Chapter One

Banus drank deeply from his tankard. The metal handle on the tankard was cold, but the ale warmed him up. It enraptured Banus with its warm, loving embrace. The rich, hearty taste was nothing if not a long-lost friend to him. Russet Grove ale. He hadn’t drank in a long, long time, and all because of this ale. Some nights, he’d have drained four tankards without breaking a sweat, puked his guts out, then gone out the next morning and conned some stuck-up noble out of a small fortune.

But Brianna had made him stop all that. She took it from him: the drinking, the thieving, the complete and utter apathy. And in return, she gave him more than he could have ever asked for.

After a few long gulps, Banus sat the tankard down, gently, on the sturdy wooden table, and studied the dark amber liquid it contained—hoping, maybe, for some insight. Some reason. Some explanation as to why she’d had to be involved. But after a few minutes, he tore his eyes away, having garnered no more wisdom than he’d had before.

He looked around. The Count’s Arms, in Anvil. Everyone said this tavern had been around forever, since before the Oblivion Crisis. It had a lot of tradition to it, they said. A lot of stories had been told- and made- within these walls. Honestly, Banus couldn’t have cared less. Least of all on a day like today. Those wealthy wine drinkers sitting around the room could drain as many bottles as they wanted, told as many stories as they fancied. But Banus was here on business.

It was several more minutes before the man he was waiting for walked in the door. A Breton. Middle-aged, dark-haired, light-skinned. His cropped hair was neither long, nor militarily short. He wore a black velvet shirt with brass buttons and beige pants, with black suede shoes adorning his feet. He carried several rolled-up pieces of parchment in his right hand. He walked in a way that was not paranoid, but casually observant. At least, that’s what he’d want most people to think. Banus had known him long enough. The man looked around briefly until he saw where Banus sat, and proceeded to walk over, pull out a chair, and sit down.

The man leaned back and crossed his arms. “Banus,” he said, with more than a hint of sympathy.

“Matthias,” Banus replied, glancing up at his old friend from where he leaned over his mead, but not so that their eyes meet.

They sat there for some amount of time—maybe long, maybe short. Banus didn’t know. He only knew that they were both remembering their days together—the hundreds of jobs, the thousands of coins. However long that silent reminiscence truly was, it seemed to last forever, but at the same time, nowhere near long enough.

“I’m sorry,” Matthias finally spoke.

Banus glanced up briefly, nodded, and looked back down at his mead.

Matthias had to have known he wasn’t going to get the friendly “old-times” exchange that they would have had in another life, under different circumstances. He wanted to talk about all the coin they'd earned, all the nobles they'd conned, all the guards they'd escaped. As it were, it wasn’t happening. At least not today.

“I got the info you asked for,” he continued, reaching over to lay the rolled up parchment down on the table. “From what I saw, they’ve got three hideouts across the continent. Plus their base in Elsweyr.” He paused, and looked straight at Banus. "I assume you're still not letting me go with you?"

Banus shook his head. "I have to do this alone," he replied.

Matthias nodded and sighed. He knew it was a moot point. But he was still worried about his friend.

“I’m not your keeper, Banus. You and I both know what you’re getting into here, and we both know why you’re doing it.” He looked around briefly, then leaned in closer. “But these people are dangerous. If they find out what you’re doing, they will find you, and they will crush you like a bug.”

Banus blinked. He looked up at Matthias, opened his mouth to say something, then sighed and looked away again. When he knew what he wanted to say, he spoke emotionlessly, without inflection. “They’re going to pay,” he said simply. He looked back down at his tankard and started spinning it in circles, slowly. “One way or another, they’re going to pay for what they’ve done.”

He stopped spinning his tankard and gulped down the rest of the ale it held. When he’d drained it, he slammed it down on the table. He stood up, sliding out his chair, and grabbed the parchment.

“They’ll wish they’d have never gotten Brianna involved,” he sighed loudly as he walked away.