The Wisterian

Chapter 27: Polite

Rowan pales rapidly, all the blood leaving her face.

"Just kidding." Bryony smirks, as she spins playfully away from the brothel door, clearly enjoying teasing Rowan. Deep crow's feet etch her cheeks as she chuckles softly. "We don't sell anyone here, one of those many codes we live by. Only those who wish to work here do so, as it is with any other occupation in Blight."

"Pirates have codes?" Really? But murder is still apparently a sanctioned event.

"Or did you think that silly forest kept us from sacking your precious kingdom?"

Well salt, she had not previously given it much thought. Or any thoughts. Her healthy respect and fear of the Pirate Queen grows as they distance themselves from the brothel.

"These shops look nice." Rowan offers, hoping Bryony elects not to gift her to anyone. Or drown her, or, there are an awful lot of ways to get in trouble out here. Enough to make her yearn for the treacherous loam of the forest.

Bryony smiles, not as sharp as before but genuinely and with pride. "Thanks, they're all mine." She waves a hand to encompass the whole street.

There must be more than thirty individual businesses plus the brothel, the inn, and apartments above every business to boot. Her brow raises so high they nearly exit her face. Why would a Pirate Queen want to own an entire town?

Bryony answers, reading her mind. "I own a majority stake in all of them. It helps keep things polite."

Pirates burst forth from the tavern, hands full of knives and mugs full of ale. They draw a line in the sand. Two men duel. One draws a blunderbuss, the other a pistol. Rowan purses her lips as both men pace their steps. One turns early, firing at the other man's back, shooting him dead in the street.

The undertaker immediately scurries from his shop beside the barber, and tugs on the man's feet, hauling him inside. Efficient. Too efficient. Like this happens more often than not.

"Polite..." Right, so her definition must differ, greatly.

Bryony's smile sharpens once again. "I mean, they're still pirates." She says this matter of fact, her tone indicating the forager might be a few waves short of high tide.

Bryony heads towards the tavern, boots scuffing sand over the spilled blood on the way inside. She nods to the men with the guns, leaving them to handle their own business.

Roaring laughter and slurred words assault Rowan's ears as she eases into the darkened space, the ear-splitting volume better suited to yelling across a large ship, rather than the intimate setting of the bar.

Pirates of all kinds lounge about, boasting and betting, slyly using magic to cheat at cards, or not so slyly in the case of one man, three sheets to the wind and blowing air magic at the dice to land in his favor. A knife whizzes past Rowan to pin the man's sleeve to the table. Several mugs of ale follow to crash next to his lolling head.

Bryony glowers at the rowdy men.

They immediately simmer down, kicking their legs off the chairs, and sipping their beers quietly. The entire room follows suit as they recognize the Pirate Queen in their midst. The cheating pirate takes the moment of tranquility to remove the knife, stagger to his feet and swiftly exit the premises.

Her skin prickles, stomach uneasy as she chances a fleeting look at Bryony. To still an entire room with a single glance. Not even the king wields such power as this.

The sign above the bar reads 'Glut.' The walls read 'I haven't been cleaned in over forty years and might never be again.' The smell hits her first, briny and salty like the sea but concentrated, more like sweat with the faintest whiff of the meaty stew bubbling away in the hearth across the room. All of that mixed with the coppery scent of blood, putrid vomit, and stale grog. Mostly vomit.