章 15: Chapter fifteen: Plague in Flea Bottom
The tavern was alive with noise, the clatter of mugs and the boisterous laughter of Flea Bottom's roughest filling the air. It was busier than ever, the word of Lyra's songs spreading faster than wildfire. The tables were packed with regulars and new faces, all drawn by the promise of a hot meal, a strong drink, and the haunting voice of the girl who sang of lost kingdoms and forgotten gold. Thomas moved behind the counter, his hands a blur as he served bowl after bowl, the steam from the kitchen clinging to his skin.
The family he'd hired worked tirelessly beside him, the daughters darting between tables with practiced ease, their small hands carrying trays of food and ale. The father, a stern man who rarely spoke, worked the pot with a steady hand, stirring the thick, fragrant stew that had become the tavern's staple. Thomas caught glimpses of him now and then, his expression set in a perpetual scowl, but the work was good, and they were all too busy to linger on old grudges.
But as the night wore on, a sense of unease began to settle over the room. The usual noise was there, but underneath, there was a subtle shift—people coughing, wiping at their noses with dirty sleeves, faces pale and sweaty. It was the kind of thing Thomas would have ignored on any other night. Flea Bottom was no stranger to sickness. But tonight, it seemed worse. A man at the far table hacked into his mug, a wet, rattling sound that turned heads and made the nearby patrons lean away. Another woman clutched her stomach, her face contorting in pain as she hunched over, knocking her bowl to the floor.
Thomas watched, his brow furrowing. He couldn't quite place the feeling, but something about it felt wrong. The way people were slumped over their tables, the occasional glance toward the door as if contemplating whether to leave or stay. Thomas poured another drink, the ale sloshing messily over the rim as he handed it off, his mind preoccupied.
The door swung open, a chill breeze sweeping in as a young boy stumbled inside, his face ghostly pale, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He looked barely old enough to be out this late, his clothes hanging loose on his thin frame, eyes wide and panicked.
"Thomas!" he rasped, his voice strained, barely above a whisper. "It's spreading… It's everywhere."
Thomas leaned over the counter, his expression hardening. "What is?"
The boy coughed, a violent, shuddering sound that left him gasping for breath. "Sickness… the kind that makes you bleed. Half the street's been shut in. My ma says it's coming from here." He pointed a shaking finger toward the kitchen, toward the steaming pots and bubbling cauldrons.
Thomas felt a knot tighten in his stomach. "That's nonsense," he said sharply, his voice louder than intended. "We've been clean—cleaner than this place has ever been." But as he spoke, he could see the doubt spreading through the room, whispers rippling among the patrons, their eyes darting nervously toward their bowls.
A low murmur rose, the crowd's unease swelling into something darker. "Ain't no coincidence," someone muttered, the accusation hanging heavy in the smoky air. "Been too many people getting sick since this place started filling up."
Thomas set his jaw, anger flaring beneath his calm exterior. He couldn't afford this—not now, not when everything was finally starting to fall into place. He marched to the center of the room, raising his hands to command attention. "You've all eaten here before," he said, his voice firm but not quite steady. "Nothing's changed. We're doing everything right."
But the fear had taken root. A few men pushed back their chairs, knocking them over in their haste to get away. The door banged as they fled into the night, coughing into their sleeves. The tavern felt smaller, the walls closing in, the heat of too many bodies amplifying the sickly stench that clung to the air.
Thomas turned back to the kitchen, his eyes sweeping over the stew pots, the vegetables stacked neatly on the counter. Everything was as it should be. But the suspicion lingered, gnawing at him. He could hear the whispered accusations, feel the weight of every doubtful glance.
The family worked faster, their movements hurried and tense. The daughters whispered nervously among themselves, their eyes darting to the sick patrons as if expecting the worst. Thomas caught the father's gaze, a shared moment of unspoken understanding passing between them. The man nodded once, a silent agreement to keep things moving, to keep the panic at bay.
But the night dragged on, and more people came in coughing, clutching their stomachs, eyes glassy with fever. The tavern's reputation was spreading, but not in the way Thomas had hoped.
Marla appeared at the kitchen door, her brow furrowed in concern. "Thomas," she called, her voice barely audible over the clamor. "It's bad. The Watch is talking. They say the sickness is coming from here. They'll shut us down if this keeps up."
Thomas cursed under his breath, wiping his hands on his apron, his frustration bubbling over. "It's not us," he snapped, his voice tight with anger. "We're not the source." But even as he said it, doubt crept in. He thought of the crowded tables, the patrons hunched over their meals, each cough and groan echoing louder in his ears.
The door swung open again, and a pair of City Watchmen stepped inside, their armor glinting in the dim light. They moved with the slow, deliberate menace of men who knew they held power over the room. One of them, tall and broad-shouldered, approached Thomas with a hard, appraising look.
"You're Thomas, right?" the Watchman asked, his tone sharp. "Word's out that this tavern is spreading sickness. People are dying, and they're pointing fingers."
Thomas squared his shoulders, his temper barely contained. "I'm running a clean kitchen. This isn't my doing."
The Watchman snorted, glancing around at the patrons, some of whom were still coughing into their hands. "Doesn't look that way. If this keeps up, we'll have no choice but to shut you down. Permanently."
Thomas's hands clenched at his sides, a mixture of rage and fear coursing through him. "Give me time," he said, his voice a low growl. "I'll find out what's really going on."
The Watchman nodded slowly, but his expression remained cold. "You've got a day, maybe two. After that, we're done talking." He turned on his heel, his footsteps heavy as he walked out, leaving a tense silence in his wake.
Thomas's mind raced. He couldn't afford to lose the tavern, not now. He needed answers, needed to find the source of the sickness before the Watch made good on their threat. The responsibility weighed on him, pulling him in every direction, his addiction clawing at the edges of his resolve. The tavern had become more than just a place to feed his cravings; it was his lifeline, his domain, and he wasn't about to let it slip away.
He pulled the family aside, his voice urgent but calm. "We need to be better," he said, his eyes darting between them. "Clean everything. Check the food, the water—anything that could be off."
The father nodded, his daughters moving quickly to comply, but the unease was palpable. The work was relentless, scrubbing every surface, checking every ingredient. Thomas moved through the kitchen like a man possessed, determined to find whatever it was that threatened to tear everything apart.
But as the night stretched on, the sickness outside grew worse. Coughs echoed through the narrow streets, and the whispers followed him like shadows. The tavern's doors stayed open, but the doubt lingered, a constant reminder that in Flea Bottom, reputation was everything. And once lost, it was near impossible to reclaim.
Thomas watched the thinning crowd, his mind a tangled mess of fear and fury. He couldn't let this be the end. Not now, not when he'd come so far. He stared at the cauldron, the stew simmering quietly, and felt the weight of every choice he'd made pressing down on him. The sickness was out there, creeping closer, and he knew that whatever happened next would test him in ways he wasn't sure he was ready for.
The night dragged on, and Thomas worked tirelessly, his determination fueled by the need to protect what he'd built. But the doubt, the fear, and the whispers wouldn't be silenced so easily. The sickness was spreading, and with it, the threat of losing everything he'd fought for.
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