“Stow that nonsense, Tyron,” the taverner said, backing through the door with a tray in his hands. He set an earthenware bottle of distilled spirit and two goblets on the table, but poured into only one of them. “He’s probably so far gone he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.” He scratched his eyebrow with one filthy nail, then rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. The stranger—Tyron—nodded discreetly. So the taverner was in on the scheme, Croy realized.

Croy leaned forward on the edge of the table. Sitting down was helping, he thought. He hadn’t realized how taxing just walking through bad air could be. A little strength trickled back into his arms.

“A bit of this will have you back on your feet, ha ha,” Tyron said, and pushed the full goblet toward him. Croy made a show of reaching for it, then knocked it over clumsily so its contents spilled across the table. The liquor had the viscous consistency and milky color of blisswine. Even if it wasn’t adulterated with some drug—and Croy was certain it was—it would have put him to sleep before he finished the generous portion. “Oh, clumsy, and that stuff’s expensive, ha ha,” Tyron japed, “lucky for me it’s not my coin. Here, lean back, that’s right. Get comfortable. There’s no place for you to be, nothing needs doing. Let me loosen your cloak for you, it’s catching at your neck.” Nimble fingers undid the clasp and the cloak fell away from Croy’s shoulders. “And here, this is too tight as well,” Tyron said, reaching toward Croy’s belt. Instead of opening the buckle, however, he began to pull at the strings of Croy’s purse.

Croy lunged forward and knocked Tyron to the floor. The villain wasn’t fast enough to dodge out of the way as Croy’s shortsword sprang from its scabbard and came around in a weak swing—all he could manage—that left its point gently touching Tyron’s throat.

“Thief,” Croy said. “You thought I was drunk. You were going to—what’s the word—roll me. Weren’t you? Take my money and leave me unconscious in an alley.”

“No, friend, you have me all wrong, ha ha,” Tyron said, his eyes very bright.

“Don’t lie,” Croy said, and leaned forward a fraction of an inch. It brought the point of his shortsword that much closer to the man’s jugular vein.

“Ha ha, now don’t be so hasty, milord,” Tyron said, his eyes roaming around the room. “There’s plenty of fellows outside that door who know me. And none who know you from the Lady’s archpriest, do they?”

“I can cut your throat before you can call for help,” Croy pointed out. “Then I can—I can walk . . . walk out of here, and none the wiser.”