Chapter 77 Second Officer Burris
Before the drunkard could finish his tirade, a sharp bark of laughter echoed through the hall.
It was Bronn. He'd been fighting the urge to laugh for some time, but 'Sir Lucien' had warned them against any eye-catching behavior, so he'd kept his mirth in check. Now that Ian himself had spoken, however, Bronn saw no reason to hold back any longer.
"I loved her!" the drunkard bellowed, his voice a raw roar. He spun, his furious eyes locking onto Bronn. "Are you laughing at me?"
"No. Not me," Bronn said coolly, dipping a piece of bread into his stew, completely ignoring the man's menacing posture.
"You are laughing!" the drunkard roared again, slamming his fists on the table with a deafening crash. "No one laughs at Burris of the Shayara's Dance! No one!"
Bronn felt a subtle tug at the corner of his tunic. He glanced down to find Ian leaning close, his voice a low whisper in his ear. "Provoke him. But don't kill him."
A wicked grin spread across Bronn's face. "Alright then, I am laughing," he announced, his laughter now booming, wild and unrestrained. "And I'll laugh whenever I please. The old gods, the new, the Red God, and any other damned gods you can name couldn't stop me."
Burris surged to his feet, glaring murderously at Bronn, who calmly let his right hand drift to rest on the hilt of the dagger at the small of his back. One more move from the drunken fool, and he'd open his throat.
Perhaps it was the chilling promise of violence he saw in Bronn's eyes, or maybe it was the fact that no one at Ian's table looked like they could be easily trifled with. For whatever reason, Burris, in a rare moment of clarity, reined in his drunken impulse.
He stopped his advance and stood his ground, attempting to salvage his wounded pride. "Aren't you curious?" he sneered. "Curious how I survived an encounter with three Gold Cloaks and can still sit here drinking today?"
"Is killing three Gold Cloaks—men that any dockside whore could beat with a stick—supposed to be some grand achievement?" Ian interjected, picking up the thread of provocation.
He had no intention of giving the man an inch. He needed to needle him, break him down, and make him pliable for what was to come.
Seeing the embarrassed flush creep up Burris's neck, Ian pressed his attack. "Though from the look of you, I'd wager you didn't kill anyone. I'd wager you ran away like a frightened dog, didn't you?"
The initial insult hadn't fully landed, but this last one struck home. Burris's face contorted with humiliation. In his drunken paranoia, he imagined he could see ridicule in the eyes of his own men.
Fueled by alcohol and fury, Burris roared and his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.
He was too slow.
In a blur of motion, Bronn was on his feet. He lunged forward, slamming Burris back against his own table with his left hand while the dagger in his right pressed cold and hard against the man's throat.
Instantly, steel rasped from scabbards at both tables. The sudden tension sucked the air from the room, and the other tavern patrons scrambled back, clearing a wide circle. The worst of it was for a sellsword in the midst of a vigorous coupling on a nearby chair; the wave of murderous intent froze him mid-thrust, leaving him paralyzed and exposed.
The only sounds left were the mournful sigh of the wind against the windows and the distant lap of waves in the Blackwater Bay, a sound like a funeral dirge.
Bronn applied the slightest pressure. The icy kiss of the blade shocked Burris into near-sobriety. His hand fell away from his sword, and he frantically motioned for his men to lower their own weapons.
"A misunderstanding! Sir, it's a misunderstanding!" Burris choked out, his eyes wide with terror, fixed on Ian. He could clearly see Bronn was not the one in charge. "Please, I beg you, spare my life."
"My usual temperament would be to have my man here slit your throat for daring to rush my table," Ian said, his eyes narrowed to slits. "But… you mentioned you were from the Shayara's Dance, did you not?"
The Shayara's Dance. The flagship of the pirate lord, Salladhor Saan. The moment Ian heard the name, an idea sparked in his mind—a brilliant, audacious plan.
He would weave a tale. A story that would not only explain his coming treasure hunt to his own mercenaries but might also allow him to leverage this crew of pirates right in front of him.
"Ah? Yes, yes!" Burris stammered, clinging to the words like a drowning man to a raft. "I'm the second officer on the Shayara's Dance. My captain is Corian Sussman. Sir, I—"
"So, you are one of Uncle Salladhor's men?"
"Yes! My master, Salladhor Saan," Burris breathed, a wave of relief washing over him at Ian's familiar use of the name. "The great Prince of the Narrow Sea."
"You are a very lucky man," Ian sighed, a slow smile spreading across his face. He gave a slight nod, and Bronn released his hold, stepping back.
"Your master has saved your life," Ian said, raising his wine glass to the still-shaken Burris. "Let us drink. To the health of the Prince of the Narrow Sea."
After a moment of stunned silence, Ian's men and the sailors across from them exchanged wary glances before hesitantly raising their own cups. Just like that, the suffocating tension evaporated, at least on the surface.
Up on the second floor, the tavern owner, who had been peering through a crack in the floorboards, let out a long, shaky breath. He quickly ordered a terrified maid to bring the gentlemen more food and wine, on the house, before resuming his hidden observation post.
Seeing Ian's change in attitude, Burris took two deep, shuddering breaths as if reborn. He stumbled over to Ian's table, his demeanor now fawning. "Sir, you are acquainted with our master?"
"You're confused," Ian said, placing his own crested sword on the table. It was time to add another layer to the identity of 'Sir Lucien'. "I don't look like the sort of man who would befriend a pirate. Is that it?"
"I wouldn't dare presume, sir."
Gods, this one is dim, Ian thought with a flicker of annoyance. He might as well have just admitted it. He pushed the thought aside and began his story.
"You're right. We do not seem like men who would be friends," Ian began with a nod. "The first time we met was on the Summer Sea. Three of Uncle Salladhor's ships cornered my father's merchant vessel. We had no choice. We surrendered and became his prisoners."
The fawning smile froze on Burris's face. Seven hells, he thought, this is a blood feud.
"Relax," Ian said, patting Burris reassuringly on the shoulder. "If we hadn't shaken hands as friends in the end, you'd be dead right now."
A smile that was uglier than a grimace stretched across Burris's face. The brief, terrifying struggle had taught him all he needed to know about Bronn's lethality. He knew this young lord wasn't bragging. If he had truly given the order, everyone at Burris's table would already be bleeding out on the floor.
"Because we revealed our station and agreed to pay a handsome ransom, Salladhor did us no harm. In fact, he provided us with his most comfortable accommodations," Ian continued, seeing that Burris was swallowing the story whole. "Of course," he added with a wry smile, "the cost for that comfort was calculated separately and added to the final bill. Pirate's rules."
At this, the sailors at Burris's table broke into knowing grins. That part, at least, they understood perfectly.
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