So far it had been nothing but idle talk of bets won and lost, boasting about women, tall tales of drinking bouts of the past. On the other hand, the man hadn’t been talking to anyone but his cronies. He was a professional, and well enough off by the standards around here; he didn’t have to spend his evening in the Arms. He could get himself a woman, have a boy deliver a good tavern meal to his room, or find a better class of place to drink in. So maybe, just maybe, he’d come here tonight to make a contact, or even a deal.

When he got up to ask someone at one of the two-person tables if he’d move to the seat he had just vacated—for a monetary consideration—and take his comrade with him, Skif felt a thrill of anticipation and apprehension. He was meeting someone!

The door at the front of the tavern opened and closed, and there was a subtle movement in the crowd. It wasn’t that the tavern patrons actually moved away from the newcomer, but they did make room for him to pass. They hadn’t done that for anyone since Skif had been sitting there, which meant that whoever had come in was respected, but not feared. So he wasn’t one of those half-crazed bullies, he wasn’t someone that people feared could be set off into a rage. But they gave him room. You earned that here.

When the man made his way to Skif’s part of the tavern, Skif knew why people gave him room. He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew the face—closed, craggy, hard. The man was a sell-sword; he didn’t start quarrels, but those that others started with him, he finished, and he was so good he never actually drew his sword when fights were picked with him. After the third bullyboy to go outside with him wound up in the dust, finished off by a man with two knives against their swords, no one picked another fight with him. Defeat was one thing; anyone could have a bad day and get beaten in a fight. Humiliation was another thing altogether. You could live down a bad day; you lived with humiliation forever, if only inside your own head.

So nobody bothered this man anymore.

He took his seat at the little table across from Skif’s target with an attitude that said—quite calmly—that he had expected that the seat would be free and would be kept free for him.

But to Skif’s disappointment, even though he strained his ears as hard as he could, he couldn’t make out anything more than an occasional word, and none of them had anything to do with the fire.