“Warm Hearts, Cold Revenge.” Sword’s Edge 22 (forthcoming).

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A sickly light filtered through the gray clouds covering the city and started to force back the dark shadows lingering in its streets and alleys. Maneuvering around the delivery wagons and the other pedestrians, whose numbers would steadily increase as the sun rose higher in the sky, Erik of Baden walked quickly along the city’s main thoroughfares.

Even before the sun started to heat the piles of horse manure and the solid leavings of the chamber pots, Erik could tell when he had crossed from the wealthier quarter of Baden into the city’s poorer quarters, which always smelled like the inside of an outhouse, except for the first few hours after a heavy rainfall.

Erik took the most direct route to the Waterfront District, striding as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. You do not amble, stroll, or meander when you know someone wants to stick a dagger in your back.

Baden was the largest port in the southern kingdoms, and its own population of traders, craftsmen, and laborers, as well as the thirsty and hungry sailors that scrambled off of each newly docked cog or grain ship, kept open the doors of a host of inns and taverns. Serious business was conducted in these establishments, and they were popular among the scions of nobility with more money than sense. The district was a place to see and be seen, to seek a profit or to find trouble, and to slake one’s needs, no matter what a person thirsted or hungered for.

Erik’s destination was a three-story building constructed of stone and large timbers. It housed one of his favorite inns and looked strong enough to withstand the full force of the worst hurricane. The inn, which served excellent food, wine, beer, and cider in its spacious tavern, was one of the many enterprises overseen by Fabian, the local factor for Simon of Ravenwood, who was currently one of the most successful traders in the world and had been one of the few competitors who had not collaborated with Desmond d’Tarlec in bringing about Erik’s ruin. Fabian, whom Erik had befriended a decade before assuming control of his own family’s commercial affairs, had not bothered to conceal his contempt for d’Tarlec in his final conversation with Erik. Late autumn, that had been.

The noise and activity from the street faded as the inn’s solid oak door closed behind him. No sound passed through the thick stone blocks of the first story’s walls, and this early in the morning, the few small windows on the first level were still shuttered. Inside, all was much as he remembered. Two hulking bouncers bracketed the front door, and the bartender was large and young enough to be of assistance in any brawl. All three men recognized Erik, but the appraising warning in each man’s gaze clearly was meant to signal that he could expect no special consideration. Erik intended his own shrug to be reassuring, but none of the men showed any decrease in vigilance as he moved further into the room.

Only one barmaid shuttled platters between the tables and the kitchen—during the afternoon and at night, half a dozen of her sisters-in-trade would join her to serve the larger crowds, but one server was sufficient for the morning customers. Fabian was perched on a stool behind a long bar’s corner, ignoring the periodic comings and goings of the early risers and poring over his ledgers.

For reasons known only to him, Fabian spent his workday in this inn, instead of his more upscale establishments. The man left the day-to-day operations to the staff, although he had added an extra bouncer on the morning shift and two extra bouncers on the night shift, and he seemed immune to the distractions common in such places. Each time the door opened, it might signal the arrival of a young noble with coin to spend in unwise ways, a merchant with affairs to discuss with Fabian, a laborer or beggar with coin enough for a good drink or hot meal, or—for that matter—a man looking for a fight. During his life, Erik had been all of these men when he passed through the doorway.

Erik crossed to a place directly across from Fabian and leaned his elbows onto the bar’s pine planks. The wood was worn but well buffed, and this early in the day it was still free of sticky patches from overturned beer or wine cups.

“Can I have a minute of your time?” Erik kept his words as uninflected as possible; he was not in a strong position to make demands of anyone.

[cont.]