He had a small bowl before him, not expecting any alms but feeling his heart warm when he received them. It was mainly there for looks. Every guild in the city of Veldaren wanted him dead, and he wouldn’t draw needless attention to himself by neglecting the minor details.

Just before nightfall, he stirred. The baker had gone home for the day, so he picked the familiar lock and slipped inside. He stole two slices of bread, dumped his bowl’s coins across the counter to pay for the meal, and then left. He ate as he walked south along the main road, turning off after half a mile and heading directly into the territory of the Serpent Guild. He added a limp and ran through his persona for dealing with the Serpents. He let his lower jaw hang a little, and muttered a few random words, practicing his lisp. His name was Berg. He was often drunk. Like all his personae, he worked odd jobs, whatever paid him coin, and that gave him excuse to know things he shouldn’t know.

Like how the Watcher had intercepted a shipment of gold from the Serpent Guild bearing the Gemcroft sigil.

His contact was a one-eyed ruffian originally from the far west nation of Mordan. He leaned beside the entrance of an inn, smoking a long pipe. His name was Mensk.

“What you want, Berg?” Mensk asked. He looked him over with his one eye, and he didn’t hide his shudder at Haern’s stink.

“I overheard something,” Haern said with a lisp. “Something worth at least a silver.”

Mensk’s eyes narrowed.

“Nothing you could have heard is worth that much. Five coppers if I decide it’s useful, one otherwise, and none if I’ve heard it already.”