The streets of Tanis had long since fallen into that quiet period that comes between the fall of darkness and the eventual bustle of citizens returning to their homes after a mug of ale or a cup of wine. For just a couple of hours, the town was peaceful. A handful of constables were all that were required to maintain this peace and see that most vagabonds and pick-pockets stayed in the deep shadows.

Whatever people said about King Talus may have been true or not, and Alex was never really sure, but one thing was generally agreed: he knew how to keep a clean, tidy and generally safe town for his people. Certainly, his reputation for swift and severe, but still fair, justice helped a great deal with this maintenance of the peace.

Alex, perhaps as a consequence of this swift and sure justice, knew that, whenever he was in town, he should behave himself. Not that he had a problem with that – well, not really – it was just that trouble seemed to seek him out sometimes. Still, it would be a foolish man who, when sitting in a crowded inn, didn’t keep his sword visible and a knife or two up his sleeves.

Bertran, the innkeeper, long used to seeing Alex at the end of a long contract, had given him his usual room and offered to have his clothing laundered as always. Bertran was a huge barrel of a man, but still less rotund than many innkeepers had a reputation for being. On Bertran, much more of the bulk was pure muscle than soft fat. He hired no men for the door, being confident that he could manage any trouble on his own. Woe betides any man who tried to be too familiar with the serving girls or who had the stupidity to speak against the quality of the food. His wife, Sidra was in charge of the kitchen and Bertran was fiercely protective of her considerable reputation.

Alex and Bertran had a simple understanding. Alex didn’t cause any trouble and Bertran didn’t ask any difficult questions. Sure, Alex paid well, but even so it was good to have a proprietor who understood one’s line of work and the possible pitfalls. He was also a good enough innkeeper to know when to tell Alex to have no more wine, something that Alex himself wasn’t always aware of.

“That’s your last cup, Alex,” Bertran said as he placed a half-full cup beside his friend.

“As you say, Master Bertran,” Alex replied easily from his seat at the dice table. What he had had to drink during the course of the evening wasn’t enough to intoxicate, merely to bring calm and relaxation. “I grow weary of the dice and will soon to my bed.”

“You grow weary of winning,” one of the other players muttered loud enough for all to hear. “If I had your luck, I’d play right through until dawn.”

“Ah, no,” Alex tells him with a good attempt at a disarming smile. “Luck is a fickle mistress. I know when to play and when to stop. Now, I think is the time to stop.”

Alex picks up his full cup of wine and drains it in a single long swallow. Placing it back on the table with exaggerated care, he reaches for the leather purse at his belt, fumbles with the drawstrings for a moment and then begins to gather his winnings, a mixture of mostly silver with a few of gold, and drop the coins into the purse.

“And you’ll just leave, without giving us a chance to win anything back?” another of the men at the table, the one in the middle of the three, suggests with a hint of threat to his tone. His surly expression and shabby dress mark him as one who shouldn’t gamble what he cannot afford to lose.

“Well, I believe that is how the game is played, my friend,” Alex tells him. “The bets are placed, the dice are thrown, some win and some lose.”

“Just so, but tonight you have won too often.” Unlike Alex, the drink has made this one agitated and quick to anger, not a good quality in a gambler.

“I must admit, I have been lucky tonight. Thank you all, gentlemen, for your time and company.”

“Well, as I see it, you have been too lucky!” That’s two opportunities that Alex has given the man to let the matter drop, neither of which have been taken.

Alex, on the point of standing to leave drops back into his seat with a sigh. He looks towards Bertran, almost apologetic in his expression. Bertran manages to offer an equally apologetic shrug in return, but positions himself behind the angry player.

“Forgive me,” Alex tells him with a resigned sigh. “I’ve had a little wine and I’m not quite sure what you mean. Surely you are not accusing me of cheating?”

“Well, it appears that way to me. To all of us, in fact,” the man mutters angrily, indicating his two friends who nod in agreement. “Whether magic or sleight of hand makes no difference. Cheating is cheating.”

“I see. What proof do you offer?”

“Our empty purses and your full one are all the proof we need,” the now red-faced man snarls.

“Well, I am at a loss. Are we not playing with your dice?”

“I do not accuse the dice. I accuse the man.”

“I see. I have no wish to argue with you. It has been a long day and I am weary. I will say goodnight to you all, gentlemen.”

“You will give us our money back! Now!”

As Alex stands, all three men push their chairs back and stand as well. Across the inn, the remaining customers turn and take notice of the commotion with varied expressions; everything between resignation and concern. Alex carefully ties his purse to his belt and takes a step back before responding. “No, gentlemen, I don’t think that I will.”

“Then we’ll take it back,” the man snarls and makes a lunge across the table in Alex’s direction, a knife appearing in his right hand. He manages only a half step before Bertran’s cudgel takes him behind the left ear and his step turns into a stumbling, twisting plunge to the floor, unconscious.

The one on the left finds himself pressed back against the next table with Alex’s sleeve knife – a fine stiletto of exceptional quality and sharpness – touched to his throat while his friend has just enough time to draw a knife of his own before Bertran grabs his hand and twists it viciously behind his back, causing the knife to clatter to the ground.

“Forgive me, Master Bertran,” Alex mutters, “but I tried.”

“Yes, my friend, you did. The blame is not yours.” Bertran stoops to pick up the fallen blade, never letting go of the man in his vice-like grip and plunges the point into the table beside the dice. With a quick twist he snaps it in half and tosses the handle onto the table.

“The workmanship in this town is really quite shoddy, these days,” He mutters, more to himself than to the crowd. “Bladesmiths knew their trade once upon a time. Now they make rubbish like that to sell cheaply to those who lack the skill or the experience to tell the difference between good and bad steel.”

The held man looks at the remains of his blade with despair, as if the blade was more to him than the quality suggests, but has the sense to say nothing. “Now, it is time for you three to leave,” Bertran tells them. “Pick up your friend and get out of my inn. You are no longer welcome here. Don’t come back.”

Alex draws his stiletto away from the other, leaving a tiny spot of blood on the centre of the man’s throat, and makes it vanish back into his sleeve. The man, released from his uncomfortable position, back arched and high on his toes, drops down quickly to grab one arm of the man on the floor. Bertran releases the other and he drops onto a knee to help, rubbing at his shoulder with obvious discomfort. Dragging their friend between them, the slink out of the inn without a backward look. 

Sidra brings Alex’s breakfast into the common room herself in the morning. Alex is quite late to rise, always feeling extra tired after any sort of fight or even the hint of one. The energy needed to supress his internal rage and maintain control taking a lot out of him. He likes to think that he is quite good at controlling his temper, but it does take a considerable effort.

There’s a platter of ham and eggs, fresh crusty bread and a block of blue-veined cheese that presumably tastes as sharp as it smells. Alex smiles at her in appreciation as she takes a seat across from him and watches as he tucks into the food.

“You and your damned luck will be the death of you one of these days,” she warns him as he cuts another thick slice of bread. “You need to learn to stop dicing when you’re just a little ahead.”

“This ham is excellent, Mistress.”

“Don’t try and change the subject, Alex. You know I’m right.”

“I do, but what can I truly do about it. I’ve always been lucky.”

“Yes, but it might be safer to hide it a little better.” Sidra’s tone is genuinely concerned, not just because she doesn’t want trouble in Bertran’s inn, but because she has a bit of a secret soft-spot for Alex – almost the son they never had. “I know it’s not your fault, Alex. Thank you for not spilling blood on my floor last night.”

“I didn’t want to make a mess. I had a clean shirt on!”, Alex mutters between mouthfuls.

Their conversation is interrupted by a loud knocking on the main door. It’s early enough that the common room isn’t open to the public, remaining locked from the end of the previous night. There are just Alex and a couple of Salician merchants who have rooms and are also having a somewhat late breakfast. Sidra stands and moves to open the door. She lets in a group of uniformed men after a few brief words from them.

“Alexion Varga,” the officer asks loudly as he approaches the table where Alex, having finished the ham and eggs is now cutting a piece of the blue cheese.

“Yes, Captain. Good morning to you.” The captain is a tall man, strongly built but with that slight athleticism that comes from regular training. He’s perhaps ten years older than Alex and carries his authority well.

“Erm… Good morning, sir. Would you come with me, sir?”

“Come with you, Captain? Where too exactly?”

“The King wishes to speak with you. If you’ll just accompany me, sir.”

“I see. Do you think I have time to finish my breakfast, Captain?”

“If you are quick, Sir. My orders are from the King himself.”

“Thank you. Captain. I am almost done. Would you like to join me and partake of some cheese. It is excellent.”

It’s clear that the captain is well aware that Alex is having a bit of fun, but his orders don’t specify a time limit to bring Alex to the King and he is aware of his reputation. He’s also smart enough to know that he’s not meant to make a scene. “No, thank you, Sir. I have eaten this morning.”

Alex takes great pleasure in watching as the captain tries to maintain his composure in front of the four other guards. There’s a limit to how much an officer can be pushed and Alex can sense that he’s near to this limit with the captain now. 

“Sidra, my dear, please keep some of the cheese for me for later. I must go out for a little while,” he tells her as he stands and adjusts his sword on his belt. Reaching in to the right-hand pocket of his tunic, he pulls out a short red ribbon and uses it to pull his long black hair back from his face, behind his ears, and ties it into a short ponytail. Alex likes his somewhat longer hair, but has to admit that it requires excessive maintenance for a travelling guardsman.

“Please, Captain, lead the way.”