MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

‘Ah, whores you mean? Aye, there are plenty of those. But it is the week’s end, and the coal and iron workers are here in force. You’ll be lucky to find a whore who hasn’t already got her legs locked around a man’s hips. You’ll have no luck in the taverns, I’ll tell you that for free. You could try the northern quarter. The expensive ones are up there.’

‘Expensive?’

‘Ten silver pieces for an hour’s pleasure, so they say. And a single night costs a gold.’

‘I’ll try the taverns. I need a bed for the night anyway.’

‘Avoid the Green Ghost,’ warned the man. ‘It’s a place of trouble and violence. The Swallow is a good tavern, and they give a man a fine breakfast.’

Bane thanked him, and asked directions. As he was doing so Banouin came riding up.

A short time later the two men were strolling through a packed marketplace, and heading up a wending hill path towards a group of buildings set round an open square. The first of the buildings, the Green Ghost tavern, was large, around a hundred feet long, with two storeys under a thatched roof. Several men were sitting in the fading sunshine outside, nursing pottery jugs of ale. They looked up as the newcomers approached.

‘Just what we needed, now the women have run out,’ said one, a sour-faced individual, his face seamed with dark coal scars. ‘Two pretty boys fresh from the farm.’

Bane paused and laughed. ‘Look, Banouin,’ he said brightly. ‘There’s a sight you don’t see very often – a man who can fart through his mouth.’ He crouched down in front of the miner, and dipped his finger into the man’s ale. Then he licked it. ‘Good ale,’ he said. The man’s eyes opened wide. Bane laughed at him, then rose smoothly and moved inside the tavern. There were some thirty long bench tables, most of them filled by burly men, spooning stew or drinking ale.

‘I don’t like this place,’ whispered Banouin.

‘This is the Green Ghost. It was highly recommended,’ said Bane. ‘You are too judgmental.’ He wandered to the rear of the dining room, where a fat, balding man was wiping the bar with a dirty cloth.

‘You have a room for the night?’ asked Bane.

‘We always have rooms,’ said the fat man.

‘What about women?’

The man shook his head. ‘All taken. You’ll have to make do with Dame Wrist and her five little daughters. The room will cost you a half silver. In advance.’

‘Friendly place, isn’t it?’ Bane observed to Banouin. ‘Aren’t you glad you came?’

Banouin sighed.

‘You want the room or not?’ said the fat man.

At that moment there was the sound of breaking crockery. Bane turned to see a young woman standing over three broken jugs, her thin woollen skirt stained with ale. The fat man stormed around the bar and rushed over to the girl. ‘You stupid clumsy cow!’ he shouted.

‘One of the men grabbed me,’ she told him.

His meaty hand slapped across her face, knocking her sideways. She fell against a table.

Bane was momentarily stunned. He could scarcely believe what he had seen. All colour drained from his face and he moved swiftly across the room. The fat man reached for the girl again, but Bane took hold of his arm, spun him, and delivered a right uppercut to his belly, followed by a left cross that sent him crashing to the sawdust-covered floor.

‘Never in my life have I seen a man strike a woman,’ he said. ‘Find yourself a weapon. Then I’ll open you from throat to groin.’ The fat man, his eyes frightened, crawled back from the angry tribesman.

‘I don’t want a weapon. I don’t want to fight you.’

‘You don’t want to fight? I have challenged you, man.’

‘I don’t care! I’m not going to fight you.’

The fat man rolled to his knees, crawled a few paces, pushed himself to his feet, and ran back to the bar. Once there he fled through a doorway, slamming shut the door behind him. Bane shook his head in disbelief.

‘How could he refuse to fight?’ he said.

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