ONE
Tigueron, the leader of Orsis Guild and one of the most feared assassins in all Varfleet, sat alone at a table in the back of the Bullfinch tavern, waiting. Smoke from pipes clamped between teeth and oil lamps set upon tables clouded the air with a pungent haze, wafting to the rafters and along the walls. Smokeless lamps were discouraged in places like this where so many of the customers preferred anonymity. It was crowded enough that such anonymity would have been impossible otherwise, and Tigueron did not necessarily disagree with the reasoning of his fellow patrons. The noise was ferocious—shouts and laughter and conversations fighting to reach the ears of those seated just across the table from each other. Pitchers filled glasses, which rose to meet eager mouths, which gulped and swallowed until the ale was gone and the glasses refilled to begin the process anew. Much of the amber liquid was spilled on the wooden boards of the worn tavern floor, and more than a little stained the clothes of the customers. Manners were not anywhere near as popular as raucous behavior.
Tigueron hunched over his glass, watching everything around him without seeming to do so. Watching, but mostly waiting.
He was a big man, burly and muscular, his head heavy on his shoulders, his face rough-featured and scarred, his hair cut short and close to his scalp, his broken nose prominent, and his eyes hard and empty. He wore a heavy cloak with the hood pulled back and the drawstrings unfastened. It was warm in the cavernous drinking room, but he ignored it. The cloak served a more useful purpose than providing warmth. Beneath it were seven blades, all hidden in various sheaths within his clothing, all readily within reach—any one of them so sharp it could cut through bone. He never went anywhere without them.
His eyes shifted to the tavern’s front doors. A client was coming but had not yet arrived. It was unusual for Tigueron to meet with a client under such circumstances. Normally, such meetings took place in the cellars of his fortress lair, Revelations, where he was surrounded by protections and protectors and in complete control of any situation. But this client had been insistent. The meeting was to take place in a public house—a demand Tigueron would have ordinarily dismissed out of hand. But a rather large number of credits placed in the hands of those who vetted such requests—some of which were passed on to him—persuaded him of the other’s seriousness and proved an inducement too persuasive to ignore. No advantage to either party, the client had insisted. No danger that one or the other might act inappropriately.
Which clearly meant Tigueron, since the client would have had no advantage at all available in Revelations.
Yet the promise of further credits in such large amounts was intriguing. What harm could it do to hear the client out? His enemies would never invite Tigueron to a tavern to do him in. They would be subtler in their efforts. Besides, he was too cautious not to guard against such attempts. After all, he was in the business of bringing harm to others rather than to himself.
He glanced over to the men sitting at a table nearby. Three hardened, experienced killers who worked for him and would come to his aid in an instant if he was threatened. Not to mention that he was his own best weapon. Others had tried to kill him in the past. He had buried them all.
Outside, the wind was howling. The shutters, closed and latched, rattled against their casings with its force. Tigueron had seen the storm approaching on his way to this meeting, huge black clouds rolling in from the west filled with lightning and thunder, a dark promise of the deluge yet to come. But he made no move to leave, even though the client was late. He simply waited. He was good at waiting. It was very much a requirement of his work. Still, he could see that his associates were growing restless, their bodies shifting in their chairs, their gazes turned away from one another, their conversation exhausted.
It was not his problem. They would wait as they had been instructed to wait.
A black-cloaked figure appeared through the doors, pausing at the entrance and looking around the room. Droplets of rain dotted his cloak, and his head and face were hidden in the deep shadows of a hood. This had to be the client. Tigueron stood to signal and waited as the stranger crossed to his table.
“Tigueron?” the stranger asked.
A man, from his voice and now his face, as well, his features coming into the light as the gleam of the oil lamp burning on the table etched them out of the hood’s blackness. He was smooth-faced, with a serene look on his countenance. His skin was unusually pale, and his hair quite blond. His features were calm and expressionless, as if carved from stone.
Tigueron nodded and gestured to the seat across from him, then sat himself. The stranger slid into place smoothly and silently, his eyes on Tigueron all the while. “Nasty weather coming,” he said, his voice soft.
Tigueron nodded again. “What services do you require of Orsis?” he growled, eager to get down to business.
“You perform assassinations, do you not?”
Tigueron leaned forward. “Keep your voice down. The walls have ears in places like this.” He leaned back again. In point of fact, the din of the tavern room was sufficient concealment, but he wanted to intimidate this confident stranger just a bit. “Do you wish to purchase my services?”
“What are the terms?”
“Depending on whom you wish killed, we set a price. The harder the job, the higher the price. I will require the name and payment in full. If we succeed on our first try, fine. If we do not, we will continue until we succeed. You are guaranteed to receive what you pay for. That is our pledge when you enter into the agreement.”
“This one may be more difficult than others.”
Tigueron shrugged. “Nothing is impossible.”
He signaled the serving girl who had been attending to him since his arrival and placed an order for two tankards of ale. The girl nodded and left at once to fetch the ale. He took note of the fear in her eyes. She knew who he was, but he was paying her well for good service. Credits always trumped fear.
The stranger seemed not to notice any of it. He sat back, glancing toward the rattling windows, hearing a fresh change in the wind. A new sound reached their ears. Rain was falling heavily. The storm had arrived. The last of the mooring lines for the airships docked on the quay would have been lashed in place. The light sheaths would have been brought down and gathered in and the radian draws pulled in close. Windows and doors of homes and businesses would have been secured. The storm was expected to continue through the night. Rain would be heavy, and there would be some flooding.
A few of the tavern patrons had risen and were heading for the doors, wrapped in their cloaks and hooded against the downpour. But most stayed put. The storm was an excuse for adding a little more enjoyment to the evening—another tankard or two, another hour or so. Voices shouted and laughed and chased back the sounds of the storm, brave and alive with confidence.
“The man you are looking for should be in a village called Emberen,” the stranger said. “He was at Paranor before, but he has been gone for a while. In any case, I don’t want you to act against him right away. Not until after a date I will set before I leave. Can you wait?”
“As long as you like. But why wait?” Paranor? Tigueron was suddenly wary. There were only Druids at Paranor.
“That would be my business.” A pause to be sure the point was made. “So, then, how quickly can we bring the matter to a close?”