Page 151 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

Hearth-spirit magic. Subtle, insidious, and apparently very concerned with muddy boots.

I nodded toward a corner table that gave us clear sight lines to both exits and the bar.

The man behind the bar had to be Istvan. Broad-shouldered, with the kind of weathered face that suggested he’d seen violence and chosen hospitality instead. Salt-and-pepper hair pulled back, and hands that moved with the efficiency of someone who’d poured ten thousand ales and could probably do it blindfolded. He caught my eye, nodded once in acknowledgment, and went back to serving a table of mercenaries who were arguing about the best way to poison a rival.

A bard occupied a small cleared space near the fireplace—a woman in her forties with laugh lines around her eyes and a lute in her hands. Her voice carried through the tavern without effort, something about a sailor and a selkie and a bargain that ended poorly for everyone involved.

“Two ales,” I told the serving girl who appeared at our elbow. She was maybe sixteen, with the kind of sharp awareness that suggested she’d grown up in places where being oblivious got you killed.

“Dark or light?”

“Dark. And whatever your kitchen’s serving tonight.”

She nodded and disappeared, weaving through the crowd.

I settled back, letting my shoulders relax for the first time since leaving Skyspire. The building’s magic hummed around us—not threatening, just present. Watchful. Like having a very polite but very large dog observe you from across the room.

“Kazimir Blackrose.” The voice came from my left, amused and wary in equal measure. “Didn’t expect to see you in my territory.”

Keld Marton slid into view, all wiry muscle and calculated menace. Valmont’s minor villain. We’d met briefly years ago when I’d done business in Kheldvar. I left his operations alone; he didn’t interfere with my supply lines. He’d been smart enough not to challenge my presence then, and apparently smart enough to recognize me now despite my hood and the distance of many years.

“Keld.” I nodded to the empty chair. “Just passing through. No territorial ambitions tonight.”

“That’s what you said about Azroth.” But he was smiling as he said it, the kind of smile that suggested he knew exactly how dangerous this conversation was and found it entertaining. “Mind if I join you? The bard’s ignoring my attempts at flirtation, and watching her pretend not to notice is getting depressing.”

“By all means.” I gestured to the chair. “Though I’d think a man of your reputation could manage better than longing glances.”

“You’d think.” He settled in, flagging down the serving girl for his own ale. “But Elowen’s got standards. Apparently, ‘local crime lord’ doesn’t meet them.”

After his drink arrived, Keld studied me over his mug. “Speaking of standards going to shit—you hear about all the chaos in Solandris? Even Valmont’s starting to see problems. Had a merchant’s preservation charms fail mid-transport last week. Lost an entire shipment of goods.”

“Solandris has always had unstable magic,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “Too much power concentrated in one place.”

“Maybe.” Keld’s eyes narrowed slightly. “But this feels different. Like something’s eating at the foundations.” He paused. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“If I was causing magical chaos in Solandris, would I be sitting in a Valmont tavern drinking ale?”

Thorne grunted into his mug—a sound that could have meant anything.

Keld let it drop, but I could see him filing the information away.

The bard—Elowen—finished her song about the selkie to applause and a few coins tossed into her hat. She took a long drink from a mug beside her instrument, then straightened, a gleam entering her eye that made several regulars groan.

“Right, then!” Her voice carried authority despite its warmth. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper gift night. What do you say, loves? Shall we honor the house? It’s been generous—warmth, good ale, better company. Time to give something back.”

The groans intensified, mixed with a few enthusiastic cheers. I glanced at Keld, who was suddenly very interested in his ale.

“Gift night?” Thorne asked.

“You’ll see.” Keld’s smile had gone slightly pained. “And you’ll participate, whether you want to or not. The building gets cranky otherwise.”

Elowen launched into a traditional opening verse, something in Old Valmontian that I only half understood. But the magic responded immediately—settling over the room like an expectant presence, warm and insistent and oddly playful.

The first volunteer was a merchant with more enthusiasm than talent, who murdered a sea shanty so thoroughly it should have been considered a crime. Elowen encouraged him anyway, leading the room in applause that was only slightly mocking.

A mercenary followed with a joke so filthy it made even Thorne blush. Then a smuggler recited poetry that was surprisingly good, and a pickpocket demonstrated a card trick that ended with Istvan’s pocket watch somehow appearing in the fireplace.

“Your turn,” Elowen called to a nervous-looking clerk. “Come on, love. The house won’t bite.”