A sickly light filtered through the gray clouds covering the city and started to force back the dark shadows lingering in the 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. The poorer quarters 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.

Fabian had been one of the few competitors who had not collaborated with Desmond d’Tarlec in bringing about Erik’s ruin, and Simon, his employer, was currently one of the most successful traders in the world. Having such a powerful patron might be one reason why Fabian, whom Erik had befriended a decade before assuming control of his 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 the 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.

He 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.

Light from two lamps burning whale oil illuminated the expression on Fabian’s face, which was squinched with annoyance as he raised his eyes from his books. Then Fabian stood abruptly, eyes widening.

Erik undoubtedly had more gray hairs in his beard than Fabian remembered him having; Fabian’s cheeks and body, on the other hand, were just as rounded. He was not a man who believed in hunger. The thought brought a smile to Erik’s lips, a smile that Fabian returned.

“Lord Erik,” Fabian said, “it is good to see you again.” The man stopped abruptly when Erik held up a hand and shook his head.

“Erik is the only name I claim now, my friend.” He turned his hand so the black dirt under his nails was visible. “I hold no lands and am lord of nothing.”

Fabian grimaced, but then nodded. “Erik it is, if you insist, but blood is still blood. I won’t lie to you by saying that you’re looking well. I will say that I am surprised to see you here in the city. I heard about your encounter with d’Tarlec.”

Erik shrugged. “That was reckless, but it gave me a reason to visit you. I have business.”

“I see.” Fabian’s eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth leveled out. Since it was well known that Erik literally had no affairs of commerce left to supervise, the man easily reached the logical conclusion. Any good merchant understood the concept of vengeance; it usually, though, was a luxury that was too costly to indulge in. But when a man had nothing left to lose? “Well, if you change your mind, I have standing orders from my employer to offer work to any worthy man I encounter. Only the Creator knows what task Simon would set for you, but I can easily arrange transportation to Ravenwood. You could leave at dawn.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Erik said, “but I have no intention of leaving just yet.” He pulled his small purse from inside his tunic and pushed it across the bar. “I do, however, need a place to stay for a week—ideally, a room that is hard to get into. Three good meals a day. And, if possible, a table in the upper level, at the front corner.”

The inn’s common room was divided into two areas. Near the front entrance, much of the space was filled with rows of sturdy trestle tables and benches. The rougher, and poorer, patrons would fill that side of the room as the day went on, and the furniture had to be built for heavy use.

Further back into the inn, the floor had been raised several feet and a low wooden railing added to the separation between the common area and the finer dining area. Placed a comfortable distance from the fireplace were tables with straight-backed chairs that had small linen cushions on them. A different class of patron established itself there.

Dressed in his dirty, tattered brown jacket, linen shirt, and woolen pants, with his untrimmed hair tied back in a crude ponytail, Erik would stand out like a rotten apple in a basket of fresh fruit.

Fabian opened the purse and studied its contents. “I have a room I can give you, and the rest you can have without question, but this is far too much for all of it.”

“Consider it an advance payment on any damage I do if I am disturbed.”

“I assure you, you will not be—,” Fabian began.

Erik interrupted by holding both of his hands in front of him. “No disrespect intended,” he said. “I know that you are trustworthy. But those bastards show little mercy to anybody who gets in their way, and d’Tarlec is the worst of them. None of his hirelings are known for their respect for property.” He clasped his hands loosely on the bar in front of him. “You need to understand: I’m not going to leave, night or day, for at least a week.”

“Why?”

“D’Tarlec is not a patient man,” Erik said. “He will want quick results.”

Fabian nodded after a moment’s thought. “I see. You know, my employer would be happy to see d’Tarlec suffer a reverse, so he will approve of any aid, within reason, that I give you. Without a doubt, then, this amount will surely cover everything you asked for.”

“That is good,” Erik said, speaking softly, “because it is all that I have left.” He shrugged at the shock that rippled across Fabian’s face. “I may die in the next few days. I have no intention of dying on an empty stomach in an alley in the Lower Quarter.”

“I’ll warn the innkeeper and his men. If you are attacked here, they can help you.”

Erik shook his head. “That would not be wise. When the trouble starts, you and yours should stay clear of it. I will win or I will die. Either way, you will make yourself a target if you openly reveal yourself as my ally.”

Fabian opened his mouth to speak, but closed it and simply nodded. With a sweeping gesture, he offered Erik his choice of the available tables.

“You have my thanks,” Erik said. “I owe you a debt.”

Erik went to his table, pulled back a chair, and sat, facing the front door and keeping his legs out from under the table. For the rest of the day and throughout the evening, he nursed a cup of cider. The cider was a reluctant choice; what he really wanted was a bottle of the best red wine he could get. Bottles, in fact. But now was not the time.

#

Earlier that morning, well before dawn, Erik had stood among his fellow beggars. They numbered seven, which was too many, even for this house—the house of the city’s leading goldsmith.

When the kitchen servants finished picking over the family’s table from this night’s party, they would toss some of the remaining scraps out the back door. There would not be enough to fill the stomachs of this many men. Erik could tell from the shuffling of feet and sideways glances that the other men could calculate the odds as well as he could. But at least some of them would get a hunk of bread or cheese, and perhaps even a few bites of meat before they trudged down to the docks.

Erik and these men, the beggars who still had much of their strength, could earn a few coins loading or unloading cargo. The work was uneven, since it depended on the number of ships arriving or taking on cargo in any given day, but on a good day, a man could get a charity breakfast and an earned supper. On the streets, two meals a day equaled living well.

A boy appeared around the corner of the house and wove his way through the others to Erik’s side. Erik was taller than most people, and especially than most beggars, few of whom had shared his childhood diet of fresh meat each day. So the top of the boy’s head reached only to the center of his chest. Scrawny arms and legs poked out of a ragged tunic, and the small tears in the fabric were clearly unattended, but somehow less noticeable under the omnipresent layer of crud that everyone picked up if they lived on the streets. The grime and the tangled mop of long black hair made the boy’s age indeterminable; he could be anywhere from ten to fourteen years old.

Probably closer to fourteen, Erik decided, after the boy dipped his chin and brought a knuckle up to his filthy forehead. Thinking of him as a boy was a lingering carryover from Erik’s old life. On the streets, boys turned into men at an early age, and men died young.

This boy-man had been around long enough to know not to touch anyone. People who had little to steal were often the most determined to protect what they had, and an innocent tug on a sleeve could easily be mistaken for a pickpocket attempt. What then followed was never pleasant.

Erik did not think of himself as a paranoid or violent man, but in the past six months, he had drawn blood with his dagger over a dozen times. During the coldest month of winter, men killed other men for the simple possibility of gaining a crust of bread, and although thieves ignored most of his fellow beggars, they noted Erik’s presence among the refuse of the streets. His height and his initial weight had marked him as a man who had not been born in a hovel, and that difference alone drew some attackers. Add a former employee with a legitimate grievance, and the recipe for an eventful winter was complete.

Erik still lived, though, whereas the employee and at least two thieves would never again trouble another beggar in this city. One benefit of the encounters was that there were now fewer attempts to rob him. His continued presence on the streets also was helping to undermine the rumors that he carried his family fortune with him. The rumors actually were not completely wrong, although any thief might be surprised to learn that his entire fortune—once the largest in the city—now fit with room to spare into one small purse.

“A word, my lord,” the boy said. “I have news for you.”

Erik sighed as several of the other beggars hid their laughs by coughing. Any beggar worth his or her salt enjoyed watching the fall of a noble, and in truth, Erik knew that his fall was not unique. At the height of his power, he had put some of his rivals in this very position by relieving them of the burden of their wealth. Or perhaps the laughs triggered the coughs—it had been a cruel winter. “Leave off with the ceremony,” he said. “I am a lord in name only nowadays.”

The boy nodded warily. “As you say. But I got something to tell you. Something that’s best for your ears only.”

Erik considered the request. If he stepped aside now, he risked missing any chance at a free morning meal, and his stash of coin was not so large that he wanted to buy food to replace one missed meal. On the other hand, the house servants always claimed the choicest remnants for themselves, and he might not get more than a crust or two in the forthcoming mad scramble for the remnants of the remnants. The men who gathered at this house were always the strongest beggars on the city’s streets, and like Erik, they often earned a day’s wage lifting stones for one of the city’s building projects. They had the muscle to wrestle for what they needed to have to survive, and when this many of them waited at the door, some would expend a lot of energy and end up with little to show for it.

He was not yet absent of pride, so making a defiant gesture appealed to him. “Your lucky day,” he told the other men. “Perhaps I will see you again tomorrow.”

Most of the men ignored him or merely grunted, but two spared him a thin smile. The word perhaps drew the smiles. Erik might be dead by tomorrow, they might be dead—living on the streets was dangerous, and after a while, a smart man started to hedge on all promises. If. Maybe. Possibly. Perhaps. Men like these two had been one of the many surprises the streets had held for him. How they maintained a sense of humor when this was all that life held for them was a mystery.

Erik looked down at the boy as they walked away from the strong door that protected the fat craftsman from the hungry wolves outside. “What’s your name, young sir?”

“Name’s Stasny,” the boy said. He did not say anything else until they were out of sight of the back door. In the alley, he stopped and stared up at Erik.

“I have news that might help you, and I heard that you will give food for it,” Stasny said. His voice barely carried over the low mournful whistle created by the morning breeze as it pushed through the alley. He was carefully staying out of arm’s length and was poised to run if necessary.

Erik fished out a day-old scrap of bread crust, which he flipped to his potential informant. “That is for hearing your news,” he said. “I promise you something more if your words are worth it. But if you are running a con, you had better hope that we never meet again. If we do, I’ll thrash you.”

Stasny ignored the threat, but before saying anything, he glanced down each end of the alley. The amount of foot traffic was always lower in the city’s wealthier neighborhoods, especially during the morning hours, yet the boy was skittish.

“I was scrubbing the floors at Maginty’s place late last night, earning a bed in his crib and some bread for the morning, when I heard them talking.” Stasny looked around again and lowered his voice closer to a whisper. “They didn’t see me because it was dark and loud and I was down on the floor with my rag. But they were talking about killing you. One man paid the other to do it.”

Erik absorbed the words, feeling a sense of inevitability as this conversation unfolded. He nodded. “The man giving away the gold, what did he look like?”

The boy’s description lacked details. Like most of his peers, Stasny seemed to have only two categories for clothing—rich clothes and poor clothes—and he did not pay much attention to color. But since the boy’s description included a scarred cheek, it was good enough.

Not Desmond d’Tarlec, then, but one of his most faithful lackeys.

“And the other?”

“I’m not sure.” Stasny shrugged. “I only saw his back. When I realized what they were saying, I backed off. He was tall, and he had long hair. Longer than yours.”

Erik reached into his tunic and rummaged through his purse until he found a silver coin. There were still four or five of those in the purse and an equal number of gold coins, but the rest were copper.

“Stasny, you said.” He flipped the coin to the boy, whose eyes widened. The coin was evidence that some of the rumors about Erik had a kernel of truth in them. “I’ll remember your name, and I owe you. You should keep your ears open and your mouth shut about this. Tell nobody about what you heard or about that coin. If your news is good and my conditions ever improve, I will find a place for you in my household.”

The boy nodded, but the speed with which he hid the coin inside his shirt and the utter lack of newly kindled hope in his eyes revealed what he thought about the probability of such an outcome. Out here, people fell. Once they fell, they rarely rose again.

Listening to the light patter of the boy’s feet as he ran out of the alley, Erik pondered his options. He was running short of money, and his uncle had made leaving the city a condition of any help he would provide. Erik knew that he should leave, but he could not make himself do it. Perhaps, as his uncle had shouted in their last conversation, Erik did have a death wish.

In truth, he had expected a bloody-minded visitor and no warning ever since his chance encounter with Desmond d’Tarlec yesterday. D’Tarlec was one of a triumvirate of merchant-lords—pox-ridden bastards, all of them—who had destroyed Erik’s commercial enterprises. The man was the Duke of Applethorpe, and like his partners, he used his rank to protect him from any direct challenges to a duel.

Erik held rank, too, but in the kingdom’s long struggle to survive after the Old Tiberian Empire’s collapse, most of the nobility had become directly involved in commerce as a means to preserve their estates and status. Wealth now was the true measure of power in the kingdom, and to seek fair recompense from the Queen’s courts, Erik would need gold. But he had lost almost all of his in the span of a single year in a chaotic miasma of fraud, corruption, and a treacherous mistress.

His mistress had been one of the great beauties of the city—a young blonde with brown eyes, full lips, firm breasts, and a penchant for wearing revealing dresses. She had, unfortunately, also been d’Tarlec’s distant cousin, and their blood relationship was one major reason why Erik had suffered a complete financial collapse. On the whole, Erik thought that he was well within his rights to be angry with both of them.

Still, hailing d’Tarlec as he passed with his entourage was probably not the wisest action. Most certainly, it had been downright reckless to tell the man that his scent was so close to that of the sludge on Erik’s tattered boots that one really could not be blamed for nearly overlooking him on the streets.

Three of d’Tarlec’s escorts chased Erik through the back alleys of the city for almost twenty minutes before he lost them in the rat-infested warrens of the Lower Quarter. At some level, he had known that d’Tarlec would not let such an insult pass.

“So why not?” Erik asked the empty alley. “In for a silver, and in for all of the rest.”

Going after d’Tarlec directly was still a speedier way to commit suicide, whereas hiding like a scared rat in one of the city’s alleys might merely be a slower way. Yet now, perhaps, damaging the man’s reputation was a possibility. That would have to be enough.

#

In the inn’s tavern, as the morning unfolded, Erik stood every hour, stretched, and walked to the bar to top off his cup. At dusk, he ate a light meal of freshly baked bread and sharp cheese, and he left the table only one other time. Fabian had spoken with the innkeeper and arranged for a sleeping room—the least accessible room furthest from the front and back stairs—and Erik had headed there to take care of nature’s business. Walking with feigned ease, while still trying to watch everyone close to him, was no simple matter. Several of the inn’s patrons looked oddly at him as he passed them.

Upstairs, he emptied his full bladder into the chamber pot, a large piece of dull gray pottery. A sailor downstairs had made his own visit upstairs earlier in the afternoon, raving drunkenly about putting the thunder in the thunderpot, and Erik had surprised himself by chuckling. He had found little to smile about for too long, but he thought that he might laugh again if he could one day rub d’Tarlec’s face in the sailor’s leavings.

He returned to the common room. Night was falling, and the same barmaid who had worked during the morning hours set aside her serving platter and began to light the rest of the lanterns hanging from the walls and overhead beams.

She was a comely young woman with curly red hair who engaged in friendly chatter with many of the patrons. But she must have joined the inn’s staff sometime since his last visit because Erik had never seen her before. Judging from the nervous glances she sent his way, though, Erik thought that Fabian had said something to her, or perhaps warned her to stay clear of him. He smiled at himself. The other possibility, of course, was that he looked fairly repulsive. A thunderstorm four days ago had been his last chance to clean himself with fresh water.

“Would you like some help?” He asked, while she was attempting, and failing, to light the lantern behind his table. She was having trouble because she was spending too much time looking at him and too little looking at the wick.

At first, she only shook her head and focused intensely on the lantern. After a few more attempts, she successfully lit it. “Beg your pardon, my lord,” she said. “I didn’t mean to give offense.”

So Fabian had talked to her. “You did not,” Erik told her. “I am not so easily offended anymore. Perhaps we will talk at greater length after I finish my business here, and you will see that.”

A red flush spread up her cheeks, and she dropped into an awkward curtsy, before mumbling something unintelligible and hurrying to the next lantern.

He was not quite certain what to make of her reaction—perhaps he was not so grotesque after all, or perhaps he was now so ugly that she was outraged by his overture? So he put the encounter out of mind, banishing it with another sip of cider. Under his tunic, the tiny beads of sweat that ran down his side ribs served as a primitive hourglass.

Five hours later, as the crowd thinned, he retired to his room for the night, rubbing at eyes irritated by the haze of pipe and lantern smoke that had built up inside the room. Dropping wooden bars across the door and the window’s heavy oak shutters was his first act, and then he pushed the room’s trestle table against the door and its heavy wardrobe against the window. He tucked a blanket over the long bundle of old clothing and rags—one of Fabian’s ideas—on the bed. It did not look much like a person, but in the darkness, it might buy him an extra second or two.

With those precautions taken, he settled himself on a blanket in one corner of the room and quickly fell asleep.

#

On the second day, Erik awoke at dawn and waited until he heard not only the barmaid’s light knock on the door but also Fabian’s reassuring confirmation that all was well.

He started his breakfast with the fruit—a banana and a chunk of pineapple—that the barmaid delivered on a small platter. He chased the fruit with a hunk of bread slathered in honey. If he could not have wine, he could at least indulge himself in the food he ate.

After his stomach had settled, he drew his dagger and sparred with an imaginary opponent. Thrust. Cut. Stab. Lunge and thrust. Recover. For over an hour.

By the time he sheathed his dagger, droplets of sweat covered most of his torso and were trickling down his face. Erik was as well trained with weapons as any member of the nobility—his former peers—and no merchant who traveled with his ships or convoys let those skills completely decay. But a few skirmishes on the city’s streets against mostly untrained opponents were poor preparation for a match against a professional assassin. This shadow sparring was only a little better. It would have to suffice.

He cleaned himself with a rough linen towel, a bar of hard soap, and the water in a wooden basin. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a proper bath, but when he finished, he no longer smelled of his own sweat.

Downstairs, he settled into the same seat at his table and began to fill his stomach with hard cheese and cold beef. Although he trusted his stomach more today than he had yesterday, he still ate only a fraction of what he had once consumed. He would need his strength, and vomiting due to overeating was not a part of his plan.

The afternoon passed slowly, and he could have spent much of it reliving the events of the past year. But the memories were not pleasant, and he was able to avoid them by focusing on the comings and goings of the inn’s visitors. In five hours, he counted seventeen tall men with long hair, and that figure did not include the men who might seem tall to someone who looked up at the world from Stasny’s level. The survey was a good avoidance tactic but a less effective way to fend off drowsiness.

Eventually, the evening bells tolled on the ships in the harbor. Then a small party entered the inn and captured his attention. A tall man who moved with smooth grace led the group, and Erik recognized the confidence in the man’s walk—he had once employed dozens of caravan guards who walked just the same. The man also had long hair.

Erik was staring at the man with an intensity that passed over into rudeness. The man had the same hair and eye color as Erik himself had, and he looked healthy and confident about his place in the world. What, Erik wondered, were the distinguishing features of a tall man with long hair who also happened to be an assassin?  He was not sure. Despite his preoccupation, though, Erik noted Fabian’s approach to his table.

“He is not one you need to worry about,” Fabian said. “In fact, you should let me introduce you to him.”

“Who is he?”

“A trader named Pelion. He works for Gillian Whiterose.”

Simon of Ravenwood, Fabian’s employer, was perhaps the wealthiest man in the world, but if anyone surpassed his wealth in any given month, Gillian Whiterose would be that person. Based in a western kingdom that controlled all access to several major rivers, Gillian traded extensively throughout the southern duchies and with a handful of the Free Cities far to the east. He had a reputation for honesty and toughness.

Erik shook his head. “Perhaps you can introduce me at another time. Carry my apologies to him, though, if you would. He noticed that I was watching him.”

He resumed his vigil, watching obliquely as Fabian ambled across the room and exchanged words with his fellow trader. The man turned away from Fabian and nodded almost imperceptibly at Erik—a peace gesture.

In the hour just after midnight, Erik marked yet another tall man with long hair; this one entered through the door, brushing at the water droplets from the first drizzle of a rainstorm. The man stood at the bar for one drink, ignoring the bustling crowd and the solicitous barmaids, and left without talking to anyone.

Erik smiled thinly. That man might be an assassin; he might also be a husband stopping for one quick drink to warm his innards before enduring the rain as he slogged home to a wife or to deaden his conscience before slogging to a rendezvous with an untrustworthy mistress. If the man were an assassin, he would most likely be waiting in the rain for Erik to leave the inn. So on that chance, Erik prayed to the Creator, asking for a cold, heavy downpour that lasted the entire night.

After another minute, he stood and retreated to his room.

#

The third day passed without any notable events. During the long hours, Erik tried to combat his boredom by paying more attention to the world around him than he would have in his former life.

For an observer, Fabian’s inn presented a menagerie of all specimens of man and woman. Rough, grizzled soldiers and sailors often found themselves rubbing elbows with a baker’s apprentice or a religious pilgrim from some far land. The younger son of a noble might find himself at a table talking to a tired merchant about the price of spices or to a priest about why he should give over his fortune and enter the church’s embrace.

As the nightly spectacle of humanity became more and more familiar, Erik’s attention turned inward. Patience had not been one of his primary virtues, and he passed a portion of the time by reflecting upon how his former lack of patience, and the judicious thinking it allowed for, had cost him his wife, his fortune, and his honor.

He fervently hoped that he was not too old to learn from his mistakes.

Erik knew that his mother and his uncle were appalled by his actions of this past year, and not least by his refusal to accept their aid. For his part, Erik had been appalled when a number of his friends had simply vanished after d’Tarlec and his cronies expressed their desire to see Erik suffer the maximum possible humiliation. The braver of his former friends clearly had wondered, before they eventually ceased their efforts to see him, why he put himself through this daily gauntlet of degradation. If faced with his situation, few of them would have hesitated even for an instant before imposing on family generosity, choosing the life of a mercenary, or taking vows and serving the church as a holy warrior. If forced to answer any of them before they stopped asking, he truly would not have had a certain or logically defensible answer.

While he watched another of Fabian’s young barmaids flirt openly with all manner of men and weave her way through an array of grasping hands, he had ample opportunity to consider the possible motives for debasing one’s self. The line between survival and debasement was often blurry. But he thought that he finally saw a distinction. A person did the first for one’s self and the other to one’s self. It was only then that he realized that his actions of recent months were a fumbling attempt to serve his penance.

Veronica, his wife, had been a proud woman. Never, though, in his worst imagining had he suspected that she would actually try to kill his mistress once she discovered her identity. Or strip their house of the equivalent value of her dowry, which just so happened to be most of his portable wealth (the rest of his wealth was tied up in merchandise, property, ships, and letters of credit) and vanish from the city. He still was not certain what had prevented him from taking the steps necessary to track her down, but he had not done so then. He lacked the resources to do so now.

He had been so disconcerted by her action that he broke his cardinal rule of doing business: he told another person about all of the details of a great gamble while it was still in progress. Loss of an enormous sum of money and of a woman that he truly did love had reduced him to an exhausted and moderately drunk zombie who had paced erratically across the floor in Giselle’s apartment while declaiming at length on his risky plan to, as a precursor to destroying d’Tarlec and reclaiming his wife, win back much of his wealth. By pooling all of his remaining resources, he had outfitted three ships and was preparing to send them east to the Free Cities where he could take on cargoes of spices and precious stones and sell the cargoes at an enormous profit to the wealthy empires far to the north of Baden.

Surely, it was dumb luck that Giselle was Desmond d’Tarlec’s cousin. It was also somehow fitting that he gave her the secrets she passed to his chief competitor. Moving quickly and ruthlessly, D’Tarlec and his men had burned Erik’s three ships while they were still at anchor in Baden’s harbor. His situation had unraveled quickly from there as debt after debt came due and he forfeited property after property to pay them.

Erik’s final memory of Giselle was a portrait of her impassive eyes staring at him from behind her cousin’s sneering face. Erik knew the expression well; Giselle was furious at him, and she was nothing if not a woman willing to act on her anger. In retrospect, his final mistake in an error cascade of epic proportions had been stripping Giselle of the illusion that she was first in his affections. But it was somehow just that, in all ways, Erik had destroyed himself.

Cosmic justice. And perhaps a Creator with a twisted sense of humor.

He only learned the truth later, after it was too late to salvage anything from the disaster. In rapid succession, each of his ongoing trades collapsed as cargoes vanished into the hands of pirates, buyers withdrew their offers, and sellers demanded full payment in advance. Seemingly without a single pause for a breath, Erik had slid from the heights of the luxurious study in his mansion to the depths of the stinking alleys where he joined the brotherhood of beggars.

For six months now, he had been living mostly on scraps of food and sleeping on church floors, huddling against unwashed strangers for warmth during the deep freezes of winter. But he was still alive. Still alive.

Two days ago, after sitting in his chair and beginning the wait for his reckoning, he had finally hit bedrock. His time on the streets of the city had scraped away the dross, and to his surprise, he had discovered that something of the man he had once been still remained. He had fallen as far as he was willing to go. It was time, past time, to head in a different direction.

The silence and steadiness of his routine for the past three days had merely brought his realization into sharper focus. It was curious but he could now feel the change within himself. An inexorable tide of molten lava had been building and pressing against the placid exterior that he necessarily was trying to show the other patrons.

His control of his expression had been less than perfect, he knew, and the internal changes had been crossing his face in barely suppressed currents. But the transformation was almost complete now as the planes of his face reset themselves from the contours of soft tissue to the hard angles of calcified stone.

When he lifted his eyes from his table for yet another look at Fabian’s other patrons, Erik was not the same man who had walked into the bar two days ago.

Across the room, the trader from the north—Pelion was the name, he remembered—was watching him, and after a long moment in which they locked stares, the man nodded.

It was a small gesture, but to Erik, the nod spoke of recognition and respect. The man could not possibly know the course of Erik’s thoughts, but he apparently read something in the expression on Erik’s face or the look in his eyes that he approved of. He was a man that Erik would want to get to know better if the opportunity presented itself; new friends were a matter for another day.

Nothing happened in the common room that night. But during the third hour after midnight, the faint moan of pressured wood stood out from among the faint murmur of the tide and the creaks of the wooden planks as he turned uncomfortably on the hard floor of his sleeping room.

Someone was trying to force open the shutters over the window. Someone who did not want to wake the other sleepers in the inn.

Erik readied himself. The shutters held. So he remained silent, resisting the urge to goad his nocturnal visitor, and when nothing significant transpired during the next hour, he returned to the floor and drifted back into sleep.

Dreams, if they came to him, were not vivid enough to stick in his memory in the morning.

#

The humidity was worse on the fourth day, and the crowd was lighter than usual that evening. He welcomed the change, because the cacophony of laughter and of dozens of conversations that usually filled the room was beginning to wear on him.

Tonight, though, the din was more bearable. An old sailor—a man who looked to be sixty and probably was forty—and a few craftsmen—young masters celebrating with the profits they had eagerly anticipated for so many years—were spaced out along the bar, and a sprinkling of merchants, laborers, and sailors sat on their benches steadily drinking themselves into oblivion.

Erik had ordered a light meal of fried cod and fresh bread spread with butter. Washed down with a large cup of good wine from the local vineyard, the fish and bread combination had always been his favorite dinner. The last time he had eaten such a meal was the night before his life had begun to fall apart. He had missed it.

He was running his finger through the light sheen of water on the side of his cup when the front door opened abruptly.

Through the doorway walked the wandering man—he of the single drink and rapid exit—that Erik had observed two nights ago. His breath quickened as the man surveyed the room and spotted Erik. With no further ado, the man marched toward Erik’s table.

Erik slid his chair back a few more inches. He did nothing else beyond observing the man’s approach.

They locked eyes—no reason to pretend that they were not the center of each other’s attention now. The assassin halted across from him. Erik was not the first to speak.

“What game are you playing?” The man’s voice was soft but still above a whisper. His face was expressionless but not immobile. A slight tic pulled at the corner of his right eye and lip.

His disturbance was understandable, Erik thought; these days had been difficult to endure. He took a deep breath.

“Game? I came here for a drink,” Erik said. “But I’m always willing to play. Name your game.”

“Have it your way then,” the assassin said. “I don’t know how you found out about me, but you can’t stay in here forever.”

“Why not?” Erik asked. “I like it here. It’s warm. I might stay for a month or even two.”

The tic became even more noticeable. “We’ll see. Yes, we will.”

The man backed away from the table, turned, and stepped toward the door. Then he spun, drawing his dagger and lunging in the same motion.

Even as the man completed his turn, Erik’s wine cup crashed into his face. The combination of the assassin’s momentum and the force of Erik’s blow generated a stunning impact.

The sickening crack, which registered only on the edge of Erik’s awareness, probably was the assassin’s nose giving way under the blow. His attacker staggered backwards, and Erik went over the table. He ducked under the man’s arm. They grappled for a brief second—the assassin hammering down with his elbow, while Erik kept the man’s arm bent upwards.

Erik’s dagger was in his other hand. It was good steel, and it sliced a deep ravine across the man’s throat. Even if a healer had been standing next to Erik’s table, and even if the combined contents of every purse in the room had sufficed to pay the fee, the man was beyond help. Some wounds heal; others are always fatal.

This fight was over.

Erik stepped back and wiped at the blood spatter on his face with his sleeve. He still clenched his dagger in a hand that was now trembling, and because he did not want the shaking to be any more visible, he resisted the urge to seize another cup from the nearest table. Any wine or ale in it would most likely spill across his face.

A shroud of silence draped the room as if his dagger had also severed each person’s vocal cords. The only sounds Erik could hear were his hungry gasps as he labored to regain his breath. He took another deep breath, and then stepped across the man’s body to avoid the crimson puddle that was forming on the floor.

Crouching, he checked the man’s pockets and patted his tunic. A small but heavy purse was all the assassin had been carrying. Erik picked it up. Standing, he looked for Fabian and found him by the bar.

“For the damages,” Erik said, accurately tossing the assassin’s purse across the room and into Fabian’s hands.

He retrieved the larger pieces of his wine cup and returned to his seat. Only then did he meet the eyes of the remaining onlookers. Most were still in shock, although that paralysis would not last for long.

Across the room, Pelion was staring at him, and Erik met the man’s gaze with a level stare of his own. Because all of the eyes in the room were still focused on him, Erik thought that only he witnessed what followed.

Pelion’s lips curved into a smile for a brief instant, and his hand moved slightly. In his hand, the man held a cup, whose base was only a few inches from the table as he tilted it toward Erik in a subtle salute.

“Witnesses!”  Fabian called. He stepped from the bar and moved to the room’s center. “This man”—He was pointing at the assassin’s corpse—“attacked one of my patrons for no good cause. I call it self-defense.”

A heavy pause followed his words. Some of the other patrons knew who Erik was. More importantly, they knew who his enemies were. The rest saw little reason to accept unknown risks to help a stranger.

Pelion held up his hand. “I will stand as the second witness,” he said. He pointed at Erik. “That man gave no provocation.”

There is always at least the illusion of safety in numbers, and so a few others joined in the affirmations. Desmond d’Tarlec and his cronies were not well regarded, merely feared. But all in the room except for Erik could plausibly claim ignorance, and seeing the powerful humbled held a timeless appeal.

In fact, some of the patrons were most likely in the inn primarily to watch Erik, who had fallen as far as anyone else in the city’s recent history. He had if nothing else assured that they were not wasting their money on this night by giving them a story to tell throughout the taverns and inns of the city. The City Guard would surely investigate when they arrived, but they would stop there. Most likely.

Erik surveyed all of the other people in the room. “The man who hired this assassin wasted his money; I clearly am no threat to anybody who does not threaten me.” He smiled. “I like this place. It is never an uneventful place to stay.”

An old merchant at the upper bar burst into laughter, laughing so hard that tears ran down his weathered cheeks. “Barkeep,” he roared, slamming his hand down on the wooden planks. “I want to buy that man a drink. He saved me from a boring night, and that deserves a reward.”

By then, Fabian had crossed to Erik’s side. “Never uneventful?” His face was stretched by a strained grin. “I thought that the tension of these past few days would be the death of me. After you finish his drink, I’ll buy you a dozen more if you want them. I know that I’ll have that many tonight.”

“Only one more, I think,” Erik said. “Tonight will be an early night for me. I have some lost sleep to chase.” He paused. “I do hope to stay for a while yet. Can I count the coin in that purse as payment for that, too?”

“You can stay for another week on my account,” Fabian said. “It is worth that to me to see d’Tarlec rebuffed. When Simon hears about this, he’ll undoubtedly order me to make you an offer you cannot refuse.”

Erik accepted the first drink from the bartender, and he started on the second as the bouncers removed the man’s body from the room and the bartender and the two barmaids with the strongest stomachs cleaned the floor until it met with Fabian’s approval. Not until he finished both drinks did he feel like the tension from the fight had dissipated. His earlier agility a distant memory, he lumbered slowly up the steps to his room.

In the room, Erik was scrubbing the blood from his hand when he heard a repeated tap on his door. He drew his dagger before his mind caught up with his body. He asked who was knocking.

“Me, my lord,” the barmaid said. “You did say that we could talk when you finished your business.”

She probably was alone, although one never knew. “I did indeed say that. Bide a moment.”

Using a hip and one arm, he pushed the trestle table away from the door and lifted the wooden bar from its brackets. He stepped back to the middle of the room. “You can come in now.”

She entering, halting when she saw the dagger. Her hand lifted to her throat. “My lord?”

“Sorry,” he said, sheathing the dagger. “New habits. I am glad to see that you are alone, I must admit.”

He still pushed the table back into its position against the door.

“Surely your enemies will leave you alone now, my lord.” Her eyes widened. “Or do you think that they’ll send someone else tonight?”

“We’ll see.” He poured a cup of wine and offered it to her. “I think that we have little to fear from them for one night, at the least.”

He poured himself some wine, studying her. “This question will sound odd, but it is something that has bothered me for months now. If a man you loved hurt you by sleeping with another woman, what would you do to him?” The question was abrupt, but the tone of his voice—soft, pensive—eased its potential sting.

She flushed. It was the second time he had seen her do so, and the effect was appealing. Her dress—made from durable linen and died green—was far inferior to the silk gowns his wife had worn, but it complimented her auburn hair. She pushed her hair back from her eyes. “I don’t know, my lord,” she said. “I guess it would depend on how much I loved him.”

Erik sipped his wine. “That is an honest answer. Thank you.” He was considering a possible plan and weighing its impact on the chances of reconciliation with his wife. After a hesitation, he took a deep breath and decided to let the future unfold as it would. “You are here by your own choice?”

She nodded. “Fabian doesn’t run that kind of inn. He said that I could visit you if I wanted to.” She blushed again. “I’ve heard good stories about you from the other girls, and I’d make a good wife.”

“That is good,” Erik said as he reached out and touched her cheek. “I am still married, though, and lack the wealth I once had. But if you sleep in this room with me tonight, I will be in your debt. And I pay my debts.”

The story of a bar fight would be the talk of the city for this night, and perhaps for the next. Soon, though, some other death would drive it from most people’s minds. But the story would stay alive for longer among those who knew Erik and knew something about what had really happened on this night.

Those people would have the resources to track down almost every detail, and Erik had some sense of how the story of this night’s events would grow in the telling. The fact that he had entertained company after killing an assassin would contribute to his new reputation. Such a reputation had its uses.

Only he and Fabian would know that in three more days he would have walked onto the streets and been at the mercy of any competent assassin.

But Erik still trusted his ability to calculate odds. He had always been a gambler, and he still wanted vengeance. And patience was now one of his finer qualities.