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.

The men laughed and tossed a small jug around sharing its contents, which Rezkin surmised were most likely of an intoxicating nature. It was a wonder the Razor Edges were successful at all if their members were all drunkards and inkers. Perhaps these were the worst of the lot, or maybe the branch in Port Manai was more proficient.

Eventually, an older woman dressed much like the women near the brothel approached the group. She scolded them, and the men ducked their heads in submission. Some of them looked chagrined, others were angry, but no one protested the dressing down. Finally, the group dispersed.

Rezkin followed the tall man and his two companions. They turned a corner and descended a set of stone steps leading to the basement level of a slaughterhouse. The warrior nearly cringed in spite of himself. Who would want to live or work beneath a slaughterhouse? The smell alone would be enough to drive one away, not to mention all the fluids and other gore that would drain down into the lower level.