Kyra sighed and looked at Flick, hardening herself to the worry in his eyes. “What else would I do, Flick? Wait around for them to kill me? I in’t doing this out of some misplaced sense of guilt. I’m doing this because it’s the only thing that will work.”

Tristam cleared his throat. “I think she’s right, Flick,” he said reluctantly. “Tactically speaking, Kyra’s our best hope for infiltrating the Guild.” Tristam ignored Flick’s glare and looked at Kyra. “It will be dangerous though.”

“We could watch the perimeter,” said Martin. “Keep soldiers and dogs.” Kyra shot him a grateful look.

“You have my permission, if you’re willing, Kyra,” said Malikel. “If you’re successful, it could be enough to earn you a pardon from the Council. What do you need from us to do this?”

“I want my last dose of antidote. If I do this, it’s my choice and you’ll trust me to come back without your leash.”

“Yes, Willem filled me in on his…arrangement with your antidote while I was away.” There was an edge to Malikel’s voice that Kyra had never heard before, and she glanced at him. The official was not looking at her, but instead he seemed lost in his own thoughts. “You’ll receive your antidote.” He looked at her and regained his usual steady demeanor. “What else do you need? Do you have a concrete strategy?”

Kyra bit her lip. “I have a plan, but I’ll need help.”

The title of “Best Tavern” was a point of much debate amongst the thirstier members of Forge’s population. The Drunken Dog had been one of the top contenders before the fire. A few other names also popped up regularly, including the Scorned Maiden, a raucous establishment in the northeast quarter. Kyra had visited a few times and found the patrons too rowdy for her taste. But others refused to get their ale anywhere else. One such devotee was Bacchus.

He was there tonight. If he followed his usual routine, he would come out sometime around midnight, hopefully drunk. As Kyra waited from a nearby rooftop, she once again rehearsed the plan in her mind. The neighborhood was quiet, with gently sloping rooftops all at the same height. It would be easy to trail him from above until he was alone. Periodically, Kyra reached into her belt pouch and fingered a damp cloth inside.

It was a slow evening at the tavern, and people started leaving soon after the dinner hour. They came out in small groups, clutching their cloaks against the wind and bidding each other good-bye in loud voices before walking or lurching home.