The atmosphere at the Broken Chair was about what he’d expected after such a hot, sticky day. Tempers were short—just on his way to his reserved table, Kildare saw one fight break out and two more that looked like they’d explode at any second. Granted, this was not what anyone would call the best side of town, but still… He had to wonder what kind of mood their mystery employer would be in tonight.

Kildare slid into the booth at the back of the tavern and glanced up toward the door just as Mock and Snitch entered, both looking frazzled. Mock's red tunic hung slightly askew on her thin frame, and she had a pinched look to her face. Had they been making out somewhere, or had they been fighting again? His question was answered as Mock deliberately elbowed Snitch's side, saying something with a glare in her eyes and a tightness to her lips.

Snitch pushed her elbow out of his ribs and pointed toward the back of the room. He caught Kildare's eyes and nodded, then motioned Mock forward. Mock stayed close on his heels the entire way, shoulders hunched in on herself, darting cautious looks around the rowdy crowd.

Kildare sighed. He didn't blame her. He'd rescued Mock from a place almost exactly like this—except there, she'd been in forced servitude. He snorted under his breath. Such fancy words for slavery. Serene was rubbing off on him.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Don't think about Serene. Not right now. One slip, that's all it'd take... He glanced over at the bar, caught the eye of the keeper, and raised two fingers from the table, indicating he was ready to order.

The bearded man nodded and turned to one of the girls beside him, nodding his head at Kildare. The girl nodded and slipped from behind the bar. She, Mock, and Snitch reached the table at about the same time.

"Voletia," Snitch said before the barmaid could even open her mouth to ask. He slipped into the seat opposite Kildare, tugging the laced neck of his shirt open.

Mock shook her head at the barmaid's raised eyebrow.

Kildare ordered ale and turned to Snitch. "Don't get drunk on me."

The man snickered nervously and swept his hair out of his face. "You kidding? We're meeting with an unknown employer and you want me sober?"

"No, I just don't want you stupid." Kildare scanned the room again. Where the rot was Fir?

Across the table, Snitch babbled on about something in a low tone. Mock leaned against the back of the booth, arms crossed, slightly turned away from Snitch, her dark eyes scanning the room.

Kildare's throat tightened. They both looked miserable. Maybe taking a break would be good for them. He rubbed his thumb and finger together. He could take Serene back to visit the wyvern colony in Teshinn, where he'd proposed. They'd lived in an area called the Pillars of the Sea, where tall, cliff-faced islands jutted from the ocean's coastline. The only way from island to island had been rope bridges or flying. It was quiet, peaceful, the breeze gentle and the air filled with the sound of rushing waves far below.

He shook off the thought. Not yet. He couldn't let himself get distracted now.

A hand slapped down on the table next to his elbow. Kildare jumped, nearly pitched off his seat, and looked up.

A Knocken stood beside their table, his beady eyes almost lost in the folds of the gnarled, gray-brown skin of his face. "You Kildare Wingard?" he asked, his voice like grinding stones. The Knocken's folded his long arms over his barrel chest.

Kildare nodded, not trusting his voice just yet.

"I'm Taoh. Here to escort you to your meeting."

"I thought Eras was supposed to meet us," Kildare said.

Taoh's eyes flicked around the table, and returned to Kildare. "I was told you had four."

"We're waiting on one of our members," Snitch growled. "Obviously."

Kildare shot him a glare.

Taoh grunted. He clomped over to the bar and pounded a fist on it. Kildare couldn't hear his conversation over the noise of the tavern, but the barkeeper quickly grabbed a mug from underneath the bar, nodding at every other word out of Taoh's mouth.

He glanced around the room and spotted Fir slipping through the crowd to their table, his satchel clutched close to himself.

The Alfaren slid into place beside him. "Who's that?" He nodded to the Knocken.

"Taoh. Supposedly works for the guy who hired us." Kildare looked up into his friend's face. "Where have you been?"

Fir gnawed on his lower lip. "Thought you didn't care what we did."

"Fir—"

"Fine. I found a dice game to join. And before you ask, no, I quit once I lost what I'd brought to the game, and I didn't cheat." Fir looked away. "Where's Eras?"

Kildare breathed, trying not to let Fir's confession add more tension to his already strung out nerves. "No idea."

Taoh came back from the bar, two mugs and a glass in his hands. He slammed the drinks on the table and glared at Kildare. "So. You've got your drinks. And it looks like your fourth teammate has finally showed his face. Anything else you need, drake, or can I do my job now?"

Kildare felt warmth rush over his face at the insult. He stood. Even with a shifter's shorter height, he still stood a good head taller than the Knocken. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like Taoh was intimidated at all. He just glared up at Kildare, long arms crossed over his chest. Kildare flxed his hand, took a moment to let his temper cool. He didn't need to antagonize the only person who knew where they were supposed to meet their employer.

Kildare picked up his drink and nodded to Taoh. "Lead the way."

Without another word, Taoh turned and headed toward a closed door at the side of the tavern.

Fir stood up, gnawing on a thumbnail. "Creepy Knocken," he muttered under his breath. "Why'd he have to be the one to escort us?"

"Maybe because everyone else thinks he's creepy too, and he likes that it throws people off balance," Snitch muttered.

Fir wrinkled his nose.

As Kildare and his team followed, a slight hush rolled over the tavern. The noise didn't entirely die down, but it was enough that Kildare knew they were being watched. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see several of the people closest to them turning to look over their shoulder, watching the four strangers' progress toward the door. None of them had a friendly look to their glares. Kildare looked over his shoulder and offered a reassuring smile to his team. Snitch was the only one who smiled back. Mock and Fir looked like they'd rather be in a prison cell than going to meet with their employer.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Taoh opened the door and motioned them inside. Kildare squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. It wasn't much larger than a servant's bedroom. Across from them stood another door, and two Knocken sat on either side of it, loaded crossbow bolts across their laps. At a sign from Taoh, one of the Knocken got up and opened the door, motioning the group into the dark room.

As Kildare crossed the threshold, his feet sank into thick, rich carpet. He took several paces into the room, enough that he was sure his team could get into the room behind him. Just as he was considering another step, he heard a voice in front of him.

"That's far enough."

Kildare froze.

The door creaked shut behind them, enshrouding the room completely in darkness. It lasted only a few seconds before the lanterns along the walls flared to life, giving the room a warm yellow glow. It made the red carpet even more garish.

A long wooden table dominated the space, and at the far side of the table sat a wizened old Alfaren with graying skin and lank, coarse gray hair. He had a half-eaten plate of food in front of him. To his right sat Eras, back ramrod straight, hands folded on the table before her. It was the first time Kildare had gotten a good look at her face. She had very slight wrinkles around her lips and eyes, showing that she was perhaps twenty years or so older than him.

The Alfaren leaned one arm against the table and beckoned them forward with gnarled, stubby fingers. "Come. Sit," he ordered in the croaking voice they'd heard before.

Kildare curled his hand tighter around his cup of ale as he pulled a chair out from the table and sat, directly across from the Alfaren. He tried not to stare at the needle marks that tracked up and down both of the Alfaren's arms, instead choosing to focus on the dark eyes that glimmered above a hawk nose.

The Alfaren smiled as the rest of his team took their seats. He looked back at Kildare and drummed his fingers on the table. He was missing his pinky completely, and the next two fingers from the first knuckle down, so the drumming was an uneven rhythm that set Kildare's teeth on edge.

Kildare glanced from the corners of his eyes at the rest of his team. Fir sat on his left, his hands white-knuckled on the arms of his chair. Snitch slouched, chair pushed far enough from the table that he could cross one leg over the other, ankle resting on his knee. Mock sat like a coiled spring, hands clasped on the table, eyes never leaving Eras.

"Welcome to Rohondeish," the Alfaren said. "My name is Basalt. I trust you've been enjoying the sights in our city?"

Kildare's muscles locked, and he glanced down at the table. Ice spread through his core, as if his fire had been snuffed out. Basalt.

Serene's overlord.

Pox.

The silence stretched out, and Kildare resisted the urge to fidget or look up. He couldn't. The man who had enslaved Serene was sitting right across from him, and Kildare wasn't sure he could contain his fear. Did he know? He couldn't know. Serene had never told him why, but she'd begged him to be discreet. Said Basalt could never know of their relationship.

Fir shifted in his seat, his elbow bumping into Kildare's. "Thank you, sir. We have."

Kildare raised his eyes.. Basalt glanced to Fir, then brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Basalt swept his hand down and outward, turning his palm up—a common Alfaren gesture of recognition. He was accepting Fir as an equal. He turned to Mock and Snitch in turn and made the same gesture.

As he made eye contact with Kildare, one corner of Basalt's mouth turned upward into a tiny smirk. Kildare clenched his hands around his mug. Why was the old Alfaren looking at him that way?

Basalt put his fingers on the bridge of his nose, then moved his hand down and outward, repeating the exact gesture he'd used for everyone else.

Kildare let out a breath.

Basalt picked up his fork and skewered a bite of food. He glanced up at Kildare. "So, I take it you've had a chance to tour the magnificent museum. What did you make of it?"

"We looked it over. It's doable, Basalt, but..." Kildare forced a little chuckle. "You didn't exactly pick an easy target for us."

"If it had been easy, I would've had some of my own men do it," Basalt growled. "I sent for you because you're supposed to be some of the best. If you're getting cold feet I can always hire someone else...perhaps you could put Serene on the job, eh?" He laughed, a dry rasping that sounded more like a coughing fit, and elbowed Eras.

Kildare tried not to twitch. The Alfaren's tone was the same as if he'd been referring to a tool, not a person.

Eras's lips twitched into a barely-there smile, and her gaze shifted to Kildare. "Unfortunately, sir, I'm afraid that my recommendation stands. This is a job for a team, not a single person. And you know Serene doesn't play well with others."

Basalt cackled again.

She doesn't know, she doesn't know. She can't know. Kildare met Eras's eyes, even though her flat gaze made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He waited until Basalt's laughter died down. "We can do it. Absolutely. My only conditions are that we're paid half up front, plus I would appreciate the opportunity to fence any additional items we acquire through your men."

Basalt tilted his head to the side. "Less commission fees, I assume."

Kildare nodded.

Basalt slapped his hands on the table. "Perfect. And so, the item I wish you to acquire." He reached into the breast pocket of his outer vest and produced a folded piece of paper, sliding it over to Kildare.

Kildare unfolded it and flattened it on the table. The picture was a pencil sketch of a box with carved swirls and vines crawling over every surface.

Fir gasped and tugged on the paper, pulling it closer to himself. "Is that..." He glanced up at Basalt, his fear of the older Alfaren temporarily forgotten. "Is that a real Alfaren-made puzzle box?"

Kildare raised his eyebrows. A genuine puzzle box, made by an Alfaren woodcrafter using ley, was usually worth a fortune. Hand-carved knocken-made ones sold for less, but weren't nearly as intricate.

Basalt snorted. "I wouldn't settle for less. It's a genuine one made by Beech Willon."

Fir's eyes went wide. He started to speak, then seemed to remember where he was and who he was talking to. A faint redness spread over his face and he looked down at the table.

"It's all right," Basalt told him. "I'm glad to find another who shares my admiration for these wonderful little devices." He looked at Kildare. "So it's a deal? I pay you four thousand goldmarks, you steal my puzzle box and all the loot you can carry?"

Kildare reached across the table, holding out his hand. Basalt gripped it, his fingers tight despite his infirmity.

"Taoh, fetch these people their money."

The Knocken disappeared through a side door, then came back a moment later carrying a sack of coins. He set it on the table. Kildare scooted it over to Mock, listening to the jingle of the coins as she quickly counted through them.

When Mock was finished, they stood. Kildare gave a deep, respectful nod to Basaltand allowed Taoh to get in front of him and escort them out of the private room and back into the tavern again.

The crew wasted no time in draining their drinks and abandoning the Broken Chair for a more friendly atmosphere.

As soon as they were outside, Fir blew out a deep breath and turned to Kildare, eyes alight with interest. "He wants us to steal a puzzle box! Kil, do you know how much those are worth?"

"Ssshh, you daft idiot!" Snitch swiped at Fir's arm, just missing it. "Not so's the whole street can hear!"

"Am I the only one who is concerned about this?" Mock asked in a low voice.

Kildare glanced over at her. "Why, Mock?"

She hugged herself. "I don't know. It...it just makes me nervous. Did you see those needle marks in his arms? He's been injected with fosseric. Alfaren do that to people they think are sappers."

The word sent a chill down Kildare's back, and Fir and Snitch stopped their play battle and turned, faces serious.

"And those missing fingers," Mock continued. "He's had to have been on fosseric for years, if he's that brittle."

"So he's been injected with fosseric for most of his life, and might be a crazy ley-stealing killer without it," Snitch said. "We're doing a job for the man, not cozying up to him at night. What's this got to do with it?"

Mock's eyes flashed. "It matters because he's got to hate Alfaren for what they did to him," she snapped. "I would. If any Alfaren shot me up with fosseric, I'd hate them and want nothing to do with Alfaren culture. But he wants us to steal a puzzle box. Why?"

Snitch shrugged. "He's paying us, and really, that's all I care about."

Part of Kildare agreed with Snitch, but the other part of him was curious to find the answer to Mock's question. "Maybe we can figure it out before we hand it over to him," he said.

"I like this idea," Fir said.

Mock frowned. "Just so long as it isn't anything dangerous. We wouldn't give anything dangerous to a crimelord, would we, Kildare?"

"No," he said firmly. "Don't you worry about that, Mock. There's no way we'd do that." No way I'd hand anything dangerous over to the man keeping Serene captive.