A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 6.3

 A man jumped up on a table across the room and silenced the ramblings of the delirious crowd. A flaming beard matted around his jaw before crawling into the firepit of hair atop his head. His hemp shirt hung from his unwieldy torso, torn and patched around his armpits.

"Many o ye have travellit far today, A thank ye. Many o ye have rollit oot the puddles o piss ootside yer door." His voice was burly and thick. Although Delilah hardly understood his words at times, the opposite was true for the crowd who laughed. "A thank ye too."

"We're not here to wallow and cry about the lives Saol cursed us with. No, we're here for change. If that's not what you're here for..." He slammed his foot against the unstable surface and thrust his finger to face the door. "Then find yourself a crook ootside tae rot i. Na more will we grovel at their feet! Na more will we dee i their fichts."  His face raged in a matching blaze to his words and gestures. The audience ignited in jeers and yells with every raise of his arms. 

The more he spoke, the more she recognized his voice - his accent. It was the accent of the North. He was a man far from his Quarter, preaching anger and hostility to already broken people.

"We are children o the goddess juist as much as they are. Wha says they get tae lead us?" 

This fighting back nonsense. The woman's words echoed back to Delilah.

The man was protesting her, Delilah realized. Not just her but her family, the Franklyns, the ruling class...the leaders. The stares as she had entered the tavern made sense now. The endless shoves and dismissal of her presence. She needed to leave. She needed to get out before the preacher saw her there - alone and defenseless. Vulnerable to his vicious words her mind let seep in.

She frantically searched for her guard in the crowd, by the door - everywhere until she saw his black shirt heading towards his previous perch. 

Jonnie returned to his seat at the bar while the protest continued on. Delilah tried to grab his attention, leaning forward against the counter, and waving in long strokes. Her throat tightened with every sentence the preacher spewed. His voice riled up and up. Claims of illegitimacy to rule, numerous reminders of the Baron's failures - her failures -, and the loss of lives to creatures were used as persuasive weapons against the people's loyalty to the Franklyn family. 

And all the while Delilah's distress went unnoticed. A man emerged beside Jonnie, holding his entire attention. Both stood out amongst the crowd. Not only because of Jonnie in his uniform and the man veiled in a black cloak similar to her own. But, because they were the only two dismissing the hostility swelling in the room.

The man looked more familiar the longer Delilah considered him. Tall, muscled frame. Dark hair that stuck up in places, defying physics to look messy. Similar tanned skin to Jonnie. Perhaps, he was a colleague. Another person who worked for Baron that she may have passed in the halls. After all, she did not know every man in her step-father's guard so surely that must be where he was from. 

"Why shoud an orphanit bitch tell us whit tae dae?"

Her head clanged too much to recall. The drunken voices and violent war cries were becoming too much. Delilah needed to get out. Anxiety clouded her judgment as the preacher's words slithered into her mind. Was she unworthy? Incapable?  A plight on the Quarter?  Delilah chewed at her cheek. Tears clotted her vision.

Delilah forced herself to focus on her companion, who called for drinks with his new acquaintance. Not a moment later, two pints were served. 

Neither spoke a word as they drank.

After rubbing at her eyes, Delilah rummaged beneath the counter to grab her stick, then dipped her feet to the ground.

---

The crowd thickened like the late-night smog. Humid and stiff. Delilah nudged her way past multiple hulking men, scantily-clad women, and groups consumed in savage chants - lusting for something better. Head to the ground, she murmured scared apologies all the way until she reached Jonnie, behind the mysterious stranger. "This is everything I know. As much as they'd give me," the man said. Voice husky and low as he spoke. Soft with every word thought out. He pulled a letter from inside his cloak and turned it down on the bar, so the wax stamp wasn't visible. "I won't be able to check-in until it happens. Make sure he sees it, will you? For her sake."

Jonnie's drink was almost gone; the man's half full. The letter gripped Delilah completely, questions swirled in her mind so much so she was yet to make her presence known. Clearly, the two were more than just acquaintances. Was he an informant? A reporter? The latter gripped the glass in his right gloved hand. Jaunted movements lifted the glass to his mouth each time, the same to place it on the table again. Each finger released in turn – slow and mechanical.

"Your hand.." Jonnie slurred. "Did you manage to fix it after...well?" The man chuckled. Short and low. Then, he pulled the glove off. 

Skeleton metal replaced real flesh. Where muscle and skin should be was instead steel and brass. A hole ruptured two opposing panels. The gold sheen dusted gray around the fracture. "Ah." That was all Jonnie responded causing the man to chuckle some more. Delilah gasped at the sight of the prosthetic, the first she had ever seen of its kind.

And it was that gasp that made her presence known. Startling both Jonnie and the man, she did not know where to turn. His eyes were upon her, shock laced the light birch that bore into her own slate. He did not waste any more time with Jonnie, nor a moment longer staring at Delilah. Placing a couple of coins on the bar, he disappeared back into the crowd from where he had appeared. The letter was left behind.