David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Oric?” asked the old man as he came from a back room to the front at the sound of a bell ringing above the door. “Come closer, my eyes aren’t what they…so it is you! Good to see you, you ugly son of a bitch.”

Oric grinned. “Was worried you’d died off, or been replaced by someone who can still remember what happened more than an hour prior.”

The old man laughed. His name was Bill Trett, and in Oric’s former sellsword life, a respected colleague. Bill had killed until his strength failed him, but by then he’d acquired such a wealth of knowledge of the various employers that the guild taught him his numbers and set him in charge of the guild’s transactions.

“You see this mess?” he asked, pointing to the various shelves stocked with expensive paper. “Only I know where everything’s at. They’ll keep me on until I die, and perhaps a little bit longer than that if they can figure out a way.”

“Gods know they need you,” Oric said. “The Trifect still filling your purses?”

Bill waved a dismissive hand. “The money’s steadied, nearly every one of ‘em just wanting the bare minimum. Not like when this mess first started, when I saw more gold change hands than I could count. Blood really filled the streets then, didn’t it?”

Oric smiled, remembering the many thieves he’d cut down while in Leon Connington’s pay. It’d been a very good year.

“I think Alyssa’s going to give everyone some work later today, so be prepared,” Oric said. Bill raised his eyebrows but didn’t inquire further. “But for myself, I need a favor, Bill.”

“What’s that? Not that I should be doing you any favors. Last I remember, I saved your life up in Felwood, not the other way around.”

“If not for favor, then for gold,” he said, dropping a bulging coin purse atop the desk. “I need the best you have to hire, and I don’t mean who the guild thinks is the best. You know every sellsword from here to Angelport, and I want your real opinion. I need someone who could find a mouse in a forest before an owl could; that damn good.”

Bill rubbed his chin as his milky eyes stared off into nowhere.

“I suppose you don’t mind if he’s a bit unsavory?”

“He can be the ugliest, meanest bastard you know. I’d probably prefer it. We’d get along.”

Bill laughed, but it was lacking in humor.

“I know of one, and he’s good, Oric. He’s all the way over from southern Ker, though some say he ain’t even from Dezrel. Out of the nine jobs he’s done for me, he’s never once failed to catch his prey, and always done it with days to spare. Been tough getting work lately, though. Charges twice what anyone else does.”

“What’s his name?”

“He calls himself Ghost. I’m not brave enough to tell him to pick something more original. Besides, with this guy, it’s fitting once you see his face.”

Oric crossed his arms. “What’s that mean?”

“You’ll find out for yourself. No point in me telling you. He’s costly, he’s dangerous, but he’s the best. You still want to meet him?”

Oric thought of the six men he and Arthur had lost when this lone Watcher had ambushed them along the northern road. He also thought of how Alyssa might execute him if she found out their role in her son’s death.

“Yeah. I need the best. Where can I find this…Ghost?”

“Know where the Mug and Feather is? No? Lousy tavern built to the far south, just off the main road. Head there a few hours from now. The barkeep’s a cheat, but he’ll point Ghost out for you…though I’m thinking you won’t need him to.”

Bill opened the purse and dumped the coins across his desk. After he counted them up, he nodded.

“You’ve got a few extra in here.”

“Keep them,” Oric said, heading for the exit. “Consider it a gift to an old friend for keeping things quiet.”

“Understood. Safe travels, Oric.”

Though Bill had told him to wait, Oric had no such plans. He wanted to be there when this Ghost showed up for a drink. Besides, if he had enough time, he might glean some information out of the regulars there. Just after midday, anyone in there would certainly be a frequent drinker.

Finding the tavern was easy enough, given the sign hanging above the door: a poorly drawn mug and an even uglier feather. Owner had probably been cheap enough to draw it himself. Oric checked his sword and then stepped inside. The room stank of vomit and alcohol, and the lighting was abysmal. In one corner was a firepit, no doubt the only source of both heat and light at night. Among the various tables he saw a few stragglers, most eating. They glanced back at him as he entered and squinted to see in the dark. None stood out, at least, not as dangerous assassins.

The barkeep was a thin man with a blond beard that reached to the bottom of his neck. He nodded at Oric and then waited for him to take a seat before coming over.

“Whatever’s cheapest,” Oric muttered, tossing him several coppers. When the barkeep came back with a third of his mug froth, Oric rolled his eyes. A cheat, indeed. Deciding he needed information more than he needed to give a good beatdown, he let it slide.

“Need anything to eat?” the barkeep asked.

“What’s warm?”

“Haven’t started the soup yet. Got a bit of bread, though, and butter if you’re willing to pay.”

“That’ll do.”

He kept his eyes to himself as he waited for his food. Just in case the Ghost was already there, he didn’t want to make it seem like he was looking. When they met, he wanted to have the upper hand, just in case this Ghost tried to haggle for more pay, which he might given the target. When his bread arrived he smothered it with butter and ate. When he caught the barkeep watching, he pulled out a silver.

“Keep the rest,” he said. “Care to answer me a question?”

The barkeep held the silver piece close to his eyes as he inspected it, frowned, and then put it away.

“Sure thing,” he said. “Not so busy I can’t stay away from the bar long enough to talk with a customer.”

Oric chuckled at his sarcasm, then lowered his voice.

“I’m looking for a man who calls himself the Ghost.”

The barkeep wiped his hands on his pants and laughed. “Not too many go looking for him. Usually he’s got to go to those making offers no one else is dumb enough to accept. What business you have with that dark-skinned monster?”

An actual dark-skin from Ker? thought Oric. Interesting.

“No business of yours,” he said. “Now fill the rest of my mug, and with ale, not foam, got it?”

The barkeep glared but obeyed. Oric washed the rest of the bread and butter down, then glanced around once more. No dark-skin in the tavern. Shit, he wasn’t even sure if he’d seen a dark-skin in all of Veldaren. No wonder the guy had trouble getting work. Settling in for a wait, he moved from his table to one farthest from the door. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He didn’t actually sleep, but let it look like he was. If anyone was dumb enough to try and rob him, well, they’d get a nice surprise.

As the sun moved across the sky, steadily approaching dusk, more men filtered into the tavern. Oric thought it might be the only tavern left in southern Veldaren ever since King Vaelor’s edict banned the caravans from entering the southern entrance, forcing them to the east. All the merchants, and subsequent wealth, had shifted further and further north. The men who entered looked tired and haggard, and he guessed many of them worked the nearby fields outside the city walls. The ale was terrible, same as the prices, but they were probably far closer to home and among friends.

“You’re in our seat,” he heard someone say. He opened his eyes to see three men, their tanned skin covered with soil. All three of them combined might still be skinnier than he was.