Noarwin stroked his lady friend’s painted cheek in the underground market of the Cerulean Hatch. “Seen anyone like that wandering around?” he asked. In the midst of red velvet-covered walls, furniture to match, and a crowd of handsome men and women, Noarwin proved himself the master of a select group of talented, albeit unofficial, spies.

“Sorry, Mr. Noarwin. It’s a vague description,” she said leaning into his fingers.

“My apologies." He glanced at his admirers staring at him. Though he'd expected as much, he had hoped to be surprised. "It seems I overestimated your resources, pretty little things.” He didn't blame them. These people did what they deemed necessary to survive. Some stooped below themselves while others flourished. Either way, he'd asked a lot from them in identifying a person lacking an identity.

The room of men and women, whom Noarwin had gathered for a private meeting once he left the palace, frowned back—troubled. Not one of his contacts had information on a woman whose name and face changed. They filed out, and Noarwin eased deeper into his chair. He needed to rethink his strategy. Running a finger over his bottom lip, he thought of the shop owner whom Asinis attempted to exhort. Asinis lacked the talent to persuade an ancient elf to give him information, but Noarwin knew how to change opinion in his favor. He left the lady’s wear shop, keeping his valuables under scrutiny, and found the store.

Relic Goods, the name of Afon’s shop, showed in chiseled strokes across the entrance's front beam. Noarwin, smirking, jingled the coins in his pocket and went in. Chains crisscrossed over reinforced glass chambers on the walls, behind which several weapons, armors, and other magically imbued items lay in wait. Where Mr. Afon accumulated such wares and how he kept them from the Empire’s attention, Noarwin was curious to know. Asinis had no idea what he had walked into. He’d not even looked. Here, Noarwin could hit two birds with one stone.

Noarwin approached Mr. Afon sitting behind the counter polishing the same globe Asinis had seen. Noarwin squinted and turned his head. An illusion. For a wizard, Asinis seemed as untalented as the woman he hoped to discover. Poor guy. If this ended well, Noarwin expected Asinis would have a chance to improve. From what little Noarwin had witnessed, Asinis bore the potential—though perhaps not the temperament—for a war mage.

“Mr. Afon,” Noarwin called grandiosely to the allusion. The allusion grunted, and Noarwin leaned on the counter full of nicks and wear from heavy, dangerous items sliding across it. “I’ve heard that you orchestrate a network smuggling you these rather amazing things. Tell me. Have you acquired a Vermillion Sword?” he asked. Open big. Make the man think him as knowledgeable as he faked and carry just below the coin for something so rare and desirable.

“Tch, everyone knows the Vermillion Abducta is in the hands of Nytvale’s Gargoyle King.”

“Ah, so your ambitions don’t reach so high.” Noarwin nodded to himself, and Afon’s allusion twitched. “Have you anything more useful than this?” He pulled out the saber he carried, inviting Afon’s attention to lift from his globe.

Afon grunted and rose over the blade laying on his scratched and chipped counter. “This is not magical,” he said needing no more than a glance to know.

“A practiced eye you have there. You’re right. I’ve been advised to upgrade, and I understand you to carry the best.”

“And the coin?” Afon asked.

“I have some.” Noarwin patted his side coat pocket. Afon listened, the sound seeming to communicate their worth. Noarwin's smile widened. Such little telltale signs taught you a great deal about people. This one answered to the promise of wealth. How base and wise.

“Who sponsors you, sir?” Afon asked.

Interesting, though the question raised Noarwin's suspicion too. Noarwin didn't face a fool. Though he'd suspected that already, circumstance warned Noarwin that Afon's talents went beyond intelligence. It included wisdom also.

“The Queen herself, my good man,” Noarwin answered. Could this man tell, even through his allusion, a person's—white—lie?

“The Queen doesn’t send her goons underground to arm themselves. Who do you really work for?” Afon drawled.

Noarwin's suspicions of Mr. Afon continued stacking true. He certainly wasn't disappointing. “I should have known better than to try deceiving one as well-lived as you. My master, of course, is Captain Arne Fairwind,” Noarwin said.

Afon narrowed his eyes. “Is that so.”

“Indeed.” Noarwin pulled up his left sleeve and turned it over. “He granted me his crest here.” On the inside of Noarwin’s wrist was burned the shape of an elegant, tusked leopard with four tails. A figure associated with Captain Fairwind alone. It had protected Noarwin more than once, and though acquiring it had made him pass out, he wore it proudly.

“The captain with no family. I’ve heard about you. You’re his spy, but you won’t find information here.”

Noarwin chuckled. “I beg you. Give me a chance. First, I would like to honor the promise I made to my master and upgrade myself. He has a sense for these things, and I would rather not get caught ill-prepared facing his premonition.” Feel out the target, offer coin, encourage engagement, build rapport, attain a small level of trust, and then get answers. These were the rules to solving problems Noarwin's way. As a shopkeeper, Afon had no reason to refuse his request.

“Wait here.” Afon glided around the counter, and Noarwin turned around to rest his back on the counter edge. Afon strode to one of the glass cabinets where he drew some arcane sigils in the air. The locks glowed as one, and the chains lifted as if by invisible hands out of his way. Afon returned with a sword and whip. He laid them on the counter. “Viper, a whip that seeks out its target. This will grapple or slingshot your foe to you.”

“How lovely,” Noarwin purred as his fingers stroked the braided leather. “And your sword?”

“Solare made. Offer it the blood of your enemy, and it will consume them.”

“And if I wish to leave said person wounded but alive?”

“Give it your blood first to quench its thirst,” Afon said.

“Leave it to demons to craft something bloodthirsty,” Noarwin scoffed. “How much?”

“Three hundred gold for the whip, two thousand fifty for the sword.”

“Oh, Mr. Afon, you do wish to cut holes in my pockets,” Noarwin groaned.

“Those pockets aren’t yours, Mr. Noarwin,” Afon replied.

True. Arne would supply Noarwin with whatever amount of coin he asked for. He didn't live in a hole in the slums because Arne didn't pay well or wouldn't give him more. Noarwin shrugged, not willing to exploit his friend disguised as an employer. “I am intrigued by the whip at the very least.”

“Your reputation precedes you then,” Afon said.

“Ah, you picked it out knowing my interests?” Noarwin splayed his fingers over his chest, a devilish grin on his face as his lashes seemed to lengthen.

“That I did," Afon said, unaffected by Noarwin's pleasure. "Though, if you wish to upgrade your blade, this vampire here is better suited.”

Noarwin eyed it. “As fond as I am of my own kind and our craftsmanship, I hesitate to offer a drop of my life to spare another’s. Have you anything less—fiendish? Worth perhaps a great fewer of my beggar's tears? After all, the captain’s money doesn’t liquidate freely.” The last part was a lie if one disregarded Noarwin's unwillingness to abuse Arne's disinterest in money.

“Hmph.” Afon swept up the green-tinted sword. It twanged and left behind a ruby blur. Afon returned it to its place and then pulled out a less intimidating blade. “The Siren.” He set it down for Noarwin to observe. The blade was long and thin with flowers etched into its edges. “Give her a flick and whisper the name or shape of your target, and she will draw it to you if it be within a hundred feet. Use her to wound them, and they will need magical healing to stop the bleeding.”

“And the coin?” Noarwin asked, not yet touching the sword. He appreciated the design and delicacy. It'd also prove useful in his line of work. He would have to operate around the hundred-foot limitation, but he suspected he could take advantage of it.

"A thousand seventy-five.”

"One thousand and one hundred for the sword and whip together,” Noarwin offered.

Afon narrowed his eyes.

“And an extra ten for why that broodish fellow with the orange hair and beard came in here yesternight.”

Afon’s gaze flashed. “And what use have you of that information?” he asked.

“I don’t quite trust the fellow in question and am following up on his activity,” Noarwin offered. He didn’t believe in using total lies and hoped the edge of truth in his purpose would appease the elven fellow. Besides, a straight out fib seemed like something a man of Afon's experience would grasp with no chance of backtracking.

“He is seeking a girl who does not wish to be found.”

“Oh?" So Asinis hadn't lied about that. "And why does she stay out of sight?”

“Because she was betrayed by someone she trusted and had everything, including her face and name, stolen by him.”

Noarwin’s good-natured demeanor shifted. He straightened, a seriousness about him that better matched Mr. Afon’s. “That is disturbing. She is hiding from this person specifically?”

“And whoever his master is,” Afon replied.

“Is there no way to contact her?” Noarwin now felt less inclined to seek her out for his original purpose and more to aid her. He squashed the instinct. Bad people sometimes came from one thing and sometimes another—like an unfair past. He couldn’t let sympathy deceive him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Noarwin. But I do not know you, and I have promised the child not to disclose her secrets to another. I have told you all I can without interposing on that promise, and I take my oaths seriously.”

“I admire that, Mr. Afon. Thank you. You have given me more to consider as I attempt unraveling this mystery I find myself entangled in. I will accept your offer. Here is your one thousand and hundred ten gold, and I will take my sword and whip.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Noarwin.”

“You as well, Mr. Afon. Good day.” Noarwin clipped The Siren in her sheath onto his belt next to his saber and hooked the whip onto his other side. It seemed that Asinis didn’t know the lady he sought as well as he thought, or he hadn't disclosed all the information Mr. Afon had shared. Noarwin needed to do some more digging.

He wandered a while from Relic Goods and then, sneaking a peek over his shoulder, unsheathed The Siren. People provided him room as they walked around him. Not out of fear he would attack. Mr. Noarwin had a reputation even in the Cerulean Hatch. One he wouldn't tarnish. But no one wanted to bump into the edge of his sword. He studied the blade, admired its detail, then gave her a flick. The flowers swayed on their bows as if in a breeze, even sending a few petals across its face. Noarwin brought the flowers near his lips and whispered, “Bring me the maid whose face and name were stolen by one whom she trusted.” He brushed his whip and glanced about the busy underground street.

A few familiar faces passed. Strangers followed the flow that streamed around him. No one came. Noarwin sighed and put The Siren away. “Ah, it was worth a try.” He faded into the crowd, unaware that a hooded figure wrapped in a scarf held onto the side of a building, fighting her desperation to answer the whispers that brought her closer to him.

Afon had failed to mention—The Siren’s call could be resisted by a woman whose will was stronger than his own.