Chapter 3 – Part 3

“So tell me,” the man said, his words slurring from too much ale. “Why should I re-up? Hm? I did three tours, what’d it get me?” Three old scars marked his face, one cutting up into his receding hairline to touch the line of short-cropped white and gray hair on the top of his head.

“Somebody shut the drunk human up,” snarled a shifter at a nearby table. That hairy worthy was so smashed that he could barely move. Earlier in the evening, when, admittedly, the evening had still been rather late, he’d polished off an entire bottle of whiskey after killing a halfling who’d started a fight. He’d bitten the halfling’s throat out with fangs that he’d caused to grow a good four inches.

“You shut up, shifter,” snorted the heavyset halfling who ran the tavern for House Ghallanda in this part of Varna. The little humanoid stood atop a reinforced stool behind the bar so that everyone could see the wand in his belt. He’d used the wand against the comrades of the throat-torn halfling, setting two on fire. His business meant more to him than any racial loyalty, and the shifter hadn’t started it – then. The eyes of the wand-toting Ghallanda operative said that given a chance he’d dish the same out to the drunk shifter who still had blood on the corner of his mouth. “He can drink and run his mouth so long as he pays.”

“Exactly!” The scarred, grizzled human banged his fist on the bar, and then threw down a few more coins. “Gimme ‘nother, please!”

The Ghallanda barkeep shrugged and refilled the man’s cup with something that gave off smoke as it came out of the bottle. It was called lungmist by Varna’s inhabitants. It was cheap to make but had a nice kick that lasted.

“How about I pay a little more and he goes to sleep upstairs,” asked an exasperated human male in a recruiter’s uniform. He’d been trying to get people to join the Reacher forces for several hours now, and until the grizzled, scarred man had come in shortly before midnight, he’d been doing rather well. “What do you say, gramps, comfortable bed and hot oatmeal in the morning, my treat, eh?” The people who had been listening to him had already started to drift away.

“Took money and offers from his type once!” the scarred man exclaimed. “Look where it got me, look!” A lean woman with a crossbow who had been listening to the recruiter now frowned and went up the stairs to her room on the second floor.

The doors to the tavern – which should have been locked – were opened, and a figure in a hooded cloak came in.

The recruiter came up to the bar, teeth gritted. “Please, take the offer, you’re hurting the Eldeen.”

“Ah shut up,” the scarred man grumbled, putting back his lungmist in one swallow.

“Shut the door!” barked the halfling, gripping his wand. “And lower your hood, I don’t take kindly to strangers hiding their faces this late at night!”

“It is cold,” said the hooded man said. He lowered his cowl to show that he was a half-elf. Chain shirt armor showed underneath his cape, and he wore a longsword on one hip and a shortsword on the other. “The hood was to protect me from the cold.” The half-elf walked closer to the bar, and scanned the room with hard, blue eyes.

The recruiter turned, and a smile fit easily onto his face as he sized up the newcomer and his weapons. “So friend, I don’t suppose you would consider protecting liberty against the butchers of Aundair, and the –”

“Save it,” the half-elf said. He pulled a piece of folded leather from a pocket and displayed it. It said his name was Parnain d’Medani, and the badge attached to it proclaimed that he was a Master Inquisitive with writ from the Wardens of the Wood. “Like the barkeep, I serve no country or crown. I’m here on work.”

“I don’t need more of this noise,” the scarred man said, moving away from the bar with a bit more agility than a man in his cups normally had. “You two can play who has the bigger one without me.”

Parnain grabbed the arm of the scarred human as he attempted to walk past. “I’ve been looking for you, actually.” The Medani’s eyes were without pity, without hesitation.

“Let go of me,” the scarred man said. His voice was no longer slurred, and he yanked hard.

Parnain yanked harder, and the scarred man fell to the floor.

“Hands off the paying customer, half-elf,” snapped the halfling, taking his wand out and pointing it square at the Medani inquisitive. “You may have a badge but you don’t have a warrant.”

“I don’t need one, according to my writ from the Wardens,” Parnain pointed out, somehow watching both the scarred man and the halfling. The scarred man seemed to be trying to figure out where his best chance of survival was as he carefully and slowly rose to his feet.

“This is Ghallanda territory,” the halfling said, his grip on the wand tightening. “And I say you need a warrant.”

“I don’t need a warrant,” Parnain d’Medani said, slowly withdrawing a packet from a belt pouch. “Not to arrest a changeling agent provocateur in the service of Aundair.”

“What sort of bilge is this?” asked the scarred man. “I’m Grinno of Havenglen, ask anyone! I didn’t serve two tours of duty to get accused by some House-kissed popinjay!”

The Ghallanda operative’s eyes narrowed at the word ‘House-kissed.’ “I thought you said that you served three tours of duty,” the halfling noted carefully, lowering his wand.

The scarred human who called himself Grinno of Havenglen ran for the door. The Medani inquisitive punched him, sending him staggering backwards. The recruiter, no doubt seeing a propaganda advantage, kicked the back of the scarred man’s knee, toppling him with a sickening sound of tearing cartridge.

Parnain threw the packet in his hand, and it exploded as it struck the prone man. Dust arose around him, glowing briefly with a discharged spell. The dust settled on his skin. The scars faded, the color faded, the hair shifted, and the man’s limbs grew skinnier, more elongated.

What was left was a humanoid with pale and gray skin, and thin hair. A changeling. Considerably younger than the human it had been pretending to be.

“Is Grinno of Havenglen still alive, then?” the recruiter asked. The look of satisfaction on his face was savage.

“It’s the least that he has to answer for,” Parnain told him. “Your assistance was appreciated. Now back off.” The recruiter read the Medani’s tone and stepped well clear.

“I work for Thrane, not Aundair,” the changeling said, gripping his knee while wincing in pain. “Please, you have no beef with Thrane, right?”

Parnain d’Medani produced a set of manacles. “I already know who you work for,” he said, approaching the prone man. “Even though I bet you don’t.”

The changeling spy, who actually did think that he was reporting to Aundair, flinched as the manacles went on.