Martin hated chasing away the smile with unpleasant news. “I discovered something while observing a card game at the back table that I think you should know.” He sucked in a deep breath. How could he impart his news without exposing himself?
He kept an eye on the table through the cracked door, ensuring both card players remained seated.
“Oh?” The smile fled Peter’s face. After a moment, he relaxed his rigid stance. “Is Old Man Farley cheating again?”
“I’m afraid I do not know of whom you speak. However, cheating pales in comparison to what I’ve seen.” And what Martin felt.
“Tell, friend.” Peter appeared all earnest intent, concern wrinkling his brow.
Ah, so Martin had been promoted from “stranger” to “friend,” had he? If only Peter continued the sentiment after Martin imparted his news. “First, you must promise not to tell anyone what I know or how I know it.” He ran a finger along the side of his mug.
Peter’s throat worked. “Will anyone be harmed if I do?”
“Only me. Many may be harmed if I don’t trust you with my secrets.” The intended victim had a family, lands, tenants. He was a good landlord. His people would suffer greatly with his passing.
“Then you have my oath.” The tavernkeeper pulled a leather strand from beneath his shirt and kissed the bronze image. An image of the Father? While his establishment served drink, forbidden by the god, apparently, this man chose the tenets he kept.
“You are a man of faith?”
Peter laughed, a rich, throaty sound. Honest. “Not really.” He shrugged, palms up before latching his gaze to Martin’s.
Not that Martin believed much in Dmitri’s god either.
“Tell me this news of yours.” Peter appeared calm, though clenching his fists gave away his nervousness.
Martin took a deep breath. “There is a man at the back table, a sailor, I believe. He hasn’t the money to pay his debts and intends to rob the elderly gentleman sitting next to him. You’ll find the victim’s body behind your establishment next sunrise.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Peterglared,narrowinghiseyes. “How do you know this? You wouldn’t be the first charlatan who came in hoping for free drinks or more for fortune-telling.”
Martin gave him a rueful smile. “You promised not to ask me, remember?” Trust came easier through Martin’s observations of this decent man.
Still, Peter glowered. “I am a man of my word.”
Martin took a sip of the excellent ale remaining in his mug. “I read his cards, but I promise you, I am no mere fortune-teller.”
Peter rose and cracked open the door wider, gazing out into the tavern. “The gentleman in question is a regular customer. The sailor isn’t known to me. Many men come with the ships; they never stay. Most never start trouble. But I’ve… I’ve felt something from him, something unsettling.”
”Is there a way you can quietly warn the intended victim?” The less personal involvement on Martin’s part, the better.
“I believe there is.” Peter strode out into the tavern, directly toward the endangered customer. Startled into action, Martin trailed behind him. “Ah, my dear sir, I believe you have had enough ale for one eve. Allow me to offer you a room for the night. I would never forgive myself if you stumbled in the dark and didn’t make your way home safely.”
Martin watched the sailor’s face, the surprise, the anger, and finally, the realization. The would-be murderer raised his gaze to meet Martin’s. Martin donned a knowing smile.
The elderly gentleman gazed at Peter with wide eyes. “Surely, I haven’t had that much to drink this eve.”
Peter smiled, giving the man a friendly pat on the back. “That’s what they all say. Why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll prepare a room.”
The tavernkeeper escorted the man upstairs, returning a few minutes later alone. Martin sat at a table, keeping an eye on the sailor. Eventually, the man rose, made his apologies, and stumbled in the direction of the back door and the privy.
Martin met Peter’s gaze and followed the sailor. The sailor stumbled down the alley, circled back to the front of the building, and hurried toward the docks.
Having lived in the city—with all the curiosity of the young—for the last few seasons gave Martin the advantage over a ported sailor. He cut through back alleys, emerging in front of the man. “Where are you going in such a hurry, friend?” The gas lamps lining the streets gave enough light to clearly see his quarry.
The man stuttered to a halt. “What business is it of yours?”
“Because you left owing a good bit of money for drink and food, not to mention your gambling debts.” Guarding the city against evil meant evil in all its forms, right?
