Earlier that night, after he had worked out his frustrations at the general’s home, Rezkin met up with his contacts from the Diamond Claw Guild in Justain. They informed him that although the Justain branch of the guild now recognized him as their leader, he was unwelcome in Kaibain. Apparently, the guildmaster at the Kaibainian branch was just as reluctant to give up power as Martius had been. Rezkin was irritated because he had been forced to kill another twenty-six of his more experienced personnel in order to gain control of the guild. It seemed the Diamond Claws were particularly stubborn and slow to learn.

Before he arrived in the capital city, the Diamond Claws had been the least powerful of the three Kaibainian thieves’ guilds. Now they were barely a guild at all. At least the Razor Edges were in line. Once the Crimson Blades heard what had happened to the others, he hoped they would be as well. He did not relish needlessly exterminating additional resources.

The man he placed in charge of the Diamond Claw Guild was not a particularly skilled thief, according to his comrades, but he was quite good with numbers. Rezkin did not care whether or not the guildmaster could steal anything. He needed someone who was intelligent and organized. He would have preferred someone more intimidating, but the second he selected could cover that ground. The man was a brute and seemed particularly eager to please the Raven. If the second could keep the guild in line, then the accountant could oversee its workings, and Rezkin would receive the resources he required. Already, he had the members of the other guilds keeping an eye out for Striker Farson. Rezkin had provided them each with a drawn likeness of the man and a few of his known habits. If every criminal in Ashai was looking for the man, Rezkin was bound to find him sooner or later, assuming the striker had not left the kingdom altogether.

Taking Pride’s reins in hand, he led the horse to a slightly higher embankment with less mud and more pebbles and grass. He shucked his waterlogged clothes and boots and donned a clean, dry set from his saddlebags. He led the horse back to the main road and mounted smoothly despite the pain in his leg. He would never expose an injury or weakness with an unconscious wince or groan. Although he could have walked the short distance from the city, he knew Pride needed the exercise and change of scenery. Battle chargers were not meant to be cooped up in a stable yard. Now, he was glad for the horse’s service.