A discovery 2 - BY HARV

"There's a fly in this soup, George."

George chuckled, a low thing made up of gravel, whiskey and heavy tobacco. He brushed his hand across the thick bristle of his beard and moustache, wiping clean what few crumbs still clung from the fresh loaf of bread they had delivered to their table, the same bread he had been sopping up the remains of the beef-suggestible stew laden into a wooden bowl before him. He jammed the soggy mess into his mouth before it had a chance to disintegrate, licking his fingers and then his chops with the earnest comforts of a seafarer long since surrendered to the possibility of shrimp and fish for the remainder of his days; that is to say, greedily. He didn't bother to answer Harmon right away, choosing instead to enjoy his moment of settled hunger and blissful fulfillment with an ear rattling belch and a dangerous creak from his wholly insupportable chair.

He blinked from beneath his cap, a floppy thing that drooped off to one side, eclipsing the top half of his right ear. He stared at Harmon, the man's dainty fingers pushing something around in his soup with a spoon almost as big as his palm.

"I swear it, George, a fly! Look! As big as a beggar's last farthing."

"They don't have Farthings out this way, 'Armon. Ain't the good ole Merry Mother."

"I'll say. A sight and a sliver better on our conscience and wallets at that." He watched the wispy moustache, thin and waxed, writhe about distastefully on Harmon's upper lip, curious how a man with blush on his cheeks and a sense of taste that appreciated Mauve in all it's resplendent possibilities, could even manage a few hairs let alone an entire pencil twist bristle amongst his very many attempts at artistry and aristocratic leanings.

"I mean, really, George. Who ever thought breaking a penny into quarters would be a wise decision in a market and commonwealth that prides itself on being expensive about the best parts of life? Were they trying to complicate things?"

"Just e'nuff to give tha' poor somethin' to feel stupid about, 'Armon" He elicited another belch, ignoring the sudden glare of several nearby patrons, who's tables were close enough that they all might as well be at a banquet or a feast. He ignored the thick necked and proud faced labourers, patting his generous stomach with something like contentment. Harmon pushed his spoon about one last time before, with a sniff of regret, set the utensil down and gingerly pushed the bowl forward until it was well out of all sight but the peripheral.
"Are we done here then, George? I feel as if it might be time we get on with…well, getting to what we came here for?”
“Oh? ‘n what might tha’ be, ‘Armon?”
“Well…” He watched the slim young man, suck in a breath and puff out his cheeks on the exhale, head tilting to one side in an effort to theatrically express his boredom. “I feel as if we might be stuck-“
“Stuck?”
“Yes George, Stuck. In a rut perhaps.”
“A rut?” He perked a brow, one eye nearly squinting into a narrow slit. “Wha’s at ‘en?”
“It’s the pair of lines cut into the cobbles for the wagons to run through.”
“Huh. ‘n Why ‘Armon, would we be stuck ‘n ‘em, wha’ wit’ us not ‘avin’ ‘rselves a Wagon ‘n all?”
“It’s what’s known as a figure of Speech, George. Like in some of my poems. A metaphor.”
George was about to turn and pay Harmon a piece of mind about bringing up the scrawl and mishap that was Harmon’s attempts at enlightened poetics, when he heard a commotion erupt at the door. The Tavern was a sty of a pig of a place, filled with ruffians, vagabonds and the off-shore labourers of good seafaring vessels. It had been the first part of their new lives that they had found coming off the galleon that brought them from a dingy little island filled with many ugly things, ugly people and an air that had threatened to choke them both more surely than the raw potatoes they served in their stews.
The door to the place was a squat thing, charged with bands of iron that reinforced it’s solidity and the hinges upon which it rested, as if the owner of the establishment had grown used to the barging in of various riffraff and had simply grown accustomed to anticipating havoc within said establishment rather then preventing it. Protect your investment and let the locals be merry how they pleased.
Which is probably why when a rather large fellow, who’s shirt was too small, pants were too big and his belt was a tangled rope of frayed twine, so dirtied, it was difficult to tell some of the ribbons from the hair growth that stormed up his stomach and vanished beneath the tight shirt’s hemline. His face was a thousand calamitous bar fights, all broken teeth and upturned protrusions, one eye hiding behind a patch black and furry. His skin tone might have been swarthy were that word not generously claimed by the handsome and academic and his hair was a mopping mess of sea-brine, that hung down like seaweed, alternating between drying out and wrinkle-soaking the space around his eyes.
He was currently holding the door open with one thick hand, scarred and nicked like it had been through the cutting board of a hundred well-intentioned mothers fattening up skinny children. He was also cursing rather vehemently in another language which had garnered no small amount of attention from the rest of the Tavern’s population.
Many of them were looking scarce-in-place, ducking their hats or covering their brows behind their hands and eyes, while others were openly staring at the fellow, listening as he threw his bulk and tirade down the few steps separating the outside and the in and a rare few couldn’t be bothered lifting their attentions from their own business to pay him any mind. That really only involved the drunks passed out in a puddle of their own making, the bartender who, as was mentioned previously, confident in the iron bolted into various parts of his establishment and both Harmon and George, who continued their conversation with nary an interruption beyond George’s brief glance of regard.
“We ain’t ‘n a rut, ‘Armon. We’r’ jus’…find’n our way ‘n ah world. Like…a cup’le a babes, fresh crawl’n ‘round Mums ole’ Kitch’ eh?” He reached across the table to poke Harmon in the shoulder, elbows planted with certain rudeness, the patches of his thickly padded long coat, soaking up some of the spilled ale from the half dozen patrons that populated this tiny table toward the back before them.
Harmon, flinched slightly and followed that up with a rather dead pan stare and a brief smoothing of his uniform hair, greased down as was one of the popular styles within the court proper of Venice’s upper class. He’d even gone to the trouble of attaching a small red ribbon at the nape where the black streaks came to en end. With the yellow cravat and blisteringly blue jacket, he seemed ready for court at a moment’s notice. That or a parade.
“If that were True, George, we would be off on adventures around this most wondrous of cities, exploring sites, enjoying the population and immersing ourselves within the Italian lifestyles that I’ve heard so much about-“
“Since when ah you ‘eard enything ‘bout the Eye-ties, ‘Armon?”
He watched Harmon blink, astonishment painting his blushing features. The tables nearby were beginning to erupt in a loud assortment of scraping chair legs, as if people were rising in a hurry and clearing a path for some ponderous boulder. Funnily enough, it was growing somewhat louder with each passing second.
“I’ve heard plenty! Just because you’re some-“ A foppish hand, dressed in a white glove Harmon had been doing his desperate best to keep that colour, flapped at him “-vagabond determined to meet an ignorant end, doesn’t mean I’m bound to the same destiny, George!”
“Awww, now don’ be like ‘at, Armon, ole Chum! I ain’ mean enything by my pontificat’n. Jus’ muse’n out loud.”
“Well you and your muse can- Say now what exactly is all this ruckus?”
They both turned to stare into the paunch heavy mid-drift of the same ugly creature that had stormed the door down not moments ago. His breathing at this distance, was near as loud as cannon fire, thanks in no small part to the snuffling upturn and slight right angle of his nose, that looked as if someone had punched it in with a hammer on an occasion. Or a hundred fists on several occasions. The man’s hands slammed down into the table, making their soup bowls jump. Neither man flinched, simply lifted their gazes and leaned back in their chairs.
“Oye! ‘Armon!”
“Yes, George.”
“You figur’d out ‘ow tah Spek eye-tie yet?”
The wheezing monstrosity was jawing rather loudly, switching from being in George’s face to melting some of the grease out of Harmon’s hair with breath better suited to Krakens.
“Alas, no, George-“
“Well. S’bit humil’ate’n now ain’ it? ‘Ere tha’ lad’s got ‘emself a problem ‘n we ain’ got ‘erselves ‘n idea ‘ow tah fix ‘it.”
There was a brief pause, the crushed face expression that could have been constipation, hunger or rage with equal chances, was bandying his head back and forth between George and Harmon’s own features. The ball of his fists on their table seemed to suggest Rage was the call of the day, however.
“Do you think he realizes we don’t comprehend him?”
The pair dodged around the hulking creature to give each other a knowing stare, then glance up into the mashed face of their table’s recent addition. The result was a second smash of balled fists into the planked wooding furnishing, both soup bowls upending with a loud clatter, spilling their remaining contents out onto the floor and out of sight. Both men stared at the commotion and frowned, returning their gazes to the large bellied fellow.
“That was highly uncalled for.”
“Paid good monay fer tha’, lad!”
“Good money for bad food wasted is double the insult!”
“Reckon tha’s right!”
Another incomprehensible bellow erupted from the large creature who, some might call misfortunate, when he chose to perform the noise directly into Harmon’s face.
“Oh really no- My God, what does this man consume to smell like that?!”
“’Ear now, dun’ think ‘e roit ‘preciates your candid tone then, ‘Armon.”
Evidenced, by Harmon suddenly being hoisted up by the lapels, gripped in a pair of meaty fists and left to dangle not a few feet off the Tavern floor, a moment that lasted only a few precious seconds of course, as Harmon’s eyes widened and a the blush of his cheeks suddenly spread in a liquid red across his powdered pale face. There was quite suddenly a vivid movement of those dainty white gloves and the sudden stiffening of the hands at his lapels. A moment later and Harmon, who jostled himself quite gently within the ugly giant’s grip, slid through those ham-fisted fingers and back to his own two booted feet.
George watched him dust himself down, sneering in disgust at the greasy fingerprints left on his rather fashionable jacket and cravat.
“Animals! Have you never heard of Bathing and Hygiene?!”
Which might have been lost in the Tavern’s din, had the Tavern not gone deathly quiet and all eyes and patrons turned in their direction with something like astonishment and disbelief. No few, were creeping to their feet. Still, the giant of a bellowing man, had yet to move or even make a sound, his head canted up toward the ceiling eyes wild and wide and as frozen as the rest of him.
“Poors poor everywhere, ‘Armon. Soaps fer tha’ luxury o’ an arse proper stick’d.”
George climbed to his feet, weathering the tongue jutting look of disgust on Harmon’s features, who was scrubby busily at his lapels with a laced kerchief. By now, half the Tavern was on their feet, mumbling and murmuring to one another. The occasional bit of English crept through the din and George hooked a hand around his left ear, the other with thumb in a belt loop, leaning out toward the Crowd.
“Wut’zat? ‘Eard a few words jus’ then. Cam’on speak up ‘eh?”
To which a young thing, broad of hip, dextrous of hand and tanned in the way that reminds a good sailor of a sunset; all golds and polished lovely, moved around the edge of a pair of thick armed sailors to give them an eye and a twist of her lips, her tray with no less than eight mugs still perched on it’s surface, not moving an inch outside of her control during the maneuvering.
“They say-“ She said with a heavy accent, one George made a squint at, so as to hide the fact he was also busily inspecting the cleavage she had on obvious display “-he-“ And she tipped a head of long curled hair, black as the raven’s wing, at the man still standing stock still between the pair of men “-came ‘round to fetch a price.”
“A price?” Harmon paused in his scrubbing to regard the woman.
“Yes. A price, apparently on your heads.”
“Wut? Already?”
Harmon snorted, returning to his futile attempts to scrub the lapel clean.
“He say you kill someone. Throw them into the River like some-“ She spat to one side, none of the patrons bothering to step out of her way “-dog found on the street. Some lady or other-“
“-Wut? ‘Ow they go figur’n tha’?”
She shrugged again. “You are Foreigner.”
“Roit.” He flicked a glance around at the crowd, still bulging with the rapidly traveling word of a Bounty in the Room.
“’ere now, you lis’sen-“ George levelled a finger at the girl, who remained unmoved, but seemed to shrink as large chunks of the crowd suddenly animated and puffed up large. “We ain’ ev’n ‘ad ourselves a chance tah do no wrong ‘ere ‘bouts. Need me a meal, a wench ‘n a nice ole snooze ‘for I git me’self-“
“-and Me, more often than not-“
“Thaz roit, ‘n ole ‘Armon ‘ere ‘n’tah eny sort’a trouble. Ain’ go look’n fer no Barney ‘n Certain ain’ got no girlie under me mits, tha’ I ain’ fixed tah please.” George pulled on his own less fashionable lapels, an impressed waggle to his moustache. “I don’ ‘urt no Women.”
The Tavern stared at them both, another brief silence jumping into the moment, challenged only by the swish-swish-scrape of Harmon’s insistent cleanings. The Server was the first to speak up, shrugging with one shoulder, and spare hand on hip, head tossing about at the patrons of the Bar.
“They say, they not believe you. They also think you are Foreigner. Mostly though? I think they hear ‘price’ and ‘on your head’ and stop thinking-“
“Well…can’ say I blame ‘em fer tha’, luv. Might well ‘ear that too ‘n cut a man’s reason off at the gibs.”
“Yes. Too bad they do not pay more attention to the fat one who tried first-“
She nodded toward the still standing figure who was trembling slightly now. Harmon glanced up, pausing his efforts and took a generous step back from the table. George did the same, only a moment before the body that was once a bellowing man, came crashing down into the table, slumping to a thunderous halt. Both men then stepped back into their original positions, staring down at the Meat and then at each other.
“Wut’tha’ ‘ell you do to ‘em now?”
“He was being rude!” Harmon chirped defensively, hands dropping from his lapels to settle at his hips. His foot began to tap, a sharp clipped sound that made George’s teeth ache. The larger man grimaced behind his thick bristling facial hair and hooked a thumb at the crowd.
“Tha’ wut ya gonna tell ‘em then?”
“No, I won’t be telling them anything, George. The ignorant drunks would have as much ability to understand me as did the fellow who has so effortlessly ruined our table, our lunch and our air of sophistication-…well, my air, anyway.”
A rumble of displeasure flooded the crowd, most of which were now fully on their feet. Several fists were clapping into several open hands and several more hands were reaching for nearby stools, chairs and no few mugs. Harmon and George turned as one to look at the crowd, then at the young Server who was leaning back to speak to several of the Patrons with broad gesticulations and in their own tongue. Upon noticing their attention, she leaned forward again. The tray had yet to move in her grip.
“I translate for them what you say, so you might explain you are innocent.”
Both men stared, mouths slightly agape.
“They no like what you say.”
George sighed, already beginning to unload his jacket onto the chair behind him, loosening the smudged tie he wore over his soiled shirt and under his precariously buttoned vest.
“No, luv. I ain’ reckon they did.”
Tables and chairs were being flung out of the way or pushed to the walls by the crowd now and Harmon’s brows perked high on his head. He didn’t bother removing his gaze from the rapidly swelling crowd, as he spoke to George next.
“My God, what are they doing?”
“I don’ think they much lik’d you call’n ‘em ignorant, ‘Armon.”
“And it is only the Ignorant who truly fear the Truth, George.”
“’Armon?”
“Yes, George.”
“Shut’it.”
The crowd roared and charged.

* * * *

Afterwards, the pair stepped over bodies and around broken furniture, brushing themselves down and dusting off their shoulders. Harmon was, once again, smoothing down his hair, trying desperately to reapply some of the grease that he’d lost to some man’s arm-pit during the fray. His moustache was frizzy at either end, but George had decided not to inform him of such things until they were beyond the Tavern’s threshold. For now, they approached the bar, the serving girl standing behind it, having found the safest place amongst drunks to keep out of the fight: Beside the Alcohol.
Her hands were planted on the bar, a rag pinned down beneath one of them, her rather lovely features left in a smoulder of displeasure as she exchanged glares between the two, who leaned against the bar and feigned vague shock and bristling annoyance. George, opted for the Shock, while Harmon remained annoyed.
“Well, now tha’ that’s ‘oll sett’eld ‘ows ‘bout you tell us ‘bout tha’ Lady wut’ got’erself murder’d like?”
She left her gaze on George for a few scalding seconds then snapped them at Harmon almost questioningly.
To which the reply inevitably came:
“Precious, I’m in no mood to explain the vagueries of his levels of seriousness when it comes to queries to the likes of you. Just answer his question and you’ll find him out of your hair and establishment that much quicker.”
Which earned Harmon a few moments of scalding as well, before she sighed and turned to cup two fingers under George’s chin and pull his gaze up to meet her eyes once more.
“She was lady from the House on the Hill. One where all ladies who wish to be Ladies go, when they do not wish to be Ladies for Men, any longer.”
“Ahhh, them lot.”
“What?”
“Talk’n ‘bout tha’ Femme types, ‘Armon.”
“What? Colonists?”
“No, ‘Armon. Them wut’ come from tha’ isle o’ Lesbo, I think.”
“George. You’re being ignorant again.” And then Harmon turned to regard the Woman, leaning forward to meet her confused gaze once again. “Pray tell, does this House and it’s Lady population bare a name, Dear?”
“Mmm, yes.” They watched as the girl struggled to string together the proper pronunciation in the English tongue, failing abysmally along the way. It took a minute or more of gesturing, at which Harmon and George guessed with wild, often lewd (George) and Academic (Harmon) abandon, as well as frustrated huffs and one incited shriek of ‘Enough!’ from the Server, who’s name she gave eventually as ‘Isabella’ when George’s constant indications of ‘Luv’ grew tiresome, to finally stretch all the syllables out before the pair.
“Tha’ Per’am’blu-“
“Perambulation, George. A Ladies society, as it were. Quite popular within the boundaries of Venice, I hear.”
“We jus’-“
“If you ask me again how I know about Venice I’m going to leave you here to flounder as you always do, George.”
“A’roit, A’roit dun’ git yer pettis ‘n a wedge, ‘Armon.” George turned to Isabella then, leaning forward to tug on the brim of his over-volumed hat. “We ‘preci’ate all your ‘elp, Mum-“ Isabella sank a little behind the counter, eyes rolling in frustration at the new pet name “-‘n sorry ‘bout tha’ mess.”
Neither man, turning as they were toward the door, saw the rather unpleasant gesture she delivered to their backs. They made their way across the bodies, picking out the clear spaces until they reached the steps and pushed the door open out into the world.
“So what was that business all about then, George?”
“Why…I think I may’a found us sum’ work ‘n ‘Armon.”
“What? Doing what?”
“Why seems tah me, only one body’s got more worry ‘n a Man wut’ kill’d a Lady.”
“And that would be?”
“Well, tha’ res’ o’ tha’ Ladies not look’n tah be kill’d.”
It took a moment for Harmon to follow George’s logic and then, as with most times he suddenly had a deep a sinking feeling come over him, began to curse in well an articulated French. George took that as his usual cue to begin grinning at the fun ahead.