An unnerving silence took hold between Holsley and Merhim.

  ‘Well, that explains a few things.’ Merhim gave Holsley a few gentle taps on the knee. ‘I’m sorry that happened to you, Holsley. Does Roland know about any of this?’

  ‘No,’ Holsley whispered, wiping away a tear. ‘I only stayed in Tressa long enough to put the lute in the drop, then I ran. I didn’t stop running until the elves found me.’

  ‘I can see why, eh.’

  ‘I was useless.’ Holsley clamped his eyes shut as he remembered the painstaking details of that day. He said his following words through clenched teeth. ‘If I hadn’t been so scared or so stupid, I could have thought of a way out of it, like Marlin Mandrovi. I couldn’t. I just ran.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Merhim straightened. ‘There wasn’t anything you could do?’

  ‘The only thing Dan wanted was to play with me on stage.’ Holsley stiffened. ‘But I was never good enough. I’m still not. I shouldn’t even be using the redrose lute.’

  ‘You’re not useless, Holsley.’

  ‘I did it again, as well.’ Holsley ignored him. ‘When Roland was on the gallows. It caught fire and…and I just lay there. I couldn’t move. The fire almost killed another person I care about, and I did nothing again.’

  ‘Holsley!’ Merhim snapped the young bard’s attention to him. ‘You are not useless. If you hadn’t intervened at the gallows, Roland wouldn’t be here. If you hadn’t stopped that goblin from stabbing me, I wouldn’t be here, either. That’s the furthest thing from being useless.’

  ‘That was just lucky,’ replied Holsley.

  ‘There’s no such thing, eh.’

  ‘I—’

  Holsley didn’t finish the thought. Just then, the front door to New Leaf came open with a crash. They turned just in time to see Roland collapse in from the doorway. They sprinted to his side without a second thought and quickly saw the problem.

  There was a dagger sticking out of his back.

  ***

  Roland had been carefully watching the building from the safety of an alleyway. He narrowed his eyes. It had been a long time since he’d come to the Thieves’ Corner, and he couldn’t quite remember if he was welcome inside. He supposed it wouldn’t matter as long as he had the coin to pay for their services.

  The building was stout when compared to the ones next to it and wasn’t much to look at, either. Roland would even go as far to say it was an ugly building — a grey, square-shaped structure with little to no outward personality. The kind of place people walked by every day without ever realising it was there.

  Little did they know what it was really for.

  Thieves’ Corner acted as an intermediary between the scoundrels of the city. For a small fee, anyone could get a message out to any active rogue in Tressa without having to meet face to face. It was perfect for gathering information and arranging meetings, which is precisely why Roland was here.

  Cigar smoke hit him when he opened the door, and he just managed to keep himself from choking on it. Stepping inside, Roland was suddenly overwhelmed with the bareness of the room. Everything was set up on the opposite side, leaving a lot of space between him and it. The room had the feel of a typical crier’s office, with shelves full of handheld bells and important information on current events pinned to the various noticeboards along the back wall.

  There was also a desk, and behind that desk was a catfolk. She was fluffy, mostly white with black speckles, and her ears were covered in piercings. The catfolk eyed him as he approached, sucking on the cigar between her fangs. He eyed her back. It just had to be her, he thought to himself.

  ‘Roland Darrow,’ she purred. ‘Blimey, ‘ow long ‘as it been?’

  The catfolk’s name was Silhouette, and she was, without a doubt, the third most conniving creature he’d ever encountered. She was underhanded, always played dirty, and was always about three steps ahead of anyone else in the room. What she was doing here in this paltry position, he couldn’t even guess.

  ‘Silhouette,’ he said to her. ‘I’m here to send a message.’

  She sat up. ‘Well, that’s what we’re ‘ere for, isn’t it?’

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved a single gold crown. She eyed it as he placed it on the desk, then laughed before pushing it back. Roland raised an eyebrow. She grinned, revealing a row of yellow-stained fangs still sharp enough to tear through flesh.

  ‘Oh, the price ‘as gone up,’ Silhouette stated flatly. ‘You ‘aven’t been here for a long time, ‘ave you?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Do you know how much you’re worth, Roland?’ she asked then, and his heart skipped a beat. Roland had been afraid of this. She purred as she rested her head between her paws. ‘One thousand gold crowns. That’s how much the city is willing to pay for you. Just got word of it a few hours ago.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to collect bounties here,’ replied Roland sternly. ‘It undermines your entire operation.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, actually,’ she said smugly. ‘We’re not allowed to collect the bounties of affiliated rogues. You know, people who are in thieves’ guilds and whatnot. You’re not affiliated with anyone in the city, right?’

  Roland thought about running but hesitated. He needed to get a message to Fox and didn’t want to do it face to face. They had to meet on his terms. That way, he could manufacture ways to escape. Besides, she might just be playing with him. So, instead of turning and putting his feet into action, he leaned forward onto the desk and sneered.

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  ‘What are you doing here, Silhouette?’ he asked, trying to steer the conversation away. ‘Aren’t you a member of the Cold Bloods?’

  The Cold Bloods, otherwise known as the Cold-Blooded Claws, was another thieves’ guild operating out of Tressa. They were much smaller than the Whispers but were far more specialised. They only allowed catfolk to become a part of their group, which served them well in reputation as cats possessed a range of natural talents that made them great thieves — like soft paws, wicked claws, lightning quick reflexes, and the ability to see in the dark.

  ‘Who said I’m not?’ Silhouette purred, her tail flicking playfully behind her. She took the gold coin on the desk and pulled it over to her side. ‘Now, recipient and message, please? I’ll give you a discount, seeing as you’re an old friend.’

  She handed him a piece of paper and a quill.

  ‘Fox Matthews,’ he replied, taking hold of the stationary. ‘Courtesy of the Whispers of Tressa.’

  She sucked on her cigar and blew out the smoke. ‘I ‘ad a feeling you might say Fox Matthews.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because ol’ Foxxy ‘as left a message for you, Roland.’ The catfolk reached into her drawer and pulled out a letter stamped with a wax seal. ‘Brought it in yesterday, said ‘e was expecting you to turn up ‘ere sooner or later.’

  Roland snatched the letter out of her hand and broke the seal. Silhouette sneered. Wax bits crumbled all over the desk.

  Growing up, Roland had been forced to learn the language of codes. Through the use of symbols, gestures, and meaningful phrases thrown into casual conversation, one thief could talk to another without a third party being privy to what was actually being discussed. It was this code Fox had utilised in crafting this letter.

  To any non-thief reading the note, they would find a disinteresting list of groceries and a reminder to return a book to the nearest library. Roland, however, could quite literally read between the lines and sum up the true meaning of Fox’s carefully considered words. He grimaced.

  It read, in plain common, “I’m always one step ahead, Roland.”

  He didn’t know what that meant but assumed it was a threat. It was always a threat with Fox. If the scoundrel had dropped it off yesterday, then that meant he knew Roland was free from the gallows and had slipped beneath the sights of Tressa’s tubheads.

  ‘Do you still want to send ‘im a message?’ Silhouette purred.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Roland.

  It was his turn to utilise the language of codes. In plain common, his message asked Fox to meet Roland at the Teetering Tavern today at sunset for an exchange of goods — one ring for one ruby. Of course, if anyone but a thief took an interest in the coded note, all they would see was a list of specialist teas available in the markets.

  He handed the note to Silhouette, who took it, folded it, and sealed it with a wax stamp. Thump. The heavy metal weight came crashing down on the melted wax, sealing the letter with an unassuming rose-like pattern.

  ‘You’re really trying to get in touch with Fox Matthews?’ The catfolk took another drag of her cigar. She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Really?’

  ‘What makes you ask that?’ Roland asked. Something was going on here, and he knew it. The Thieves’ Corner was meant to be neutral ground, which meant no one affiliated with any of Tressa’s seedier guilds was supposed to man it. Yet, here was Silhouette, the infamous catfolk of the Cold Bloods, sitting behind the desk.

  ‘I just find it very interesting.’ She held up her paws innocently. ‘Everyone knows the ‘istory between you two. We all know what you did to ‘im.’

  Roland didn’t say anything.

  His suspicions didn’t abate. The rogue feigned to turn away from the catfolk, but in a movement as quick as lightning, he brought his rapier out, swivelled around, and gave Silhouette the tiniest of nicks across her paw.

  ‘Ow!’ she yelped, dropping her cigar.

  Roland didn’t lower the rapier; he kept the blade poised. Now that he had nicked her, she owed him one complete truth. As per the magical item’s powers, whatever question he asked her next, she would have to answer with complete honesty.

  ‘Are you working with Fox?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said instantly, then blinked and hissed. ‘What? ‘ow did you do that!?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ replied Roland, and he nicked her again. Another hiss. ‘Is this a trap?’

  ‘No,’ she said through clenched fangs. ‘Fox knew you’d want to set up a trade, and ‘e knew the only way of getting in touch with ‘im was through the Thieves’ Corner. So, ‘e paid us to keep an eye out for you.’

  That wasn’t good.

  ‘The corner is supposed to be a neutral space?’

  She laughed. ‘You’ve been gone a long time, Roland. The Cold Bloods run the corners now. They ‘ave done ever since the Whispers eliminated the other guilds.’

  Roland’s eyes went wide. Now, that was news to him. For the first time since he’d returned to Tressa, he realised that it really had been a long time ago. So much had changed, and he felt stupid that he hadn’t anticipated these changes. Of course things wouldn’t be the way he had left them. How could they be?

  He had to get out of here, but he needed to be sure he wouldn’t be followed.

  Roland gave Silhouette another nick, this time on the elbow. ‘If I leave here, will I be followed?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ she replied. ‘All I ‘ave to do is let Fox know you were here.’

  Roland wasn’t sure about that, but he knew it wouldn’t be Fox following him. There were twelve Thieves’ Corners in the city, and he could have gone to any one of them. Most likely, she was telling the truth. Unless, of course, Fox was staking out this particular corner.

  ‘Will you give my message to Fox?’ he asked, nicking her again.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s my job, after all. Now stop cutting me!’

  That settled it then. Without a second to wait, Roland fled to the front door and sped out into the frosty air of midday. The rogue intentionally took a longer way back to the New Leaf, keeping out of sight as much as he could and travelling primarily through the shadows. He kept an eye on his back throughout.

  The rogue steered himself through the burdened alley, squeezing and rolling over the exaggerated scaffolding filling up the tight space, and stopped only when he reached the door to the New Leaf. Roland looked around, keeping an eye on the rooftops, but again saw no one there. He couldn’t help but feel that he was being watched. That someone had indeed followed him.

  Roland was just about to shake that feeling off as paranoia when something struck him hard in the back and bowled him into the front door. He’d been stabbed enough times with a dagger to know when one was sticking out of his back. Without wavering, Roland pushed himself through the door and collapsed on a heap on the floor.

  A second later, Holsley was at his side, asking what had happened.

  The gnome pulled the dagger out as Holsley slammed the door shut. Roland didn’t need to see the dagger to know whose it was. Only one person in the entirety of Tressa could’ve snuck up on him like that, and only one talented enough with throwing daggers to get him at such a distance.

  He rolled over, barely disguising his pain.

  ‘What’s the note say?’ Roland asked, noticing the paper tied to the dagger’s handle. ‘Read it.’

  ‘Uh,’ Merhim fiddled with the band and unravelled the rolled-up note. Holsley, now kneeled next to Roland, was already fiddling with the strings of his lute, getting ready to start playing so he could fix Roland up. Merhim read the note, and Roland saw the confusion struggle across the gnome’s features.

  ‘Two parts chicken, six parts beef stock,’ Merhim said. ‘One egg, lightly scrambled, and a mixture of onions. Work together in the pan with a wooden spoon, never let them run. Leave to boil for one hour, not a minute more.’

  Holsley looked up at Roland.

  ‘What is this, eh?’ Merhim asked. ‘Why would someone stab you with a recipe for chicken stew?’

  ‘It’s a coded message,’ replied Roland, breathing with relief as Holsley’s music finally began to knit his stab wound back together. ‘It means we’re not meeting up with Fox at the Teetering Tavern. It means he’s coming here in an hour, and he wants to trade the ring for the ruby.’