The man may have been older than the rest of the gangsters assembled in the Suicide Hall, but he was completely in his element. His neck was thick, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. When he planted his arms on the bar, locking his elbows, Daud could see his muscles flexing.
“Well?”
Daud paused. Was this Eat ’Em Up Jack himself? Was this how he played it, pretending to be the barman inorder to scope out potential clients, or victims?
Daud didn’t speak, but he did raise an eyebrow.
The barman stared at him. “You said you wanted a drink.”
Daud glanced at the woman with the gun, then he took a half-step back and casually brushed the barrel aside with one hand. The gangster let the weapon fall and looked over her shoulder at the barman. The barman nodded and the gangster stepped back.
Daud ran a hand over his beard and moved toward the bar, aware of his every move, aware of all the eyes watching him. When he reached the bar he was careful to place both hands on top of it, in plain view.
“Well, you know what they say in Morley,” said Daud.
The barman said nothing. He fixed Daud with a steely look. Daud could see the green edge of a tattoo just at the edge of the man’s collar.
“No,” said the barman. “What do they say in Morley?”
“That the sun is always high enough somewhere in the Isles for a drink.”
Daud held the barman’s stare for five long seconds that felt like an eon in the dim stillness of the Suicide Hall. Then the barman turned to the shelves behind him. With his gaze firmly on Daud’s reflection in the mirror, he pulled a thin, dark bottle from the back of the second shelf—Serkonan spiced rum—then he turned and produced a square cut-glass tumbler from under the bar. He placed both in front of Daud, then he returned to his previous pose.
Daud glanced at the bottle. The label was faded and old, but the liquor was good. He glanced at the glass, then back up at the barman’s impassive face.
“Wrong glass,” said Daud.
The barman said nothing.
“Serkonan rum is traditionally served in a tall glass with a wide bowl,” said Daud, “to let the aroma develop.”
The barman remained silent. Daud dropped his hands.
“Of course, you’d know all about that, southerner.”
Daud turned at the voice. It was female and came from one of the booths by the window, where two men were sitting, built out of the same slabs of solid muscle as the rest of their Sixways brethren.
Dwarfed behind them, tucked into the corner of the booth, was a woman. She was dressed the same as the others —tailored jacket with the lapels shorn off, white shirt with high, round collar—but unlike the other women, her red hair was not in a topknot, but was cut short and slicked back with tonic, like the barman’s. Daud placed her at perhaps twenty, twenty-five years old.
The same age as the Empress, he thought, remembering Emily’s flight across the rooftops. That felt like days ago, even though it had only been a few hours.
Behind him, Daud heard a gentle thunk on the bar top. He turned, and found another square tumbler had joined the first. He and the barman looked at each other before the barman turned and, yanking the towel from his shoulder, began cleaning the bar under the mirror.
The woman laughed. “Are you going to stand there looking like you’re ready to pull the City Watch apart with your bare hands, or are you going to join me for a drink?”
Daud licked his lips, his gaze darting around the room once more. Everyone—except the barman—was still watching him. He grabbed the bottle and the two glasses and walked over to the booth. He stood by the table, his eyes on hers, ignoring the two thugs with her.
The woman nodded, and the men stood and walked away, leaving the leather booth seats hissing in their wake. Daud put the bottle and glasses down and slid into thebooth across from the woman. They looked at each other for a moment, a faint smile playing over the woman’s lips. Daud reached for the bottle, removed the stopper, and poured two glasses of Karnaca’s finest. He pushed one toward the woman before raising his own and draining it in a single gulp. He felt the liquid coat his mouth and throat, filling his senses with fire and notes of coffee and vanilla. When he filled his glass for the second time he did not drink. Instead, he nodded at his companion.
“Eat ’Em Up Jack, I presume?”
Ignoring the glass in front of her, the young woman lifted the liquor bottle and took a long swig, her eyes on Daud’s. She put the bottle down, but left her hand on it.
“You presume correctly.”
Daud lifted his refilled glass and raised it to her, then drained it again in one.
“Enjoy your drink,” said Jack. “It’s on the house.”
Daud nodded his thanks.
“Because when you’re finished,” Jack continued, “you’re going to have to come up with a very good reason why I should let you walk out of here alive.”
6
THE SUICIDE HALL, WYRMWOOD DISTRICT, DUNWALL
18th Day, Month of Earth, 1852
“What will we do with the drunken whaler?
What will we do with the drunken whaler?
What will we do with the drunken whaler?
Early in the morning?
Feed him to the hungry rats for dinner?
Slice his throat with a rusty cleaver?
Shoot him through the heart with a loaded pistol?
Early in the morning.”
—HARPOONER SONGS
Excerpt from a book of sea shantys sung by sailors
“I’ m not here for a fight, Jack,” said Daud.
Jack lifted the bottle again. Daud watched her
