A pair of stained leather boots did little to protect Farek’s feet from the stagnate water of Cobblestone Bog. They walked along a scaffold that ran down the center of one of the main streets, but in occasional low dips, Farek and his friends found their boots slowly dampening as they splashed through ankle-deep water.
In front of the Wily Window, a small drinking house off one of the central avenues, they sploshed their shins through the tidal swamp water and up a set of eroded stone steps. “Sievus and Diaren, wait out here,” Farek ordered. “Matek, wait out here a few minutes, then go to the bar.”
“You got it, boss,” Matek replied, putting his back against one of the deck supports.
Farek entered cautiously. There were only three patrons in the tavern. One drank at the bar, while a wrinkle-faced innkeeper kept him company. Another peered out a window, cradling an ale-horn near the crook of his arm. The third was a thin man with short brown hair, who lifted two fingers to catch Farek’s attention.
Foregoing a drink from the poor establishment’s bar, Farek strode across the creaky floorboards to claim a seat across from Erril.
The man spoke up as soon as they came face-to-face. “Your note didn’t specify who you were, though you correctly named House Viotro of Soros as our mutual contact,” the spy said. “Awfully unprofessional, nonetheless. Gives me reason to be worried.” A small crossbow popped up from below the table; Erril pointed it directly at him.
“Wait, there’s no reason to be worried,” Farek said. One twitch of the spy’s finger would be enough to kill him. “Let’s just both take it easy.”
“But you know my name,” the man replied, rubbing his bulbous nose with his free hand. Those fingers quickly tightened on his weapon as well. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage, but this evens that.”
Farek raised his hands yet again. “I’m Grio,” he said. “A mercenary in the employment of Lord Thrane of Soros.”
“A mercenary,” Erril said, flatly. “Truly?”
“I was hired a few months after Koribar,” he assured Erril, knowing well the name of Thrane’s most trusted mercenary.
The wiry man regarded him blankly for a moment more, then set aside the crossbow, thumping it against the tabletop. He nodded and said, “I see. And how can I help Lord Thrane?”
Farek reached, very slowly, to his belt and passed a hefty coin pouch onto the tabletop. “My employer is very interested in the assassin that infiltrated his estate a few months ago,” he explained, tapping the coin pouch.
Erril barely reacted to the reward. “Any specific leads? I assume this concerns the glove that House Viotro contacted me about?”
“Lord Thrane would like to know where he obtained such a glove,” Farek said.
“In return for my information,” the spy said, “I don’t want this coin. I can procure the stuff easier than I can spend it. I want to know everything that you—that Thrane knows about Soros. Including why House Viotro is contacting me on his behalf.”
Farek nodded, moving the coin pouch closer to his elbow and out of the way. “My lord suspected House Viotro of the assassination and in return decided to impair their industries. When House Viotro finally declared they were not the cause and asked Thrane what they could do to appease his temper, he asked them for money, and for their aid in determining what happened. That, in turn, led me to you.”
“How active has House Gallendris been in such plots?” Erril asked him. “How much do they know?”
Farek shrugged. “They fear assassination attempts after my lord’s close call. Security has tightened, and job positions have shifted.”
“And House Mavagar?”
“Paral has taken control of the House due to his father’s failing health,” Farek said. “They continue throwing parties, while Gallendris hides behind closed doors, I suppose.”
Erril shrugged. “This is old news.” He waved his hands. “You’ve told me a little, so I will do the same. The glove belonged to a wealthy family of the Great Isle. There were two, of course, inherited by two siblings. Brother and sister. For many years, the assassin worked for an organization here in Var Nordos, until his final contract against Lord Thrane. I know more, but I would need a fair bargain.”
“And what bargain would that be?” Farek asked.
“I want House Viotro released, and left alone. They won’t move against your House, they’d have no reason to. But their comings and goings, their plans, their industries will be left alone. For this, I will give you details of the organization that the assassin worked for, from which he was hired for the contract on your Lord’s employee. And I will give you the location of the estate where the assassin’s ancestors were based.”
Farek leaned forward. “On behalf of Lord Thrane, you have my word that his House will leave the Viotro alone. We have no quarrel with them.”
“Oh, such honour among spies…” Erril said, grinning. “I will give you one of my offered details now, and the other in a month’s time, when I know that your word has been kept. Which piece of information do you desire most?”
“Unlike your honour, mine can be bought easily,” Farek replied, buying time. Which one? he wondered, incredulously. How could he decide? Details for a criminal syndicate or the location of a mystery-shrouded estate in a foreign land? He had to go with the more immediate danger. “Tell me about the criminal syndicate.”
“Good choice.” Erril smirked and said, “The estate of the assassin’s birth lies in the city of New Mallam, in Cover Cove. They were named the House of Kiaraka, but the home has changed hands once or twice. Now long abandoned, I have it on good authority that several secret passages have been found. Doubtless it has not divulged all of its secrets yet. Assuming House Viotro is left alone for a month’s time, I’ll leave a letter at a place of your request. ‘You have my word’.” The spy started to stand up.
Farek could only blink in surprise. He’d been given the information he had decided was second-best, which of course made sense. Erril had made him prioritize which would be most likely to cause House Viotro to be left alone by Lord Thrane… in the hopes of getting the ‘better’ information. “Wait,” he said. “Another moment, please.”
Erril sank back into his seat, his curiosity piqued.
“If I give you more information, good information, will you save me a few trips between cities and give me the details of this syndicate now?” Farek asked. “Lord Thrane is impatient, and so am I.”
“Koribar and a few of us were taken by House Gallendris, for a brief misunderstanding. We were later released, and, might I say so, grilled by my Lord for our continued loyalty.” Farek took a deep breath. It was risky to divulge Gallendris secrets, so he’d be giving Erril a slight lie. “I overheard the servants speaking about bringing food to an old magician. They referred to him as the ‘ancient and hairless one’.”
Erril blinked. “Gallendris has a magician in their service?”
“It would seem so. My lord was concerned by this, to say the least,” Farek said. “But the Mazaar of Soros could certainly afford it.”
“The information is good,” Erril said, thoughtfully. He mulled over the agreement he had made to divulge more of his own secrets. After a second he placed his hand on the table, hiding a trinket of some kind. “They’re known as the Organization, operating in every major city on Var Nordos. They have their own plans, I’m certain, but they make a fortune selling criminal services to a select group that can contact them. In order to initiate this contact, you must wear a ring until one of their spotters notice you—going to inns each night, being seen in public. This will increase the chances of them finding you. I will sell you such a ring,” Erril said, removing his hand, “For a modest fee, so I can replace it.”
Before him on the table rested a small golden ring, with a small shape of a wolf’s face on the top of it. Farek didn’t think much of it for a moment, thinking through this news. A major criminal guild in his homeland? Wearing a ring in public seemed like painting a target on his back—Farek assumed it was a trap, for a second. But then he realized what he was looking at. A golden dog.
Gravagan had prophesied two things: first, he had said that Farek would save Lord Thrane from an assassin. Instead, Farek had let an assassin pull the trigger, only to kill a different target than the Lord. Secondly, Gravagan had said that he would need to burn down a house, killing one man—the man who could, or would, kill Farek. He would know this house by the sign of a dog coloured gold. Gravagan had admitted he did not fully understand this sign.
But Farek understood it clearly now. Sitting before him was a golden wolf ring. “I’ll pay it,” he told Erril. He didn’t know what he would do with it quite yet—he might sail to New Mallam first. All of his plans would need to wait until he returned to Soros.
He picked up the golden ring cautiously and offered Erril his choice from the coin pouch.
Erril claimed his crossbow once more, only to step out from his chair. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he said, offering Farek a handshake.
Farek didn’t take it. “We have very different definitions of pleasure,” he said. He quickly pocketed the small ring, thinking, I am in some very deep water…