Sara Fairchild
stared at the three men and two women who surrounded her with hard
eyes. They had cornered her in an alley. But only because she wanted
them to. She was having a bad day, might as well end it right. Feet
planted firmly in the dry dirt, she called out to the group arrayed
in a semi-circle around her, “Nice day for a fight, isn’t it?”
The woman to her
right wore a raggedy scarf around her hair and her ears were covered
in at least five earrings per a lobe. She glared and said, “You
think you’re funny, girl?”
Sara watched as the
woman spit into the dirt before her in disgust.
“Your da was a
disgrace,” the woman continued. “You’re just like him. A
coward.”
“And a cheat!”
said the man directly in front of her. He nervously fingered a blade
in his hands. It was a poorly crafted one. That Sara could tell from
five feet away. She stood in front of him with her back-up against
the wall. She wasn’t carrying her broadsword but she did have one
fine long knife at her waist, a dagger on her thigh, and a baton
she’d lifted from a city patrolman in her right hand.
“Is that so?”
Sara said directing her voice at the man in front of her, “And
what, pray tell, did I cheat you of Simon Codfield?”
Her tone was level.
Even surprised. He shifted warily. He was nervous even with four of
his friends to back him up. When the people standing with him began
to look at him oddly, he stiffened his back. Simon licked his lips
and said, “Cards. I know you had an extra ace in your belt. Admit
it now and we’ll only beat you two ways until Sunday.”
She titled her head,
“And if I admit it later?” Even he couldn’t miss the derision
in her voice.
“We’re trying to
go easy on you,” said Simon Codfield – his voice dipping into
desperation. He might be a liar as well as a thief, but he was no
fool. Sara knew the only reason he and his crew had followed her into
this alley was because if he didn’t accuse her, he
would have to take the fall for loosing over forty shillings in a
card game that started off over a bet of five. She knew and he knew
that he didn’t have forty shillings to give. That was one month’s
pay for a dockworker, never mind a ne’er-do-well like Simon who
hadn’t worked an honest job a day in his life.
“Tell you what.
Why don’t you drop those trousers of yours? Then we’ll call it
even,” said the thief lord in charge of the west district of
Sandrin. She turned to face the man who had spoken. He rubbed a hand
over his two-day old beard with a grin.
Sara brought up the
long knife in her left hand, “Why don’t you drop yours, Severin,
so that I can cut off your balls for you?”
Anger flashed in the
thief lord’s eyes. Anger and passion. Sara smiled. She wasn’t
joking. If she got close enough to him, she’d make him a eunuch
without batting an eye. Simon Codfield gulped and took a step back.
He knew she wasn’t playing around.
Shannon Mayer lives in the southwestern tip of Canada with her husband, dog, cats, horse, and cows. When not writing she spends her time staring at immense amounts of rain, herding old people (similar to herding cats) and attempting to stay out of trouble. Especially that last is difficult for her.
