The Devil's Opera(18)

“I’m not saying I did or didn’t,” Veit replied. “But if you were in here drunk enough to take it, then you deserve it. Now give me dollars or honest silver or do your drinking somewhere else.”

Simon was glad he couldn’t understand what Hans muttered under his breath as he took back a blackish coin from the tavern keeper and gave him a different one in exchange. Veit removed his hand and Hans picked up his bottle. Then he looked over at Simon. “Thought I had forgotten you, eh? Veit, this is…what is your name, boy?”

“Simon, sir.”

“Sir!” Hans and Veit roared with laughter. “I’m no sir, boy. I’m just Hans, and that is good enough for me.”

“Taking up with boys now, Hans?”

Simon stepped back as Hans’ face went hard and cold all in a moment. He didn’t want to be in the way if things got rough here. He’d already seen Hans in action once tonight.

Veit’s laughter choked in his throat as Hans’ hand flashed across the counter to grasp his jacket and lift him up on his toes. “You’ll not say that again, Veit,” Hans hissed through tight lips.

Veit’s eyes were wide and his face was pale behind his scraggly beard. Simon knew his own eyes were just as wide and just as white around the edges.

“Sorry, Hans. I meant nothing by it. Bad joke.”

The tableau stretched on for a long moment, then Hans relaxed his fist and let the cloth slide through his fingers. Veit settled back onto his feet.

“We will let it go at that,” Hans said in a hard voice, “but you watch your mouth, Veit. A man can get hurt by saying the wrong thing.” After a moment, he turned to Simon and said in a normal tone, “Now, boy, what do you want to drink? I’m buying.”

Simon hesitated, then stammered, “Sm-small beer.”

Hans frowned, but Veit held up his hand. “I keep some here for some of the doxies that come round in the mornings. He can have some of that, and I won’t charge for it.” The tavern keeper found a small mug on the back table and filled it from a keg sitting on the end of the table. “Here you are, lad.”

Simon took the mug from the counter and looked up at Hans.

“Right. This way.”

Again Simon followed close behind the bulk of the larger man through the press of bodies that seemed in the dim light to be clad in shades of gray. Hans pushed his way through without seeming to give a thought to those he was jostling. Following in Hans’ wake, Simon heard mutters as he went by the men, but no one’s voice was loud enough to catch Hans’ attention. After what he had just seen at the counter, Simon was not surprised. People here apparently knew Hans—knew enough to keep on his good side, anyway.

Hans arrived at a table and kicked a bench out from underneath it. “Come on, boy, sit down.” Hans himself dropped to the bench and carefully set his bottle on the table. “Barnabas, everyone, this is Simon. He is a small lad with a big name, and he is my luck. Stopped me from getting set upon by a couple of bully boys from over west of the Big Ditch. I recognized them.”

Barnabas, a thin man with a narrow face, looked horrified. “Why, that…that is unheard of. They are supposed to keep to their side of the moat, and we keep to ours. That’s the way it has always been…or at least since the sack.”

Hans was busy scraping the wax from around the stopper and neck of his bottle of spirits. He didn’t look up as he responded. “Maybe so, but just maybe someone over there is just a bit upset that I beat their man in the fights last week. Ah!” He got the stopper out and immediately took a big swig of the gin. He smacked his lips, smiled, and looked over at Simon. “Drink up, boy, even if it is small beer.”

Simon took a sip from his mug. It was as bad as he expected from this place, but he swallowed it anyway. It was wet, and he was thirsty.

“Hans,” Barnabas spoke up. “This is my cousin Karl, from Hannover.” He pointed to a man who would make two of Barnabas. “I think I have told you about him before.”

Simon studied Karl. From what he could tell, even in the dim light, the Hannoverian didn’t really fit in here in the Chain. His beard was a neatly trimmed goatee with prominent mustaches. He wore a fine hat. His clothes, what Simon could see of them, were clean. No, not at all the appearance of the normal patron of this tavern.

“Sure,” Hans said. “I remember you mentioning him. Good to meet you, Karl.” He held his hand out across the table. Karl took it with a toothy grin. Simon could see their hands tense on each other. Karl’s grin disappeared and his jaw set. There was a long moment of silence, then the clinch broke.