Norfingerton

Bannock sighed, “Would you like to take this outside, Flint?”

Flint produced a filthy knife from his waistcoat. “I’d like to see this steel stuck between your ribs, Bannock.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Marigold said plainly. Enough was enough. The food and the drink were in sight, the long road was finally behind them. A mattress with more feathers than Haggar and Freya combined was right there, and all for the low price of ten rounds a night. This was not to be interrupted by some skinny man with a grudge in a bad waistcoat.

“And who the fuck are you? Some fuckin’ hero? Me and my pals ‘ave seen to the likes of you before. You really want to die for a Black and Red?”

“I’m not going to die,” said Marigold.

The Dripping Bucket was an obviously less impressive establishment than The Fishwive’s Waist had been or was ever going to be. A squint-eyed man dumped a filthy plate of mushy brown veg and bony grey fish down in front of Marigold. He could only imagine the delights that might have been plated up in the more northerly of the Norfingerton inns. His belly yearned for so much more than this shite.

“I can’t believe he kicked us out.” Aveline shook her head. “You did them a bloody service as far as I’m concerned, Marigold.”

“I can’t believe you took on five of them at once with your bare hands and didn’t take a single scratch,” Ingstadt said. “The notes write themselves; they really do. Stuff of legend. Absolute gold.”

“I’m still amazed you managed to keep Flint breathing until the last of his friends bled out,” Bannock mused. “Most impressive.”

“This beer’s shite,” Marigold said.