Free Web NovelChapter 15: Blackfeather and Blades
"Tch. What a fucking shithole."
The moment Kael stepped into Blackrat Lane, the soles of his boots sank into soft, wet mud. It was not deep, but it stuck to him in the worst way, cold and clingy, pulling at his heels with every step.
He was still wearing his spotless Grand General’s uniform. Every button was fastened properly, and the slightly rusted curved saber hung at his waist. In the palace corridors, that uniform made servants lower their heads and step aside.
Here, it made him look like someone had tossed a polished silver coin into a gutter.
The whole street was dim and damp.
Not dark like night. Worse than that. This was old darkness, the kind that came from too many years without proper sunlight and had settled into the wood, stone, skin, and bone.
A long stretch of scaffolding had been built over the lane, covering almost the entire street. It blocked most of the rain, the light, and half the air. Every now and then, a thin strip of sunlight slipped through a crack near the edge, but the damp swallowed it before it reached the ground. All it left behind was a dirty yellow stain on the walls.
People had lived under that cold, wet, moldy shade for years.
Black-green mildew bloomed in the corners. Wooden doors bulged at the edges from the damp. The air stank of old alcohol, sweat, cheap perfume, gutter water, and rotting trash. Kael scowled and lifted a hand to cover his nose, then dropped it again when the motion only stirred the smell around.
The place probably smelled a little less rotten when rain leaked through and washed some of the dust and filth away.
People moved past him in both directions. Most of the men wore black work coats with frayed sleeves and muddy hems. Their shoulders were broad, their faces hard, and their hands stayed close to their weapons out of habit.
As for the women, many were painted courtesans and girls with pretty smiles and sharper intentions. They dressed in bright colors and waited near doorways and broken railings, hoping to pull silver coins, rare artifacts, or useful information from any man foolish enough to drift too close.
They smiled as if they were harmless, but their eyes stayed sharp. A few looked toward Kael. Their gazes moved from his formal uniform to the saber at his waist, then to his cold, impatient face.
After that, none of them approached.
Kael glanced around and frowned.
He did not bother hiding his disgust.
The people around him did not exactly clear a path, either. One man bumped his shoulder. Another met his eyes for half a second, then quickly looked away. To them, that clean uniform was too bright, too expensive, and too out of place for Blackrat Lane.
They probably thought he was some noble brat visiting for the first time.
The fact that no one recognized the Grand General’s uniform of the Suncrest Empire was almost funny.
Almost.
To be fair, Kael rarely wore the thing. He certainly did not parade around in public just so bored idiots could stare at him. Outside Blackrat Lane, Grand General was a title. Here, only coin, liquor, and knives carried weight.
Kael had no intention of explaining.
He kept walking, his boots sinking into the mud with every step. Around him, low voices, rough laughter, and curses clung to the dark street.
Before long, he stopped in front of a tavern.
Compared with the crooked signs and sagging storefronts around it, the entrance was almost respectable. The black wooden doors had been polished until they shone, and above them hung a large signboard edged with dark gold. Even in the poor light, the name was easy to read.
The Black Tankard.
"Found you."
Kael raised his head and looked at the sign. His mouth curled into a thin, irritated line.
The Black Tankard was not the kind of place where common street trash came to drink and shout. The people inside were mostly mercenaries from different nations and regions. They came with their accents, their weapons, their prices, and their bellies full of liquor. They traded rumors, contracts, and other people’s lives over mugs of cheap ale and expensive whiskey.
A bunch of bastards willing to risk their lives for money.
Pay them enough, and they would do anything. Escort, raid, hunt, capture, destroy. As long as the coin was real, they would hand the client some kind of result.
Kael had never liked people like that.
"Tch. This place still reeks."
He pushed open the door of The Black Tankard.
The hinges gave a low rasp. A thick wave of alcohol hit him at once, mixed with cloying perfume, fried meat grease, and the sour stink of sweat. Kael’s expression cooled.
The inside of the tavern was bright and noisy.
Rows of oil lamps hung from the ceiling, lighting the cups on the tables and every stain on the floor. Round tables were packed tightly across the hall. Mercenaries sat in close groups, some roaring with laughter over their mugs, some pounding the tables as they argued, others leaning in to hear whatever news their companions were whispering. In one corner, a few drunkards had their boots propped on a table, laughing like their throats had been scraped raw.
The Black Tankard never really closed.
It existed so mercenaries would have a place to drink, bargain, fight, and blow off steam. Day or night, as long as Blackrat Lane still stood, the cups here stayed full.
When Kael entered, the tables closest to the door turned to look.
The uniform caught their attention first. Then they noticed the old curved saber at his hip. Someone raised an eyebrow. Someone else let out a quiet snort. A few gave him one quick look and went back to drinking. No one in a place like this would bow just because a man’s clothes looked expensive. Not until they knew who was wearing them.
Kael could not be bothered with their stares.
He walked straight through the hall, sat down on a stool at the bar, and rapped his fingers once against the counter.
"Blackfeather Whiskey."
Behind the counter, bottles cast dark shadows under the lamplight. A few seconds later, a bottle of Blackfeather Whiskey was placed in front of him. Kael grabbed a glass, poured, and drank without waiting.
The liquor burned down his throat like a red-hot wire.
He did not set the glass down until half of it was gone.
The glass hit the bar with a dull thud.
"Excuse me... are you General Kael?"
The voice came from behind the counter. A young female server in a black-and-white uniform stepped out. Her clothes were clean, her collar and cuffs stiff, without a single unnecessary wrinkle. Her smile was the polite kind used for customers. She was pretty, and in a place this drunk and filthy, her clean appearance stood out a little too much.
Kael lifted his eyes to her.
He did not look at her for long. There was no warmth in his gaze.
"Yeah. That’s me."
He picked up the bottle and poured himself another glass. Under the lamplight, the whiskey looked so dark it was almost black. His hand stayed steady around the cup.
The server kept smiling, but her shoulders had gone tense.
She had seen plenty of dangerous people in The Black Tankard. Men who threw knives into tables. Employers who discussed the price of a life while drinking. Customers who smiled as they spoke and looked ready to kill at any moment.
But the man in front of her was different.
Kael was not shouting. He had not drawn his weapon.
Even so, the noise around the bar seemed to shrink around him. The two mercenaries closest to him stopped discussing how to split a commission. One of them looked as if he was about to reach for the dagger on the table, then changed his mind and picked up his drink instead.
The server swallowed.
"Go get Silas," Kael said, lowering his glass. The taste of liquor still lingered on his tongue. "I didn’t come here to waste time."
The whiskey really was strong.
A faint flush had already appeared on his cheeks, but his eyes showed no sign of drunkenness. If anything, the alcohol only made his impatience sharper.
"Y-yes, General Kael. Right away."
She dipped her head and hurried toward the back of the bar. Her steps were still controlled, but faster than before. Only after she passed through the back door did she let out the breath she had been holding.
She did not want to stand in front of Kael any longer than necessary.
The pressure he gave off did not come from yelling or threats. It was quieter than that, and worse, the kind that warned people not to say a single unnecessary word.
Kael remained at the bar with the same scowl on his face.
"Tch. Damn it." He clicked his tongue. "If that son of a bitch walks any slower, I’ll have to drag him out myself. Does he think I like this place?"
He poured a little more whiskey but did not drink it. Instead, he pushed the glass with one finger, turning it halfway across the counter.
"When he gets here, I’ll deal with him properly."
His gaze shifted past the edge of his cup toward a nearby round table.
A group of mercenaries sat there, drinking and gossiping. A few spoke quietly. Others laughed loudly on purpose, using the noise to cover what they were really saying. Kael watched them, and that old irritation crawled up his spine again.
He did not like these people.
Not because they were loud. Not because they smelled like blood, steel, and cheap liquor.
What Kael hated was the way they thought.
To mercenaries, money was everything. With the right price, anything could become a deal, and any life could become a bargaining chip.
The Black Tankard was full of people like that, yet the place had not collapsed into chaos. That was not because of its polished signboard or strong whiskey.
It was because of Silas Veyne.
Silas Veyne owned this huge tavern.
He was still in his twenties, but he had already planted his feet firmly in Blackrat Lane. Kael knew exactly how capable he was. Silas was not some ordinary owner who stood behind a counter and counted coins.
He had once been a student at the Mage Academy, and a talented one at that.
Years ago, Blackrat Lane had been even more crowded and dangerous than it was now. There had been fewer rules, more gangs, more bloodshed, and more fools trying to carve out territory. Anyone who wanted to claim a piece of land and keep it could not rely on luck.
Silas had done it anyway.
Using what he had learned at the Mage Academy, along with his own talent, he had removed every obstacle in his path. Those who needed to be beaten were beaten. Those who needed to be pushed aside were pushed aside. Over time, The Black Tankard became one of the few stable places on the entire street, and eventually, the default meeting place for mercenaries.
Very few people were stupid enough to challenge Silas.
After all, he had graduated at the top of his class from the Mage Academy.
"Aaah, would you look at that—Grand General Ashborne."
Before the man himself appeared, a familiar voice floated out from the door behind the bar, bright, smug, and deeply irritating.
"What wind blew you into my humble little corner?"
Kael’s eyelids lowered.
The back door opened, and a young man stepped out.
He wore black and white, every piece of clothing neat and perfectly fitted. Not a single wrinkle could be found, not even at the cuffs. White gloves covered his hands. A clear glass monocle rested at the corner of his left eye. His hair was clean and carefully combed, his face handsome, his posture relaxed but attentive. With his high nose bridge and polished manner, he looked more like a young butler from a noble estate than the owner of the largest tavern in Blackrat Lane.
He did not match The Black Tankard at all.
The tavern was full of shouting, liquor, dirty jokes, and the clack of weapon hilts. Silas stood among it all as if he had just stepped out of a clean study and somehow avoided getting even a speck of dust on his shoes.
Kael glared at him.
"Tch. Are you really asking?" He set his glass down harder than necessary, making the whiskey swirl darkly inside it. "You know exactly why I’m here."
Silas did not stop smiling right away.
He stood near the back door with his white-gloved hands folded lightly in front of him. His monocled eye moved from Kael to the unfinished Blackfeather Whiskey on the bar. In those few seconds, the noise from the nearby tables grew even softer. Even the loudest drunk shut his mouth.
Kael’s anger was plain enough.
In Blackrat Lane, Silas had enough influence to make people lower their voices.
But the man in front of him was Kael.
Grand General Kael Ashborne.
Silas did not argue. He did not look offended. He simply adjusted his smile into something a little more proper, then stopped at a distance that was neither too close nor too far. Close enough to show he was not afraid, far enough not to provoke Kael any further.
When it came to Kael, Silas had only one problem.
He could not beat him.
And he could not buy him.
