Terchin sat in a corner of 'The Ale & Anvil' – not one swathed in shadow, but one that received a modicum of light from a grimy front window, with its shutters banging occasionally due to the buffeting winds that swept through the river valley this time of the year when summer changed to autumn. In an establishment of this caliber, people know when someone is trying to be inconspicuous or stealthy and are wise to the usual tricks. But while he was not wearing a disguise, Terchin did have his hood drawn over his head so that his face was rather well shrouded from view. He was, after all, a man of some reputation, and he had learned long ago that if identified, his presence could affect the social dynamics around him. And he preferred that the patrons here remain unguarded, comfortable, and as talkative as possible. Fortunately, his head covering was hardly suspicious because it was an unusually chilly day and the tavern had yet to warm up.

  After he had bought a bottle of brandywine - one of the most pricey beverages the humble tavern had to offer – the owner Tundren Shatterhand had left him alone and allowed him to sit undisturbed at a small table for the last couple of hours.

  Tundren had once been a glassblower and metalworker of no mean ability, but one day he had the misfortune of getting his right hand caught in a press, and while he was spared an amputation his days working as a skilled craftsman were decidedly over. Ironically his name predated this unlucky incident, making it almost seem like a prophecy – a possibility he was very hostile to being raised. As he already had become a heavy drinker to deal with his disappointment and ongoing pain, he figured he might as well open his own pub – a place he could never get thrown out of, he said once in a rare display of acerbic humor. And it was about as clean and well-run as one would expect from a bitter, habitually soused dwarf who could no longer perform his chosen vocation.

  The tavern had many odors, not all of them pleasant, but no single one of them unpleasant enough to deter folk from getting a cheap bowl of stew, a tankard of ale, or a scrap of the tidings going on throughout the realms. It was common for small groups of roustabouts, longshoremen, teamsters, caravan guards, and the like to come in after a hard day’s work or when a job was done and they had a few extra coins in their purse.

  As the afternoon slowly turned into evening and the weak daylight was replaced by the muted glow of soot-covered oil lamps grudgingly lit by Tundren’s unsteady fingers, more customers began to filter into the place. The atmosphere steadily became less sullen and steadily more boisterous. Talk amongst the drinkers became animated as the beer flowed and acquaintances were renewed, and the room became positively garrulous as the three genial if rather slatternly trollops who rented rooms upstairs descended to troll for clients, chatting up the men and making even the most taciturn among them voluble.

  With his habitual patience and long experience with eavesdropping, Terchin leaned comfortably back, assuming the manner of a seasoned inebriate, and absorbed the tavern talk that swirled around him…

  A band of ogres was menacing the hillfolk around Laren’s Falls, enslaving all the able-bodied people they could snatch as well as conducting the usual pillaging.

  The Autarch of Great Tver had declared that dancing was a sin against the city-state’s god and issued an edict that demanded every third-born child in the city be enrolled in the Lottery of Sacrifice, so the city could regain lost favor and prosper once more.

  Some black-helmed lord whose face was never glimpsed, reputed to be a demon (or perhaps only possessed by one) wielding an artifact of immense power, had overthrown the Duke of Brabaat and installed himself in the many turreted ducal palace while he marshaled his forces to strike out at all the adjacent lands and place them beneath his tyrannical sway.

  In the northwest, a restless and vengeful wyrm, awakened by careless dwarves delving in Mount Aridoss, had butchered the entire clan and ravaged the surrounding vicinity, including the no-longer-extant Town-of-the-Lake.

  In the Barrowlands, a lich had ensnared an expedition that had ventured into its crypt and used the power of their accumulated souls to transcend the magical confinement that had supplied preservation at the cost of freedom and break out into the countryside, where it now roamed at will, even during high noon.

  A witch-king from the blasted desert lands of the south had cobbled together a veritable army from dismembered corpses, and this mismatched zombie horde was poised to sweep all before it once the rainy season had ended and the rivers became fordable once more.

  In the Varaghian Archipelago, the Honorable Ten Aldermen in Marr had reconvened in the Obsidian Presidio to consider how to remedy the defilement of their most hallowed shrine by a visiting pleasure guild. A reward was offered to anyone who could properly re-sanctify the shrine, and a bounty to anyone who could apprehend the guild and bring them back – alive, so they could be spiritually redeemed before being chastened and tortured.

  Fur trappers claimed that the druids of the northern taiga had spied a great light from a heretofore unknown celestial object streaming across the sky – visible even by day – and had concluded the End Time was imminent; so they were busily consecrating the Deepwood trails as well as the forsaken spaces.

  So, pretty much the usual gossip. No concern of his!

  As interesting as all these tidbits were, he was looking for something closer to home: the talk of men employed by a personage of wealth and influence to conduct deeds – perhaps nefarious, perhaps not - related to commerce. His previous eavesdropping forays conducted in alehouses and taverns had so far netted nothing actionable, but the goddess of Fortune eventually throws a persistent man a bone.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Just then his attention was diverted by four men who, recently entered, were loudly hailed by a fellow who knew them sitting two tables over. They sauntered over, doffing damp cloaks to reveal brigandine armor, with tall boots dirty from being splashed on the road. Perhaps they had just come back into the city, Terchin thought.

  “Darus, you old dog – you missed a cushy payday!” one of them said to the seated man.

  “Easiest two crowns I ever earned!” another concurred. They seated themselves at the benches of the table and tried to summon the barmaid, a harried if jovial woman whose name they already knew, who immediately began shuttling ale their way.

  “Sorry I missed it – master had me hopping. Do tell,” said Darus.

  “So this caravan leaves last month, right? Stained glass plate, linens and silks and such like. Bound for Aridon by way of the Ebonwood road. Bit of a rough go, right?”

  “Yeah – them bandits in the Ebonwood have picked more than one group clean, I hear, though at least they usually leave most alive to tell the tale.”

  “Right, well, get this – when they left they only had four guards. FOUR. Can you believe it?”

  There was a low whistle. “A paltry number, to be sure! That’s just courting disaster, that is! Wait, wait – that waren’t you four, were it?”

  “Hell naw,” laughed another of the men, who had just finished swallowing his first large gulp from a tankard. “See, three days after they leave, we lot – plus Raadber and another bloke you don’t know - gets a summons from Master Argel. He tells us to pick up fresh horses – the nicest in the stables – and dash out there quick as we can – but not using the main road, mind you. And we are to meet up with the caravan before they enter the woods.”

  “So, a’ course we do as we are bid, and we ride out there at full gallop, stopping only one night. And we meet up with’m. Now instead of an escort of four, there’s a well-armed group of ten! Boy, those merchants were glad to see us! Thought we were bloody heroes. Naturally, they had contracted for more guards but they had several no-shows the day of their departure. Devils got sick or somethin’, I don’t know.“

  “And did you see any action?”

  “You bet! Second day in the forest, we get set upon almost at sundown. But we were wise to their tricks! Was a serious scrap, to be sure. Three merchants at the rear panicked and were killed trying to flee. Raadber took an arrow to the leg, and we left him at a healer in the next town we hit – and Terk, the poor sod, caught a spear in the throat, but the rest of us beat’m off until they lost their appetite and we emerged with trade goods intact and all thirty wagons unspoiled – not a dirty linen or broken plate of glass to be written off! So we spent a week carousing and cooling our heels in Aridon and we just got back, took our pay, and here we are! Hey Shatterhand, you got any meat pies that weren’t made last week? And that weren’t made from rats?”

  Terchin stopped listening as the subject of the talk changed to other matters. This was a level of cunning he had not previously encountered. It was pretty clear from what he had heard that the caravan was made to look like it was doomed to fail, enticing people to try and profit off of what seemed like insider knowledge – when actually it was going to be surreptitiously reinforced to succeed instead. It was pretty brilliant, actually, and as far as he could tell, completely legal trickery. And his overconfident son-in-law had fallen for it!

  So it was Master Argel who had arranged this bit of theater. Terchin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Argel was a recent addition to the wealthy class of Eskemar, bursting onto the scene just over a year ago. Like Terchin himself, he came from elsewhere to settle in the city to make his fortune and had succeeded in spectacular fashion in a short period of time. He had recently installed himself in a mansion located in the very exclusive Inner City, taking the place of the storied Lubocque family that he had bankrupted through some shadowy means never fully divulged because it doubtless reflected poorly on all the parties involved. The Elder of House Lubocque, the crafty Duph, had hung himself in shame at being bested by this upstart, and the scion of the family had taken to drinking and drugging himself to cope with the loss of station and prestige. But obviously, the financial setbacks of House Lubocque were due to more than merely the chance vicissitudes of the markets. Argel was more cutthroat than he was even reputed to be.

  Last winter the man had through some contrivance assumed the stewardship of the Asset Exchange, a market building where commodities and futures were traded in a maelstrom of shouting, offers, and counter-offers. His business ventures seemed to be based primarily in this location, where the pulse of trade – the life-blood that replenished the coffers of Eskemar – could best be ascertained and monitored...and perhaps influenced.

  A lot of papers were in the Asset Exchange: documents, deeds, buy and sell orders, contracts. Including, he reasoned, anything to which his son-in-law had appended his signature and seal. It seemed a visit to the mercantile institution might be in order. Preferably made during the middle of the night. Terchin almost smiled at the prospect.

  Having obtained what he sought, he decided to tarry no more here and he got to his feet. As he did so, he noticed a gaunt-faced man in a gray cloak conferring with Tundren at the bar. The man had a small parcel on the bar and in one hand a green stoppered vial.

  “I said I sell drink and this is a tavern, not some den for consumin’ poppy nectar or whatever trash you want to intoxicate people with!” Tundren looked even more surly than usual, and the exchange had the air of familiarity as if it was a conversation he had already had before and didn’t desire to have again.

  The man tried another tack; his voice was too low for Terchin to hear and his face was hooded like Terchin’s. Nonetheless, he got the impression that he was offering the dwarf the vial as a complimentary product. He caught the last part of his proposal as it was delivered in a higher pitch, almost as a hiss. “Just sample this and see for yourself the exhilarating experience it can offer you!”

  Tundren was not impressed. “Bah, I tried that shite once. Didn’t do a thing for me! But there’s no surprise there; the powders ‘n potions of humankind are about as weak as your liquor. Best to peddle your wares elsewhere!” And considering the matter settled, Tundren turned away and went to fill some empty cups, leaving the man alone. Terchin could see a thin mouth twitch briefly in a snarl of rage. Here was someone accustomed to getting his way. Tundren had better start watching his back.

  Well, it was no matter for him to dwell on; he had his own issues to tend to.