Inside, the place was dark and smoky and crowded. People gaveSkarnu, a stranger, a once-over as he made his way to the bar. “What’ll it be?”asked the taverner, a man missing a couple of fingers from his right hand--probablyfrom a wound in the Six Years’ War, for he was old enough.

“Ale and roasted chestnuts,” Skarnu answered, as he’d been told todo.

The taverner eyed him, then slowly nodded. After giving him whathe’d asked for, the fellow said, “Why don’t you take ‘em over to that table bythe fireplace? Looks like it’s got room for a couple more.”

“All right, I’ll do that,” Skarnu said. The men sitting at thattable didn’t look much different from the rest of the crowd. Some were old.Some were young. None looked rich. One or two looked a good deal shabbier thanSkarnu did. A couple, but only a couple, looked as if they’d be nasty customersin a fight.

“Where you from?” one of the tough-looking fellows asked.

That was the question he’d been waiting for. “Pavilosta,” heanswered.

“Ah,” the tough said. Several of the men nodded. One of themlifted a glass of wine in salute. “Simanu. That was a nice piece of work.”

Skarnu had never heard an assassination praised in suchmatter-of-fact terms. This was the crowd he’d come to meet, all right. He hopednone of the blonds at the table was an Algarvian spy. By coming to Tytuvenai,he’d bet his life none of them was.

A balding fellow with silver-rimmed spectacles said, “We’re justabout all here now. I don’t know if Zarasai will be able to come.” That was notthe name of a man but the name of a town: a sensible precaution, Skarnu judged.The bespectacled man went on, “Those people talk all the way across Valmiera.They can act all over the kingdom at the same time, too. We have to be able todo the same if we’re going to make their lives interesting.”