that you're uncomfortable with the job. But we're sellswords! We're going to wind up in some uncomfortable situations. Remember these?"

Unhooking her scabbard, she held it up to his face. The swirling blue basket hilt of Sanna's sword jutted out of its mouth, a fine piece of craftsmanship even sheathed.

"These are two beautiful blades, my good husband. It would be a shame if we never used them for our business enterprise here. Especially after the debt we acquired obtaining them."

Boyko opened his mouth to complain, but Sanna tilted his mug into it before he could speak.

"I know you hate me bringing that up. I hate bringingit up. But that doesn't make it any less true. We need money my love, and this is a really easy way to earn a hefty payday. Two days to the Capitol and two days back, it'll be like a vacation."

He slowly came around to the idea. The promise of profit to a poor man will overwhelm most concerns for safety. But he was still apprehensive about this job, and their client. His nose was very rarely wrong about such things.

"Okay Sanna. Go tell him we'll take the gig. And if the Templin's on our side, you'll be right about both of us just being paranoid."

"That's the spirit!"

She slugged his shoulder and chugged the rest of her ale. Wiping away some foam from her lip, she told him, "You'll see Boyko. Money like this is why we became sellswords."

"As I recall, becoming mercenaries was your idea my good lady wife. I could have gone home and become a carpenter."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't have gone with you."

She kissed him and returned to their new employer to hash out the details. Glad to not be the one to deal with that, Boyko leaned back on the bar.

"I hope this will be as uneventful as she says."

The beleaguered sellsword went to take another swig, only to find his mug empty. He prayed it wasn't an ironic omen.