“All work and no play makes for a dull girl, Moira,” he said.
She gave him a disgusted look. “Child.”
Croak laughed. “You seen a couple mercs been here all day?”
Moira ignored him as she wiped a limp strand of blonde hair out of her face. Her cheeks were pink with exertion and she had a fine sheen of sweat on her brow and upper lip.
She leaned forward and shouted some orders at Nathaniel, who nodded and set to work. When she grabbed the tray, full tankards sloshing ale, she turned back and set off through the horde.
Croak followed.
“C’mon, love!” Croak wheedled, yelling over the noise. He kept close to her back as patrons moved to fill the space behind her.
She set three tankards down on one table and moved on to another. Croak stuck close, waiting.
Moira turned and bumped right into him. She shoved at his chest with her free hand, the drinks in her other spilling out onto the table to her right. Men bellowed, but she paid them no mind as she deftly lifted the tray to save the drinks.
“Yor botherin’ me is botherin’ our guests!” she spat at him as she turned toward her next destination.
“All’s I need is a quick answer to a tiny question!”
She huffed and dropped another tankard onto a nearby table. “I seen many folk. Obviously.”
“Couple of mates heading north? Maybe staying the week to take in the many beautiful sights of Laurica? Asking about trackers? Been here all day, according to the big boss.”
“Only ones I can think of sitting over there,” she said with a sigh and a half-hearted tilt of her head over her left shoulder. “Been sittin’ there since I got here.”
Croak squeezed her arm in thanks and shot past her, wending his way around the gathered patrons, until finally he was at the back of the tavern.
Crowded, but with space enough around the table for Croak to make a smart smack of his heels and a bow low enough to please Emperor Solon.
When he rose, he noticed with a slight slip of his smile the table had only one occupant, rather than the two he’d expected. Glancing around, he pasted a big smile on his lips.
“Ah, good sir, might I join you for a pint?”
As he made to sit, Croak froze. Something sharp poked at his side.
“And who the fuck are you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“And who the fuck are you?”
Rydon of Decu leaned in close to the thin man who had approached their table. Gabriol, his lieutenant in their former life, sat back, a broad smile on his bearded face. He lifted his tankard and saluted Rydon before taking a long swig.
The thin man in front of Rydon stiffened, but otherwise showed no fear. In a full tavern with so many unaware or preoccupied, it would’ve been a simple thing for Rydon to stab the man and carry him to a far corner with nary a glance from the patrons. Instead, the man turned his head enough Rydon saw the smile on his face. His eyes crinkled, genuinely amused.
“I see I have the right men,” he said, shooting a quick glance back at Gabriol. “If I may buy you both another round, I’d be happy to tell you who the fuck I am.”
Rydon looked across at Gabriol, who shrugged. He bellowed for the barmaid and gestured for more ale. The tired woman acknowledged him with a nod as she wove through the tables away from them. Gabriol kicked the chair next to the thin man with his boot.
“Sit, then, friend. And tell us who you are,” he said, his voice high for a man of his size.
The man—boy, really—inclined his head and put a pale hand to his chest. He had the nerve to wink at Rydon over his shoulder before pulling out the proffered chair and plopping down onto it with a loud sigh.
He slapped his knees. “Well,” he said, with another big huff as he moved his gaze between Rydon and Gabriol. “I have been looking for you two everywhere.”
“And why would you be looking for us?” Rydon growled. He sheathed his dagger and pulled out the seat next to Gabriol, eyes narrowed on the stranger. His clothes were travel worn but of fine material, so he must have some wealth. He had the sharp straight nose and almond-shaped eyes of the Heylisian noblemen from Metilai but carried himself comfortably amongst rougher folk such as were in that tavern. Rydon was certain the boy was anything other than the guileless fool he pretended.
