4th day of the Turn of Saewyn, 4991

 

The haze drifting through the interior of the Dull Dagger reeked of rank, cheap smoking-leaf.

A meek, lonely fire burned low in the sole hearth on the back wall of the cramped room. The tavern owner had not placed a new log on the fire for some time; the man was too busy snoring, head down on the filthy bar. The ceiling was low, the lighting gloomy, and but a dozen tables fit in the small tavern, less than half of which had anyone sitting at them. And less than half of those folk were awake.

The clientele of the Dagger and the tavern itself matched one another perfectly. Most in the room did not patronize the establishment for its ambience. The Dagger was filthy, but the wine was cheap.

Glancing around the room, Everett shook his head, turning his lip up in disgust.

We really need to find a new place…

“Pay the commons, my Lord.”

Everett looked to the bald man on his left and muttered, “Getting around to it, Kalar.”

Peering down to his pile, Everett selected the requisite silver ducat, and tossed it in the center of the table. The round coin clinked, rolled around on its edge a couple of times before toppling over to join the three silver already there.

“Now deal already,” mumbled Everett.

Kalar Avirley was a prominent member of the Brewers Guild. The man was in his middle forties, a bit overweight, and sported a large bushy moustache. Everett thought it looked as if a woolly caterpillar had crawled under the man’s nose and taken up residence. A long, angry-looking scar traversed the man’s shorn forehead.

Gods, if you aren’t the ugliest man in Redstone…

Kalar nodded his head and replied in a gravelly voice, “Of course, my Lord.” The brewer squeezed his thick, meaty fingers around the set of placards and gave them one last series of flurried shuffling. Turning to the man on his left, Kalar presented the deck of placards in his palm.

“Slice, if you will, traveler.”

The man across the tavern table from Everett sat upright with his back straight against the chair and his arms folded leisurely over his chest. Without taking his eyes from Everett, he lifted one hand and waved it dismissively, indicating he did not care to slice the set.

Everett shrugged.

Fine, trust Kalar. It’s your loss…

The man was a sit-in for tonight’s game. Their normal fourth had not shown. Everett had not minded, however; the idiot won at knuckles far more than he lost. After waiting for a short time, Everett, Kalar, and Ghert had asked the room at the Dagger if anyone wished to join their game. Everett had seriously doubted anyone in the tavern had the coin for a single hand, but they had asked anyway.

A lone figure had lifted his hand, stood from his table—where he sat alone—and moved to stand before Everett’s table. He had said two words, “I play,” and then had dropped a heavy purse on the table. He had sat in the open chair and said, “Call me Arunius.”

When Kalar had asked his last name, Arunius had not given one.

When asked from where he hailed, Arunius had answered evasively, “The west.” The man’s olive skin and coarse, black hair said the Northlands or Long Coast, however.

At the time, Everett had not cared what the man’s name, heritage, or favorite meal was. He had money and said he could play. That had been sufficient for Everett’s needs at the time.

Three hours later, they knew little more about the strange man other than he was a skilled knuckles player. Arunius spoke only when forced to, made no unnecessary movements, and had an annoying habit of staring at you seemingly without blinking. Most interesting to Everett at the moment, however, was that his pile of coin nearly matched Everett’s in size. The night had gone poorly for Kalar and Ghert. They might be lucky to make it through a few more hands before being forced to bow out.

After Arunius shrugged off the chance to slice the placards, the skinny fellow to Everett’s right chuckled quietly. Everett glanced over to Ghert and the two exchanged a knowing look. The porter knew as well as Everett did that Kalar would take any chance to cheat he could. It was the only way Kalar could ever win.

Ghert’s gaze shifted to the strange Northlander. In a wheezy voice that sounded decades older than should emanate from a thirty-year-old, Ghert said quizzically, “Are you sure about that, friend?”

Keeping his eyes fixed on Everett, Arunius nodded once and said crisply, “I am.”

As Everett’s pile of ducats had increased in size throughout the night, Arunius had seemed intent on trying to intimidate him. For the past hour, the only time he pulled his gaze from Everett’s face was to look at his placards.

For a moment, Everett considered letting Arunius learn his lesson, but he was tired and did not feel like giving Kalar a winning hand.

Must I do everything?

Glancing over at the brewer, Everett said sharply, “Hold a moment, Kalar. If he won’t slice, I will.”

Moments from dealing the first placard, Kalar froze. Lifting an eyebrow—they were nearly as thick his moustache—the brewer muttered disappointingly, “That’s not the custom of the game, my Lord.”

Everett glared at the man. “Did you gain a spine while losing all your coin tonight, Kalar?”

Ghert chuckled again.

Tapping the tabletop, Everett muttered, “I will slice.”

The older man dropped his eyes, sighed, and placed the set of placards so they rested on the table before Everett.

“Wise choice,” muttered Ghert.

Ghert Riewodel had been playing knuckles with Everett for two years now—weekly, whenever Everett was back in Redstone—and knew to stay on Everett’s good side. Everett shook his head, still peering at Kalar. With as long as the brewer had been with the group—a little over a year—he should have known, as well.

Of course, Kalar is dumber than a bag of his brewer’s yeast.

He eyed the red scar on the man’s head.

Wonder if that has something to do with it…

Reaching out, Everett grabbed a little more than half of the placards, lifted them, and set the chosen placards on the table, beside the first half.

“Now you can deal, Kalar.”

With a light grunt of acknowledgement, Kalar put the bottom half on the top and scooped up the pile of placards, announcing, “Everything’s natural. A straight up game.” Immediately, he began to flick the rectangular placards around the table, starting with Arunius.

Everett sighed and exchanged another glance with Ghert. The porter shook his head slowly with a slight smirk etched on his face.

Predictable.

There were nearly as many ways to play knuckles as there were placards in the deck. However, every time it was Kalar’s turn to deal, he chose the straight, base game rules.

The man is as imaginative as he is intelligent…

Once the Spring hand was dealt—three placards to every player—Kalar put the remaining set on the table. Everett reached out to retrieve his placards from the table, being careful not get a splinter from the rough oak top. Whichever carpenter had crafted these tables had skipped a few important steps, namely planing the wood and sanding out the jagged edges. The hunk of wood was barely deserving of the title ‘table.’  

Pulling the three placards to his chest, Everett tilted the hand back enough so some of the candlelight of the table behind him lit the placards. He was careful to ensure neither Kalar nor Ghert could get a glimpse.

Squinting his eyes to see the numbers and symbols—the Dull Dagger was as dim as it was dirty—he studied his hand.

Not bad.

He held a nine and ten of crescents along with a ten of swords. The blue paint of the crescents and the red of the swords looked almost identical in the gloomy, flickering candlelight.

Everett kept his face devoid of reaction. He held a solid opening Spring hand, but did not want to share that with his opponents. Squaring the placards back together, he placed them face down on the table, and looked up. As expected, Arunius was glaring at him. Kalar and Ghert both held their placards close.

“Your bet, Northlander,” mumbled Everett.

Arunius held his gaze and replied calmly, “I am not from the Northlands.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Everett said, “Ah…you do speak.” Shrugging his shoulders, he muttered, “I don’t care where you’re from. Just bet. I’m getting tired.”

The man reached to his pile, selected a neat stack of silver coins—all of the man’s coins were arranged in tidy towers—and placed them in the center of the table.

“Thirty silver.”

Ghert let out a low whistle. Kalar tossed his placards down immediately and said with a laugh, “Hells, I’m out already. I don’t have ten left.”

Everett stared at the stack, mildly surprised. An opening bet that size was large for this particular game.

I did not expect that.

The amount was a pittance to Everett—the only son of the duke did not play for money—but it was a substantial amount to any commoner, which Everett had assumed this man was.

He ran his eyes over Arunius again. The man was perhaps eight or nine years older than Everett, placing the man just short of thirty. His face was angled and sharp; women probably considered him handsome. The maroon tunic he sported was of a good cut of cloth, but not something Everett would have expected to see a nobleman wearing. A gold ring with some type of green gem hung from his left ear.

Finally…the game gets interesting.

Everett turned to Ghert and nodded. Keeping all surprise out of his voice, he said, “Thirty to you, Ghert.”

The short and skinny porter sighed. “That’s quite a hefty sum, friend.”

Without taking his eyes from Everett, Arunius said evenly, “Why is it that you do that?”

Ghert’s gaze danced away from the stack of silver ducats and to Arunius’ face. “Pardon, friend?”

Finally pulling his stare from Everett, Arunius peered at Ghert. “You have called me ‘friend’ all evening long even though I can count the number of words I’ve spoken to you on one hand.” Arunius tilted his head to the side, regarding the porter as one would a three-legged dog. “I don’t know you, nor do I really care to know you. And you certainly don’t know me any better than you know old King Guy Rathburn.”

Had Everett possessed a sense of humor, he might have been forced to smother a smile. The Rathburn line of kings had perished centuries ago, back when the Oaken Duchies were still the Oaken Kingdom.

Hailing from Masons Bay in the Southlands, Ghert Riewodel had the annoying habit of calling everyone ‘friend.’ It grated on Everett, but he put up with the minor irritation. Ghert was the head of the local Southern Porters Company station in Redstone and a useful person to know. If Everett ever wanted something out of the ordinary sent to him when he was stuck in one of the blasted cities his father sent him to, a note to Ghert was all it took. A few weeks later, his requested item would arrive.

Ghert cleared his throat, pressed his lips together, and said curtly, “Pardon my manners.”

Arunius said evenly, “When you find some, I will pardon them.”

The skin around Ghert’s eyes tightened. He reached down, grabbed a handful of coins, and tossed them into the commons, saying gruffly, “I meet your thirty, and raise you ten.”

Everett shook his head slightly.

Oh, Ghert…you’ve been had.

Arunius had been nearly silent for three hours. The only reason he had spoken to Ghert was to ruffle and goad the man into making a bet he would never had made otherwise.

Before the coins stopped rattling and clinking, Ghert seemed to realize his mistake. He glanced down at his pile—he now had less coin than Kalar—and pressed his eyes shut. Lines creased his forehead. Unable to help himself, Ghert peeked at his Spring hand.

Everett watched closely, waiting.

Come on, Ghert…let’s see what—

Ghert’s nostrils flared.

Ah…you have nothing.

Most of the Southlander’s tells were easy to spot. It had taken Everett less than two nights of playing with Ghert before he had figured them all out.

Foolish mistake, Ghert.

Everett shifted his gaze to the olive-skinned man across the table and studied Arunius. The Northlander sat as still one of the statue’s in the Duke’s Hall, glaring at Everett.

Seems the game is down to you and me, stranger.

For most of the evening, Everett had tracked the man’s betting habits, mannerisms, and gestures in an attempt to predict when the man had a good hand or did not. Unfortunately, he would have had more success trying to read a book in a windowless room at midnight in the dead of Winter.

 “Your bet,” murmured the Northlander.

Everett’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.

The man had barely spoken a word all evening, but now that his tongue had loosened, he was showing Everett a healthy amount of disrespect by not addressing him with the appropriate honorific. While Everett had not announced his heritage as the heir to the Sovereign’s Chair, it surely was apparent to Arunius who he was. Kalar and Ghert had made more than enough references to the fact he was the duke’s son in casual conversation.

Even a brainless idiot like Kalar would have figured out who I am…

The intentional rudeness coupled with the atypical opening bet of the Northlander’s—or wherever he was from—had put Everett off-balance.

What game are you really playing?

Attempting to regain some sort of position over the man, Everett asked politely, “What exactly is your trade, Northlander?”

“My trade is my business,” replied Arunius. The man seemed unperturbed by the Northlander designation.

“Is it?” mused Everett. “Surely something brought you to Redstone, yes?”

Arunius remained quiet, his dark eyes peering at Everett.

Everett counted ten heartbeats, waiting for the man to show something, anything.

Blast it, man. At least blink!

Someone in the cramped, rank tavern room coughed, breaking the moment. Everett let out a tiny breath.

Hells…

Dropping his gaze, Everett attempted to clear his head. He hated that he was suddenly this bothered by the stranger.

Hells, a nine and two tens is a good Spring hand. Good enough to play…

Reaching down to his pile, he selected forty silver ducats.

“I’ll meet the bet and increase it by ten.”

Everett stretched his arm out, slowly placing the handful of coins in the commons.

Bet you didn’t exptect that…

Without hesitation, Arunius selected ten more silver coins—placing them neatly on his stack of thirty—his eyes never leaving Everett.

“I will, as well.”

The Northlander had not batted an eye.

Kalar leaned forward in his chair, gripping the placards tightly. Brainless or not, he surely sensed the tension that had suddenly sprouted. Peering at Arunius, he asked quietly, “How many?”

Arunius replied, “None. Just the Summer placard, please.”

Inwardly, Everett frowned.

Hells.

For the Summer hand—and in each subsequent round, Harvest and Winter—each of them had the opportunity to exchange up to two placards before getting that season’s extra placard. The Northlander must have a good hand to pass on the exchange.

Kalar rapped his knuckles on the wooden tabletop, marking the start of the Summer hand, and flicked a single placard to Arunius. Everett watched it flutter over to land before the olive-skinned man.

The Northlander continued staring at Everett. He made no move to pick it up.

Arrogant…

After waiting a moment, Kalar glanced across the table and prompted, “What about you, Ghert?”

The porter’s face was ashen. With a heavy sigh, he selected two placards from his Spring hand, pushed them across the table to Kalar, and muttered quietly, “Two, please.”

Everett peered over at the Southlander.

Gods, Ghert…Two? Truly?

That meant all Ghert had was a lone high placard.

You bet forty silver on that?

Kalar did not have the good grace to suppress an amused chuckle as he dealt three placards back to Ghert. The porter greedily gobbled up the placards, pulling them from the tabletop to stare at them.  Everett watched the man’s reaction closely. Either Ghert was able to keep his thoughts to himself, or Everett completely missed one of the man’s giveaways.

Blast it.

Kalar interrupted his evaluation of Ghert with a hushed, “And you, my Lord?”

Everett looked to the bald brewer. Momentarily distracted by the man’s ridiculous moustache, he muttered, “Summer placard only.” Had Arunius not refused the exchange, Everett might have traded in his nine of crescents, hoping for another ten. However, he was not about to let the Northlander think he had an edge.

Kalar placed a placard on the table, pressed two of his meaty fingers on the back, and slid it to Everett. Like Arunius, Everett left it untouched, face down. He stared at Northlander.

I can be arrogant, too.

Arunius did not seem to care. He reached up and casually scratched his cheek. Pulling his hand away, he stared at his finger a moment. He rubbed his fingers together quickly, and muttered, “Eyelash…”

Everett watched in disbelief. The man was calm, collected, and unruffled.

Who are you?

Kalar the brewer leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning and creaking under the man’s weight. Surveying the table, the man muttered with anticipation, “Bets, please.”

Arunius immediately reached to his pile, selected another neat stack of coins, and added it to his first. This one was taller.

“Forty silver.”

Kalar chuckled again, wholly amused by the situation.  

Ghert let a low curse slip out.

Everett showed no outward reaction. At least he hoped he did not.  He had fully expected Arunius to at least look at his Summer placard before placing a bet.

Gods, he must have a good hand.

Ghert dropped his head to stare at his pile. Shaking his head, he said dejectedly, “I don’t think I have thirty blasted silver left.”

Everett glanced over.

You aren’t really considering betting, are you?

Ghert had more copper ducats than anything else. A quick estimation and Everett assumed the man might have the equivalent of thirty silver before him.

Still chuckling, Kalar  said, “I’ll loan you what I have left, Ghert.”

The porter glanced over at the brewer, hopeful. “Truly?

“At forty percent return, absolutely,” replied Kalar, his mood growing even more jovial.

Ghert’s expression darkened. “You’re a blasted highwayman, Kalar.”

Everett said quietly, “I will give you a gold ducat if you like, Ghert. Consider it an advance on future dealings.” The amount should keep him in the game unless Arunius went mad with the remaining bets.

The porter’s head snapped up. He stared at Everett, clearly stunned. “You will, my Lord?” An uneasy smile touched the man’s lips. “You jest, yes?”

The man’s expression of surprise was understandable. Everett was not known to go out of his way for anyone unless there was something in it for him. This situation was no different, however. In this case, Everett gained another player to hopefully lure some sort of reaction from the strange Northlander.

Peering at the skinny porter, Everett replied with an edge, “Have you ever known me to jest, Ghert?”

Shaking his head quickly, Ghert said, “No, my Lord.” His expression darkened, “No, not at all, in fact.” He hesitated a moment before asking quietly, “Might I ask at what rate, my Lord?”

Everett rolled his eyes and muttered, “Blast it, man! You think I care about a percentage on a blasted gold ducat? Zero, Ghert. I’ll give you the coin at zero.”

Ghert sat straight in his chair. “Hells, then. I accept, my Lord.”

Everett reached into his pile and counted out a hundred silver ducats, the equivalent of a single gold. Pushing them over to Ghert, he glanced over at Arunius, curious what the man’s reaction might be. Unfortunately, Everett saw nothing; the man kept his face blank. He might as well be taking a nap in a meadow’s glade on a warm, Seventhday afternoon.

Ghert scooped the coins into his meager pile, chose forty silver, and pushed them into the commons.

“Thank you, my Lord,” said the porter. “I would have hated to let a hand like this—” he tapped his four placards on the table “—pass me by.” Ghert gave a wide, confident smile.

Everett watched him closely, waiting.

Maybe he drew a good hand…

Ghert’s nostrils flared again.

Idiot.

The man was digging his own grave and Everett had just lent him a shovel.

“To you, my Lord,” mumbled Kalar.

Everett nodded. “I know that, Kalar.”

The brewer dipped his head, pointing his ugly scar straight at Everett, and said, “Of course, my Lord.”

Everett’s eyes wandered over to where the facedown Summer placard rested before him. The back of the placard seemingly taunted him, daring him to look All sixty-six placards of the deck were hand painted and illustrated a stylized gray wolf with strange, blood-red eyes. Those eyes were staring at Everett, daring him to flip the placard to see what he held.

No.

Everett reached to his substantial pile of coin, chose forty silver, and added them haphazardly to the commons. As the coins fell from his hands, he announced, “I’ll meet.”

Before the last coin struck the table, Kalar shifted in his chair, leaning forward in preparation to deal.

Everett held up his left hand and ordered, “Hold a moment, Kalar.”

The brewer’s dark eyes regard him expectantly. For a moment, all three men stared at him, waiting.

Everett let them wait a few breaths before he said quietly, “I’ll add twenty more.”

Picking up the twenty extra, he aimed his raise at Arunius’ neat little stacks and tossed the silver into the pile. He struck his mark with a number of soft clinks as the Northlander’s miniature towers of coin toppled.

Kalar began chuckling again. “Goodness, my Lord…”

A huff of bitter disbelief escaped from Ghert’s lips. “Forget this. I’m not going toss away a turn’s profits on one hand.” He took his four placards and flicked them back to the brewer. “I’m not winning anything with that slop.” Kalar retrieved the placards, ensuring they remained face down.

The one man Everett had hoped to draw forth a reaction showed none. Arunius quietly selected twenty silver ducats and placed them in the commons in a nice, well-ordered stack.

Kalar said, “Now that all betting is done—” He glanced at Arunius. “You do not intend to raise, do you, traveler?”

Arunius said, “I do not.”

Giving a quick, decisive nod, Kalar rapped the knuckles of his heavy, right fist on the table and announced, “Harvest, then.” He stared at Arunius and waited. After a few quiet moments, Kalar cleared his throat and said, “Pardon me, but are you going to look at that placard, or not?”

Arunius replied calmly, “I don’t think I like it. Take it back and give me a new one with my Harvest placard, please.”

Unable to help himself, Kalar let slip a loud, dubious guffaw. “Blast the God, but you have guts, Arunius.”

Everett studied the Northlander, growing increasingly uneasy.

I don’t like this…

Everett preferred having the upper hand in any situation, and he typically did. People deferred to him because he was the son of the duke and Everett had no qualms using that to his advantage. Yet sitting across from him now was a man who seemed utterly indifferent that Everett was Duke Gill Redlord’s only child. Arunius exuded a sense of tranquility that was wholly unnerving. Everett had grown used to seeing the glint of fear in most people’s eyes when they interacted with him; Arunius had none.

Kalar retrieved the facedown Summer placard, placed it in the used pile, and dealt Arunius two more slowly. As he flicked the second to the Northlander, Kalar said playfully, “You think you might look at those?”

Arunius inclined his head in Everett’s direction. “I will look at mine when he does.”

Everett’s eyes narrowed.

Nine Hells, this man is arrogant.

Kalar and Ghert both turned their heads to stare at him and his facedown Summer placard.

Keeping his voice even, Everett said, “Deal me Harvest, Kalar.”

The placard the brewer tossed to Everett skimmed over the table, floating on a thin cushion of air before coming to rest on the other unlooked-at placard. Everett did not move.

When it was apparent Everett had no intention of looking at either placard, Kalar smiled eagerly, glanced back to Arunius, and said, “Your bet, traveler.”

Arunius shook his head once. “I defer to Lord Redlord.”

Everett glared at the man. Arunius had just confirmed he was entirely aware of Everett’s personage, which meant his slights regarding Everett’s deserved title had been intentional and blatant. Irritated, Everett shifted positions, shoving his booted feet under his rickety chair. The straps of the longknife sheath strapped to his right thigh dug into the muscle of his leg. As he reached down to adjust the leather fastenings, his hand brushed against the cold, metal bolster of the longknife. He hesitated and ran his fingers over the leather handle.

I wonder if I could get away with it.

He glanced around the room. While a competent Patrician would look on the sworn word of any patron within Dull Dagger with a skeptical eye, any sort of rash action now would only cause more trouble for Everett than the Northlander was worth. He would have to fabricate dozens of lies and offer substantial bribes.

I’ll beat him now. Perhaps I’ll kill him later…

With a tiny sigh, he removed his hand from his knife’s handle and peered back down at the table. The two facedown placards taunted him.

What’s better? To be strong and lose? Or to be weak and win?

The red eyes of painted wolves on the back of the placards stared back at him.

Hells.

As he debated with himself, he heard the lone door to the Dagger creak open behind him. A blessed waft of sweet, fresh air drifted in from outside, carrying with it a hint of honeybells. Early and plentiful Spring rains in Redstone had helped to fill the hills and fields around the capital of the Great Lakes Duchy with an exorbitant number of the sweet-smelling flowers.

Everett expected that one of the patrons had had enough and was on his way out, so he did not stop staring at the placards.

What should I do…?

Ghert, however, looked up and, glancing past Everett muttered an awed, “Bless the Gods…”

Blast it. I’d rather win.

Deciding that victory mattered most, Everett reached out and picked up his Summer and Harvest placards. He made sure to avoid Arunius’ eye as he did so; he could almost taste the smug satisfaction flowing from the man.

He placed the two new placards on top of his original Spring three and lifted all five to his chest. Spreading the placards into a tight fan, he held them so the candlelight would illuminate the numbers and shapes.

You lose, Northlander.

Everett held four tens—a gold crown and black cross joining his red sword and blue crescent—to go along with his lone nine of crescents.

Everett suppressed his reaction, sure that Arunius’ eyes were fixated on him. Keeping his breathing even and slow, he shoved the five placards back together and put them on the table, snapping down the corners against the rough tabletop.

What to bet…?

He lifted his eyes to Arunius, prepared to gauge the man’s demeanor, and was surprised to see that—for once—the Northlander was not looking at him. Rather, Arunius looked past Everett, staring toward the door of the Dull Dagger. His stoic expression had faltered; Arunius looked befuddled. Everett’s eyes danced to Ghert and Kalar; both men were staring in the same direction, mouths agape.

What in the Nine Hells?

Intrigued now, Everett swiveled in his chair, looking over his shoulder, towards the door. No one had left the tavern. Instead, the Dull Dagger had an unusual, new arrival.

My Gods…

A beautiful young woman—diminutive, with light, pale skin—stood before the open doorway. Her hair hung unbound to her shoulders and was either dark blonde or light brown; Everett could not tell in the hazy gloom of the tavern. Flickering firelight from the torchpoles in the street outside lit up the side of the woman’s face and danced over her glistening hair. The woman’s features were flawless.

Everett blinked.

What is she doing in the Dagger?

An old memory tugged at his brain.

Hold a moment…

The skin around his eyes tightened as he studied the new arrival again. The strange woman turned her head, scanning the room, evidently searching for someone or something. As she did, Everett got a better look at her features. A sudden realization grabbed hold of him; his heart began to thud in his chest.

That’s not possible…

Ghert murmured, “Either that’s a half-elf or I’m a blasted razorfiend…”

The half-elf woman’s eyes settled on Everett. A sultry, seductive smile spread over her face.

Gods, it is her…

Four years ago during the messy business with Quin Cangswood in Orcwatch, Everett had seen this same half-elf in the Sleek Jackal Inn, and again in the alleyway where Quin had met his end. Everett’s mind rebelled against what his eyes clearly told him.

She can’t be…why would she be here?

A rare spark of panic skipped through Everett.

Could she know the truth?

He had been shoveling Quin’s murder onto those three rude Southlanders with ease. He had killed one himself—clean and justified at far as the Red Sentinels were concerned—and the other two had hung after the Patrician had found them guilty. While rumors about Everett’s involvement had darted about the dirthole of a city for a number of turns afterward—most likely spread by the woman with whom Quin had wanted to dance—Everett had been confident that only one other person knew the truth. Alpert Hyde, the son of a western baron, was someone whom Everett could manage, however. The man was as pliable as twice-risen bread dough. Alpert had been quiet, waiting to receive his reward once Everett became duke.

Staring at the half-elf as she shut the door, he felt a small lump form in his throat. The woman turned to face Everett’s table and began to stride across the room, heading straight for him. She wore a pale violet linen, form-fitting dress—something more befitting a mistress than a lady—that looked entirely too thin for the cool Spring night.

She must know…why else is she here?

As the half-elf neared, Kalar muttered under his breath, “Friend of yours, my Lord?”

Everett did not respond. He was too busy thinking of ways he could eliminate this new threat. Unfortunately, he could not help but watch the sway of the half-elf’s hips as she swished closer. He was having a difficult time thinking straight.

When the alluring woman reached their table, she swept to Everett’s right—filling the air with the scent of honeybells and a hint of rosewater—turned her rear towards him, and promptly sat in his lap, draping her right arm over his left shoulder and around the back of his neck. Everett stared at her blankly as she settled herself, gently running her fingers through the back of Everett’s close-cropped hair.

“Hello, Everett.”

Her voice dripped with honey and carried with it a friendly tone of familiarity he did not understand.

With her unblemished, perfect face only inches away from his, Everett stammered, “Pardon?”

Typically, women held only a passing interest for Everett. Occasionally, he felt more than a pure physical attraction to one, but he had decided that made him weak and he would remove himself from the situation. Women clouded the mind, as was evidenced by the half-elf sitting on his lap. He was taken by her and would have been hard pressed to explain why.

Another waft of honeybells filled his nostrils.

By the Gods, she is wonderful…

The half-elf’s eyes were an icy blue, as crisp and cool as an Orcwatch Winter wind. She peered into his eyes as a playful smile danced over her lips.

“I thought I would come by and see how your game is going, dear Everett.”

Everett had completely forgotten he had been playing knuckles. Glancing to the table, he found his three opponents gaping at him. Even the Northlander seemed rattled. Everett stared at the man.

Hah! Finally!

Even if Everett did not know whom in the Nine Hells the half-elf was, she was his edge.

I’ll just kill her later.

Slipping his left arm around the woman’s back, he pulled his unknown visitor closer, casually ran his palm over the thin material on the woman’s side, and said, “My bet, is it not?”

A few quiet moments skipped past before Kalar—of all people—managed to mutter, “Uh…yes. Yes, it is, my Lord…” The man’s bushy eyebrows were drawn together as he stared at the half-elf wonderingly.

Everett’s right hand gripped his placards tightly as his left was busy caressing the woman’s back. Staring up into her blue eyes, Everett forced a slight smile and said, “My dear, would you mind making my bet for me?”

The half-elf returned his grin. “Of course, Everett.” She looked at his pile and added inquisitively, “All of it, dear?”

Everett’s heart skipped a beat. He had at least six gold ducats still left in his pile. The commons was already brimming—it had the equivalent of nearly three gold—and Everett was not about to bet twice that. It was not an exorbitant sum for him, but neither was it a trifle. His hand was very strong, but Everett was not a fool.

He drew his eyes together and said evenly, “No. That’s a bit much, dear.”

The half-elf lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh? I apologize. I was never very good at this game. How much then?”

Everett glanced over at Arunius, gauging the man. The Northlander had yet to pick up his two Harvest placards.

“A full gold seems appropriate.”

 The woman nodded, leaned forward, and counted out the equivalent in silver. As she did, her hair brushed Everett’s cheek. A new scent filled Everett’s nose, mingling with the honeybells and rose. He drew in a deep breath.

Cinnamon and cloves…

Everything about this woman was alluring: her appearance, her voice, her scent. Everett shut his eyes, trying to clear his head.

Focus, Everett.

Thankfully, the woman shielded him from the other players so none saw his momentary weakness.

After she slid the coin to the commons, she leaned back and resumed rubbing her fingers through his hair, periodically kneading his neck. He began to reconsider his plan to kill her.

Straining to keep his voice calm and without tremor, Everett stared at Arunius and said, “It is to you, Northlander.”

Arunius had regained most of his previous composure. His face was blank again, but Everett could see the man was no longer completely at ease. The Northlander’s dark eyes shot to his placards. After only a moment, he reached out and slid them close to him.

Hah!

Arunius grabbed the corners and lifted them up a bit, effectively peeling the placards from the table. He glanced at what he held and released the placards, sending a sharp, crisp snap through the air as they struck the table.

The left corner of Arunius’ mouth curled up slowly.

“I’ll meet your bet.”

The Northlander selected a hundred silver ducats and placed them in a neat stack in the commons.

Everett waited, wondering if the man would increase the bet. After it was apparent Arunius was content, Everett glanced at Kalar and instructed, “Winter.”

The brewer had yet to stop gaping at the half-elf. The ugly man’s eyes were wide and his mouth draped open.

Ghert muttered, “Trying to catch a fly, Kalar?”

Blinking quickly and shutting his mouth, Kalar shook his head once and stared down at the wooden table. “My apologies, my Lady.”

Everett smothered a grin.

This woman is as much a noble as you are a scholar, Kalar…

The half-elf smiled at the brewer graciously. “No offense taken, brewmaster.” The hint of a sharp edge entered her tone as she said, “Now, deal the Winter hand.”

Kalar glanced back at her nervously, nodded, and then leaned forward while Everett eyed the woman carefully.

How did she know Kalar was a brewer?

Kalar seemed to have missed the fact she had named his profession, rapped the table once with his fist, and announced, “Winter.” Looking to Arunius, he inquired, “How many?”

Arunius shook his head. “None. Just the Winter placard, please.”

Kalar flicked the placard to the Northlander and Arunius picked it up before it stopped moving. A smile born of pure confidence spread over his face.

Oh-oh…

The Northlander picked up all six of his placards, and quickly arranged them in a particular order. Everett wondered exactly what order that might be.

“For you, my Lord?” prompted Kalar.

Pulling his gaze from Arunius, Everett lifted his right hand, and spread the five placards he held in a fan. Before he could protest, the half-elf woman reached out, plucked the nine of crescents from his hand, and placed it before Kalar.

“Exchanging one plus the Winter,” instructed the woman firmly. She almost sounded impatient.

Kalar hesitated and looked to Everett. “My Lord?”

While perturbed by her presumption, it was the right play. Everett nodded once. As Kalar took two placards from the deck, Everett stole a furtive glance at the woman’s profile.

Who in the Nine Hells are you?

Kalar placed the placards before Everett.

Playing the part of the woman’s suitor or gallant, Everett said kindly, “My dear, would you mind?”

The half-elf flashed him a quick smile and replied, “Of course, Everett.” She retrieved the placards and held them up so only Everett could see. The two Winter placards were the eleven of swords and the eleven of fish.

Blast the Gods…

Everett had a stocked wagon: four of one number, and two of another. Even more impressive was that both the wheels of said wagon—the tens—and the cargo—the elevens—were the two highest in the deck. Short of having a suited straight, the Northlander had almost no chance to beat him.

The half-elf shifted in his lap, placing the two elevens in his right hand. As she did, she leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt soft yet firm, like the flesh of a ripe plum. In a quiet, husky voice, she muttered, “You’re welcome.”

It took every bit of self-control Everett had to keep his face blank. With his heart pounding in his chest, he stared across the table at Arunius and said, “Your bet, Northlander.”

The woman sat upright again and turned to face Arunius, waiting.

The Northlander stared at the pair with curious eyes. He, along with Kalar and Ghert, had probably heard the woman’s soft congratulations and was surely wondering what Everett had just drawn.

After a few quiet moments, Arunius said, “I bet it all.”

Kalar and Ghert both took in quick, hissing breaths. Everett was stunned.

All of it?

Staring at the Northlander’s pile, Everett began to try to estimate how much the man still had left. The four gold ducats were easy enough to note, but the stacks of silver were too tall and numerous to easily count.

“I’ll save you the time, Lord Redlord,” muttered the man. “Besides the four gold, there are three hundred, forty-four silver ducats.”

Everett hesitated.

Almost seven and a half gold?

Should Everett meet the bet, the commons would hold an absurd amount of coin: over nineteen gold, close to a full twenty.

Everett peered at his own pile, suddenly concerned he did not have enough to meet the bet. He did not keep as close a count as Arunius evidently did, but he estimated that he might have only six gold before him. With his eyes on his coin, he muttered quietly, “Ghert, I’ll need the rest of my advance back.”

Without hesitation, the skinny porter slid back the rest of the silver he had before him, looking relieved to do so.

Everett’s eyes ran over all of his coins quickly, counting.

Hells!

He was short a full gold. He pressed his lips together, silently seething. Even if they had the coin, he would not have asked either Kalar or Ghert for a loan; he was the son of the duke.

With sugary sweet reproach, the half-elf said, “You forgot your reserve fund, Everett.”

Everett glanced at the woman.

Reserve fund?

Reaching her left hand inside his vest, the woman patted his chest gently before withdrawing her hand and placing a single golden ducat on the table.

Everett stared at the coin, confused.

Where in the Nine Hells did that come from?

The half-elf said, “There, now you have enough, yes?”

Everett pressed his lips together for a moment before replying softly, “I do.” Having the amount to meet Arunius’ bet and actually meeting it were two different things, however. The son of the duke lifted his gaze to Arunius’ face and stared.

What is in your hand?

The Northlander had proven to be a shrewd, thoughtful, and careful player throughout the night. He had not bluffed once. Each time he, Kalar, or Ghert had met the man’s bets, Arunius had laid down a superior hand. This meant that either he had a tremendous hand now—one that might rival Everett’s—or that everything to this point had been a ruse.

What could you possibly have? Five of a kind? Six Sovereigns? Straight sweep?

Ghert and Kalar both were staring at him, eyes alive and bright, waiting for him make a move.

Despite knowing exactly what was in his hand, Everett nonetheless found himself repeatedly looking at his placards.

He could not possibly beat a stocked wagon, tens over elevens.

Arunius muttered quietly, “The sun was awfully bright today, was it not?”

Everett’s eyes shot up to the Northlander. “Pardon?”

The comment was quite out of place.

With an air of nonchalance, Arunius shrugged his shoulders. “I was simply remarking on how bright the sun was, Lord Redlord. Back home in Keyport, Harvest is approaching. The sun grows dimmer by the day. But here…?” He shrugged again. “Spring is alive and well, yes? So much sun. Day after day…all in a row. Today marks six straight, I think…” A tiny smile rippled along the man’s lips.

Everett stared at Arunius, his eyes narrowing.

Suns.

He stared down at his hand, checking his placards: red swords, blue crescents, a black cross, a green fish, and a gold crown. There was not a single yellow sun in his hand.

Hells.

After a few beats, a befuddled Kalar muttered, “What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?”

Everett rolled his eyes. “Blast it, Kalar. You are denser than a granite quarry.”

Kalar looked over at him, his face still blank.

Idiot.

Ghert was staring at Arunius. Leaning forward in his chair, the Southlands porter said slowly, “Hold a moment. Keyport?” His eyes narrowed. “You said you weren’t from the Northlands’ Duchy.”

Without taking his eyes from Everett, Arunius said, “Yes…about that: I lied.”

Whatever uneasiness the half-elf’s arrival had caused Arunius was gone now. He had both regained his bearing while throwing Everett off-balance yet again.

Why would he hint at his hand?

Everett was trapped between thinking he should meet the bet or fold.

Why would he bluff?

Everett was dually convinced the man had a straight sweep of suns and nothing at all.

What is his blasted game?!

Sounding utterly bored, the half-elf on his lap sighed, twisted to stare at Everett, and said impatiently, “He has nothing, Everett. Meet the bet so we can get on with things.”

Glancing at her, he managed to reply, “Pardon?”

The beautiful, alluring woman muttered assertively, “He is lying. The man has nothing.”

Everett’s eyes narrowed and he replied cautiously, “You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” replied the half-elf with a strangely wicked smile. Nodding at the commons, she added, “I would bet a thousand times that without a moment’s hesitation, Everett.” Shifting her gaze to the Northlander, she said, “He is bluffing.” Her conviction was absolute.

Everett turned to look at Arunius. The olive-skinned man was glaring at the half-elf, his brown eyes burning with a simmering anger.

My Gods…she’s right…

Without a moment’s hesitation, Everett said, “I’ll meet your bet.”

Arunius shifted his heated stare to Everett.

Everett placed his six placards on the table, face up, and spread them for everyone to see. “Stocked wagon. Tens and elevens.”

Kalar chuckled, low and grumbly.

Ghert muttered in awe, “Blast the Gods, that’s a good hand…”

Everett ignored them both. With his eyes fixed on Arunius, he jutted his chin to indicate the Northlander’s hand. “Show me yours.”

Arunius did not move for a moment; he simply sat there, stewing in his own quiet rage. Complete, pure triumph spread through Everett like a hunk of fresh butter melting over squashed Harvest potatoes.

The Northlander drew in a deep breath, held it a few beats, and let it out slowly. Gripping his placards tightly in his hand, he rose from his chair in a slow, measured pace. In a quiet, terse voice, Arunius muttered, “Congratulations, Lord Redlord. You win.”

Before Everett could revel in his victory, Arunius backed away from the table and began to walk around Ghert.

“Hold, there!” said Everett quickly. “Where are you going?”

Standing behind Ghert’s chair, Arunius paused and replied, “You won. You have my coin. I am taking my leave. Good evening.”

Everett’s gaze shot to the six placards still clutched in Arunius’ hand.

“I met your bet, Northlander, show your hand!” ordered Everett. “The rules say you must.”

Arunius lifted an eyebrow and replied steadily, “What care you for rules, Lord Redlord?” There was a hint of malice in the man’s tone.

Everett’s victory was close to being ruined. As anger swelled inside of him, he ushered the diminutive half-elf from his lap, and stood from his chair in a rush. The woman did not protest.

“What in Nine Hells does that mean?” demanded Everett. He moved to stand before the Northlander; the man was a few inches shorter than he was.

Peering up at the duke’s son, Arunius shrugged carelessly. “It means nothing. Nothing at all, Lord Redlord. Truly…pardon my tongue. I am merely upset that I lost most of my wages.” His eyes danced over Everett from head to toe. “No matter, I can make them back in short order, I think.” With a curt nod, he muttered, “Again, good evening.” He made to resume his path to the exit.

Everett reached out and grabbed the Northlander’s left wrist—the hand that still held the placards—and twisted. Everett wanted the man to suffer the humiliation of having bluffed his way poor.

In a flash, the man dropped the placards, reversed Everett’s grip, and wrenched his arm around. Somehow, the man positioned himself behind Everett and, with Everett’s wrist in a tight grip, shoved the duke’s son—face first—onto the table with a resounding crash. Everett’s left cheek slammed into the pile of coin, sending the commons rattling across the table. A handful of ducats fell to the stone floor with metallic clinking.

Everett found himself staring up into the face of a shocked and fearful Ghert.

Don’t just stare, idiot! Do something!

Arunius said calmly, “I am taking my leave, Lord Redlord. Good memories behind.” With one last, rough shove, the Northlander moved away from the table.

Everett immediately stood and turned, cradling his newly sore arm, and watched the Northlander stride to the door, open it, and exit into the Spring night without looking back. As the door shut with a soft thud, Everett was suddenly aware that every set of eyes in the Dull Dagger was on him. More than a few of the commoner scum in the room were trying to hide small smiles.

They’re mocking me…

A crushing wave of fury and embarrassment swept over him.

Turning around, he quickly gathered most of the coin on the table—the gold ducats especially—and shoved it into his belt pouch. Ghert and Kalar stared at him warily, wisely keeping their mouths shut. The half-elf stood off to the side, watching him carefully in much the same way a horse-breeder eyes a potential stallion.

Leaving the coins that had fallen to the floor, Everett whirled around and began to stride to the door. As he reached the oaken door, a soft swishing told him the strange half-elf was shadowing him. Upset already, Everett spun to face her, hissing, “Why are you following me?”

Stopping a pace or two from him, she peered at him with her cool, crisp blue eyes. Tilting her head to the side—letting a few locks of her hair fall before her face—she said disappointedly, “Truly, Everett? This is not you.”

Everett glared at the woman. Yet again, she was right. He prided himself on keeping control.

Feeling the eyes of the room on him, he whispered, “Who in the Nine Hells are you?”

Glancing over his shoulder, the woman nodded at the door and said, “If you’d like to step outside, we can discuss this.” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she added, “Where your future subjects cannot see you behaving like a petulant child. Now shut your mouth, turn around, and walk outside.”

Resisting the urge to look at the patrons of the Dull Dagger, Everett drew himself up to his full height, turned slowly to the door, and exited the tavern with as much grace as he could muster. Stepping into the dark night outside, he left the door open for the half-elf woman and looked up and down the narrow street. It was deserted. Arunius had already slipped down one of the side alleys.

I could kill her now.

Everett suppressed a little shudder against the night’s chill. The Spring evenings would still remind one a mild Winter day for a week or two longer.

The dirt street outside the Dull Dagger was empty because the hour was quite late. Most respectable citizens of Redstone had been asleep for hours. A pair of poles with torchlights atop them—along with the soft glow of White Moo—provided some light against the dark of the late night. The moon had been full yesterday so its illumination was substantial, creating stark shadows among the buildings and alleys.

Everett exhaled, releasing a misty breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Get a hold of yourself, Everett.

A soft thud of wood door on frame told him the woman had exited the Dagger. He listened to the rustle of her too-thin dress as she positioned herself beside him. Steeling himself, he turned to look to his right while asking, “Who are you and—” He stopped, his question dying in his throat.

Gods, she is stunning…

The half-elf’s ice-blue eyes danced with the flickering flames atop the torchpoles. Her pale, flawless skin seemed almost to glow in the moonlight. A tiny, self-satisfied smile crossed her lips. In a soft tone colored with amusement, she said, “This might be easier than I thought.”

Everett said, “Pardon?”

The woman’s smile widened, turning flirtatious as it did. “Oh, nothing, dear Everett.” She reached out her left arm, slipped it through his right, and gave a gentle, playful tug. “Come, let’s walk. We have a few things we need to discuss.”

Before he knew what he was doing, he was walking down the cool, dirt streets of Redstone. For a minute or two, the pair walked in complete silence. Everett repeatedly looked over at the woman, waiting for her to speak.

I really should kill her now.

Numerous dark alleys provided the opportunity for him to duck into and strangle her quickly. She was tiny; he would have no problem overpowering her.

“Ask your questions, Everett,” said the woman softly.

Everett’s curiosity overrode his better judgment. Staring at the half-elf as they walked, he muttered, “Who in the Nine Hells are you?”

With a sly smile, the half-elf said, “You can call me Raela.”

“Call you Raela?” repeated Everett suspiciously. “Is it your name or not?”

Raela glanced at him. “It was the name given this body. I liked it, so I kept it.”

Everett’s eyes narrowed. Before he could stop himself, he muttered, “Are you mad?”

The question prompted a mirthful chuckle from Raela. “No, Everett. Nothing of the sort.” An amused light glinted in her eyes. “You have me mistaken for one of my brethren.”

Everett stared at her.

What does that mean?

The pair turned a corner, and began walking down a gentle slope lined with buildings. Ahead, across the city, Everett spotted the Duke’s Hall perched atop the tallest hill in the area. The massive stone building was impressive, a shining beacon on the mount, lit up with countless torches. Most of the rectangular windows were black now; the bulk of the household would be asleep.

He stared at the mammoth edifice for a moment, feeling the familiar sense of bitter hatred paired with an earnest yearning. One day, the Duke’s Hall would be his; he would sit in the Sovereign’s Chair and rule the Great Lakes Duchy. For now, however, his father was the duke and Everett was the son Duke Gill Redlord seemed to loathe.

“I can help you, Everett,” murmured Raela quietly.

Everett looked over at the half-elf. “What do you mean?”

“I can see it in your eyes, Everett.” She nodded in the direction of the Duke’s Hall. “You want to be the lord of the hall, do you not?”

“Of course,” muttered Everett bitterly. Pressing his lips together, he added, “And I will be someday.”

“Surely you will,” she conceded with a short nod. “But how long must you wait? Duke Gill is a healthy man from all accounts.”

Everett bit the inside of his cheek. Redlord men were known for their longevity. Everett’s grandfather had reached his eighty-fourth Summer before passing to meet Maeana. Gill Redlord might live another thirty-five years.

Feeling the muscles in his face twitch uncontrollably, Everett said quietly, “I can wait.”

A sultry, throaty chuckle poured from Raela. “Patience is not a virtue for you, Everett.”

Stopping in the middle of the deserted street, Everett said sharply, “You speak as if you know me. I’ve never seen you before!”

Raela halted a few paces past where he stood, faced him, and said simply, “That’s a lie.”

Everett was ready to deny everything of which this woman accused him, thinking that perhaps she was going to try to extort him in some fashion, when Raela held up a hand, indicating she wanted to speak.

“Everett, I do not care that you killed that merchantman’s son in Orcwatch. Nor the curate you father brought to you all those years ago to talk with you about your…feelings.” Her icy blue eyes dug into his soul. “Nor the handful of other people who have met an unfortunate end at your hand.”

He glared at her, flexing his hands.

I need to kill her.

With a bored sigh, she said, “Truly, Everett. For one like myself, you are entirely too predictable. As much as you’d like to eliminate me, I assure you that doing so would be a terrible mistake.”

Unnerved that she had guessed his intentions, Everett mumbled, “Why?”

A light scuffling sound behind him was all the warning Everett had a moment before someone barreled into his right side, knocking him to the dirt ground. He tumbled over, scraping his hands as he attempted to arrest his fall. After skidding in the cold dirt, he flipped over immediately, seeking out his attacker.

What in the Nine Hells?

Arunius stood before him, only a few paces away from Raela. The Northlander must have emerged from one of the darkened alleyways. Staring at Everett and completely ignoring the half-elf, Arunius asked, “Who were you talking to?”

Everett’s gaze shot to where Raela stood. She looked utterly calm and unafraid.

The half-elf smiled and said, “He cannot see me, Everett. Or hear me, for that matter.”

Everett’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Two simple Weaves, that is all,” replied Raela.

“How what?” muttered Arunius, turning to where Everett was staring. “Are you mad?”

A sickening realization swelled inside Everett. Peering at Raela, he whispered, “My Gods…you’re a mage, aren’t you?”

Raela smiled wickedly. “You’re right and wrong at the same time, Everett.”

With raised eyebrows, Arunius said, “A mage? Blast the Gods, no…” With a mocking bow, Arunius said, “I am but a simple Gloomblade, Lord Redlord. No magic necessary.”

Everett stared back to the Northlander, the sick feeling in his stomach growing into full-fledged nausea. “Gloomblade?” It was then he noticed the long, curved dagger the man held in his left hand.

The Gloomblades were an organization known throughout the Oaken Duchies that would happily accept money in exchange for committing murder. Oddly enough, the Gloomblades only accepted contracts on people they deemed worthy of dying. Before they would agree to black murder, they required proof their target was a bad sort. They were a strange group: assassins with scruples.

Arunius nodded proudly. “One of the best in our ranks, I like to think. The best coin can buy.” Pointing with the dagger to Everett, he said, “Speaking of which, I would like my fee back. Along with the rest of your purse.” Shaking his head, he said, “Ah, never mind. I will get it myself shortly…”

Everett reached down to his thigh, searching for the handle of his longknife. His hand grazed over the empty leather sheath. He glanced down in a panic.

Where is it?

“Looking for this, Lord Redlord?” asked Arunius.

Peering back at the Northlander, Everett found the man holding up his longknife in his right hand. The blade glinted in the moonlight. Raela stared at the knife and then looked to Everett, shaking her head in disappointment.

Everett’s eyes widened. “How…?” He trailed off and shut his eyes, realizing what had happened.

When he shoved me against the table…

Arunius said plainly, “I had to ensure you were not armed when I confronted you. I could not risk you getting in a lucky strike.”

Opening his eyes, Everett muttered, “Why didn’t you just kill me now? You had me.”

Arunius smiled. “I did, didn’t I? But you see, my contract stated that I must relay a message before I kill you. I had to charge extra for that—more dangerous, you understand?”

Everett glared at the man, remaining silent.

Arunius took a few steps closer to him, and bent his knees, crouching down, holding his dagger in one hand and Everett’s longknife in the other. Raela was watching the exchange with interest.

Everett stared at the cutthroat. “Who hired you?”

“Someone from your past,” replied Arunius.

“Who?” demanded Everett.

Arunius seemed to consider the situation, shrugged, and said, “A young woman by the name of Livia contacted me. She did not have the coin to meet the Gloomblades’ fee, but Merchant Cangswood was happy to fund her endeavor.”

Quin…

Raela finally moved, stepping lightly to where Everett lay on the ground. She said quietly, “Seems that the sins of your past are coming for you, Everett.”

Everett glowered at the half-elf.

Shut it, mage.

Arunius frowned at Everett as if disgusted by what he saw. He stood, took a step back, and flipped the dagger in his hand, gripping the curved blade in his hand. Everett had seen enough knife tossing contests to know the Northlander was about to throw the dagger. It was obvious what his target was going to be.

“Let’s see…what was the exact message…?” Arunius paused, as if he were struggling to remember. Everett guessed the man was simply toying with him. “Ah, yes. It was: ‘I hope this hurts you as much as it did Quin.’”

Arunius reached his hand back and with a quick, underhand motion, flipped the dagger at Everett.

Everett flinched, shut his eyes, and waited for the blade to sink into his flesh.

Nothing hit him.

Did he miss?

“What in the Nine Hells…?”

Arunius’ quiet, bewildered utterance caused Everett to open his eyes. The Northlander’s dagger hung in midair, suspended halfway between Everett and Arunius. By all rights, the weapon should have fallen to the dirt.

Raela stepped around the stunned Arunius, moving to stand next to the arrested dagger. She regarded the Gloomblade quietly, saying, “I can offer you many things, Everett. Protection from those who wish you ill, resources of which you never dreamed, and the promise of tremendous power and authority.”

Everett’s shot back and forth, between her and the dagger. He muttered, “Why?”

Arunius took a step forward, peering at his dagger. “What is happening here?”

Ignoring the Northlander, Raela smiled charmingly at Everett and said, “I can get you in the Sovereign’s Chair decades before you should be, Everett. And none will be the wiser.”

Everett glared at the woman. When he had left the Duke’s Hall for tonight’s game of knuckles, he would never have imagined something like this happening.

Arunius’ gaze shot to Everett. The Northlander’s voice trembled as he mumbled, “You are a blasted mage…”

Everett shook his head. “Gods, no!”

Arunius began to back away, his boots scuffling the dirt. “My Gods…the duke’s son is a mage.”

With an exasperated sigh, Raela faced the man and snapped, “The man is not a mage, you idiot.”

Arunius’ eyes shot open wide, fixating on the half-elf. He shifted direction, backpedaling until he crashed into the side of a building. He dropped Everett’s longknife to the ground with a muted thud of metal meeting cold, hard dirt.

“How…? Where…?”

He could certainly see her now.

Suddenly, the Gloomblade’s dagger whipped back toward the Northlander, flipping in mid-air, and embedded itself deep in Arunius’ throat. The cutthroat’s eyes went wide and he grasped the handle of the blade and pulled. The dagger would not budge however. Everett eyed Raela, quietly confident she was the reason why.

After a few moments, Arunius’ legs gave out and the man collapsed, grasping a barrel as he fell. He managed to hold onto the wooden cask a moment before losing his grip and toppling to the dark street. Everett stared at the crumpled form of his would-be assassin, hidden in the shadows cast by White Moon. He held still, hoping no alarm might be raised from any of the nearby buildings.

The blood had probably not yet stopped pumping from the man’s wound when Raela turned to Everett and said, “Now that I’ve dealt with that…do you accept my offer, Everett?”

Everett stared at the woman, really understanding the meaning of fear for the first time in his life. The diminutive woman’s beauty was gone, replaced with a terrible power Everett did not want to know.

“Who are you really?”

“I have no name, Everett,” replied Raela. Her eyes flared hot like a shuttered ember suddenly given new air and fresh wood shavings to consume. “It was taken from me long ago.”

Everett shook his head slowly.

No…it can’t be.

“Some people call me ‘The Immortal Teller of Lies,” muttered Raela. With a careless shrug, she added, “I would have come up with something better had I been asked, but the title fits, I suppose.”

Everett stared, stunned silent.

One of the Cabal…

Raela, the current incarnation of the God of Deception, asked casually, “Now, will you accept my offer of aid, or do I kill you, too?”

Everett hesitated only a moment. Perhaps it should bother him that one of the nine evil Gods of Terrene was offering to deal with him, but if she could get him in the Sovereign’s Chair, he was willing to forgo caution.

“I accept, Raela.”

The half-elf—no, the God of Deception—smiled sweetly. “Good answer, Everett.” Her eyes turned cold. “Now, get off the ground. We have many things we need to discuss.”