Hog's Run, Basin Court
He was already, Aremu thought grimly, late enough.
Aremu crossed through the flood of blue phosphor light at the edge of the door, opening it inward with his shoulder. He slowed as he stepped inside, glancing around, his gaze skimming over the bar and the handful of rickety tables spread across it. The sight of the other man wasn’t much of a relief. Aremu made his way over to the bar, leaning against it, not quite bothering to sit.
“Galen,” he said, low-voiced, glancing left.
“The fuck’s this?” Galen had a gap-toothed grin; he sprayed spittle when he talked, all over the bar before him. “I was expectin’ the widow, ne fuckin’ scrap.”
Aremu sat, after a moment, so that he could tuck his right wrist into the shadows of his lap, out of sight unless someone was looking for it. He didn't get angry; he knew enough about what it didn't do. Instead, he shrugged. “You get what you get,” Aremu said. He didn’t look at the other man again; his left hand waved for the bartender. “Hullwen Ale,” Aremu said, quietly.
Bartender glanced between him and Galen, and wandered off, fetching the bottle and setting it down before Aremu, cap laid to the side.
Aremu took it in his fingertips, although he didn’t drink.
“I ent in the business ‘f passin’ messages to any kov as want ‘em,” Galen said, low-voiced. “He told me to give ‘er the message direct, ye chen?”
Aremu shrugged. “It’s not your arse on the line if the job isn’t done,” he said, quietly. “Unless you don’t pass along the message.”
Galen grimaced; his tongue stuck out between the gap in his teeth as he swept it across his mouth, sucking at a tooth. He took a wad of something foul-smelling, and jammed it into his mouth, chewing it at the corner of it. “Fine,” he said; the spittle was red-tinged now. He leaned in, and spoke, quiet enough to be almost inaudible over the hum of the bar.
Aremu listened, intent, his gaze fixed on the uneven bar, the lumps in the wood, the droplets of sweat trickling slowly down the cloudy bottle. He grimaced, and he inclined his head, when it was over.
“Ye got four nights." Galen said. He paused. "Ye ask me,” Galen added, almost cheerfully, “he ent much worried whether she lives ‘r dies, doin’ tha’.”
“Nobody asked you,” Aremu said, glancing back at him.
Galen spat on the floor, and grinned, leaving his empty glass behind. “Fuck you too, scrap,” he said, casually, and left.
Aremu didn’t close his eyes; he didn’t dare. He felt the rest of the men in the bar behind him, a crawling presence that crept down the back of his neck and along his spine. Better, he thought, to sit here a bit; he didn’t want to chase Galen out into the street, and he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he had to talk to the man another minute.
The worst part, Aremu thought, taking a drink of the beer and grimacing faintly as he set the bottle back down, was that Galen wasn’t in the least wrong. He’d spent four months fighting every day to keep the plantation in Niccolette’s hands; he hadn’t realized how close there they were to there being no more Niccolette for the holding.
Aremu shifted in his chair, glancing around once, and stared down at his bottle once more. He’d never had much in the way of friends in the Rose; he didn’t know, he thought uneasily, if he’d have gone to him, if things had been – different. Aremu grimaced, and took another sip of beer, which tasted no better than the first. Some doors were better left closed, he thought, no less uneasily.