The band of unlikely kind sallied forth by dusk, and upon reaching the place where a sliver of light scintillated behind the tree trunks, some old, some newly sappled, they found it already late when Najib, who oft spoke, let slip an obvious observation about the lune's position among the clouds and stars. Each of them, whom Charle the Portender had aptly baptized as Romie's Heretics, felt their shoulders lighten, for they had made good ground according to the landmarks they discerned along the way, so long as they kept to the path laid out by the experienced Rodrigo de Quixada.
They came at last before the raucous exterior of an infamous establishment known as The Three-Headed Dog, so named after the guardian of that vilest realm which all mortals dread to be their final destination after their meander through the bewildering field one calls Life. Their expectations were not disappointed. Upon entering, a bottle of beer, flung from the helm of F. Vert who had first strolled toward the swinging doors, struck the floor with a sharp crash. The helm, open-faced and of modest make, revealed the man's scowl before he let out a houndish scream that startled every unruly soul within The Three-Headed Dog—at least those not deaf or too far gone in drink to fear their fellow man's proclivity for depraved behaviour. These, the most decayed of the lot, grew suddenly attentive, like aides-de-camp awaiting orders.
The merry men and women of this most unpleasant place regarded them with the gaze of owls or rabid hyenas, creatures with no moral reservation or honour-bound restraint, as though they might pounce upon Francois-Marie Vert at any moment to tear apart the grand armour he wore.
To relieve the room of hostility, and the wrath stirred by his companion's outburst, Charle the Portender loosed his silver tongue and offered a grand speech of introduction: "My fellows, let us not stray from the temptations of liquor and other noble vices. I wholly apologise for my companion's ill-tempered manner, for we have walked a long stretch and not once were we granted reprieve by the unsympathetic woods around us. If you so desire, let me entreat the house in a most generous offer—a night of complimentary drams, a deoch an doris to soothe our spirits' misgivings. Sounds good, lads?"
Everyone kept their pause; not a breath was let free. All eyes in the inn remained fixed upon the ragtag band of strangers. The silence was at last broken by a rotund man who, having drunk too much, froze his right fist midway through a punch aimed at the jaw of a leaner man, evidently a thief judging by his accoutrements. The drunkard shrugged, released his would-be victim, who fell on his buttocks, and bellowed, "Ah, what the seven hells! Why didn't ya start with that?" Then he laughed, and the other followed with high-spirited (no pun intended) guffaws. The charmed crowd rushed to the counters where the innkeepers stood serving. Two of them busied themselves with the flow of ale, while the youngest of the three, yet the tallest, whom men and women there called The Tower, had his way with the rougher sorts who eagerly reached over the counter, which served both as a table and a battlement against the advancing hordes of unruly customers.
Amid all the disarray, Romie's Heretics made their way to a booth farthest from the crowd. Yet the trouble was not out of the scene; for upon glimpsing the sway of a sly hand toward the pouch of silver, entrusted by all to the mildest of them, Rodrigo de Quixada, el Perro, tied to his browning breastplate's girdle, Erik seized the wrist and pressed an ornate dagger to the thief's ribs, testing the man's flesh and fear by letting him bleed a little. "This friend of mine could go further than the wedge of your sides, chief," said Erik with a smile that wavered not, leaving the thief uncertain whether it was bluff in jest or violence veneered by geniality's utmost truth. Before he could proceed, Najib took to his shoulder and pointed at the thief's head with a laugh deep in his chest.
"He may follow through the premise, sadiqi; better let your hand lay off our pockets now, hmm?" said Najib, Erik not shrugging off his arm. Whereupon the thief, dread writ upon his face, nodded and made what was possibly the wisest decision of his life. He left the grounds of the tavern and walked up to the inn where the future lodgings of Romie's Heretics would be for the night.
"Why would you urge me to let him go?" Erik finally shrugged off Najib's arm, continuing, "You suffer your own kind? Honour amongst thieves—you believe such drab dictum?"
The Najib only replied with a chuckle, not bothering to satisfy the empty questions of Erik, knowing from his tone that he was treading a trail of queries that would tire him endlessly, as if the travel here had not done enough already. So on forth they walked to the booth and sat, where now they had no enemies but themselves.
The pride-wounded Francois-Marie Vert stared at Charle the Portender with vitriol as stark as a black dot upon a white canvas as his response to holding him back from his prior, uncommenced rampage; the con merely gave a facetious smile, for it was the only appropriate reaction toward the anger of a man he must endure for days to come. Erik took notice of it all: the Najib's hand clasping a mug of ale swiped from a table, and Rodrigo de Quixada keeping silent, tucking the pouch inside his knickers to avert a repeat of the earlier incident, while his wary eyes scanned the crowd.
"By to-morrow, noontide, shall we arrive at our destination, if no blunders come upon us. I must be candid to admit I have a terrible premonition as to what comes; for this task of ours is heathenous in nature, and the gods may be watching us upon their thrones, here and now," said El Perro. All took heed of this statement, though they met it with scoffs or chuckles, for they were, after all, no ordinary men, nor did they believe any saint was truly bestowed with divine grace. Najib, who hailed from the Farthest East and had no wish to learn the religions and deities of these new lands, shook his head with a smile before replying:
"Sadiqi, worry not. If the gods are good, they'd want us to reap the fruits of our labours; if not, then surely they'd send us troubles we are not accustomed to handle. Therefore, they are not to be trusted, nor do they merit any of our worship."
"Right on, squire," added Charle the Portender, to which Francois-Marie Vert nodded in agreement.
It seems the two have found a common ground on their faithless attitude toward the topic of Theology, Erik silently inferred. And throughout the night they drank among each other, though speaking hesitantly, more so the Najib, whom Erik now understood well enough to guess his unspoken answer to his prior question about his ethics in their profession:
There is no honour among thieves.