Exactly where he wants to be.
“A round on the house, sunshine,” Orrin says, slamming a fresh tankard on the table before Ronyn. “I almost feel bad for bleedin’ ya dry.Almost.” He winks with a cheater’s smile.
Ronyn feels his pockets, making sure his stolen coins don’t hang too heavy or loud. “To commiserate over my losses,” he announces, raising the tankard in salute.
Orrin clinks his tankard. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”
Such an ignorant fucking idiot.
Ronyn huffs a laugh, drawing a long pull from the tankard.
He looks around, as if he’s noticing the crowd of too many bodies, the closeness, for the first time. “Is it always this busy around here?”
Questions look less like prying and more like curiosity if they start superficial.
“Vyrhal is constant. When the realms are as fucked as ours, the right to defend ourselves is all a man has left. Weapons will always be needed. And Vyrhal forges the finest.”
Ronyn agrees instantly. “Too right, my friend.”
But every blade cuts the same, no matter where it comes from.
“Trade is certainly booming in Vyrhal, it seems. Good to see smithies finally getting paid their dues.”
Find a way to become one of them. That’s another rule.
“Vyrhalian weapons are second to none, sunshine. King Thalmyr even overlooks his own smithies in Virellin to trade with us. You said so yourself: we put Virellin smithies to shame,” he brags, earning grunts of agreement and pride from his men.
Interesting. Why would Thalmyr do that? Revryn is a better weaponsmith than these idiots and Thalmyr knows it.
“Too right. That’s a hell of a nod, if the king himself’s tipping his hat,” Ronyn comments, molding the conversation.
Fuck King Thalmyr.
“Sends his finest guards to collect. They personally escort them back to Virellin Castle, they do,” Orrin brags again.
“Is that right?” Ronyn asks, but he leans in, like he’s going to reveal a secret. “Do they drink the tavern dry and steal yourwomen like they do in Virellin? No greater aphrodisiac than that gold-plated armor.”
Not that Ronyn gives a fuck about that. He cares about what’snotbeing said.
Because in all his years raiding supply caches, and evading the Royal Guard, Ronyn has never seen them carry Vyrhalian weaponry.Not once.
Another man leans in, speech slurred from drink, and rank breath like curdled milk. “Eat, drink, and fuck the place dry,” he confirms. “Stay for days at a time, leave with barely enough weaponry for a single unit, but still pay for the full order. Bastards, but we can hardly turn down the money.”
Because they’re not really here for weapons.
“Is that the big order we’re working on tomorrow?” Ronyn asks, feigning indifference, and slurping an undignified gulp of ale.
“Aye. Due in three days,” Orrin confirms.
Three days.
A long shadow stretches over the table. “Enough questions, outsider.”
The superior. Bald head, scarred jaw. And suspicious eyes.
The room doesn’t go quiet.
Itlistens.
