PS Serial – 02

The summer heat made the nighttime air thick and humid. It was yet another reason to quit this town. The streets weren’t deserted, but there weren’t many souls near the spot where she stood.

Razorvine coiled around a sign nailed above the frame of the door. It bore a crude depiction of a man’s body with arms and legs pulled off, splashes of red paint to simulate gore. In any other locale the sign would be tasteless, but it fit Curst perfectly.

Portnoy strolled out of the Quartered Man like a Dustman with a freshly-signed contract. He noticed her and flashed a crooked smile. Janna’s magic would have faded by now, but the thought was planted – now hormones and ego would take over.

“You said something about tasting your… peach?”

Revulsion crawled up her throat, but she forced her sultriest smile in response. As he approached, he seemed to take in her height for the first time. Janna was a tall one, and she relished how it threw men off their game. Portnoy couldn’t look down on her, at least not physically.

“I’m glad you came,” she lied. “It was a bit loud in there.”

“Loud? You should see my festhall back in Himinborg.” His former festhall, Janna mused.  He looked at their surroundings and back at her. “So, should we go back to your kip, or do you want me right here?”

Laughing softly, she took his right hand as if to lead him. With a practiced motion, she clasped a manacle to his wrist. Before he could react, she hooked his other arm and secured the other manacle. A short chain connected the two behind his back, with a length trailing off to the ground.

“What?” Portnoy exclaimed, realizing the error in his judgment. “Unhand me right now, you…”  His words trailed off as Janna kneed him in the stomach.  She seized him by the hair and looked in his eyes.

“The less you talk, the smoother this will go.” She reached for his purse and found it light. She expected as much. “Luckily, someone in Himinborg is paying well for you. Now here’s how this works…”

“Hey!,” a voice interrupted from the Quartered Man. One of Portnoy’s friends had stepped outside, the thick-necked one, probably wanting to spy on the action. Seeing his potential benefactor in chains, he stalked towards Janna with a menacing frown. She pushed the nobleman down against a  broken crate and stepped to face the man.

“Sorry, friend,” she said with mock sadness. “I don’t have time for you right now.”  He advanced and threw a punch, but Janna leaned back and let it go wide. Rapidly, she struck a few blows to his side. He wouldn’t be as easy as Portnoy. His meaty arm swung back and connected, sending her stumbling against a neighboring wall. She felt a sting on her cheek. That would swell later.

“Rotten bitch!” he yelled, reaching for her. She grabbed his left hand and twisted it sideways, causing him to snarl in pain. The palm of her other hand jammed into his throat, sending him backwards. Janna pushed to her feet.

The large man weighed his odds and drew a curved knife from his belt. A guy like him couldn’t honestly lose a fist fight, so he had to pull a blade. She should have taught him a messy lesson, but looking in the alley beyond him, she no longer saw Portnoy.

“Sil’makk Estus Thewan.”  Her words slid out, taking a life of their own. The large man’s eyes widened in confusion as his muscles seized up. He stood rigid, unable to move as she stepped before him.  She plucked the hooked blade from his hand and held it close to his face.

“I could bury this in your eye and there’s not a damned thing you could do about it.”  She sent the blade sailing over the roof of the Quartered Man. “Think on that next time.”  She ducked past him into the cluttered alley. There was no sign of the manacled nobleman.

“Shit.”