has not bothered with his ablutions for months.
It was Forell of course, Sonovar's rotten little worm of an advisor. The clothes were literally rotting from his back and many of the deep wounds visible on his face and hands were weeping foul–smelling pus. He was carrying a tray and two goblets, which were the cleanest things about him.
'The Great Lord sends these to his two finest warriors with his regards,' Forell hissed. His voice seemed clear and precise, although with hints of hoarseness. Before his.... mutilation and torture he had been an adequate orator, and he still tended towards verbosity and sycophancy.
Tirivail grabbed one of the goblets and stepped back cautiously. She did not like Forell, but then few did. Even Takier was prone to wondering just why Sonovar kept him around. He was the only priestling here; even Gysiner and Chardhay had left to go to one of the refugee worlds.
Kozorr rose awkwardly to his feet. The pain in his leg was less now, replaced by a dull thud, but he still knew to be careful not to stumble and fall. He had not noticed before how thirsty he was, and the strong aroma of the elixir almost overrode Forell's filthy odour.
He seized the goblet with unseemly haste and raised it to his lips. The thick red liquid burned his throat as it went down, but he was soon filled with a soft and pleasant warmth. He looked at Tirivail, who was swilling the dregs at the bottom of her goblet thoughtfully. She noticed him looking, and drained the rest.
'And now that you are refreshed, noble warriors,' Forell continued, 'the Great Lord requests your presence immediately. He needs the strong and the brave to serve him in an.... important matter.'
'A mission for us?' Tirivail asked. Her eyes were shining.
'A mission? Yes. An important mission.'
A chill ran down Kozorr's spine. There was something lurking just behind Forell's eyes, something that aroused considerable suspicion. He did not like the sound of this.
But then he was a warrior, and, like or dislike, he was sworn to obey his lord.
Unto death.
Another routine day at the pub. The usual assortment of the drunk, the lost, the alone, the damned and the corrupt. There were times when Bo struggled to remember why he had opened this bar in the first place.
But then he did remember, his mind returning to the old days as a child, when his father had taken him into the bars. That had been in a small mining village on Vega. Every Sunday afternoon they had gone, as had all Bo's father's friends. They had sat around the same table, drinking patiently, playing cards, telling the same old jokes, laughing, complaining about their jobs and their wives, but all in good humour.
Bo had just sat and listened to them, answering their questions whenever they turned to him, running to fetch their drinks, advising his father on his hand of cards. But mostly, whenever he was tired, he curled up next to the fire - a real, genuine fire - and soaked in the warmth, the atmosphere, the conversation. He had known then that that was what he wanted to do: run a place just like that.
Oh, he had done all sorts of jobs after his father had died. Mining, cleaning, routine maintenance, all the usual shlub work that needed doing but that no one could be bothered doing. But he had done it, working hard, saving his money, and finally he had been able to buy this place.
Somehow, it wasn't how he had wanted it to be. The pub of his childhood had never had to deal with fights every night, never had to slip credits to corrupt Security officers, or pay off the local gangsters. The fire there had been warm and inviting, not a false front like this one. There had been no pathetic losers there, sobbing into their drinks or throwing up on the floor or smashing their glasses.
He wiped the table, lost in a reverie of the past, sighing softly. There was little hope of anything better now. He was too old to seek anything new. No, he was stuck here, but maybe.... just maybe.... he could fix things. He might be able to turn the place around, attract a good local crowd, have things just the way he remembered.
Then he sighed again. He had been having those dreams for years now.
There was movement by the front door, and he tried to remember if he had locked it or not. His mind quickly ran through anyone who might be coming to see him at this time of night. Mr. Trace and his men? - but they had visited the day before. He was fully paid up until the middle of next month, and he couldn't remember doing anything to annoy Mr. Trace. There was the typical drunken or drugged–up thief, but he remembered what had happened to the last person who had tried to rob a business 'protected' by Mr. Trace. Bits of him were still showing up in back alleys.
Security weren't out and about at this time. So who?
He mumbled something angrily to himself. Probably Jinxo or someone like him throwing up in his doorway, or settling down to sleep, or both. Or expecting him to still be open, and just looking for somewhere warm.
'Oh, go away!' he cried to the door. 'I'm closed.'
He turned back to the bar, and heard the rattling again. As he looked up, he saw three people walking towards him. He recognised the one in front, but the name didn't come straight away. The other two were women, and one of them looked quite ill. She was leaning heavily on the other.
'I locked that door,' he said. 'Didn't I?'
'You did,' said the conscious woman. 'You could do with a better lock.'
'We need your help, Bo,' said the man.
'Dexter!' he said, recalling the name at last. 'Wh.... what are you doing here? Security are still after you.'
'Well, they're going to be after me a whole lot more now. Where's the Pit clinic?'
'The.... the.... the.... what? I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Yes, you do, Bo. Before I went.... underground, I listened to things. Lots of things. You know everything there is to know about Sector Three–o–one, Bo. There's a clinic around here, somewhere, run for people who haven't got anywhere else to go. They'll look after people wanted by Security. And you know where it is.'
'I'm a law–abiding citizen. I don't know....'
'Bo, there's someone here who needs your help. Badly. This is a chance for you to do something good, something right. No more pandering to Trace, or Allan, or anyone else. A chance to do something good for yourself. For all of us.'
'I.... might know something. Who is she anyway?'
The two women stepped forward, and Bo caught a look at the sick one for the first time. Her head was drooping and there was a misty look in her eyes, but he didn't register any of that at first.
'Holy Mother of Gandhi,' he whispered. 'That's.... that's.... that's....'
'Yes,' said Dexter. 'It is. But she's also someone who needs your help. Can you give it?'
'I.... might know.... something,' he whispered. 'Maybe.'
Dexter smiled. 'Thanks, Bo. You're doing the right thing.'
'Oh, I hope so. I hope so.'
