Chapter 45: A Deal with No Name

The candle hissed against skin, setting off another sharp, wet gasp that died in the damp corners of the cell.

Lioren didn’t move the candle away. He just held it steady, watching the white bead harden into a crusty, translucent scale over the man’s right thigh. The prisoner’s head hung low, his shoulders twitching in small, pathetic jerks as he sucked air through gritted teeth, his jaw trembling with a mix of exhaustion, pain, and sheer, stubborn pride.

He didn’t speak. He just glared sideways up through his sweaty hair, eyes red-rimmed and spitting silent venom.

Lioren let out a long, heavy sigh that made the small yellow flame flicker dancing across the damp stone wall.

"See? This is precisely what I’m talking about," Lioren murmured, shaking his head with an expression of weary, almost parental disappointment. "We could have been having a perfectly pleasant, polite conversation over hot tea without spilling a single drop of blood or ruining a perfectly fine afternoon. But no. You simply had to draw a sword on Caldrin. Then you tried to dash down a dead-end alleyway like a panicked hare. And then, which frankly hurt my feelings more than anything else, you wept like a beaten pup, begged for air, and tried to stick a dagger into my windpipe the second my guard dropped."

He shifted on his chair, resting his chin back down on his crossed forearms.

"Really, friend, you’ve created a staggering amount of unnecessary labor for everyone involved," Lioren continued. "My men had to carry you then they had to handle the paperwork. I had to go buy a new clothes because you couldn’t keep your blood in your own boots! And for what? So we could sit down here in the damp dark at night while I ask you the exact same three questions?"

He leaned an inch closer, the candle dish tilting just enough to catch a fresh pool of liquid wax near the wick.

"So. Let’s try this one more time, shall we? Why were you following us earlier? What, exactly, did you expect to find? And most importantly... who is paying your wages?"

The man squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving as he tried to swallow down a lump of bloody phlegm. The defiance in his face was crumbling now, dissolving into the dull, hopeless realization that the young Grand Duke sitting before him wasn’t going to get tired, wasn’t going to throw a dramatic tantrum, and wasn’t going to walk out that door until he had what he came for.

"I... I don’t..." the man began, his voice sounding like dry gravel dragged over iron. He coughed, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged thighs. "I don’t have a name for you, Roscaire! I swear to the gods above, I don’t!"

"Mmm, a classic opening line," Lioren drawled, raising his free hand to idly pass his index finger straight through the top of the candle flame. Flick. The heat bit his skin for a fraction of a second before he pulled away, entirely unbothered. "Zero points for originality, I’m afraid. Try again."

"It’s the truth!" the man shrieked, his voice cracking into a desperate, high-pitched plea as he thrashed his torso against the low wooden bench. "I’m a contractor! An operative! I work through the guild out of the river lower district!"

Lioren paused, his finger hovering an inch above the flickering flame.

"An information guild," Lioren repeated softly.

"Yes! Yes, a guild job!" the spy panted out, sweat dripping off the end of his sharp nose onto his collar. "The contract came through the board two days ago. High coin, strictly observation. I was only told to follow the fallen prince from Ostharia! Keep an eye on who he talked to, what he bought, whether he ever left the estate alone, and if anything unusual happened!"

"And your client?" Lioren asked.

"I don’t know!" the man sobbed, shaking his head wildly. "I swear on my mother’s grave, I don’t know! You know how the guilds operate! The client pays a middleman at the counter, the clerk writes the ticket, and the board posts the mark! The field hands don’t get names! We just get a description, a location, and a drop-box behind the weaver’s hall for our daily reports!"

Lioren sat in silence for a long moment, the candle flame casting sharp, angular shadows across his high cheekbones.

An information guild.

Of course. It made a frustrating, elegant kind of sense. In a place like Werestia, where border lords plotted over wine, foreign ambassadors traded lies like copper coins, and secrets were often far more lucrative than gold bullion, organizations that bought, sold, and brokered information were as common as bakeries.

Nobles used them to dig up dirt on court rivals. Merchants hired them to track cargo shipments and spot trade competitors. And anyone with a heavy enough purse could commission an anonymous file on practically anyone in the capital.

The guilds survived on two strict rules: efficiency and absolute discretion. They kept their field operatives completely blind to the client’s identity. A customer paid the broker, the broker posted the ticket, the operative gathered the notes, and the drop-box handled the exchange. The fewer people who knew whose coin was funding the chase, the less likely a name was to slip out under a warden’s iron boots.

It was a sensible, remarkably secure business model. At least, from the client’s perspective.

It was rather less convenient when you were the Grand Duke of the northern province, sitting in a cold cell at night, trying to figure out who had placed a target on your fiancé’s back.

Lioren reached out, his long fingers hovering over the open candle flame again. He let the heat singe his palm for a beat, testing the sting, feeling the bite, before pulling back and dusting his fingertips against his trousers.

"A drop-box behind the weaver’s hall," Lioren murmured thoughtfully. "And what, precisely, were you supposed to drop in it tonight?"

"Nothing yet!" the prisoner wheezed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I was only supposed to file a report every two days! I was just keeping tail today, watching his shopping stops, checking if he had guards, seeing how he carried himself. That’s all! I haven’t even written a single word down on parchment yet!"

"Who was your contact at the counter?"

"A fellow named Master Alden! He sits at the third desk in the back room of the Old Three Bells! But he won’t know the client either, I swear it! He just takes the coin pouch and hands out the ticket!"

Lioren stared at the man for three long, agonizing seconds. He searched the fellow’s pale, twitching face, checking the terror in his bloodshot eyes, listening to the frantic, irregular rhythm of his breathing.

There was no hidden trick left in him. No secret needle, no clever cover story. The rat had been hollowed out completely, spilling every scrap of useless, half-baked information he possessed.

Lioren let out a long, heavy huff of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

"Honestly," Lioren grumbled, pushing himself up off the wooden chair with a loud, wooden scrape. "You could have explained all of that six hours ago! You could have told me this in the alleyway before I had to drive a blade through your hands, before you ruined my silk vest, and before I had to waste forty minutes buying a navy coat I didn’t even want!"

He tossed the brass candle holder to the guard near the door, dusting off his leather gloves with an expression of profound irritation.

"You turned a simple ten-minute conversation into an exhausting, bloody ordeal, and for what? To give me the name of a tavern clerk who doesn’t even know who wrote the ticket!" Lioren clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Absolute amateur hour."

He turned away from the bench, walking toward the cell door where Caldrin and Therin were standing in the shadows.

"Therin. Caldrin," Lioren called out smoothly. "Do you both know what needs to be done?"

"Yes, my lord," the two men answered in perfect, chilling unison, Caldrin’s deep voice merging seamlessly with Therin’s dry, precise tone.

The man’s head snapped up, his pale face draining of what little color it had left. He thrashed his bandaged, canvas-bound hands against his lap, his eyes wide with sudden, frantic panic as he looked between the three men standing in the doorway.

"Wait! No! Hold on!" the spy shrieked, his voice rising into a terrified sob. "I told you everything! I didn’t hide a single thing! You gave me your word! You said if I talked..."

Lioren paused at the threshold, turning his head to look back over his shoulder. His lopsided, boyish grin returned to his face, bright and utterly cheerful under the warm golden light of the hallway torch.

"Oh, I heard every single word you said, friend," Lioren reassured him warmly, waving a hand airily through the air. "And I have absolutely no intention of demanding information you don’t possess. I’m a reasonable man!"

He stepped out into the corridor, leaning his back against the iron-reinforced doorframe as he looked down at the trembling figure on the bench.

"However," Lioren added, his voice dropping into a light, teasing purr that made the chill in the air feel ten times colder, "what happens to you next... well, that isn’t up to me anymore. You see, you weren’t following my sister, and you weren’t tracking my men. You were stalking Prince Xavion Astervan."

The man just stared at him.

Lioren offered him a small, pleasant little nod, his eyes sparkling with a mischief.

"You’re at his mercy now."