“Vasser!” Declan was astounded—but hardly displeased—and he greeted the man warmly, each reaching over the counter to grasp the other’s forearm with great enthusiasm. “What in Her name are you doing here? Last I heard, Cassandra had you getting cut to ribbons by pirates in Sethylles’ harbor waters.”

  Before him, Vasser Timoth guffawed jovially. He was an older man, nearing his fiftieth year, and indeed looked much the worse for wear than the last time Declan had laid eyes on him. He had a new scar that cleaved a vertical dent through the tanned, Sarahkan skin of one side of his face, an ugly thing which split his hair and heavy beard line alike. It pulled the corner of his right eye down at an odd angle as it passed, giving his face a lopsided look which only accentuated an overall sense of imbalance in the man’s posture. Glancing down, Declan identified the culprit of this awkwardness at once, the man’s struggle to gain his feet explained by the fake leg he’d certainly not been sporting some three years back.

  Catching the glance, Vasser grinned and gave his wooden thigh an almost-affectionate pat that thunked hollowly. “Aye, lost ta’ the very pirates yer talkin’ about, though I’m not so convinced I’ve born the years worse a’ the two of us.” He eyed Declan’s scarred arms and chest with an expression somewhere between impressed and uneasy. “You dive into the camp soup-pot while it was still boilin’, or somethin’?”

  “Or something,” Declan said with what he hoped wasn’t too false a chuckle, the memory of the drowning agony Bonner and Ester had pulled him from hardly distant. “Still, arms are fine.” He flexed them in demonstration, and indeed they were a good deal looser after the week of daily training. “Your leg, though…”

  “Bah!” Vasser waved the apologetic comment away. “Long used to it, and I get around well enough, nowadays. Cassandra saw to me anyhow, moment she heard my days in the field was over. Been in charge a’ this place ever since, if ya’ can believe tha’!” He waved a big, hairy hand around his head, indicating the crowded outpost.

  “Can’t think of anyone more deserving of it,” Declan said with genuine delight for his old friend. Then, realizing he’d forgotten himself, he took a half-step to the side and motioned Bonner and Ester forward, the two of them having waited patiently through the pleasantries. “Vasser, these are my companions. Bonner and Ester yr’Essel. You two—” he looked at the father and daughter pair “—this is Vasser Timoth, an old company friend. We used to serve together under the Iron Wind’s guildmaster, before she sent him off to lead his own contingent.”

  “Aye, leavin’ this runt ta’ muck things up without end in my absence, I’m sure,” the office-master finished good-naturedly, offering his hand out to each of the pair in turn, his eyes drifting over Ester’s silver-gold hair for so brief a moment, one could hardly have called it impolite. “I hope he hasn’t dragged you lot into any scrapes of his own doin’? This one’s had a knack for findin’ trouble that didn’t need diggin’ up, s’far back as I’ve known him!”

  “Oh, much and more and then some,” Bonner answered genially, giving Declan an amused wink as he leaned into the counter. “He’s more hassle than he’s worth, if you ask my coin purse.”

  This earned another belly laugh from Vasser, and Declan gave Bonner a favorable glance. He was quickly growing to appreciate the mage’s quick tongue. Despite having separated himself from civilization for more than three times as many centuries as Declan had lived decades, in nothing more than a handful of words the old man had not only endeared himself to the resident commanding officer, but provided a viable reason for their shared company. There wasn’t anything remotely odd about a freelancer working as a paid bodyguard. Viridian suffered outlaws and brigands aplenty, even along the High and Low Roads, and often one needed nothing more than the presence of hired steel to stave off most potential trouble.

  “Well, all else aside, yer in good hands, the both of ya’,” Vasser said with an encouraging nod, waving to Declan. “Don’t be fooled by his years. You’d be hard-pressed to find any three fools who’d have a fightin’ chance against this lug, even if he does look too young ta’ know which end of the sword is sharp.”

  Declan gave his old companion a mock scowl, but allowed he and Bonner their banter, distracted as he was by a sudden subtle touch on his arm. He turned to see Ester not looking at him, a smile plastered thinly across her face while she pretended to watch the two men have their fun, but the smallest inclination of her head had Declan’s eyes moving beyond her. A good portion of the crowd was watching them curiously, so it took him a moment to make out the scowling eyes between the bodies. A small group of men were seated at the farthest table, closest to the door, gazes as sullen and irked as they were steady on the three of them. It was a bit quieter now, conversations falling away as the curiosity of newcomers friendly with the local commander finally caught about the common room, and Declan suspected Ester’s keen ears had overheard something she didn’t like.

  Trouble, he realized, sweeping his eyes away before the party had a chance to suspect he’d found them out. He reached up to touch his own ear with a questioning expression, hoping the woman would catch on while Bonner and Vasser continued to guffaw at his expense beside them. She did, and with a smooth motion reached up to tuck a strand of hair into the braids of her plait, hand lingering there only long enough to make a point.

  Not a fan of half-elves, he deduced, turning to face the counter again so as to hide the scowl he couldn’t hold at bay. Not an uncommon attitude in the general populace—they’d seen a few examples simply walking through the city—but such an outlook didn’t usually last long in the Wind. Cassandra’s only requirements when offering commission was that one’s remarkable ability to wield a blade be on par with their willingness to follow orders. It was odd, in fact, to see such disdain blatantly on display, if the group was indeed talking loud enough for Ester to overhear them, even with her er’enthyl sensitivities…

  “So, Declan,” Vasser addressed him with a lingering grin that claimed his attention once more, the jesting with Bonner apparently having finally come to an end, “what can I help ya’ with? Yer lookin’ for lodgin’, I’m assumin’?”

  “And funds,” Declan told him, setting aside his concerns for the moment and going with the same story Bonner had provided at the city entrance. “These two need to be in Aletha as soon as possible, and we need steel and supplies to get there.”

  Vasser’s smile faded a little, eyes dropping to the empty scabbard at Declan’s hip. “Thought it was odd, you without a weapon,” he muttered, half to himself. “Beds ain’t a problem, so long as you’re all fine with common quarters. Got plenty a’ room ta’ spare, now that we’re rentin’ out the entirety a’ The King’s Flag, next door.” He tossed a thumb at the wall to his right, in the direction of the inn whose continued bustle and clatter could just barely be heard through the wall. “Gold, though… Tha’s not so easy a matter…”

  “Are you short?” Declan asked, a little alarmed. He’d never known the Alethan branch to ever let any of its outposts run dry.

  “In a way…” Vasser said slowly, looking like he was trying to figure out how best to explain the situation. After several seconds, he appeared to settle on the blunt facts. “Cassandra’s opened up temporary recruitment to outside offices, at our discretion.”

  This brought Declan up short. The Iron Wind had always prided itself on maintaining the quality of its ranks above all else, influence and size included. It was what kept the reputation of the guild intact. Recruitment was almost exclusively handled in the headquarters, within the capital itself, and never trusted to anyone outside the company’s lieutenants and managing officers. Declan—and by proxy Ryn—had been among these select for a short time, after his first two years with the group, and had counted it a great—if a little tedious—honor. For Cassandra to abruptly change such long-standing policies…

  But of course, he knew very well what had pressed such a monumental alteration.

  “This wereyn business has everyone from the Tears ta’ the Vyr’en spooked, lad,” Vasser continued, confirming Declan’s assumption. “It’s only short-term contracts, mind. No more than three-month cycles for the time being, and Cassandra was clear that no one gets inked unless they’re particularly deserving. But there hasn’t been any lack of response, as ya’ can see.” He indicated the room behind them, where most of the conversation had picked up again now that the onlookers’ general curiosity was sated.

  “And wages have to be paid,” Declan finished with a nod, understanding well the priorities of the office-master. “How tight are you? Can you manage anything?”

  Vasser considered for a moment. “I could get ya’ maybe thirty levers worth in gold and silver without much trouble?” he offered tentatively. “Another five if yer willin’ ta lug a bag a’ copper pennies around for the day.”

  More than enough, Declan thought with relief. Had he been outfitting a full crew of five or ten, as was company standard, it would have been sorely lacking, but for their barer needs it was plenty adequate.

  “Done. All thirty-five, if you’re sure you can.”

  “Aye, if tha’s all ya’ need.” Vasser sounded relieved. “Cassandra’s sending guarded shipments weekly ta’ keep up with recruitment demands, and some a’ my boys ‘ave just wrapped up a hundred-lever contract that will keep us afloat for a while yet.”

  “Perfect. Can you recommend a good smith, then?” Declan rapped a knuckle on the empty scabbard. “Our own priorities, and all that.”

  “I got a suggestion or two. If you’ve still got yer mark, they’ll be sure ta’ show ya’ the best they got, and sell it at company price. We’re the top clients to most of the local forges here, apart from the Vigil itself, and they’re grateful enough for it when it counts.”

  “Much appreciated.” Declan watched as the man reached under the counter to produce parchment and ink, scrawling the names down in a tight, confident hand that belayed his peasant’s slur.

  As he pulled out a second sheaf to pen out the transaction of funds, Vasser inclined his scarred head toward the set of stairs leading upwards, not far to their left. “Follow ‘em ta’ the third. Entire floor is the commons. Take any a’ the made beds, so long as no one’s things are on them. We been fillin’ up the Flag ta’ get our money’s worth, so ya’ shouldn’t be short on space.” He finished, turning over the note and quill to Declan. “I’ll have the clerks gather ya’ all by mornin’.”

  Declan signed the statement, then took the recommendations with another word of thanks and a promise to come back down to reminisce on long-gone days after they were settled. He’d just indicated the steps to the yr’Essels when a loud, confident voice rang out from behind them.

  “Oy, Vasser! Are you actually offering terms to this sorry lot?”

  Declan only caught a glimpse of the old fighter’s features darkening with impatience before he, Ester, and Bonner all turned to face the figure who’d placed himself in the middle of the room, very deliberately blocking any easy route to the door. He was a tall, younger man, maybe a year to two over twenty, and he stood with the easy swagger of someone who knew how to use the curved saber at his side, or at least someone who was firmly under such an impression. At a glance Declan recognized him as one of the disgruntled recruits Ester had pointed out to him, and even as he thought this the woman stiffened, tensing more out of irritation than concern.

  “Tha’s ‘sir’ ta’ you, Owlet,” Vasser rumbled commandingly from behind the kiosk. “And they’re not here seeking commission. They’re jus’ takin’ beds for the night, and you’ll leave ‘em in peace if you know what’s good for ya’.”

  “That so?” the man—Owlet—asked with sarcastic impudence, eyeing Declan up and down, his greyish eyes, framed in a handsome face by black locks, lingering on the absence of his sword before lifting very shortly to Bonner, then finally resting on Ester’s. “An old man, a half-breed tramp, and a lug who clearly can’t keep track of his own weapon? I can’t see any reason why we should let them stay.”

  “It’s a good thing there’s no ‘we’ in this conversation, then,” Vasser growled in response. “I say they can stay, so they can stay.”

  “Why?” Owlet’s face twisted into an amused smirk. “The mongrel, sure. I’m happy to offer her half my bed for as long as she likes. But the other two…”

  From the corner of his eye Declan saw Bonner flinch involuntarily, and he reached out to take hold of the old mage’s arm, feeling the tension in his thin muscles beneath the patterned sleeves of the robes. Any father had the right to be indignant on their child’s behalf, but given that the mage could have brought the whole building down on their heads with a stray thought…

  “Oh, is that a problem?” Owlet laughed, catching the motion and settling his hand on the hilt of his saber with lazy promise. It was a striking weapon, leather-threaded hilt entwined with gold weaving, and pommeled by an onyx counter-balance. “Is she your whelp, had by some she-elf you rutted in the woods when you could still stand without shaking? Don’t worry.” His grin widened, and he took a cool step forward. “Give her here, and I’ll see to it she gets a roof over her head for the night. I’ll even throw her a copper, if she’s worth it.”

  There was a rumbling of laughter from the corner table, along with some like-minded individuals in the crowd now pressed largely out of the way to make space for the one-sided exchange. Some of the onlookers bore frowns at the swordsman’s words, but more merely looked on with interest, the proceedings suddenly much more entertaining than whatever subject had been carrying along their evening’s discussions. Declan could feel Bonner’s arm shaking in his grasp, but it was Ester who he was watching, standing slightly ahead of the two of them, closest to Owlet and his foul suggestions. He could have stepped in—would have been happy to, even—but…

  As anticipated, Ester half-turned, giving he and Vasser behind him a curious look.

  Declan grinned. “Vasser,” he started, also looking back at his old friend, letting the question play out on his face, “would it be a problem…?”

  The crowd, apparently, didn’t follow his meaning, not a few among them looking surprised, even a little disgusted, but the office-master was quicker than the lot. “Hardly,” he snorted, loud enough for all to hear before lowering his voice to a grumbled whisper. “If anything, you’d be doin’ me a bloody favor. This bastard and his friends have blessed me with more headaches in two weeks than all the rest of ‘em combined. Despite the fact we ain’t markin’ the short-termers, they been struttin’ around town showin’ off their contracts like they was penned up by Mathaleus himself.”

  Declan, smile broadening, turned back and gave Ester a little nod. “Just give a shout if you need anything,” he said with enthusiasm, drawing even more perturbed rumbles from the recruits.

  The woman required no other coaxing.

  Slowly, almost sensually, she approached Owlet, hands loose at her sides, not saying a word. This, very obviously, was not at all what the young man had anticipated, his smirk faltering and going so far as to take a surprised half-step back before catching himself. Then, slowly, the grin returned, and over Ester’s head he met Declan’s eye, giving him a disdainful, victorious look.

  “Good choice,” he snorted at the woman, not taking his gaze off Declan, basking in his triumph. The moment she was in reach, he took his hand off the guard of his sword to reach for her. “I can at least promise to be more enjoyable than that sorry—”

  It was done in all of four seconds.

  Taking the last step into his grasp with purpose, Ester did three things in the same moment. Her left hand plucked the hunting knife from her belt, her right took hold of the saber’s now-freed hilt, and her knee slammed up into the recruit’s groin with a hard thud that had every man in the room—Declan, Bonner, and Vasser included—wincing. As Owlet doubled over with a squawk of pain that was several octaves higher than it might ordinarily have come out, Ester sidestepped and drew the sword smoothly. The edge of her knife slid with a surgeon’s precision between the man’s back and britches, and with a quick jerk the steel split cloth and the threaded leather of his belt. Weighed down by an empty scabbard and a purse filled with the Iron Wind’s coin, Owlet’s pants slid promptly to the ground, revealing to all that he had chosen a particularly inopportune day to forgo donning underclothes. There was a great gale of mirth now from all around as he inadvertently revealed himself in unflattering entirety to the room.

  The laughter spiked even higher when Ester twisted and brought the flat of the man’s own saber across the bare cheeks of his uncovered rear, the sound of the smooth steel against pale skin a loud crack over the room’s uniform hilarity. Owlet fell to the floor with a pitched yelp and a bare flailing of limbs, stumbling steps cut short by the cloth gathered about his knees and ankles, hands preoccupied with holding tight to the more tender parts of his insulted anatomy.

  Ester, though, wasn’t finished.

  As the swordsman tumbled down, she whirled, borrowed sword swinging high. It froze, razored tip cutting short to stop with rigid precision not four inches from the twitching throat of one of the recruit’s friends, who’d jumped to his feet and gone for his own blade the moment he realized what was happening. He stopped moving at once, letting the steel slide back into the sheath he’d only managed to draw it halfway from, taking several stumbling steps back as Ester pressed him slowly. When the back of the man’s legs caught the edge of the chair he’d only just vacated, he sat back down with a firm thump.

  All the while, Ester hadn't spoken a word.

  With echoing yells of anger, the other members of the table clambered to stand, fiery eyes on the woman, but before they could so much as reach for their own weapons Vasser had them cowering with a booming bark.

  “ENOUGH!”

  There was a thunderous BANG of steel and wood. Declan glanced back to see the man had pulled his flanged mace out from behind the counter—a weapon for which he’d been well-known to wield with deft skill in his days as a fieldsman—slamming it down atop the wood with clear fury.