Rich Wulf - Voyage of the Mourning Dawn

“But you lost them,” Jamus said. There was no questioning tone in his statement, only a surety that Seren would not have been foolish enough to come here otherwise. He reached for the bag.

“I lost them,” she said, leaning back precariously on her chair and propping her muddy feet on the table. “Some warforged distracted them while I ran off.”

Jamus paused in the act of opening the bag’s drawstrings, then offered an uneasy smile. “Ah, warforged,” he said with a light chuckle. “Such curious creatures. Some were built to protect humans, you know. Perhaps he saw a young girl in danger and felt motivated to intervene.”

“Jamus, don’t lie to me,” Seren said in a low voice. “We’re hired to break into a Cannith guildmaster’s house to steal one particular book out of a whole library. I steal the book, make a mess of his office, and he doesn’t even report it to the Watch? And then some Lhazaarite mercenary and a warforged thug coincidentally show up to ‘rescue’ me from a wandering patrol? What’s really going on here? What is this book? Who are we meeting here tonight?”

“The less you know the better, Seren,” Jamus said, his voice surprisingly clear and even. His previous sleepy frown was now replaced with an alert, intense stare.

“I warned you it was a bad idea to steal from Dalan d’Cannith, Jamus,” Seren said.

“And perhaps you were right,” the old thief answered. “Now it’s probably best if you left. Go home. I’ll meet you in the morning, and we can leave this city behind.”

“You don’t actually expect me to do that,” she said.

Jamus sighed and ran one hand through his thinning white locks.

“At least tell me who we’re working for,” she said.

“Well, make up your mind,” he said with a sudden, irritated tone. “Do you want to know who we’re working for or who we’re meeting here?”

Seren gave him a long, angry stare.

“It’s complicated,” he said evasively. “Our employer’s identity is a confidence I am not at liberty to betray, even to you, but she can be trusted.”

Seren wanted to slap the old man off his chair. She restrained herself, holding one wrist tightly with the other hand behind her back. “Jamus, you know I trust you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even and patient. “I assumed you wouldn’t suggest a job like this unless you were sure it was safe. Now you’re telling me you can’t tell me who we’re working for? I’m risking my life. Can’t you give me that much?”

“I told you, Seren, it’s complicated,” he said. “Suffice it to say the Canniths are the least of our worries. We have powerful allies. If Dalan d’Cannith moves against us, we’ll be protected. Why do you think they offered to move us out of Wroat? Our protection was always part of the deal.”

“The fact that a group as powerful as the House of Making is the least of our worries doesn’t make me feel much better, Jamus,” Seren said. “What are we involved in?”

Jamus folded his hands on the table before him, staring silently at his long, gnarled fingers. He looked much older than he normally did, much more exhausted.

“Have I ever told you about this place?” he said. “About what it once was?”

“This inn?” Seren asked, confused by the sudden change of subject. “You’ve told me a little about it, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Be patient, Seren,” Jamus said, looking at her with a crooked smile. “I have taught you many things in the time we’ve known one another, but I suspect this is the most important thing I have to teach.”

Seren frowned, but did not argue.

“Years ago this building was home to a den of smugglers,” Jamus said. “They were war profiteers. Scum. They stored weapons, supplies, sometimes even the occasional spy here. They used to meet their clients here. After the King’s soldiers discovered what was going on, the place was cleaned out. The smugglers were executed for treason, and the building was left empty for twenty years. It was a Cyran woman, Fiona Keenig, who purchased it next. Exiled from her home, she did her best to turn it into a welcoming, comfortable sort of place. She said that she felt like a scavenger, snapping up this old husk of a building, so she named it the Friendly Buzzard.”

“You’ve told me about Keenig,” Seren said. “You said she was a friend of yours.”

Jamus nodded. “Something of an understatement, but yes,” he said. “The Last War drove a deep wedge between Breland and Cyre. They were indifferent neighbors at best, bitter enemies at worst, depending on which way the War had turned that week. Fiona wasn’t welcome here at first, but she persevered. This was the only place in all of Wroat where you could find genuine Cyran cuisine and hospitality. Fiona’s brothers still lived in Cyre that time, and did what they could to send her the spices and ingredients that weren’t available here.” Jamus grinned. “In a city as crowded as Wroat, it pays to be unique. People started noticing the Buzzard.”

Seren stared at her teacher in silence. She wanted to demand answers, to demand Jamus stop stalling, but when she saw the sad, distant look in his eyes she could not bring herself to interrupt. There was something deeper here. This was important.

“But rumors bred, as they always do,” Jamus said. “Mistress Keenig was accused of being a Cyran spy. The King’s inquisitives conducted a public investigation, and Keenig’s business ground to a halt. A few of the locals, people who knew her, braved the stigma of coming here. It wasn’t much business, but it was enough to keep her afloat.”

“Was she a spy?” Seren asked.

Jamus shrugged noncommittally. “After two years, the investigators found nothing,” he said. “King Boranel offered no apology, of course, because a king cannot apologize. However, he and his retinue did dine here. Boranel gave the Buzzard his highest possible recommendation, and business turned around overnight. The wealthiest members of the nobility lined up to dine at the Buzzard, even braving the wretched streets of the fishermen’s district to emulate their beloved king.” Jamus smiled silently for several moments, remembering. “To her credit, Fiona did not allow the sudden fame to overwhelm her. She did not forget those who had remained her friends. The upper floor became dedicated to her wealthier clientele, private rooms and tables available only by reservation at astronomical prices. Her new customers were happy to pay. The bottom floor remained open to the common man, offering an alternate menu that was mostly the same thing being served upstairs … but at one-tenth the price.”

“Bold,” Seren said. “What if the nobles had discovered she was overcharging them?”

Jamus gave a wry smile. “Fiona was a clever woman. She knew her clientele,” he answered. “The nobles expected a high price. After all, had not the king himself dined here? They were paying for the privilege of sharing in his glory. What they were eating certainly didn’t matter, and they most assuredly were not going to share the details of their dinner with the scum downstairs. The nobles believed that Fiona only allowed the locals to dine here so that the Buzzard would have an authentic, earthy charm.”

“She lied to them,” Seren said.

“She gave them what they wanted,” Jamus said. “The sheltered rich will pay a fair sum for authenticity, as long as that authenticity is kept safely at arm’s length.”

“Some people have too much money,” Seren said.

“A simple, profound wisdom that has driven my entire career,” Jamus said with a nod. “It was a similar thought that first drew me to the Buzzard in the hopes that I might relieve a noble of his excess wealth, and that is how I met Fiona. She caught me sneaking out the back door with a stolen purse in hand.”