By now, news would have spread to most of Ashai about the takeover of the thieves’ guilds in Justain. The mage relay would see to that. Guards and security officials had been notified of a major movement in the criminal element of one of the country’s capital cities. He doubted anyone took the threat of the disturbance spilling into the Seat of the King seriously, though. No one had that kind of influence, surely. Rezkin needed to take advantage of their apathy and misplaced sense of security. No one would be expecting him to be here already, if at all.

After dancing across several rooftops and scanning dark alleys near the rowdy taverns and brothels, Rezkin finally found a promising lead. A young man had just stabbed an older man in the gut and grabbed the man’s coin purse. The young man darted away quickly before anyone noticed, not that help was likely to come anytime soon or that it would do any good. The older man had already expired on the ground in a pool of blood. The knife must have struck something vital, or perhaps the man’s heart simply gave out.

Rezkin took off in silent, secret pursuit of the young slayer. Eventually, the young man ducked into an abandoned shop that looked to have once held a chandler’s workshop, if the globs of wax in the sills and across the exposed floor were any indication. Unconvinced that this was the location of the guildhouse, Rezkin waited. A couple of jittery young men entered the building a brief time later but were shoved back out with a shout from the building’s other occupants. After about an hour, the young killer finally emerged looking alert and excited. Dark lines crawled up the back of his neck—lines that had not been there during Rezkin’s pursuit. An inker.

The young warrior mentally shook his head in disdain. No respectable guild would allow its members to ink. He was about to give up pursuit of the drug addict and find an actual guild member when the young man joined with a small group of equally seedy men.

The largest of the men wore clothes that were a bit too small, his trousers and tunic sleeves riding too high on his legs and arms. The guild tattoo on his inner forearm was unmistakable. Two serrated daggers stood in the shape of a V, the pommels nearly touching at the bottom with the blades facing outward. It was the symbol of the Razor Edges.

Finally, he was getting somewhere. Rezkin hoped the man intended to return to the guildhouse tonight. He did not have much time to get everything done before he needed to leave for the tournament. The tournament was still his best chance at finding out about the strikers—at finding Farson.