“You’re wearing a cape. Of course we look out of place.” I looked at him. “You look like a period magician.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. Just funny in a place called The Rusty Dagger.”
Torin, who was dressed in plain clothes and blending in much better than we were, nodded toward a table in the corner. “The merchant is over there.”
“The drunk one?” I asked.
“They are all drunk.”
“The VERY drunk one. Pink cheeks. Drooling.”
“That one, yes.”
We approached the table alone, Torin staying behind to watch our backs. The merchant looked up at us with bleary eyes.
“Whadda you want?” he slurred.
“Information,” Mal said in his kingly voice, which was definitely the wrong tone for this establishment.
“I don’t talk to fancy people.”
“See?” I whispered to Mal. “Overdressed.”
“I will pay you,” Mal said, ignoring me.
The merchant’s eyes sharpened with interest despite the alcohol. “How much?”
“What do you know about Igryside?”
“Depends on how much gold you got.”
“I think we’re being extorted,” I whispered to Mal.
“I am aware.” Mal produced a pouch of gold. The merchant’s eyes went wide.
“Some men from there came through. Ravenor border. Weird guys. Real quiet-like. Then they died.”
I blinked. “They died?”
“Yeah. King killed ‘em or something.” He clearly didn’t realize he was talking to the actual king. This was so awkward.
Mal and I exchanged looks.
“Don’t know why,” the merchant continued, taking another swig of whatever rotgut he was drinking. “Maybe they were assassins. Maybe they looked at him funny. Kings are touchy like that.”
“Indeed,” Mal said, his voice perfectly controlled.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“You two seem touchy too. You nobles?”
“Something like that,” I managed.
