There were precisely seven names upon the list, and so Quincey set to work without delay, intent on completing his task by nightfall to provide Cassian with a full report.

He did not wish to draw premature conclusions, yet he assumed that the young blacksmith who had taken over his father’s workshop was the least suspicious name on his list. On the contrary, the foreign spice merchant with exotic wares and the innkeeper who had purchased the old tavern by the gate stood high upon the scale that stirred his doubts.

The knight did not wish to suspect someone from another kingdom at once, yet in times when peace was fragile, he had to remain cautious. Moreover, the man, as he had learned, came from Thalassar, a kingdom known for trade and the transport of goods.

Mortimer Bourne had come to offer his exotic spices in Castravelle five months earlier. The trouble was that there was no body of water near this market town, and if Quincey remembered correctly, the Thalassans, with their bodies adapted to life within waters, needed to live near rivers, though best of all near seas of salt water.

The knight could not understand why Bourne would move so far, and above all to a place that offered him no favorable conditions. For that reason he chose to visit him first.

The Tide-Born bore webs between their fingers and gills upon their necks, and the spice merchant was no exception. Yet what further set him apart from ordinary Valerionians were his eyes. His irises were silver with places that shone in various shades of orange, recalling fire, and his pupils were larger than Quincey was accustomed to seeing among men.

“My Lord Messenger,” the Thalassan greeted him the moment he stepped into the shop.

“Master Bourne,” the knight returned the greeting.

The spice merchant was younger than he had expected, and at first glance Quincey could say nothing ill of him. He seemed energetic, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes and the vigor of men of his age when they sought to find their place in the world. If Quincey had to judge, he would have thought Mortimer to be of an age with himself, if not younger.

“May I offer you something?” The young man, with short blond hair that looked wind-tossed, moved away from the counter and came nearer, gesturing toward his wares as though presenting them to a potential customer.

“I did not come to make a purchase.” The Messenger-at-Arms had to disappoint him. He himself, however, was not disappointed, for through the presence of the other man he had once more learned something new.

Though he tried not to focus upon his aura, it was difficult to draw his gaze away when he noticed that, unlike the mages he had seen before, Mortimer’s was not translucent, but in the places where it most closely touched his body it shone with shades of blue. Quincey thus began to work with the theory that each creature possessed its own manner of identification. For now, however, he had no way to confirm this, and so he could not dwell upon it.

“Then how may I assist you?”

“I am reviewing all the new merchants in the town,” Quincey came straight to the matter. “I will need from you all records of import and your sales ledger for the past half year. I am interested in the names of your suppliers, but also the names of the locals to whom you most often provide your goods.”

“Am I in trouble?” He no longer appeared so carefree, yet there was still no guilt in his face, rather concern and confusion. After all, he was a being with particular gifts within a kingdom that looked upon magic with disdain.

“There is no trouble. You need not be concerned. It is a standard procedure. As I said, I am reviewing all merchants who have come to the town in recent months.” Then he decided to add, “Of course, if you have noticed anything that would be worth bringing to my attention, speak freely.”

Mortimer seemed surprised by the suggestion, yet then he nodded.

“I have noticed nothing unusual. As you see, I am a foreigner, people cast strange looks at me, but it is nothing I did not expect. I fear I have no intelligence for you.”

“That is all right.” Quincey nodded, then after a brief hesitation added, “If anyone causes you trouble, do not hesitate to inform me. I would not wish you to feel unwelcome in Valerion.”

“Truly?” This time his surprise was so great that the question escaped him aloud, and judging by his expression afterward, he had not intended to speak it.

“Truly.” The knight nodded. “The documents?” he reminded him of the purpose of his visit.

“Of course.” The blond man began to nod eagerly in agreement, then moved back behind the counter and from there toward the door leading to the rear. “I shall bring everything at once,” he assured the knight before disappearing through the doorway.

Soon he held in his hands all that he required, and while he leafed through the entire sales ledger directly in the shop, he took the import records with him so that he might later compare them with those in the bastion.

While he turned the pages of the thick ledger, carefully reading each entry, the spice merchant prepared for him the list of suppliers and customers he had requested.

This pattern continued with every name upon the list, save for the man who owned the inn. Him, Quincey saved for last. He returned to the keep to cross-reference the scrolls he had gathered before returning them to their rightful owners.

It took him several hours to review them all, and since he found nothing that did not accord, he decided it was time to eat something and visit the inn. Yet first he stopped by the merchants to return their documents. He still kept their lists of suppliers and customers, but those he was to deliver to Cassian and leave for him to examine more closely.

The Whispering Coin, as the new inn was called, appeared far cleaner and more modern than the knight had anticipated. Though he knew it had been recently refurbished by its new owner, he had still expected something else in a place where men drank heavily and the din spilled into the streets until nightfall. His knightly instinct whispered for him to remain wary, and he did exactly that.

Although word of his presence in the market town had spread, he still hoped that the cloak he wore once more and the absence of his horse—which he had left at the bastion—would grant him at least some measure of anonymity. This was especially true with his hood pulled low over his face.

The first thing he noted upon reaching the inn were the wagons stationed in the yard. They were draped in canvas and empty, making it plain that whatever cargo they had carried had long since been unloaded. This would not have been unusual were there not so many of them. While three wagons might not seem an excessive number, for a common tavern that required them primarily for hauling tuns of ale and could purchase other necessities within the town, it was an abnormal count.

Quincey committed this to memory, intending to mark it in his report for Cassian; however, he made no hasty conclusions yet and stepped inside.

The inn was more full than empty, the air thick with the clinking of tankards and the low hum of gossip from folk who clearly had much to share. 

The knight moved directly to the bar, where a large man with broad shoulders and thinning hair was busy—unquestionably Calak Ambrose, the new master of the house.

“A small ale,” Quincey ordered, letting his hood shadow his features. Though he planned to ride home, he required an order that was unremarkable, and nothing was more common for travelers than a draught of beer.

This close to the counter, the knight caught a variety of scents—the sour tang of wine, the sharp bite of roasted onions, and the pungent aroma of cheese. Yet beneath these common smells, he detected something else he could not yet identify. Though it was sharp enough to reach him, the other odors masked it well.

“Here,” the innkeeper said, sliding a tankard toward him and claiming the two copper coins Quincey had placed there.

With a nod of thanks, the knight moved with his ale to a vacant table—not quite at the heart of the room, yet not entirely at its fringes. He needed to sit where he could observe the folk while remaining unobserved himself.

He raised the tankard to his lips and took a draught, his eyes scanning the room without turning his head. For a time, nothing seemed untoward, until his gaze fell upon a man sitting alone at a table. Unlike the knight, he had neither drink nor meat before him. In his hands was a knife, and he used it to carve into the wood of the table with an air of profound boredom.

Quincey watched him, averting his gaze whenever he feared the man might sense his scrutiny. Weighing the possibilities, the knight found the most likely conclusion: the man was a sentry, guarding either the peace of the inn or the security of illicit trades.

The knight knew not which truth was correct, but it was yet another detail that fed his suspicion. He began to feel that he had finally unearthed what he had come to Castravelle to find.

Finishing his ale, he rose and moved outside without stopping to speak to the innkeeper again. He still required the man's documents for review, but first, he intended to conduct a different sort of investigation. Fortunately, the hour was such that enough folk were within that he drew little notice, yet not so many that others were waiting outside for a seat.

Quincey’s aim was to circle the building unobserved, seeking a suspicious entrance or a cellar that bore a peculiar scent. Anything that might confirm his doubts.

At first glance, he found nothing of the sort; beyond the number of empty wagons, nothing caught his eye. The same could not be said for his sense of smell. He had nearly given up when he caught the same scent from within—and this time, nothing masked it. He followed the trail until he reached a small window, likely leading to the cellar. He could see nothing through it, but the aroma drifting faintly outward was enough.

It was a sharp, acrid stench, put in mind of rotten eggs or a struck match. Quincey, having encountered it many times, knew exactly what he smelled. It was brimstone, and it heralded nothing good.

Sulfur served many purposes. It was a key ingredient of black powder. It was used in counterfeiting, particularly when one sought to melt royal coin to strip away the gold and replace it with baser metals. It was also used to preserve foodstuffs that would otherwise rot in the dry interior, especially those brought from exotic lands. The only legal possibility was that they were fumigating the cellar to drive out vermin. Given everything else the knight had noted, he doubted that explanation.

Quincey thus retrieved his horse and returned to the inn, no longer in disguise but striding in with the confidence of a Messenger-at-Arms.

Calak Ambrose surrendered every document requested with a ready smile and full cooperation—which should have suggested he had nothing to hide. The keyword was should. Nothing escaped Quincey’s seasoned gaze.

Though he had officially held his post for only a few weeks, he had performed its duties for years in his former life; he knew precisely what to look for. Within the ledger of expenses, he noted a suspicious purchase of firewood. While it explained why the innkeeper required so many wagons, it made little sense otherwise. It was not a season that required such heat as to demand a threefold supply of wood, nor was the price so favorable as to justify stockpiling it.

The knight officially adopted the theory that the innkeeper required high temperatures either for the smelting of metals or for the drying of illicit wares. Either way, he believed he had found the man he sought and after noting everything for Cassian, he finally set out for the castle.

“Everything I have found,” he said a few hours later, laying the documents upon the king’s table. “I am certain the man you seek is Calak Ambrose, master of The Whispering Coin. Whether the Royal Guard aided him in his illicit acts, you must discover for yourself.”

Cassian appeared briefly suprised, but then his lips curled into a satisfied smile. “I knew what I was doing when I named you my right hand. I must say, I am proud, Quincey.”

“I am merely performing my duties, Your Highness,” the knight assured him. Once, such praise would have gladdened his heart, but now he merely believed he was sharpening his skill at unmasking petty traitors before he would have to face the greatest one of all.

“Even so, it is fine work. I shall see that you receive the credit you are due.”

“Thank you, Sire.”