The evening was supposed to be fun. Music, girls, dancing, wine, all of it just the way he liked; he even set the night up in the back of his favorite brothel. But his brother Lance was in a foul mood, and that made the girls nervous, which made the dancing nervous, which made the music nervous, and that all made wine drinking a nervous act. Jorbert knew something had to be done. He passed his brother a cup.

“Drink, Lance,” he said. “Drink. This melancholy doesn’t suit you.”

“I don’t give a shit if it suits me or not.”

But he did take the goblet. Drank.

They were sitting in two plush chairs with ornate side tables next to them, red banners behind them, carpet upon the floor--rare, expensive carpet, the merchant who sold it to them had said. Acquired all the way past the Flatlands, in fact. One of a kind--but don’t they all say that?

“So your men had an...incident. Who cares? In the wider scheme of things, the Flatlander will be caught. And if there’s an elf with him, well, she’ll be sold to the highest bidder--which will be me, of course. I've always wondered how well elves fuck.”

“That’s if I don’t execute them both on the spot.”

“For what crime?”

“Assaulting the Lord’s men.”

Jorbert took a drink. “Well...they’re not exactly the Lord’s men, are they. I mean, you are not a Lord, and they serve you. That would make them regular guards. Except that you paid them to put up a roadblock, not father. So technically that means they’re sell-swords...”

“Wearing out colors using weapons we bought and a ship that we own.” Lance narrowed his eyes. “Always the clever one, aren’t you, brother? One day, that mind will get you into more trouble than its worth. And neither I, nor father, will always be around here to save you.”

“Well,” Jorbert took a long swig from his drink, his Adam's apple moving up and down, a single drop snaking its way down to his chin. He slammed the cup down on a side table when he’d drained it. “You’re right about one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

Jorbert snapped his fingers at the women. They giggled and chattered in foreign languages as they ran out of the room. The music stopped, the musicians following the girls. Only the brothers were left--and the wine.

Jorbert whistled. Men rushed in, scraggly, hairy men, in all manner of loin cloths and deer-skin sashes. In the lead, Gleg, the Highlander, leader of the Dead Stone tribe. This time he wore a helm that glittered silver. Jorbert had told him he’d make it gold.

“You won’t always be here.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be--”

The first spear, thrown by Gleg himself, pierced Lance near the heart. Blood jumped from his chest. He grabbed at the spear’s shaft with his hands, trying to pull it out. Crimson dribbled across his tunic.

Jorbert jumped up, got out of the way before more spears whistled through the air, impaling his brother in the stomach, beneath the collar bone, the thigh...he shouted first, then screamed, but the brothel owner was a smart man. He knew a soundproofed establishment was the best kind of place to fuck whores.

The last spear entered his brother’s lung. He gasped for breath, as though someone had a hand to his throat. He looked unbelievingly at Gleg. The Highlander shrugged and watched with a grin as spittle and blood mixed together and waterfalled down his Lance's chin.

Jorbert leaned over his brother.

“Imagine that: Lance has been lanced. Almost poetic, really, the way you're about to die.” Jorbert sighed heavily. “And look. You’ve got blood all over the carpet. It’ll have to be replaced.”

With his brother choking to death on his own blood, Jorbert tossed a bag of gold to Gleg, then left the room. He was smiling. After all, he had a wedding to attend--and a Lordship to inherit.