Inspector Vance sat at the "VIP Table." It was exactly like every other crude wooden table in the courtyard, except Elara had wiped most of the dried chicken shit off it before he sat down.
Vance pressed his lavender-scented handkerchief firmly against his nose. He was still dizzy. Lord Elaric's barrage of completely incomprehensible financial terminology—Gross Merchandising Volume, Sweat Equity, Platform Fees—was echoing in his skull. His elitist brain, which had fully expected to find a grunting savage eating dirt, was completely malfunctioning.
"Excuse me, My Lord Inspector."
Vance lowered his handkerchief.
Elara stood by his table. She was carrying a steaming woven basket. She had fully weaponized the 'OnlyMaids' aesthetic. She rolled her toned, athletic shoulders back, forcing the heavily modified, plunging neckline of her gray wool dress to its absolute structural limit. Her bare, muscular thighs were completely exposed to the winter air, and a light sheen of honest, working sweat glistened on her collarbone.
Vance was a high-society Capital snob. But he was still a man. His brain violently stuttered. He tried to look at her face with aristocratic disdain, but his eyes immediately betrayed him, dropping straight to her chest.
"The Lord Elaric sends his regards," Elara purred smoothly, placing the basket on the table. "A complimentary basket of our premium milled white bread. Completely free of charge for the Crown."
Vance blinked, tearing his eyes away from her neckline. He looked at the bread. It was steaming hot, fluffy, and smelled absolutely divine.
A pathetic peasant's attempt at bribery, Vance thought smugly. They think they can buy my favor with basic carbohydrates.
Still, he had been eating dried horse-meat for two weeks on the road. He was starving. Vance reached out, broke off a massive, warm chunk of the white bread, and shoved it into his mouth.
He closed his eyes. It was incredible. The crust was perfect. The center was soft. He aggressively ate three more pieces in rapid succession, determined to eat the Turnip-Lord out of house and home before taxing him into oblivion.
Up in the Keep's window, I leaned against the stone frame, watching the courtyard.
Willem stood beside me, sweating so heavily he looked like he was melting. He clutched his ledger to his chest, practically hyperventilating.
"He is eating the profits, My Lord!" Willem whimpered, watching the Inspector devour the bread. "He is a Royal Auditor! If we poison him with salt, the King will have our heads on spikes!"
"Relax, Willem," I said calmly. I raised my hand, extending three fingers. "Just watch the biology."
I lowered one finger. Two.
Down in the courtyard, Vance reached for his fifth piece of bread.
I lowered another finger. One.
Vance froze. His eyes bulged out of his skull. The massive, concentrated dose of coarse rock salt hidden inside the dough finally hit the back of his throat. It was like swallowing a desert.
Vance dropped the bread. He grabbed his throat with both gloved hands. He started coughing violently, his face rapidly shifting from a pale aristocratic white to a deep, terrifying shade of purple. He was instantly, brutally dehydrated.
"Now," I grinned.
Down below, Elara swooped in like a capitalist vulture. She practically glided to the table, holding a massive, sloshing clay cup and a small wooden dish of green paste.
"Are you thirsty, Inspector?" Elara asked, leaning entirely over the table to give the choking man a pristine view. "Would you like our largest pitcher of Artisanal Sour? And perhaps some Premium Garlic Herb Butter to soothe your throat?"
Vance couldn't even speak. He was dying of thirst. He frantically reached into his velvet coat, pulled out a heavy pouch of Royal per diem silver, and threw a massive handful of coins directly onto the table.
He grabbed the heavy clay cup and chugged the spoiled mead.
The violently sour liquid hit his tongue. Tears instantly streamed down Vance's face from the sheer, acidic shock of the fermented honey-water, but he was too desperate for moisture to stop. He slammed the empty cup down, gasping for air, weeping openly in the middle of the courtyard.
Elara scooped up the Royal silver with a brilliant smile. "Thank you for your generous tip, My Lord."
I turned away from the window and patted Willem on the shoulder.
"Log that under 'Involuntary Gratuity,' Willem," I said lazily. "The Crown is officially funding our tavern."
The next morning, the sun rose over the frozen, jagged peaks of the border mountains.
Thorne, the Captain of the Guard, was taking his dawn patrol entirely too seriously. He marched along the Keep's perimeter in full plate armor, his hand resting heavily on the pommel of his broadsword.
He stepped off the dirt path and into the thick, snow-covered treeline.
Thorne stopped. His combat boots crunched against something wet.
He looked down. A massive pool of black, frozen blood stained the pristine white snow. Laying in the center of it was the body of a fat merchant.
Thorne crouched down, his tactical military brain immediately shifting into overdrive. He examined the corpse. The merchant's throat had been slit with absolute, terrifying precision. It was a single, clean strike that severed the windpipe before the man could even scream.
Thorne patted the dead man's heavy wool tunic. He found three full pouches of silver still tied to his belt. He looked at the man's feet. The expensive, imported leather boots were untouched.
Thorne stood up slowly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the empty woods.
Nothing was stolen, Thorne deduced, his heart pounding with grim realization. This was not a bandit attack. Bandits are sloppy. Bandits take the silver.
He looked back at the surgical cut on the merchant's neck. A peasant couldn't do this. A peasant didn't have the training or the discipline to leave a fortune in silver behind. No, this required years of dark, martial training.
"Shadow Assassins," Thorne whispered to the wind, his eyes wide with completely misplaced terror.
A highly trained, elite black-ops death squad from a rival kingdom had infiltrated Ravenhold. They were executing merchants to cripple Lord Elaric's economic empire. It was the only logical explanation.
Thorne drew his sword and sprinted back toward the Keep. He had to warn the Lord.
I sat on my wobbly wooden throne in the Great Hall. Daily Court was in session.
Bess was currently on her hands and knees, scrubbing a nonexistent stain on the stone floor right in front of the dais. I had strategically dropped my spoon just to keep her working in that exact spot. I leaned my chin on my hand, completely ignoring the two peasants arguing about a stolen chicken, thoroughly enjoying the view of Bess's plunging collar.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall slammed open.
Thorne burst into the room. He was covered in snow, breathing heavily, and his eyes were wild. He marched straight up to the throne and slammed his fist to his chest in a violent salute.
"My Lord!" Thorne bellowed, interrupting the chicken dispute. "We are under siege! I have discovered a casualty in the western treeline!"
I sighed, tearing my eyes away from Bess. "Did another merchant drink too much of the Artisanal Sour and freeze in the mud, Thorne?"
"Negative, My Lord!" Thorne declared, his voice echoing in the hall. "It was a targeted, surgical strike! The Southern Shadow Syndicate has breached our borders!"
I stared at him blankly. "The what?"
"Elite assassins, Lord Elaric!" Thorne practically yelled, entirely too excited by the prospect of war. "Deep-cover operatives. They slit a merchant's throat but left his silver untouched! It is an economic terror campaign designed to destabilize our tavern infrastructure! They are likely hiding in the shadows right now, watching us!"
Or, I thought to myself, one of the merchants got into a drunken knife fight over a bar tab.
But explaining Occam's Razor to Thorne was impossible. He desperately wanted to be in an action movie.
"Right. Assassins," I said lazily, waving my hand. I just wanted to get back to watching Bess scrub. "Thorne. Increase the perimeter security. And implement a strict bag check at the courtyard entrance. No outside food or weapons."
Thorne gasped. He looked at me with pure, unadulterated awe.
"A bag check," Thorne whispered, completely blown away by the concept of a modern mall-cop policy. "Brilliant, My Lord. You will restrict their ability to smuggle concealed weaponry while simultaneously forcing the merchants to rely entirely on our internal food supply. A masterstroke of counter-espionage."
Thorne bowed deeply, turned on his heel, and sprinted out of the hall to prepare for a ninja war that didn't exist.
"Whatever," I muttered. "Bess. You missed a spot on the left."