well hidden in his voluminous cloak. Only a shadowed wedge of coarse brown skin showed beneath the cowl, along with a wiry gray beard cut in the distinctively squared-off style favored in Turmish.
Rhovann found one of the serving maids hurrying past and stopped her with a touch of his hand. “A friend expects me,” he said in a low voice. “It would be a private room. Where does he wait?”
The serving-maid looked up at him, and a shadow of fear flickered over her face. She quickly brought her knuckle to her forehead and averted her eyes. “If you please, this way, m’lord,” she said. She led him back through the taphouse to a small dining room behind the common room, knocked, then let Rhovann into the room. Inside, a pale human with a patch of yellow-gray beard under his mouth waited by one end of the table, dressed in the tunic of a workman. “Your guest is here, m’lord,” the serving maid said.
“Excellent,” the pale man replied. “Bring us a flagon of your very best wine, my dear. None of that swill you normally serve, mind you; we are gentlemen of discriminating tastes.”
“As you wish, m’lord.” The servant bobbed her head and withdrew.
Rhovann stepped into the room, pulling the sliding door closed behind him. “Could you have found a more squalid tavern for our meeting, Valdarsel?”
“I know it’s not much, but they know me here,” the pale man replied. He offered a humorless smile. “The proprietor impresses me with the zeal of his service to the Black Sun. Inspired by his example-or, perhaps, simply fearful of losing their employment-his people do Cyric’s work readily enough. They understand my requirements, and they are careful to meet them. And, speaking of my requirements …”
Rhovann reached into his cassock and drew out a small leather pouch that jingled softly. He set it on the table and slid it over to the Cyricist priest, who weighed it in his hand then tugged the drawstring open to peer inside. The mage was all but certain that Valdarsel was in fact already in the pay of some other power with an interest in Hulburg, but he was prepared to pretend otherwise if the Cyricist thought it important. Besides, what did he care about Marstel’s money?
“It is the customary sum,” Rhovann told him. “Count it if you like.”
“I will later,” Valdarsel answered. He tied the pouch closed and slipped it under his own tunic. “My thanks, good mage. This should allow me to recruit and arm another fifty Cinderfists, although I’ll likely need to bring some in from the nearby cities. Naturally, I will see to it that the Cinderfists cause no difficulties for House Marstel.”
“Naturally, although the time may come when I ask you to arrange for some selective damage to befall unimportant Marstel assets. It wouldn’t do for my lord’s properties to remain completely untouched by your mob. Some might grow suspicious.”
“A wise precaution,” the Cyricist remarked. “Let me know when and where you would like the Cinderfists to strike.”
There was a knock at the door behind him. The serving maid slid it open and carried in a tray loaded with a jug of wine, two goblets, a loaf of black bread, and a wedge of cheese. She set it on the table between the two men, poured wine in both goblets, then curtsied and withdrew. Rhovann waited for the door to slide shut before continuing.
“I have news that will interest you,” he said. “Sometime after midnight two nights from now, the Black Moon Brotherhood will attack Hulburg. I understand that it will be a large raid, the greatest pirate raid in the Moonsea in a hundred years-five ships full of corsairs. I expect that they will cause much damage to the neighborhoods close to the harbor.”
Valdarsel stared at him for a moment before leaning back in his chair with his goblet of wine. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Have your magical divinations shown you this danger descending on the city?”
Rhovann smiled. “If you would like to think so.”
“And what leads you to provide me with warning of the attack?”
“In the wake of a devastating raid, there will be outrage and recriminations. The harmach’s inability to adequately defend Hulburg from the depredations of the Moonsea pirates will be plain for all to see. I wish the Cinderfists to run amok in the days following the raid, Valdarsel. Riot in the streets and scream for Harmach Grigor’s head.” Rhovann raised his own goblet and sipped at his wine. He heard the serving maid hurry past in the hall outside, her footsteps light on the floorboards, while in the common room of the inn someone began to strum a lute with little skill. “With the rule of House Hulmaster shown to be fatally weak and incompetent, the Merchant Council will have no choice but to wrest power from the harmach. The Cinderfists will enthusiastically support this measure, of course. Should the harmach resist, the combined might of the Merchant Council and the Cinderfists will force him out.”
Valdarsel nodded to himself, his eyes focused on the events Rhovann outlined. “It is easy to see what Lord Marstel gets from all this,” he said, “but it seems to me that the poor, honest outlanders of the Tailings and the foundries will simply exchange one master for another. The Cinderfists may go along with the idea of overthrowing an incompetent government, but they’ll turn against your council next. I have to have something more to satisfy the rabble.”
Rhovann shrugged. “Doubtless there will be Hulmaster loyalists remaining among the population after the harmach has been dismissed, especially among the so-called native Hulburgans who own most of the land in these parts. As those people are found to be conspiring to overthrow the council and restore the rule of the harmach, the council can deal sternly with them and confiscate their property. Reward citizens loyal to the council with Hulburgan land and goods, and I think you’ll find that the Cinderfists may become enthusiastic supporters of the new regime.”
“It wouldn’t take much for a wealthy Hulburgan to be found to be resisting the council’s authority, would it?”
“Some semblance of procedure should probably be followed,” Rhovann replied.
“Oh, of course.” Valdarsel grinned like a wolf. “It is said that wizards are subtle and dangerous, Lastannor. In your case, that strikes me as an understatement. A plan such as you propose warms the Black Prince’s heart, it truly does.”
Rhovann inclined his head, acknowledging what the Cyricist intended as a compliment. It was possible that the Merchant Council alone might suffice to oust the harmach in the wake of the Black Moon raid, but he needed to make sure that the Cinderfists would not interfere. In truth, he could not care less what became of the city or Valdarsel’s ragged mob once the Hulmasters were dealt with. He expected to shake the dust of Hulburg from his boots and never look back. Leaving the town to be torn apart among an idiot like Maroth Marstel, a viper such as Valdarsel, and the desperate gangs of foreigners who lurked in its poorer neighborhoods was one more little gift for Geran Hulmaster.
He returned his attention to the priest of Cyric. “The pirate raid depends on surprise. If you choose to move your Cinderfists out of its path or get them in place to strike during the chaos, make sure that you keep the reasons to yourself.” The mage wished he did not have to confide in Valdarsel, but if he failed to warn the man about the coming attack, the Cyricist might very well wind up unleashing his rabble to some counterproductive cross-purpose. He simply had to hope that the prize was tempting enough for the priest.
Valdarsel snorted. “I am not stupid.” He took another sip from his goblet then nodded to himself. “Best not to tell my people anything, I think. I’d rather make use of their unfeigned outrage in the days to come. In fact, I rather hope that the pirates do some damage to the Tailings and Easthead. A few deaths or abductions would be just the thing to stir up anger.”
“I consider that the safest option. You and I are the only people in Hulburg who know what is coming the night after next. I prefer to keep it that way.” Rhovann drank again from his goblet-the wine was exactly what he might have expected from a place like the Three Crowns-and stood. “We will speak again soon.”
He set his hand on the door and was about to let himself out when he heard a thump from somewhere behind the wall where Valdarsel sat. Someone in the adjoining room said clearly, “Ho, what are you doing there?” There was a muffled reply, another couple of thumps, then the speaker shouted, “Come back here!”
Rhovann wheeled on Valdarsel with sudden fury. “You had someone spy on me?” he demanded.
Valdarsel ignored him. The Cyricist surged out of his own seat and looked at the wall. The Three Crowns was rather shod-dily built; the interior walls were little more than a thin weave of wooden slats covered in plaster between the rough timber posts. Valdarsel angrily threw aside several spare chairs standing against the wall, revealing a coin-sized hole in the plaster just a little above the floor. “Not I,” the man spat. “It seems there was a mouse in the wall.”
Rhovann threw open the sliding door and hurried down the hall, only to find that the room he was seeking
