Hastur sipped at the ale Prishka had poured for him and glanced back towards the boy he’d laid out on the floor. His ‘friends’ had left him behind without a second look, which meant they either didn’t like him in particular or loyalty among the group was low. The latter would make the plan percolating in the back of his mind easier, so whatever the gang’s opinion on the boy he hoped it was the case.

Seeming at ease in her place behind the counter once more, Prishka noticed him eying the unconscious boy and asked, “What are you going to do with him? Drag him round the back first if you plan on making a mess.”

“He’s just a pup, shouldn’t take much to get what I need. We’re just going to have a little chat,” Hastur said and finished off the rest of his drink. He placed the tankard back on the counter then pushed up off his stool and sauntered over to the boy, who was just beginning to stir.

Before he could manage to roll over and push himself upright, Hastur dragged a seat over to the boy’s side and dropped into it then planted the end of his sword’s sheath in the center of the younger man’s chest to pin him in place like a taxidermist with a particularly rare butterfly.

“What’s your name, boy?”

The young man grabbed at Hastur’s sheath and tried to jerk it away to free himself, but failed. “Get off!” he snarled, teeth bared and eyes narrowed as he glared daggers up at his captor.

Hastur smiled a little at the display but didn’t let up the pressure. He’d hit the nail on he head calling the boy a pup before— he wasn’t much to look at now but Hastur’s experienced eye told him the boy could grow up into a proper hound if given half a chance and the right training.

“Make me,” Hastur taunted in a careless tone that seemed to piss the boy off.

He tried again to free himself, throwing his whole body into twisting away this time, but Hastur saw it coming and walloped him across the back of the head with his sword with a sharp crack that sounded worse than it actually was.

It still stung like the dickens though, bad enough to make the boy yelp and roll onto his back again on reflex, hands on the back of his head, tears in his eyes, leaving himself wide open to being pinned a second time.

Hastur loomed over his captive and leaned a little more of his weight onto his sword so the sheath bore down heavily onto the boy’s chest. “I knock you deaf the first time or do you just want me to do it again?”

The boy scowled ferociously but finally answered, “Gavrail. Friends call me Gav but you can suck ash.”

Hastur barked a laugh but straightened a little so his sword rested only lightly against Gavrail’s chest— a warning and a reminder to keep still. “Those the same friends that left you behind when they tucked tail and ran? Can’t say I’m impressed.”

Gavrail blinked up at him, then gave a start as he looked around and realized he was, in fact, the only one of his gang still in the barroom. An expression of hurt flitted across his dark features but disappeared almost as quickly. Being abandoned clearly stung the boy but Hastur gave him points for covering it so easily. “They’ll be back,” he threatened instead with a sneer— more posturing from a boy that knew he was cornered and totally on his own. “You think it’s just the five of us? We’ll get what’s owed and tear this place apart.”

“You’d best mean ‘or we’ll near this place apart’, pup.”

“I meant what I said, old man. We get paid or we break that bitch and all her shit.”

Hastur’s hand was a blur when is big, heavy palm struck Gavrail full across the face with enough force to leave the boy dazed again. Before he could recoup, Hastur grabbed the boy by the chin and pulled his head around so Gavrail was looking at Prishka. “Listen, pup, this nice lady paid you and your little friends good money to protect her from the… unsavory elements hereabouts so she can continue running her business and serving all her very nice customers very nice pints of very passable ale.”

“Passable?” Prishka objected, but Hastur ignored her.

“You lot failed to do that one very simple task so now I’ve been hired to teach you all a lesson about follow through and what happens when you get too big for your damn boots.” Gavrail flinched and tried to pull away but Hastur didn’t let him, instead, he used his hold on the boy’s face to make him meet his eyes. “Now, who hasn’t been teaching you your lessons, hm?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Gavrail said, gaze sliding sideways away from Hastur’s until the much larger man gave him a shake.

“Don’t bullshit me, boy. One thing I can’t damn well stand is a bullshitter,” Hastur drawled irritably. He decided to change tactics, though— he’d given the boy the stick, time for a little carrot.

Hastur caught the boy by the scruff and thrust him into the chair next to his. Gavrail scrambled a bit at the sudden change, but settled in his seat with the wariness of a twice bit dog. Before the boy could move, Hastur hooked his boot under Gavrail’s chair and dragged it around so he faced the table, effectively pinning him in place again, though less painfully this time. He signaled Prishka and a moment later the woman came over to the table with two tankards, dropped them on the table in front of both men, then walked off again like it was no business of hers what they got up to next.

“Drink up,” Hastur instructed the boy then took a long drink of ale. He quaffed half of it in one go then put the tankard down and took up his pipe once more. The ember had gone out but there was still a little tobacco in the bowl so he re-lit it then took a few quick pulls to get it going again. “Well?” he said, smoke pouring past his lips as he spoke. “I said drink.”

Gavrail sat staring down at the tankard Prishka had placed in front of him with a look of deep suspicion. “What is it? Poison?” he asked skeptically and narrowed his eyes when he glanced up at Hastur.

The older man barked a laugh at the question. “Pretty big opinion of yourself for such a scrawny runt,” Hastur drawled around the bit of his pipe as he settled himself more comfortably back in his chair opposite Gavrail’s. When the boy’s only response was a sour look, he continued, “Poison costs money— why would I waste that on you? I could snap your neck for free if I wanted— Prishka wouldn’t even have to get the mop to clean up after I dragged you out of here.” Hastur let the words hang between them for a long moment. “Would anyone even come looking?”

It was a cruel and obvious question for a boy who had clearly grown up on the streets of Ashtown. He might have convinced himself his crew would, but after they’d left him behind tonight there was no way Gavrail wasn’t questioning that now. A shadow fell across the younger man’s face and Hastur’s conscience pricked him for needling the boy so accurately but he ignored it.

Gavrail finally picked up his tankard and took a long drink of the amber ale within and Hastur let him before he pressed again. “Look, I don’t care what you and your little crew get up to as long as you mind your own damn business and stay out of here, and out of my way. All I wanna know is who put you up to it, because I know small fry like you lot don’t keep control of a prime bit of real estate like this without a bigger fish somewhere backing you up.”

“You talk a lot.”

“You prefer I didn’t? I could put you back on the floor if you want.”

Gavrail grimaced and took a second, smaller sip of his ale. “I’m not a snitch.”

Hastur’s mouth quirked fractionally at the sullen statement. He hadn’t intended as much, but Gavrail had as much admitted Hastur’s (albeit educated) guess about his crew being a part of a larger gang was right. They weren’t advertising it, though, which meant they either hadn’t been allowed in as full members before proving themselves, or the gang leader was fielding out work he didn’t necessarily want his name attached to.

Considering that collecting on protection was hardly ‘shady’ when it came to the sorts of business larger gangs got up to, Hastur suspected it was the latter.

“So, what? You and your crew are looking to prove yourselves by holding down a street on your own so they’ll let you join, huh?” Hastur mused aloud as he puffed idly on his pipe and blew a lazy smoke ring up into the air over the table.

Gavrail half-choked on a mouthful of ale then stared at Hastur. “What are you, some sort of watcher?”

Hastur in turn choked outright on a lungful of smoke and threw the boy a disgusted look from across the table, eyes watering. “You take that back, you scrawny little whelp. Do I look like a gods’ cursed watchman to you?” he demanded and slammed his fist down onto the table with a loud bang that would have made their drinks slosh had they been full.

“Alright, geeze, sorry! You’re not a watcher!” Gavrail apologized hurriedly, leaning back in his seat, hands wrapped tight around his tankard. “It’s just you seem to know a lot despite bein’…”

Hastur narrowed his eyes at the boy, heavy brow furrowed. “Being what?”