Artho was too deep in his cups to notice the tension creeping in, but Shieldman Blane, his ever-watchful bodyguard, caught it from his silent perch in the corner. Blane was a man of few words and fewer smiles, his thick frame clad in well-worn leather and mail, his eyes keen beneath his furrowed brow.

  He had seen men killed over less than what was brewing here.

  Blane shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the hilt of his dagger. He had seen this dance before, and he knew how it ended. He glanced to the Stags door thinking of the prince’s guards, lingering in the cold. They were unaware of the heat brewing within these walls and would come when called, but Blane had learned long ago that a drawn blade moved faster than a man’s voice.

  Blane’s view was abruptly obscured by a ragged looking figure.

  “Summitfurlater, frind?”, the figure asked, leaning in closer to Blane.

  It took a second for Blane to understand what was being asked and who this unwelcome guest was. A tinker trader of some kind, peddling his wares in the crowded inn. He was rough looking with worn clothes, much repaired and long greasy hair. In contrast his eyes though were cool and intelligent, he had the fast accent of someone from the southern isles.

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  “Nothing for me” answered Blane Curtly.

  “Ah but you’ve not seen what I have, friend.” The tinker leaned in further, conspiratorially. “Potions and tinctures for all ailments…” His accent had slowed and change to match Blane’s own, with a slight sing song quality to it.

  “I’ve no ailments that require your services” said Blane, straining his neck to try and see past the tinker to what was happening with Artho and the others.

  “And good health to you friend,” the tinker continued “I’ve even a few bit’s and pieces here for a well man that wants to feel… well-er” He grinned and winked as he said it. There was a clatter of a cup falling on the stone floor and the screech of someone’s chair as they went to retrieve it.

  “I don’t want your brain rot, now be on your way before I call the landlady,” answered Blane curtly. The rotund owner of the hollow stag Madame Maurice was not known to suffer peddlers of illicit potions in her establishment. It was rumoured she had once made a lungspice seller snort the entirety of his own supply. If that was true, then the man’s nose would have worn off. Blane thought to himself, slightly amused.

  “Only asking, only asking!” Laughed the tinker as he moved on to the next table.

  Suddenly there was a shouting commotion and everyone was on their feet.

  “Murder!,” someone shouted in a high pitched screech. Blane could see nothing through the throng of everyone now standing in the inn. He pushed through towards Artho.

  As Blane approached people parted to allow him through, none daring to question the large, rough looking man.

  On the floor in front of him were two men, both covered in blood, glistening in the torchlight. Though it was not clear who the blood belonged to, neither of them were moving. One was Artho and the other was a scrawny looking man.

  A knife lay between them.