Page 49 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"The roads were passable." I gesture to the barmaid, who hurries over with another tankard. "How long until our associates arrive?"

"Soon. They sent word through the usual channels." Draven accepts his drink without enthusiasm, understanding the necessity of maintaining appearances. "Should be no more than a few minutes now."

The mead suddenly tastes even more vile as urgency claws at my chest. "The manor?"

"Secure. Double patrols, additional guards at all entry points. Your instructions were followed precisely." He takes a careful sip, grimacing slightly. "The children remain in the library with Master Ramin. No incidents to report."

Relief floods through me, though I keep my expression neutral. "And Kessara?"

Draven's weathered face almost cracks into what might be amusement. "Sharp as ever, my lord. She cornered me about the increased security not two hours after you departed. Demanded explanations I couldn't provide."

"What did you tell her?"

"That questions regarding estate security should be directed to you." His tone remains carefully neutral, but there's something almost approving in his eyes. "She wasn't satisfied with that response."

A smirk tugs at my lips despite the gravity of our situation. Of course she wasn't. Kessara has never accepted evasive answers, not from me and certainly not from my guards. It's one of the qualities I find most maddening and most admirable about her.

"She knows something's wrong," Draven continues, lowering his voice as a group of merchants enters the tavern. "Kept the children inside despite their protests about visiting the stables. Her instincts are excellent."

"Naturally." I remember the night I first found her in my orchard—how quickly she'd assessed the situation, calculated her options, chosen defiance over surrender. "She survived years of keeping her family alive through wit alone."

The tavern door opens again, admitting two men in travel-stained cloaks who scan the room with professional interest. Draven nods almost imperceptibly.

"Our associates," he murmurs.

The two men approach with the unhurried gait of common travelers, but their eyes hold the sharp awareness I pay handsomely for. The taller one slides into the remaining chair while his companion remains standing, positioned to watch the tavern entrance.

"Gentlemen." I keep my voice low, barely audible over the raucous laughter from a table of dock workers. "What news?"

"Lady Dareth remains in town, my lord." The seated spy pulls a worn leather pouch from his belt, extracting what looks like a gambling token but speaks in the clipped tones of a professional. "She's taken rooms at the Silver Swan Inn. Expensive accommodations for an extended stay."

Draven's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. The Silver Swan caters to wealthy merchants and minor nobility—hardly the sort of establishment one chooses for a brief social visit.

"How extended?" I ask.

"Three weeks so far. The innkeeper expects her to remain at least another fortnight." The spy's weathered fingers trace patterns on the scarred wooden table. "She's been quite generous with her coin. Tips well, asks few questions, keeps irregular hours."

The standing operative clears his throat softly. "There's more, my lord. Yesterday evening, we observed Lady Dareth meeting with the same traders your guards reported near the estate road."

My blood becomes ice water in my veins. "Where?"

"The old grain warehouse on Merchant's Row. Abandoned for years, perfect for private conversations." His voice demonstrates the flat professionalism of someone accustomed to observing dangerous people. "The meeting lasted nearly an hour. We couldn't get close enough to hear specifics without risking exposure."

"How many traders?"

"Four men. Armed, experienced. The kind who ask payment in advance and don't leave witnesses." The seated spy meets my eyes directly. "They departed separately, but all took the northern road toward the port cities."

Draven leans forward slightly. "Mercenaries?"

"Most likely. Well-equipped, disciplined movement. Not common brigands or desperate sellswords." The standing operative shifts position, maintaining his watch on the tavern. "Lady Dareth provided them with something—documents, possibly coin. Too distant to determine specifics."

Rage builds in my chest like molten metal, but I force my expression to remain neutral. Selmyra's desperation has apparently driven her beyond mere social manipulation into genuinely dangerous territory.

"Current whereabouts?"

"The traders departed last night. Lady Dareth returned to the Silver Swan and hasn't emerged since dawn." The spy produces a small piece of parchment. "Room schedule, meal preferences, servant interactions. Everything we've observed."

I palm the information without examining it. "Continue surveillance. I want hourly reports on her movements."