“If not for favor, then for gold,” he said, dropping a bulging coin purse atop the desk. “I need the best you have to hire, and I don’t mean who the guild thinks is the best. You know every sellsword from here to Angelport, and I want your real opinion. I need someone who could find a mouse in a forest before an owl could; that damn good.”
Bill rubbed his chin as his milky eyes stared off into nowhere.
“I suppose you don’t mind if he’s a bit unsavory?”
“He can be the ugliest, meanest bastard you know. I’d probably prefer it. We’d get along.”
Bill laughed, but it was lacking in humor.
“I know of one, and he’s good, Oric. He’s all the way over from southern Ker, though some say he ain’t even from Dezrel. Out of the nine jobs he’s done for me, he’s never once failed to catch his prey, and always done it with days to spare. Been tough getting work lately, though. Charges twice what anyone else does.”
“What’s his name?”
“He calls himself Ghost. I’m not brave enough to tell him to pick something more original. Besides, with this guy, it’s fitting once you see his face.”
Oric crossed his arms. “What’s that mean?”
“You’ll find out for yourself. No point in me telling you. He’s costly, he’s dangerous, but he’s the best. You still want to meet him?”
Oric thought of the six men he and Arthur had lost when this lone Watcher had ambushed them along the northern road. He also thought of how Alyssa might execute him if she found out their role in her son’s death.
“Yeah. I need the best. Where can I find this…Ghost?”
“Know where the Mug and Feather is? No? Lousy tavern built to the far south, just off the main road. Head there a few hours from now. The barkeep’s a cheat, but he’ll point Ghost out for you…though I’m thinking you won’t need him to.”
Bill opened the purse and dumped the coins across his desk. After he counted them up, he nodded.
“You’ve got a few extra in here.”
“Keep them,” Oric said, heading for the exit. “Consider it a gift to an old friend for keeping things quiet.”
“Understood. Safe travels, Oric.”
Though Bill had told him to wait, Oric had no such plans. He wanted to be there when this Ghost showed up for a drink. Besides, if he had enough time, he might glean some information out of the regulars there. Just after midday, anyone in there would certainly be a frequent drinker.
Finding the tavern was easy enough, given the sign hanging above the door: a poorly drawn mug and an even uglier feather. Owner had probably been cheap enough to draw it himself. Oric checked his sword and then stepped inside. The room stank of vomit and alcohol, and the lighting was abysmal. In one corner was a firepit, no doubt the only source of both heat and light at night. Among the various tables he saw a few stragglers, most eating. They glanced back at him as he entered and squinted to see in the dark. None stood out, at least, not as dangerous assassins.
The barkeep was a thin man with a blond beard that reached to the bottom of his neck. He nodded at Oric and then waited for him to take a seat before coming over.
“Whatever’s cheapest,” Oric muttered, tossing him several coppers. When the barkeep came back with a third of his mug froth, Oric rolled his eyes. A cheat, indeed. Deciding he needed information more than he needed to give a good beatdown, he let it slide.
“Need anything to eat?” the barkeep asked.
“What’s warm?”
“Haven’t started the soup yet. Got a bit of bread, though, and butter if you’re willing to pay.”
“That’ll do.”
He kept his eyes to himself as he waited for his food. Just in case the Ghost was already there, he didn’t want to make it seem like he was looking. When they met, he wanted to have the upper hand, just in case this Ghost tried to haggle for more pay, which he might given the target. When his bread arrived he smothered it with butter and ate. When he caught the barkeep watching, he pulled out a silver.
“Keep the rest,” he said. “Care to answer me a question?”
The barkeep held the silver piece close to his eyes as he inspected it, frowned, and then put it away.
“Sure thing,” he said. “Not so busy I can’t stay away from the bar long enough to talk with a customer.”
Oric chuckled at his sarcasm, then lowered his voice.
“I’m looking for a man who calls himself the Ghost.”
The barkeep wiped his hands on his pants and laughed. “Not too many go looking for him. Usually he’s got to go to those making offers no one else is dumb enough to accept. What business you have with that dark-skinned monster?”
An actual dark-skin from Ker? thought Oric. Interesting.
“No business of yours,” he said. “Now fill the rest of my mug, and with ale, not foam, got it?”
The barkeep glared but obeyed. Oric washed the rest of the bread and butter down, then glanced around once more. No dark-skin in the tavern. Shit, he wasn’t even sure if he’d seen a dark-skin in all of Veldaren. No wonder the guy had trouble getting work. Settling in for a wait, he moved from his table to one farthest from the door. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He didn’t actually sleep, but let it look like he was. If anyone was dumb enough to try and rob him, well, they’d get a nice surprise.
As the sun moved across the sky, steadily approaching dusk, more men filtered into the tavern. Oric thought it might be the only tavern left in southern Veldaren ever since King Vaelor’s edict banned the caravans from entering the southern entrance, forcing them to the east. All the merchants, and subsequent wealth, had shifted further and further north. The men who entered looked tired and haggard, and he guessed many of them worked the nearby fields outside the city walls. The ale was terrible, same as the prices, but they were probably far closer to home and among friends.
“You’re in our seat,” he heard someone say. He opened his eyes to see three men, their tanned skin covered with soil. All three of them combined might still be skinnier than he was.
“That’s a damn shame,” Oric said, shifting so they could see the sword sheathed at his side.
“Ain’t no swords allowed in here,” said one of them.
“Like to see him stop me,” Oric said, nodding toward the barkeep.
The men scowled, but armed with only their fists, they dared not challenge him and his blade. They backed down to another seat, and as they moved out of his way, he finally saw Ghost. He sat alone in the center of the tavern. His skin was indeed dark, reminding Oric of obsidian. The man’s head was shaved, and he wore loose clothing more appropriate for a warmer climate. His enormous strength was obvious, his arms thick as tree trunks. Most shocking, though, was the brilliant white paint he wore across his face.
Oric stood, glared at the men who’d wanted his seat, as if daring them to try and take it back, and then approached Ghost.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
The man looked up, and he flashed a smile, revealing clean white teeth.
“I have a seat to spare, so take it if you wish.” His voice was deep, intimidating. Oric sat and leaned back in his chair. If not for the white paint, this Ghost might have been handsome. He tried to decide why he wore it, yet could not. Was it because of his name? A pathetic attempt to fit in?
“Not much need to ask, but I assume you’re the one called Ghost?”
The mercenary chuckled. “I am.”
“They say you’re good.”
“Who is they? That blind fool running the guild’s coffers? Or the rest of my colleagues? I’d be surprised if any bothered to speak of me except in disdain.”
“It was Bill,” Oric admitted. “Is it true? I’m starting to have my doubts.”
“Is that an attempt to make me boast? No boast. There is none better. Now tell me your name, and your business, otherwise I might decide I prefer to drink alone.”
“Sad man that’d prefer to drink alone.”
Ghost grinned again, and there was something wolfish in his brown eyes.
“Come now, stranger, do you think I am unused to being alone?”
Oric felt put off guard, and he cursed his verbal clumsiness. Arthur would have been so much better at
