Four and Twenty Blackbirds

'That could let him know we're looking for him,' Tal pointed out, 'if he's watching for such things.'

'We'll have to take that chance.' Her face had taken on the look it had when she spoke of the 'little war' she'd fought within the Church. 'You can defend yourself, Tal; what defenses have those women got?'

He sighed. 'None. I'll do everything I can, Ardis—and there is this. We may not be able to catch him—but perhaps we can make it so difficult for him that he becomes desperate. Desperate men make mistakes.'

Her face sobered. 'We will have to hope for those mistakes. At the moment, that is the only hope we have.'

Chapter Eight

Orm Kalend settled into the corner formed by the intersection of the booth-bench he sat on and the wall of this tavern, his eyes discreetly hooded as he toyed with his mug of dark ale. Around him, the muted sounds of conversation and eating provided a soporific background for his thoughts. This was precisely the sort of tavern he most favored, one with such good food that the meals themselves were the attraction for customers, not the liquor nor any form of entertainment. The drink available here was only average in taste, and below average in strength; that fact when combined with the excellent provender assured that there were never any fights inthis inn.

This was precisely as the proprietor, a famous cook himself, preferred it; in fact, Orm suspected that if he could have managed it, he would have omitted serving wine, beer, and ale altogether and relied entirely onkaffa and teas. He was of the pious, Church-going sort that frowned on strong drink and prohibited intoxication. But he probably knew only too well that, if he were to do that, not even the finest food in the world would keep his customers returning. Most self-styled gourmets demanded light wines and passable beer at the least to accompany their meals.

This was a good place for Orm to do business, especially business with some of his more—sensitive— customers. The lighting was low, the clientele incurious, and the atmosphere very soothing to the nerves of gentlemen who might otherwise have second thoughts about working with Orm. Not that Orm appeared to be anything other than a gentleman himself—but if he had insisted on meeting his customers in a place only scoundrels frequented, those customers would naturally assume that Orm belonged among them.

So long as we appear respectable in all ways, the polite fiction of appearance is maintained.

As if that thought had been a magic spell to summon him, one of those gentlemen entered the door of the tavern along with a few flurries from the light snowstorm outside. As the flakes settled to the wooden floor and melted, the gentleman peered around the tavern until he spotted Orm at his usual seat and in his usual posture. He made no sign of recognition, but he did move straight to that corner booth, intercepting a serving wench on the way to place his order. Orm noted with satisfaction that the young man bore a roll of paper in his hand.

Good! One more section of the Duke's maps! Rand will be pleased.

'Greetings, friend,' Orm said lazily, paying no outward attention to the rolled-up document. 'You're just in time to join me for luncheon.'

'Always a pleasure, since you pay,' replied the fellow as he slid into place opposite Orm and placed the map on the table against the wall. Ridiculously thin, the young man resembled nothing so much as a normal man who had somehow been stretched an extra few inches lengthwise; even his face had the oddly disconcerting proportions of a normal face that had been elongated. He clearly had difficulty in finding clothing that fit; his sleeves ended above his bony wrists, and his breeches exposed the ankles of his boots. His fingers were stained with ink in the manner of all clerks, and he squinted as if he was a little short-sighted.

Orm chuckled. 'The pleasure is mine, both for the sake of your company and the opportunity to reward one of good Duke Arden's hardworking clerks. You gentlemen earn little enough for your efforts that a good citizen should feel obligated to treat you now and again.'

The scrawny young man grinned as the wench brought his meal and Orm's. 'I wish more of the good citizens of Kingsford felt the way you do,' he said, then wasted no more words as he dug into a portion of exquisitely seasoned oysters. Orm never stinted his gentlemen, especially clerks, who were usually perpetually hungry. Every meal was a full one, beginning with appetizers and ending with a fine dessert. Orm knew that men with a good meal in their stomachs were ready to please the person who arranged for that meal to be there.

A full stomach makes for poor bargaining.

The young clerk and Orm continued to exchange pleasantries as their meal progressed, just as the others in this room were doing. At some point during the progress of the meal, several silver coins made up in a paper packet found their way beneath the basket of delectable yeast rolls. At another point, they vanished again—and an intelligent deduction could be made that they vanished into the clerk's capacious pockets, since Orm didn't reclaim them, but no one could actually claim to have seen the coins change hands.

At no time during the meal did either of them refer to the coins, or to the rolled-up map. Nor did Orm ever refer again to the fact that his companion was in the Duke's service. But when the young man stood up after finishing the last morsel of a bowl of bilberry trifle smothered in brandy and whipped cream, and took his leave, he left behind the map, and his belt-pouch bulged a little more than it had when he arrived.