There was a corpse in his pub—and before becoming a corpse, it had been an assassin. That meant there had been an assassin in his pub. Two very whimsical things to have happened to him. Eldarion Thorne was crouching by the remains of the would-be assassin, absent-mindedly rubbing his own neck. This had been no amateur, no foolish novice. The way he moved, the way he struck—this had been a professional sent by professionals. Which meant two things.

  One, whoever sent him had shown proper respect, and that was good. And two, whoever sent him was aware of who he was—who he is, who he had been. That was problematic.

  Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself for a moment. First, he had to be sure the assassin was dead. Focusing, he began to cast magic, whispering the words. He had never had a penchant for flashy, self-aggrandizing speeches or bombastic casting; whispering was enough. First, he cast every detection spell he knew—spells for life, death, good, evil, everything. Remaining still, he watched his entire pub from his workshop through magic, observing and listening.

  Yes, the would be assassin was dead. The night crew was doing their rounds in the inn, mostly lazily, but he paid them to get their job done not to be bastions of enthusiasm about it. The kitchen was just getting things ready for the morning meal. He looked down—and Molly seemed fine, inspecting where the rooms were. The students, taken to sleep away their drunken hours, were fine, along with a few of the guests. He dispelled the magic. Nothing seemed amiss. Still, he wasn’t satisfied.

  The assassin had entered from somewhere, and somehow. He left the idea that he was a target aside—that was small fry compared to his interest. His pub had been violated, and someone was going to pay for it.

  The fumes—yes, the very fumes he had used first to incapacitate and then to fully kill the assassin—were starting to make him dizzy. He dispelled the detection magic and opened the windows. It took several tries, for he was old and hadn’t opened the windows in a long time. Using magic, he turned the fires off and waited for the fumes to dissipate naturally. For now, he thought, hard.

  Outside, morning was going to approach fast. Routine would keep nudging, and he just couldn’t stop it. Nor could he abandon the pub without breaking appearance.

  Yet the threat could not be denied. He looked at the corpse, crumpled like a dead spider among the slowly dissipating fumes just above the floor. Thankfully in his toxin induced rampage he hadn’t broken anything. It had been a long time since he had seen death so close. He looked out the window and noticed that the academy’s cleaners were beginning to bunch at the exits—the glow of dawn wasn’t far off now, and he was running out of time. The next step was obvious: he had to examine the assassin’s remains for any clue that might lead him to whoever had hired him. With a resigned sigh, he kneeled down, his joints creaking as he began to scrutinize the body.

  First, he pulled his hood down, confirming that the assassin was human—pure human, no half-anything. A simple, round face, short black hair. Focusing magic at his fingertips, he shielded himself as he began to search the corpse. Simple brown eyes, teeth a bit unkempt—he had probably been surveilling him for a long time. The cause of death was obvious: poisoning. A bit tricky since he didn’t have the proper herbs and equipment but he had managed.

  Another sigh of frustration escaped him. There was nothing on the body that might guide him—no tattoo, no distinct marking, nothing. If the assassin wasn’t from a guild, then he was an independent. That wasn’t illegal, just frowned upon; besides, he could easily vanish out of town. But that meant the list of possible employers had grown far longer.

  Eldarion Thorne’s mind churned with the implications of this violation. His pub had been a sanctuary, and now it had been infiltrated by death itself. The silence of the early morning was broken only by his measured breaths and the soft creak of his tired knees—a reminder that, even as he searched for answers, the ghosts of the past were never far behind.

  He rose—nothing remained but the blade. He retrieved the tool that had been thrown, by him or by the assassin—he wasn’t sure—and examined it closely. Immediately, his hands flared with protective magic, and he narrowed his eyes. This was no simple blade.

  It was a curious blend of metal and organic material, something that hinted at a strange, almost chitinous quality. He looked at it, using magic to scrutinize its every detail. It was an oddity—a first for him—and that in itself spoke volumes. A fang, perhaps, from some venomous creature; it had once been large, now encased in steel and etched with runes. Those runes spoke of dark, intricate craftsmanship, suggesting some dwarfish involvement in the crafting of this blade. The handle was almost too wide, clearly custom-made for the assassin, elevating him from a mere professional to a master. This implied that whoever had sent him was even more resourceful than Eldarion had guessed at firstr. Troublesome, indeed. Moreover, the knife was neither alive nor dead, certainly not undead—it was something in between… which made a cold crawl up his back.

  He took hold of the sheath from the dead assassin and the blade itself; it almost seemed as if the two were meant to be reunited. Tomfoolery was afoot—tomfoolery that had violated his pub.

  Setting the blade on a table, he began rummaging through some old drawers. Yes, cloth. He couldn’t recall exactly what he had bought it for, but now he needed it. Grabbing a knife of his own, he cut a large patch of cloth and wrapped the assassin’s blade in it. Then, placing it in another drawer, he whispered a weak warding charm—and closed it firmly.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Sitting down and clearing a space, he took up ink and paper and began to record the runes he had seen—both on the blade and on the sheath. He had to search for their meaning. For now, the glow of dawn was approaching, and he had a routine to maintain… but first, he had to deal with the cadaver. He glanced at it, then at the door—no, he couldn’t exit through the front door; even at this very early hour, things were active at the center of the city.

  Then an idea struck him. He looked at the body, then at one of the large, unused containers he reserved for testing, aging, or storing new ideas and mixtures—along with his entire stock of chemicals. With a grimace, he rose from his chair to move the body there, hoping that his concoctions would be enough to liquefy it. The maddening part was that he would have to undress the corpse first. He got up with a grimace, his mind already churning with the next set of problems to solve.

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  The idea of keeping up routine after what had happened would probably be alien to someone who wasn’t like him. But for Eldarion it was an old coat—almost like an old sweater that’s itchy yet must be worn, because needs must. A couple of days had passed since the attack, and he had been busy, silently and stealthily inspecting his property. The tower where his room was located had remained untouched. Whoever had hired the assassin was interested in eliminating him and nothing else. The windows and doors were fine too, and he just couldn’t discover how or when the assassin had gotten in—a conundrum, and a challenge. Despite himself, he could feel the fire of the hill to climb running through his veins, he tried to ignore it. Placing discreet, weak wards and protections on all the windows and doors had been an arduous task, but one he had to do. There were plenty of magic users among his regulars, and if they began to notice that he was strengthening his defenses, they might get testy—and if they got testy, they were going to stop coming.

  As far as he could tell, the people in the pub remained none the wiser—save perhaps for two individuals: Phin, his resident halfling who was in the habit of snooping around and keeping tabs on everyone and everything, and Molly, whose nose could tell her that something was clearly wrong. Both had, diplomatically, decided to remain silent. Meanwhile, Eldarion fought back the age-old instinct of “go in the offensive.”

  It was another night in his pub. Rook was playing music and enjoying himself to no end, filling the space with tunes and song. Eldarion, however, was busier than ever now that Rook was on stage; he had to handle, well—everything. Mixing drinks, handling orders to Molly, and keeping an eye on every detail while managing a multitude of responsibilities. His mind was in too many places at once.

  “Sir, may I be of assistance?” Phin came out of nowhere, as if materializing from thin air, nearly startling him. Eldarion had two bottles in his hands.

  “Uh, sorry Phin, you caught me by surprise,” Eldarion admitted. “But don’t you have duties in the Inn?” he asked, trying to get his mind into gear.

  “I do, sir. However, it is proving a very slow night—given that we are between seasons and all. The guys over there can handle it, you on the other hand,” Phin replied, his short curly hair bouncing as he shrugged, honestly apologetic.

  “Okay, just—and I mean it—don’t get creative with anything not screwed to the building or anything that’s unscrewed,” Eldarion smiled. It was a small game both of them played.

  “No, sir, my word,” the halfling smiled back.

  So, with this small change in routine, as he forced himself into the familiar rhythm of daily tasks, his mind churned with conflicting urges. His hands moved mechanically—restocking bottles, serving customers, checking the registers—while beneath the surface, memories of the attack and the lingering taste of violation made his face grow gloomy whenever his guard was down. And, since his trance had been broken, he was growing tired very quickly.

  Still, it had been another good day. Rook was massaging his hands, apparently suffering for success—a very real thing indeed.

  “Son, you look exhausted. Do you want something to numb the pain?” Eldarion commented as he counted the earnings of the day, closing the box for the day.

  “Sir, I…” Rook began, clearly wanting to say yes, but something held him back.

  “On the house,” Eldarion interjected. The kid had been hoarding every little piece of metal he’d been earning since he began to perform with the piano. What for, Eldarion wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to pry—even though he probably should, given the circumstances. Before the lad could answer, Eldarion poured the very last of his own bottle of gin and passed it to the kid over the bar. Rook took a moment before accepting and downing the glass. Eldarion raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He finished counting and passed Rook his bag. The lad accepted it without comment and left without a goodbye.

  Interesting.

  Eldarion was finishing the counting for the day; most of his employees had long gone by that point. Then he noticed that he had yet to put his coffee-honey variant up for sale—a few had asked him about it, but his mind had been all over the place recently. A few taps with a wooden staff brought his attention upward.

  “Sir, is everything okay?” Molly asked.

  “Yes, yes, just finishing up everything,” Eldarion replied.

  “Yeah, because Phin has been skimming from the Inn’s gold bag for a few days now and—well, you have been letting him,” Molly said in her small, nasal voice from under her deep green garments, which left Eldarion flat-footed for a moment. “And you haven’t put your latest batch of handmade liquors up for sale, plus there’s a weird smell coming from your workshop,” she added innocently.

  What to do? Bring her in? No.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ve been distracted. Too much work. Nothing more, old lass, nothing more,” Eldarion replied, trying to portray an air of quiet confidence and calm. Molly wrinkled her nose, which twitched to and fro.

  “Okay,” she said, before scurrying toward her living quarters. But before she left, she turned and said, “But sir, remember, if you need anything, I am here—just as my great-grandmother was.”

  That jolted Eldarion fully awake—a memory brought back from long ago. Yes, she was, and paid for dearly. No, he was going to solve this, by himself, for himself. It was time to go on the offensive.