Chapter Twenty-Three
Valen's Request
With her back to the wall, Eleanor observed both the small door that divided the pub in two, and the staircase.
She pondered Trix’s words, idly rubbing the rim of the glass mug.
The rumour of witches, or rather the Night Hags, was something she had tried to ignore, but it was getting harder and harder.
She let out a long, weary sigh. She was here for a reason, a purpose that had nothing to do with the supposed witches lurking in the shadows.
Valen wasn’t one to avoid the pub floor unless there was something he was involved in.
Whatever was occupying his time had to be something big.
Significant enough that he’d not felt the need to assert his presence.
Trix had also hinted that he might not come downstairs tonight.
If that was the case, then she was wasting her time here.
As Eleanor considered her options, she thought of how she’d stumbled on the Three Bells when she’d first come to Breninsol in search of her original purpose for entering the city.
She knew the best way to find a criminal ring was to talk to other criminals.
One of her reasons for coming into Breninsol in the first place: to find The Umbra.
They were a mysterious group of underground criminals that were simultaneously non-existent while existing.
She’d followed loose end after loose end, but it had been like chasing shadows, no better than whispers disappearing in the wind.
Every time she felt close to uncovering who or where they were, they would suddenly vanish.
If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have thought magic had bolstered their cause.
She had thought she was the best person to find them, but she’d failed at that task as well.
Her original purpose had come full circle on itself, yet she was no closer to finding anything new.
Except for this one, small, and seemingly insignificant detail.
The necklace. Eleanor considered Linnet, the Missing, and the necklace’s connection were too coincidental.
As much as she hated to admit it, this was becoming something she couldn’t ignore anymore.
Eleanor weighed up her choices one last time.
Now would be the ideal moment to retreat if she had second thoughts, but she was unsure where she could go.
The familiar sense of guilt and cowardness gnawed at her, as she let the bitter ale wash through her thoughts.
No, she needed to pursue this, even though it was probably a dead end, but at least she could put it to bed and say she tried.
A tiny part of her seeped in…maybe …no .
She slammed the door on that old ache. There was nothing there.
Witches, real witches, were all gone. There was nothing to hope for anymore.
The best she could hope for was that the jewellery was being crafted in a port town, or that someone had stumbled upon the image in an old book she was yet to discover and had appreciated the symbol without recognising its true meaning.
Those possibilities felt more likely, and it was the reasoning she was holding onto, no matter how thin and flimsy that excuse felt.
A sound that almost sounded like a tinkling of bells rang through the pub, making everyone stop their conversations mid-sentence.
Whatever they were discussing was nowhere as important as listening to that sound getting closer.
The stomping of boots hitting the wooden stairs joined the jangling.
This could only mean one thing: Valen was coming downstairs.
This was the reason the city guard didn’t come here. The Sol King may rule the kingdom, but Valen was the underworld king, ruling from the back streets of Breninsol. Nothing went on in his streets without his knowledge.
Although the king viewed these people as hardened criminals, this man commanded unanimous fear and respect.
Among them, he was their leader, a position that he had fought hard for.
The rumours told that he’d won his first leadership contest at eleven, knocking a full-grown man to the floor.
He had led his second gang at thirteen and had amassed all the gangs in Breninsol under his control by the age of eighteen.
Many didn’t believe the stories and rumours about a boy, leading gangs of full-grown men at such a young age, but Eleanor believed them.
Desperation and survival drove a person to do dark things at such a young age.
Valen didn’t look how anyone would expect Breninsol’s gang boss to look.
He was still young for someone to wield so much dirty power.
He looked as young as Eleanor, with his shoulder length dark brown hair showing no sign of greys, but Eleanor knew Valen wasn’t trying to emulate the current fashion.
His hair was the way he always wore it: shaggy and tousled.
He had a few days’ worth of stubble on his face, but it wasn’t thick enough to be a full beard.
The path to becoming a crime lord hadn’t been without its sacrifices, evident in the scar that cut across his face and nose, along with smaller ones that were dotted on his face and hands, and probably the rest of his body.
As Valen had made his chiming descent, two of his trusted men joined him at the bottom of the stairs.
These two were Valen’s Seconds, and he was rarely seen without either of them.
One was big and bald and could easily pass as a champion underground ring fighter.
The other man had a half-shaven head and a cut in his eyebrow, with tattoos crawling up his neck, and was slight enough to be a perfect burglar.
The upstairs of the pub was Valen’s personal living quarters and reserved solely for a select few.
No one went up there uninvited, except for that one time she’d been up there.
Eleanor’s sharp eye darted around the room, noting the patrons sitting at the tables, whose hands were itching towards their weapons, and the wary eyes looking at the only exit more than once.
Eleanor didn’t know much about the gang leader, except he liked to smoke a pipe, and he liked leather.
He must do, otherwise she did not know why he constantly wore it.
His leather trousers were tucked into his boots and his leather waistcoat had shining silver buckles.
His long-coat wasn’t made of warm cotton or expensive silks, instead it was made of worn leather.
With his lapels flipped up, covering the back of his neck, his doubled cuffs showed a brocade lining.
Valen’s dark eyes met hers as he gave a few low words to the big bald man and jerked his head.
Her stomach sunk even though she was getting what she’d come here for: an audience with the underworld king.
She felt uncertain about the outcome of the meeting, particularly because she had to make a strange request.
Done with issuing his orders, Valen walked with a cocky assuredness to the opposite wall, where a table was surrounded by a semi-circle shaped partition.
The man with half his head shaved sat at the empty table outside the partition, while Valen sat inside and looked at ease, ready to hold his court at the round table.
The bald goon who’d moved to carry out Valen’s orders was getting closer to her small table.
She took a steady sip of her ale, allowing the bitterness to settle her and the casual act to show her indifference, while the surrounding tables silenced, fearful they’d gain the attention of the underworld king.
Chairs squeaked as they edged away, as if being in Valen’s Second’s eyesight would bring the unwanted attention of their ruler.
The bald goon stopped at her small table. “Boss wants a word,” he grumbled.
Hushed conversations picked back up to try to hide the wave of relief rippling through the pub.
Tonight, they were free from Valen’s scrutiny.
The crackling fire concealed the conversations, but she could sense all eyes following her as she grabbed her ale and walked across the pub.
She wasn’t sure whether her little show at the bar constituted as breaking one of Valen’s laws.
Regardless, she kept her face impassive, and her head held straight, as she passed the long table, directly in front of Valen’s area, where more of his men sat.
Both of Valen’s Seconds were now sitting at the tables on either side of his partition, his set up ensuring no one would disturb him.
“Valen,” Eleanor greeted the crime lord as she entered his space and dropped the dirty white handkerchief with a thunk onto the table as she took the seat to the side. She wasn’t giving this room her back.
“Nora,” he greeted in return, making her lips quirk.
She’d told him the name she used in The Ladies Grace. It wasn’t such a rare name she’d be easy to find, but Valen had said that “Eleanor” didn’t suit someone he was sending out as his assassin. She didn’t understand why he thought “Nora” fitted her better, but she knew better than to ask.
Valen unwrapped a leather-bound bundle, revealing a small bag, an oval bronze tin, flint, and steel, and a few items she didn’t recognise.
Eleanor took a sip from her ale, knowing that this was Valen’s way.
He discussed business while smoking, and no one could rush him.
If she thought a blade could speed this up, she’d have used one by now.
He had his wooden pipe in his scarred hands, knocked it a few times against his palm and peered into it.
Satisfied his pipe was empty, he sucked on it a few times, letting a strange rattle come from the empty pipe.
“What brings you downstairs?” she asked as she took a gulp of the bitter ale.
Vanilla-infused smoke perfumed the air between them as Valen opened the bag. He held his pipe at its stem and scooped the bowel into the bag of leaves.