‘So they say,’ the Old Man nodded. ‘Wouldn’t be going there if they weren’t.
Now, you leading or not?’
All conversation stopped as they entered that infamous tavern. As he struggled
to see in the darkness, Hort could feel the eyes of the room on his, sizing them
up, deciding if he was a challenge or a victim.
‘Are you gentlemen looking for someone?’ The bartender’s tone implied he didn’t
think they should stay for a drink.
‘I want some fighting men,’ the Old Man announced. ‘I’ve heard this is the
place.’
‘You heard right,’ the bartender nodded, suddenly a bit more attentive. ‘If you
don’t know who you want, I’ll be glad to serve as your agent – for a modest fee,
of course.’
Panit regarded him as he’d regarded his fellow fisherfolk. ‘I judge my own
people – go back to your dishes.’
The bartender clenched his fists in anger and retreated to the other end of the
bar as the Old Man faced the room.
‘I need two, maybe three men for a half-day’s work,’ he called loudly. ‘A copper
now and a silver when it’s over. No swords or bowmen -just axes or pole-arms.
I’ll be outside.’
‘Why are we going to talk to them outside?’ Hort asked as he followed his father
into the street.
‘I want to know what I’m getting,’ the Old Man explained. ‘Couldn’t see a thing
in that place.’
It took most of the afternoon but they finally sorted out three stalwarts from
the small pack that had followed them. The sun was dipping towards the horizon
as Panit gave his last man the advance coin and turned to his son.
‘That’s about all we can do today,’ he said. ‘You run along and