Close Shave

A Tale from Heartvale

The blade gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Morter felt it press against his throat and drag downward, cutting away the five day growth. The barber wiped the residue on his apron and started another pass, stopped, and took a deep breath. 

“What stories do you have for me today?” Morter asked. 

Peray cleared his throat and said, "Ah, nothing. Nothing today.”

Morter glared at him.

“Alright, alright, maybe I do have something.” Peray cleared his throat again and said, “A lord was in here two days ago and he was talking to his steward while I gave him a shave. He said the Movari family has secured exclusive rights to import ice from Fel’Vaan.”
Morter studied him. “Ice imports, that’s the best you have?” 

Peray looked down at the razor in his hand and then away toward the back of the shop. Morter followed his eyes and then studied the barber’s hands. They were shaking. 

"What did you do?" Morter asked.

The barber swallowed and looked down at his hands. His knuckles turned white as he clenched the razor. Without warning, he slashed out at Morter, but the man was ready for it. He caught the barber's hand and stood, slowly.

Peray stared, wide eyed, and opened his mouth, but Morter clamped his free hand over the barber's mouth. 

"Twenty years in the navy," Morter growled. "I know the look of a desperate man who will try desperate things. Trust me when I say this: I've killed men for trying less. Now, you can answer with a nod, is there someone in the back room?"

Peray nodded.

Morter looked him in the eyes. "You have to make a choice right now. Me or them."

The barber's eyes pleaded and he loosened his grip on the razor. Morter took it away from him and then pointed toward a corner of the small shop. The barber hurried to that corner and cowered. 

Morter circled around the edge of the shop toward the curtain that divided the front from the back. He only made it three steps before the curtain parted and two figures stepped into the shop. They wore nondescript clothes and held wooden batons. Their eyes found him quickly. 

“Lads, this doesn’t have to get ugly,” Morter said, gesturing with the razor. 

One of the two looked over at Peray huddled in the corner and said, “Told you he wouldn’t have the stomach for it.” 

Morter smiled and said, “See, you’ve made a number of mistakes. First was sending a barber to kill me. Second was talking, because I hear that lilt in your voice and I know exactly who you work for.” 

The two men share a look and then charge him, batons raised. Morter closed the distance, catching one man’s desperate swing with the baton. A single slash with the razor ended one of the threats, and Morter tossed the dead weight aside. The other man disengaged and crouched, favoring an Altiman brawling stance. 

Morter smiled, the smile of a man who had fought hundreds of battles, and the other man scowled, stepping forward with a quick uppercut swing from the baton. Morter sidestepped and lashed out with the razor. The man danced back and reset, testing his defenses. 
“What are you after, lad?” Morter asked, but the other man clearly had no interest in speaking. “I suppose the other fellow was the talker.” 

The man charged with a vicious overhead slash. Morter went low and to the side, slashing the razor across the man’s leg. Limping, he tried to recover, but Morter left him no time. He brushed aside the baton and elbowed the man in the face, sending him sprawling. Before he could try to scrabble away, Morter straddled him and elbowed him again and again until the man stopped struggling. 
With a practised comfort, Morter cleaned the blood off the razor and closed it, setting it on the barber’s counter. He tied up the unconscious man and then looked over at Peray. 

“Now,” Morter said. “I hope you have a better story for the Kingsword than that drivel about ice imports, and it better include an explanation why the Wexley sisters sent these men to turn you against me.”