“Sounds like a good story.”
Since he was planning to be a newbie, Janco was able to pack a few comfort items like a couple sticks of beef jerky, a bedroll, and a thicker blanket.
“Keep them close if you don’t want them to get stolen,” Valek warned. “Most folks will be kind and help you out, but there’s always those who will take advantage of the newbie.”
“Huh. Maybe I should let my stuff get stolen. It would track with my cover.”
Impressed, Valek said, “Up to you.”
Once Janco was ready, Valek clapped him on the shoulder and wished him good hunting. After he left, Valek checked his own disguise. He wore the typical Sitian clothing of gray pants, tunic, and a short gray cape. He used makeup on his face, wrists, and the back of his hands to blend in better with the Citadel’s inhabitants. Even though they were a mix of skin tones, Valek would still stand out.
Growing up in MD-1 near the Northern Ice Pack, Valek had endured long cold winters and scant sunshine. His family had lived there for decades, and they were all as pale as snow on a cloudy day. Valek wondered if his father was still tanning hides. When he had left to enact revenge on the men who murdered his three older brothers, his parents told him to never return. Of course, he had assigned his agents to watch and protect them if needed, but he never asked for details of their lives. It would be too painful.
Satisfied with his clothing, Valek tucked his hair up into a wool cap. He headed for the market. It buzzed with activity. The weak morning sunlight cast long shadows. Young children trotted at shoppers’ heels, their arms loaded with packages. Valek guessed they ranged in age from six to twelve years old.
He found an unobtrusive spot to watch the kids for a while, searching for Fisk. They had quite the operation. Darting up to hesitant shoppers or to those glancing around in confusion, they offered their services. And pointing those in need of help out to his guild members was Fisk.
The boy’s brown hair was shaggy. He moved with confidence. The market was obviously his domain. Valek waited until Fisk was between customers.
Approaching him, Valek said, “I’m in need of assistance.”
Fisk studied him. Maturity far beyond his ten years shone from his light brown eyes. “You’re in need of a better disguise, Mister Valek.”
He glanced around to check if anyone nearby had overheard. “How do you know my name?”
Fisk sighed. “It was easy to figure out after I helped you escape the Citadel. If I’d known before, I wouldn’t have taken the job, even though you’re a friend of Yelena’s.”
“Does that mean you won’t help me now?”
“Depends on what you want.”
The conversation was a bit surreal. Fisk looked ten but spoke as if he was thirty years old. “I’m willing to pay for information,” Valek said.
Fisk brightened. “Nothing illegal in that, but I won’t give away Sitian secrets.”
“All right. I’d like to know what the council has been debating lately.”
“That’ll cost you a gold coin.”
“Nice try. How about a silver? And if the info is good, I’ll give you another one.”
“Seven silvers up front.”
“Three.”
“Five.”
“Deal.” He dug out the coins. When he handed them over, they disappeared in the blink of an eye. “The council?”
Fisk told him the gossip. Most of the information matched what Gabor had reported. The council was more concerned about Yelena than the Daviians. However, Fisk mentioned the strange arrival of a group of Sandseed Warriors late the previous night.
“Why is that odd?” Valek asked.
“They almost never leave the Avibian Plains. Only their Councilor travels to the Citadel.”
Yelena’s friend, Moon Man was a Sandseed Story Weaver—a warrior with magical powers. And he had sent her a message about Ferde. Valek wondered if the Sandseeds’ presence in the Citadel was connected.
“Do you know why they’re here?”
