We Dwell in Grey by Shawn D Robertson

Author:Shawn D Robertson [Robertson, Shawn D]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-11T22:00:00+00:00

They hadn’t gone more than a couple hundred feet before coming to a public square, fronted on all sides by long multi-story buildings with shops set into their ground floors. Where street met square, the mir crossed to an establishment on the opposite corner. The faded lettering stenciled on the rusty sign above the door read “The Cranky Cock,” with the barely visible shape of a crowing rooster painted in red beneath the words. The mir headed in without looking back for them. The old wooden door was set with a square window divided into leaded glass diamonds, and the latch and handle were of unpolished brass, giving the pub an air of having once hoped to be something greater than what it ended up. They sidled in after her, trying not to draw attention.

Most of every wall was taken up by high-backed booths, with the bar being a hollow square in the middle, surrounded by a dozen or so round tables, and nearly every seat was taken. The one part of the back wall that didn’t sport booths was instead taken up by a small raised stage where a red-headed lass sang a bawdy song to the lively tune being played by a fiddler and pianist. In the back left corner sat a wood-burning stove that took most of the winter chill from the room. A single oil lamp hung from a hook over the bar, but otherwise the place was lit only by the dull grey light filtering through the windows—most of them were open a crack, but it didn’t do much to dispel the fugue of stale sweat and tobacco.

Rhett grimaced at the smell. He took a few steps in and looked around for the mir. She’d already disappeared. Loh pointed to the bar, where she was hopping up to take a seat on one of the stools. She pulled an envelope from her coat and slid it across the counter to a tall, rough-looking barkeep. His long, oily, blonde hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and the right side of his face was covered in lines of jagged scars. The two spoke briefly before the she bobbed her head in their direction. The scarred man’s gaze drifted their way. Nodding to the mir, the fellow called something to another one of the bartenders, then opened the envelope and walked away to read it.

“Bitch was comin’ here all along,” Loh said.

“We made it, didn’t we?” Rhett said with a shrug, then headed for the bar. Finding one of the few stools without someone’s ass already in it, he edged himself into the spot and waved for the scar-faced barkeep’s attention.

“Oi!” he called over the noise. The scarred bartender looked up from the paper in his hands. “Looking for the owner. Ivor Byrnes?”

The man gave them a sober appraisal while he folded the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into a pocket. “I’m Ivor Byrnes. Now, who might you be, and where’d

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