Husk: A Maresman Tale Read Free Page B

Jeb up as they passed the bar. One of them had a string of drool hanging off his chin, and eyes like frost-coated windows.
    “P’raps I shouldn’t play no more,” an old man with a fleecy beard said from the card table, eyes darting between the fat man’s retreating buttocks and a stoat-faced beggar sat opposite him.
    “Don’t worry about Boss, none, Farly. He’s just a sore loser. Reckon I’d be, too, if we didn’t have an arrangement.”
    Stoat-face leaned over and raked Farly’s stack of coins toward him.
    If he was bothered, the old man didn’t show it; merely snatched up a whiskey and knocked it back in one.
    Someone hawked and spat close by Jeb’s ear.
    “You play seven-card, lovey?” the landlady asked, working away at a stain on the bar.
    “Time to time,” Jeb said. Actual fact, he was sick of the game. His hand strayed beneath his coat, to where the flintlock he’d won outside of Malfen was holstered.
    He’d agreed to Jankson Brau wagering it instead of a purse of golden denarii. Shogging wizard said it was an artifact brought from Earth by the first colonists of New Jerusalem, those kidnapped by the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw. Told Jeb it was a powerful weapon—magic, even—that could bring a man down with a crack of thunder.
    Got him thinking of Mortis, the masked hunter that had come for him as a boy. He had something similar that he called a gun. It had a revolving drum and held more shot. That, and it actually worked. Brau’s flintlock, by way of contrast, was a piece of shogging crap. Face full of soot was all Jeb’d got when he first fired it. Made him wonder if that’s why the wizard’s cheeks and nose were all burned up, like they were made of red wax. Course, clientele of The Grinning Skull—the tavern Brau owned—had other theories as to that, but they only dared discuss them in whispers.
    After that first shot, Jeb spent days on end cleaning the barrel, only to find on the next occasion the flintlock had a range of no more’n twenty yards and took longer than a crossbow to reload. Coupled with having to keep the black powder that’d come with it dry, thing weren’t worth spit. So, he was off seven-card, for the moment.
    “Well, if you do, watch that one.” She jabbed a yellow-stained finger at Farly. “Got the gift, he has. Always knows when you’re bluffing. Always knows when you tell a lie, too.”
    She blushed when Jeb gave her an enquiring look, then abandoned the bar stain and rubbed at a glass with the same dirty rag.
    “Don’t believe I seen you here before.”—A husky voice with a bit of a twang.
    Jeb studied his drink but angled a look out the corner of his eye.
    The serving wench had a flush to her cheeks and a big welcoming smile plastered over her face. Seemed to be a twinkle in her eye, too, though it could’ve just been reflected lamplight.
    “Ain’t been in here before,” Jeb said, keeping it simple.
    Should’ve seen it coming a mile off. Moths to the flame, they were, women. Always the same, no matter where he went. Mortis claimed Jeb’s mother was a succubus, some kind of demon-husk that men couldn’t resist. Guessed he had half of what she did, only it worked on women rather than men. Had to be thankful for small mercies.
    The atmosphere in the room chilled like a ton of snow had just been dumped on the roof. Didn’t need to look to know it was the big bloke again, no doubt all green-eyed and steaming from the ears. Jeb pretended to study the bottles above the bar, all the while leaving a trace of a smile to let the woman know he’d noticed.
    The scent of her was strong in his nostrils as she bent over the counter, poured herself a shot, and knocked it back. Musk, and something sweet, like honeysuckle. Jeb tried not to breathe for a second or two, case it pushed him past the bounds of decency. But it weren’t just the smell that had him fired up. The way she arched her back and sighed when she turned round and leaned against the bar showed