As they neared the front stoop, Moira heard the unmistakable sounds of music and laughter coming from inside the dwelling. She gritted her teeth and paused, allowing a bit of distance between herself and the boy that led them. She then put out her arm, slowing Gull and Rodin when they reached her side.
“No move is to be made until I command it,” she whispered.
They nodded their approval and passed the message to the others.
Potted plants lined the main foyer of the Lawrence home, a multitude of wilting flowers and browning ferns. The din of laughter rose in volume as they passed first the common area, then a stone kitchen whose hearth still had glowing coals inside it. On their right was a stairwell, and beyond it the hallway narrowed, leading them to the family’s dining hall. It’d been so long since she’d been here that Moira had forgotten how misleading the estate was on first glance; it was far larger than it looked from the outside.
“Boy,” Moira began.
“Slug,” their guide said.
“Slug,” she repeated, “where is it we’re going?”
“To join the party,” he said, as if it were simple.
His small body pushed open the heavy doors to the dining hall, and immediately raucous laughter assaulted them. Moira stepped through after the boy, followed by the Movers. Within the spacious hall the air was hot and muggy, and it stank of sweat and alcohol. Numerous rounded tables had been pushed against the walls, creating a wide-open space in the middle of the room. There were fifteen people in the hall, men all. Fourteen of them wore padded leather, their steel, mail, and plate stacked up on the tables shoved against the walls. There were helms, both great and half alike, resting atop the armor, along with mauls and axes. Moira, transfixed by the sight of the heaped steel, caught sight of a roaring lion sigil poking out from within the pile.
None of the men in the hall looked their way, so intent were they on whatever game they were playing. One of the fourteen sat on the edge of the dais on which Cornwall’s seat still resided, and the others had planted themselves in chairs spaced around the room, their swords propped against their seats, forming a haphazard circle and pounding back their cups while simultaneously harassing the fifteenth man. That man was a fool in a lady’s bed sheet, his face painted an array of colors. He staggered around inside the circle of torment, accepting a slap from one of them and jab of a stick from another. He moved like an old man, though the paint was so thick on his face that Moira couldn’t tell for sure. She could plainly see his eyes were wide with fear. One of the men held a lute, and he played it badly, the song seeming perfectly appropriate to the game they played in Moira’s mind. One of the men leapt from his seat, thrusting his hips behind the poor fool, knocking him over. Another reached out and thwacked the fool on the backside with the flat of his sword, sending the man crawling forward. The laughter that followed was as cruel as it was drunken.
Slug seemed hesitant, but he eventually threw back his small shoulders and stepped up to the circle. The lute player noticed him first, gave the boy a confused look, and then his gaze wandered to where Moira stood. His eyes widened, and his fingers struck a final note with a harsh twang.
Behind her, the Movers tensed.
With the music ended, the laugher died away as well. All heads turned. The fool collapsed in the middle of the circle, panting and crawling away now that no one paid him any attention. Slug cleared his throat and in his high-pitched voice said, “Mister Lommy, someone here to see you.”
One of the men, a thickly built sort with wavy black hair and beady eyes, stood up from his chair.
“L–Lord Commander?” he asked, breaking the sudden silence. He fell to his knees in front of his seat, spilling his cup all over the floor. Four of the others followed his lead.
Moira cocked her head at them, confused.
The one sitting on the dais, swinging his legs, laughed.
“Stand up, you dolts. The Lord Commander’s got tits, hips, and an ugly face. This one’s got none of the three.” The man’s gaze turned to Slug. “I thought I told you to put an arrow in anyone who wandered here.”
“Sorry,” said Slug, shame turning his cheeks pink. “They said they wanted to see Master Lawrence, and they swore they was friends.”
The one on the dais sighed and rolled his eyes. “Get out. You disgust me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Slug, and he turned around so quickly, he almost ran into Moira on his way. The boy struggled with opening the door again, but eventually it slid open a crack, and he slipped out of the hall.
“Children,” the man on the dais said to his cohorts, his eyes flicking to Moira once more. He was a wiry man, though his shoulders were thick, and his long hair was greasy. His beard had grown in splotchy, barely covering the pox scars on his cheeks, and he had a hooked nose. There was something familiar about him, but Moira couldn’t figure out why. “It seems this conflict has been making orphans left and right,” he said. “Found that bunch in a shantytown just south of here, all on their own. Gave them a few coins for their service. They help well enough, but alas, they’re still just children.” He turned to his cohorts and said, “As for her, she’s certainly not the Lord Commander, but definitely a Crestwell. The banished one, I think. Which would make sense, seeing as she has the body of a boy.”
“She has a name!” Rodin shouted from behind her.
“I’m sure she does,” said the man on the dais.
“Moira,” she said, holding an arm out so none of her Movers would make a rash move. “And it is Moira Elren. I haven’t gone by Crestwell for a long while.”
“Don’t see why not,” another of them said. “Why confuse folks like that? Just keep the damn name you were given when you were born.”
Moira ignored the comment, squinting at the one on the dais. “You would be Lommy?” she asked. “The one they call ‘Hangman’?”
The man grinned. “The same.”
“So are you responsible for those who were hanged?”
“How else you think I got the name? By what’s in my trousers?”
The other men laughed.
Taking a deep breath, Moira took a step toward them.
“What happened here?” she asked. “Where is Cornwall Lawrence?”
“The merchant is dead,” Lommy said. “The Wasting took him.”
“And those of his family?” she asked. “I saw their bodies. No Wasting took them.”
The man’s grin widened. “Casualties,” he said. “Sometimes when there’s a transfer of power, people die. The people of this township seemed. . hesitant to accept my authority.”
Moira narrowed her eyes at him, heard the Movers shuffling behind her. “Transferred to whom? Who are you to claim anything of the Lawrence household?”
Lommy hopped off the dais, strutting up to the fool who was still sliding himself along the floor, and gave him a swift kick in the ribs. The fool let out a yelp and rolled over, hugging his side. Lommy then proceeded to the center of the circle of his men, patting them each on the shoulder in turn.
“I’m the new master of Omnmount,” he said. “Lommy Blackbard, first cousin of Trenton of Brent.”
That’s why he’s familiar. He definitely had the Blackbard look to him, all oily and haggard. Their family line was not blessed when it came to appearance, and had built their wealth by owning nearly every brothel in Neldar. The only way one of them could ever get a woman. She thought of Loretta Lawrence and her daughters, swaying from poles by broken necks, not to mention the rest of those throughout the township, and her heart began to race. Anger is my friend. It took all her effort not to lunge out at the bastard right then and there, but that was something she couldn’t afford. She needed to find out more. .