Page 57 of The Shadow of Breninsol
“I'll take the piece of shit from here,” Burt said with a glint in his eye that pulled at the scar under his patch. The vicious look was the only reason she handed him over.
An amused patron raised his voice as Burt dragged the man through the pub. “Be glad it’s Burt and not the shadow-beast.”
The back door’s slam signalled the end of the ignorant cretin.
“See, I have fun all the time,” Eleanor said.
Trix let out a throaty laugh and slid the foaming mug over the polished bar top. People slid their chairs back across the wooden floor, allowing conversations to seamlessly resume as if their clandestine meetings hadn’t been interrupted. “Did you hear what happened at the Cloth the other day?”
Eleanor’s throat went dry, but Trix ploughed on, not waiting for an answer from her. “Rumour isthey’reback.Witches,” Trix said, dropping her low voice even lower. “Calling themselves the Night Hags. They made a right mess of the Cloth, they did. I even heard a few died.”
Eleanor had tried to forget what she’d seen and felt at the Cloth. She’d focused on her unsuccessful hunt for any other pieces of jewellery that were like the necklace. But just because she had found nothing with that symbol at the market didn’t mean someone else wasn’t making them. With this information, questions she couldn’t silence and dreaded swarmed to her.Were any caught? Will the pyres be lit again?But it wasn’t enough for her to hope. There was never any.
Burt flipped up part of the bar to return to his position. His hands were as clean as the rag thrown over his shoulder.
His silent return prompted Trix to say, “All we need is for witches to come back and snuff out ignorance like that shithead for once and for all.”
To avoid making a comment, Eleanor took a sip of the foamy ale, knowing witches wouldn’t change things like Trix thought they would.
Trix picked up a jug that didn’t need a clean as she continued in a hushed tone. “He hasn’t been down for a few nights.”
Eleanor appreciated the heads up. Trix wasn’t one to spread rumours, she’d told Eleanor in quiet confidence, knowing how the gang boss felt about her.
Eleanor slid a half-sterling across the polished bar. “Thanks, Trix.”
“Who let that bastard in?” grumbled a man with a mean-looking scar, who’d joined the bar since the arsehole had been dealt with.
Eleanor left Trix to serve him and took her drink to a dark corner.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Valen's Request
With her back to the wall, Eleanor observed both the small door that divided the pub in two, and the staircase. She pondered Trix’s words, idly rubbing the rim of the glass mug. The rumour of witches, or rather the Night Hags, was something she had tried to ignore, but it was getting harder and harder. She let out a long, weary sigh. She was here for a reason, a purpose that had nothing to do with the supposed witches lurking in the shadows.
Valen wasn’t one to avoid the pub floor unless there was something he was involved in. Whatever was occupying his time had to be something big. Significant enough that he’d not felt theneed to assert his presence. Trix had also hinted that he might not come downstairs tonight. If that was the case, then she was wasting her time here.
As Eleanor considered her options, she thought of how she’d stumbled on the Three Bells when she’d first come to Breninsol in search of her original purpose for entering the city. She knew the best way to find a criminal ring was to talk to other criminals. One of her reasons for coming into Breninsol in the first place: to find The Umbra.
They were a mysterious group of underground criminals that were simultaneously non-existent while existing. She’d followed loose end after loose end, but it had been like chasing shadows, no better than whispers disappearing in the wind. Every time she felt close to uncovering who or where they were, they would suddenly vanish. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have thought magic had bolstered their cause. She had thought she was the best person to find them, but she’d failed at that task as well.
Her original purpose had come full circle on itself, yet she was no closer to finding anything new. Except for this one, small, and seemingly insignificant detail. The necklace. Eleanor considered Linnet, the Missing, and the necklace’s connection were too coincidental. As much as she hated to admit it, this was becoming something she couldn’t ignore anymore.
Eleanor weighed up her choices one last time. Now would be the ideal moment to retreat if she had second thoughts, but she was unsure where she could go. The familiar sense of guilt and cowardness gnawed at her, as she let the bitter ale wash through her thoughts. No, she needed to pursue this, even though it was probably a dead end, but at least she could put it to bed and say she tried.
A tiny part of her seeped in…maybe…no.
She slammed the door on that old ache. There was nothing there. Witches, real witches, were all gone. There was nothing to hope for anymore. The best she could hope for was that the jewellery was being crafted in a port town, or that someone had stumbled upon the image in an old book she was yet to discover and had appreciated the symbol without recognising its true meaning. Those possibilities felt more likely, and it was the reasoning she was holding onto, no matter how thin and flimsy that excuse felt.
A sound that almost sounded like a tinkling of bells rang through the pub, making everyone stop their conversations mid-sentence. Whatever they were discussing was nowhere as important as listening to that sound getting closer. The stomping of boots hitting the wooden stairs joined the jangling. This could only mean one thing: Valen was coming downstairs.
This was the reason the city guard didn’t come here. The Sol King may rule the kingdom, but Valen was the underworld king, ruling from the back streets of Breninsol. Nothing went on in his streets without his knowledge.
Although the king viewed these people as hardened criminals, this man commanded unanimous fear and respect. Among them, he was their leader, a position that he had fought hard for. The rumours told that he’d won his first leadership contest at eleven, knocking a full-grown man to the floor. He had led his second gang at thirteen and had amassed all the gangs in Breninsol under his control by the age of eighteen. Many didn’t believe the stories and rumours about a boy, leading gangs of full-grown men at such a young age, but Eleanor believed them. Desperation and survival drove a person to do dark things at such a young age.
Valen didn’t look how anyone would expect Breninsol’s gang boss to look. He was still young for someone to wield so much dirty power. He looked as young as Eleanor, with his shoulderlength dark brown hair showing no sign of greys, but Eleanor knew Valen wasn’t trying to emulate the current fashion. His hair was the way he always wore it: shaggy and tousled. He had a few days’ worth of stubble on his face, but it wasn’t thick enough to be a full beard. The path to becoming a crime lord hadn’t been without its sacrifices, evident in the scar that cut across his face and nose, along with smaller ones that were dotted on his face and hands, and probably the rest of his body.
As Valen had made his chiming descent, two of his trusted men joined him at the bottom of the stairs. These two were Valen’s Seconds, and he was rarely seen without either of them. One was big and bald and could easily pass as a champion underground ring fighter. The other man had a half-shaven head and a cut in his eyebrow, with tattoos crawling up his neck, and was slight enough to be a perfect burglar.
