Cenric spotted a figure doubled over, currently vomiting onto the dirt floor.
That would mean that many of these men were likely Ielda’s crew.
Hróarr threw back the hood of his cloak, swaggering into the smoky building. “Ielda, my friend!”
Cenric followed his cousin, discreetly. He had not been to this part of Valdar in some time. His cousin was well-known to these men as a brother-in-arms, or at least a colleague.
The man vomiting in the corner finished emptying his stomach long enough to straighten. He smeared a fist over his mouth, pretending he hadn’t just been losing his ale all over the floor.
“Hróarr,” Ielda hiccupped. “I thought you were headed south.” His words were slurred, the rolling tones of Valdari skidding awkwardly off his tongue.
“I was,” Hróarr grinned. “Tomorrow, as it happens. But tonight, I am here. Come, let me buy you another drink.”
Ielda shook his head. “Enough.”
Cenric stole a glance across the storehouse to where Hróarr’s warriors slunk into the shadows, waiting for if they were called. Kalen kept close at Cenric’s back, watching the room.
Hróarr wrangled Ielda to a table, making himself at home. In no time, Hróarr had cups of ale for himself, Cenric, and another for the protesting Ielda.
It was a testament to the men’s lack of loyalty that none of them stepped in to help their leader.
“How goes trade?” Hróarr asked, leaning on one elbow. “This is my cousin. Cenric of Ombra.”
“The Hyldish one?” Ielda hiccupped, face pinching with disdain.
“Half, but he’s a wolf where it counts,” Hróarr chuckled.
“I don’t care for the Hyldish,” Ielda muttered.
Cenric smiled at that, resting his elbows on the table. “It looks like you have encountered good fortune lately.” Cenric examined the cup he had been handed. It was worn with use, but he could make out the circles and crescents to honor Eponine, the goddess of sorceresses. Almost like it had been taken from the home of one. “Were you raiding this summer?”
“We raided this spring,” Ielda said, confirming Cenric’s suspicions. “A grand house. A few leagues inland, but well worth it.”
Cenric forced himself to show only mild interest.
“We were told it would be undefended and that was true. No real fights and I didn’t lose any of my men.”
Cenric grinned to hide his excitement. “No wonder you’re so rich these days.”
“The haul was good.” Ielda glanced around. “And the money we took for the raid.”
That sounded wrong. “Money?”
“Someone hired us to kill the alderman of Glasney.”
Cenric shot a glance to Hróarr to find his cousin looking back to him. Hiring Valdari to kill Hyldish explained a great deal—why the raid had come out of season, why it had been so far inland.
It also raised many, many more questions. Why go through all this trouble to kill Paega, to start? From what Cenric understood, the old man would approve of his own assassination.
“You were hired?” Cenric thought he did a good job of making his voice sound casual.
“We were.” Ielda pressed his fist over his mouth for just a moment. “Don’t know who paid us, though.”
Hróarr laughed. “You took a job from the sprites?”
“A real person,” Ielda snapped, too drunk to tell the other man had been joking. “Hyldish. Red hair, shifty eyes, always jumpy like he was about to crawl out his own skin. He paid us half, then never showed to give us the second half.” Ielda paused to give several choice curses.
Cenric tried to think of someone who might match that description, but it could be anyone.
