Faleb Rulen climbed the creaky steps of the tavern, swaying slightly from all he had drunk. The old kithara at his side kept trying to bump into the nearest wall, but the skilled minstrel's experienced hand always managed to pull his instrument back in time. He had just finished his performance in the dining hall. This show did not bring him much pleasure or money. Then again, Faleb cared little about coins for his songs, although he still accepted them with gratitude to maintain his carefully crafted image.

Faleb Rulen was one of those people who were far ahead of their time. He was one of the first to realize that minstrels and storytellers could be used as information gatherers. Twelve years ago, he took over one of the small guilds of wandering musicians and, based on it, created albeit a primitive but quite functional spy network. Rumors, tales, gossip, the search for people and information on nobles – he collected it all to later sell to interested parties.

No one pays attention to singers, dancers, skalds, and musicians. It wasn't uncommon even for royalty or heads of influential guilds to discuss interesting matters during minstrels' performances. And these minstrels have ears. And what these ears heard often became known to Faleb.

Rulen himself was little interested in the financial side of things. No, he loved good wine and beautiful women, but far more he enjoyed feeling like a spider sitting in the center of a web, with streams of information flowing to him from all corners of Ain. Over twelve years, his guild grew from a little under a dozen to three hundred agents. And an ordinary man who grew up in a village herding goats in his youth had now become one of the most informed people in all of Ain.

And now, climbing this creaky staircase, he was about to meet another client.

The last step, a dark corridor, the third door on the left, the agreed-upon knock.

In the room Faleb had entered, a semi-darkness reigned, illuminated by a single dim candle. The setting was typical for such establishments. Rulen's experienced eye immediately noted that the person who had rented this place tried not to touch anything and even now stood by the closed shutters of the window, not touching anything and not even sitting on the chair. The potential client was definitely a man. Tall, strong, and wrapped from head to toe in fabric, so much so that not only his face but even the tips of his fingers were not visible. Such secrecy did not surprise the minstrel; many had come to him this way, carefully hiding their identity.

"Awful performance," the one standing by the window said in a booming voice. "You can do better."

Perhaps Faleb would have fully agreed with this, but wasting his talent and giving his all for the drunk peasants and artisans who sat on the tavern's first floor today - he had no such intention.

"Sir has a good ear," Faleb bowed with a note of feigned subservience.

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In reality, he didn't care about the potential client's words, but let him think he managed to get under his skin.

"Does sir wish me to play something for him to dispel his boredom?"

"Sir does not wish to waste time," the man by the window cut off.

From his tone and manner, Faleb unmistakably identified a nobleman. Such arrogance, such disregard for etiquette, could only be afforded by those who had been accustomed to lording over others since birth. Rulen was wary of such clients, but it was also them who brought big money. So, without arguing, the minstrel bowed again, this time much deeper.

"Two people, where they are, where they were last seen, all rumors, even the most absurd, I want to know everything," the client's voice was colorless and dry.

Faleb flinched. He had come here without a recommendation, at his own risk, but such was his nature. Rulen didn't know this man, his connections or capabilities, but the note he had received intrigued him. Therefore, he did not argue or claim that the sir was mistaken and that he, Rulen, was just a simple minstrel. Something in the fleeting and restrained movements of the man by the window kept Faleb from such objections. Instantly shedding the mask of a drunken bard, Rulen straightened his back.

"Names," the minstrel said in the same business-like manner.

"First. Ridan the Honest Sword."

"I know that name," the head of the musical guild nodded. Many had been asking about this man surprisingly often in recent days, and he had a hunch as to why this interest was so high.

"Second. Raven from Seattle, a tunneller. Approximately Wootz Rank. Winner of the Grand Alchemists' Tournament in Tries about a month ago."

"Never heard of him."

"Is that a problem?"

"Not at all, sir, no problem at all. It'll just be a bit more expensive."

"Doesn't matter," the client shrugged, and Faleb immediately tripled the contract price in his mind from the usual rate, barely concealing a smile. "You will leave the information in any Artifactors' Guild branch. The password for the cell is 'niña'."

"Niña," Faleb obediently repeated, rolling the unfamiliar word on his tongue. "I've got it."

"Now, about the payment." And before Rulen could name a price, the man by the window took a small case from his clothes and tossed it to the minstrel.

During this motion, the stranger's palm flashed, and the singer automatically noted the scars on it, the kind left by terrible burns if not treated in time.

Opening the box, Faleb couldn't believe his eyes. His hands trembled. With his fingertips, he ran over the old flute. There could be no mistake, this was the instrument of Mantar himself, the greatest storyteller of Ain since the Fall. The flute that had been considered lost for a thousand years.

"I hope this is sufficient," the client said.

"More than sufficient," Faleb whispered, sinking to his knees and bowing low.

He remained on his knees until the stranger left the room...