The Watching (Monsters of the Yeavering #4)

Hazel

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, the point of my dagger underneath the chin of the Redcap, a foul creature, one which I have, in the main, been able to discourage from frequenting my tavern.

I can’t even be sure the things can be killed, although I expect cutting a part of it off, whatever that might be, will cause it some inconvenience.

“And who are you to tell me anything?” It sneers, clearly not concerned enough for its welfare.

“This is my inn and these are my girls.” I point at the shivering little witch who has a torn dress. “They are all are under my protection.” I give him my best smile, the one with far too many teeth.

The smile seems to do it as he takes a step away from my blade and executes a clumsy bow, which I feel is only part respectful but the best I’m going to get.

“My apologies, Lady Ryle,” he rasps, the corner of his mouth quirking up, his gimlet eyes glittering as they slide past me to the witch. “It won’t happen again.”

“No,” I say emphatically. “It won’t. You and your cohort are barred.” He blinks at me with some surprise, as if this has never happened to a Redcap. “Leave, now, before I make you leave.” I put my hand to my side where my sword sits comfortably.

His eyes follow the movement, and if a creature like the Redcap can blanche, he does just that. Without a further word, he turns and flees. I hear the sound of the rest of them exiting through the main door.

“Are you okay?” I approach Edith, reaching out and gently taking her hand, while I also check her over.

“Yes,” Edith says, throwing her shoulders back and attempting to look brave, even though I know she isn’t, at all.

I attract broken things, and all the witches I have working for me have little to no magic.

Edith can produce a few crackles from her fingertips, but she can’t use a spell, and as such has no protection, other than me, from Redcaps or any of the other vicious creatures which frequent my tavern here in the Night Lands.

Even if I have no magic myself and have no idea who I am, other than my first name is Hazel, but everyone calls me Lady Ryle. I know I am not a witch. But I do know how to run a tavern. So that’s what I do.

“Take the rest of the night off.” I sheathe my dagger into the purpose made belt at my waist. “Get Hilda to bring you a needle and thread.”

Once hidden away, you wouldn’t even know I had the weapon about my person, given my voluminous dress. Because the sword at my waist is all the inhabitants of the Night Lands need to see.

“But Hazel…” Edith protests until I give her the look.

“You know the house rules, Edith,” I growl.

She dips her head. “Yes.”

I tap my foot. She knows I want to hear them.

“Lady Ryle is always right,” she says. “And asking for a discount often offends.”

“Which one applies here?”

She looks up at me, a slight smile on her face. “Discount?”

I laugh. “I’m not sure I could pay you any less, Edith. Go on, get off with you, and tomorrow I’ll teach you how to handle a dagger. I could do with fewer bloodstains to clean up, but I’ll care less if they’re from Redcaps with their cocks removed.”

Edith hurries past me, clutching at her ruined dress, as if I might change my mind. I blow out a breath which is only part frustration, the rest being me working out how to deal with a busy Friday evening with only two servers.

I give my hair a shake. It’s a riot of colours, and something gnaws at me it wasn’t always so, but given it marks me out as the landlady of this rogue establishment, I don’t think much on it. Suitably prepared, I step back behind the bar.

Even with the Redcaps gone, the place is full to bursting. It’s hardly surprising, given the Dark Gibbet is the only tavern in this part of the Night Lands, on the only road which is safe-ish to travel in these parts.

I make a decent living, even if the work should be giving me grey hairs. But my hair remains resolutely a riot of candy colours, tumbling over my shoulders and down to my waist. I slip behind the bar, pour myself a shot of whisky, and down it in one before turning to face my customers.

Millie is doing her best to serve around ten Reivers at once, the hulking warriors with the burning blue eyes. Literally burning, given their eyes are a flicker of blue flame which gets bigger the more annoyed they are.

Reivers are always annoyed.

“Gentlemen.” I give them the benefit of my attention, if only to get them to back off from Millie, who scurries past me.

“What happened to the Redcaps?” she asks, unconcerned about the rising voices at her end of the bar, as I start to serve tankards of frothing ale at my end.

“They had to leave, and they won’t be back,” I say loudly. “No one touches my staff,” I add with a growl, and a Reiver steps back slightly from the wooden surface swimming in ale.

“Lady Ryle?”

I look up from my pouring to see Cuthbert stood in the doorway to the bar.

The great warlock wrings his hands. He is the best muscle I can buy in a lawless place like the Night Lands. Shame he’s also the biggest coward going.

“The Redcaps are barred, Cuthbert,” I tell him.

“Yes, mistress,” he says.

I ignore him for a while as I continue to make my way up and down the busy bar, taking orders for the kitchens and serving up tankards.

When I get back to the door end, Cuthbert is still there.

“What is it?” I growl. “I need you on the doors. There’s a reason the Redcaps were barred.” I glare at him.”

“Mistress,” he whines.

“What is it?”

“There’s a…monster…”

The noise level in the bar seems to ramp up a level, and I can’t be sure what Cuthbert said.

“Whatever it is,” I shout over the noise, pulling yet another pint, “it can wait.”

I don’t look at him again, and when I finally get a second, he has gone.

Yep, the Redcaps chose a perfect evening to balls up by attacking my barmaid. I curse them under my breath whilst keeping a smile on my face and feeling the weight on my hip.

Whatever I do, I can’t let my emotions get the better of me. I can’t afford another massacre, not so soon after the last one.

Finally, there’s a lull in the clamour at the bar, and this time, instead of Cuthbert, Edgar is at the door, his face red with anger. Whereas Cuthbert is the muscle, Edgar is the half warlock you really don’t want to piss off.

“What is it?” I fire at him.

“There’s a Brag in the stables, and he is refusing to leave.”

“A Brag?” I query.

For all my memories of how I ended up here are gone, I like to think I have a handle on the inhabitants of the Night Lands, as much as I know how to run a tavern, even if I have no idea where this knowledge came from.

After all, it’s survive or die here, and I am refusing to die.

“You know, all hooves and hocks,” Edgar growls. “And shoes which can flay flesh from bone.”

“A centaur?”

“I wouldn’t call him that, not if I want to keep my head,” Edgar replies.

“What does he want?”

“You.”