Tharjan hustled Krow into Avaldan’s tent, where the blacksmith plied him with potions.

The dwarvir didn’t have to, so Krow thanked him. “Your sword though…”

He held up the falchion.

The edges had crumpled inward from clashing against the opponent’s weapon. The blade was bent, made unrecoverable by that last blow.

Avaldan grunted. After a brief examination, threw it into a bin. “Scrap. My wrights make the swords for practice. Best leave now, though. Congratulations on your win..”

One of the people from the registration table came forward. “Wait, you forgot this.”

He offered the badge. “The contract was taken back to the other competitor.”

This ‘badge’ though…

[Carved Wooden Token][Common]

Krow smiled coldly at the registrar. “Did you really think I didn’t know what a Trade Warrant is? Now where is the actual badge?”

The man frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The bet was a contract if I reached the semi-finals without the other party, and a Trade Warrant Badge if I won the tournament. Does that look like a trade badge to you?”

Avaldan leaned over, snorted. “The gall of who would pull this under my nose, Pretor. They forget my brother runs a castle.”

The man, Pretor, paled a bit, but didn’t relent. “Master Smith, you know me. This was the item given by the other for the bet.”

“And I say again, you think I don’t know what a Trade Warrant is, what it looks like?”

He’d never heard of it before Dabalt bet the warrant, actually. 

Avaldan blocked Krow as he advanced toward the registrar. “Pretor, you have worked with me for years. I know this is not something you would do. But tell us, who held the wagered items? If I recall, you were not the only one at the table then.”

Pretor, expression stricken, looked around, and a tinge of panic entered his expression as his co-workers under Avaldan frowned. “I…”

He turned and ran.

What.

That was a reaction so stupid, Krow was stunned for a moment.

Thankfully, he didn’t need to move. Two of the blacksmith’s students tackled Pretor before he even got near the entrance.

“Pretor…” Avaldan gave a pained sigh. “Search him.”

Another two of the blacksmith’s workers came forward.

“Stop!” Pretor struggled. “Master, I have studied under you since I was twelve! You cannot—”

“Master.” One of the students reluctantly held up a badge. Pretor went limp under the hands of the others.

Avaldan took it, examined it. His shoulders slumped. He turned to Krow and his group, and his eyes blazed. He bowed. “I apologize. I will of course, compensate for the poor judgment of my student. Will you allow the questioning and punishment to remain with me, as his teacher?”

Tharjan and Krow glanced at each other. Krow shrugged.

Tharjan nodded. “If Derkhol can remain for the questioning, we have no objection. We do not blame the master or his workshop for this.”

Beg to differ.

Krow blamed them a little.

This disaster of a tournament was their doing, wasn’t it? The referee too, was likely bribed. Master Smith, do you pay your employees?

But that was only a minor pique, so Krow let it go.

Avaldan nodded and gave Krow the warrant.

  [Greater Trade Warrant Badge of the Cyzar]

“I apologize once again.”

Krow shook his head. “I’m sorry as well.”

Avaldan grunted in acknowledgement. “That warrant. You better keep it well. Rare, to see one of those.”

Eh, was it so valuable?

Krow placed it into his inventory.

Leaving one of the herbalists behind, Tharjan and Krow left Avaldan’s tent, taking a less conspicuous exit in the back.

“We should return to the courtyard.” Tharjan slid into a narrow alley.

Krow unequipped the scarf, exchanged it for his usual outfit and mask. “You go see the others. I have things to do still.”

Tharjan watched him flip the hood up, shook his head. “Tamvost would be seething. If they found you alone…”

“I’m better with a revolver than a sword.” He equipped his guns with a sigh of relief. He’d been so used to wearing them now that he felt a little unsafe without them.

Tharjan nodded after a moment of hesitation. “Don’t be too long. The others should be heading back as well.”

It was just after mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day.

Krow watched Tharjan slip out the alley into a pedestrian street. He glanced up, seeing the Rosetower over the tops of the buildings. He strolled out the alley, headed in a different direction.

Where was the nearest tavern again?

He looked around for someone to ask. Then his eyes caught on the universal depiction of a barrel and cup. ‘Bad Horse Tavern’ the sign said.

Oh.

There was one right across the street.

The taverns that traders frequented were near the caravansaries. It may be cliché but undeniably, alcohol loosened tongues.  Krow went looking for information about Tamvost’s situation.

Conceivably, he could ask the herbalists. But different perspectives wouldn’t go amiss.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t late enough in the day that people were sloshed enough to babble to a stranger. Krow sighed, in the third tavern he entered, sat at the bar. 

He didn’t think this through, obviously. He gained more information walking the streets listening to gossip than at the taverns.

What was this gossip about Rakaens oppressing the smaller villages?

The barman lifted a brow, Krow lifted a finger, and seconds later a cup of brabat slid across the bar.

Krow downed the beverage. It was immediately replaced.

Hm. Good service.

He guzzled the second, was about to call for a third, when a hand grabbed his arm.

His revolver was pointed and primed, before he recognized the other as Morumain. He holstered the gun, sighed. “What is it?”

“I knew it! Are you going to drown your sorrows in this cheap swill? I promised you the best tavern in town!” The siren beamed, ignored the dark looks he got from the barman and several others in earshot.

Krow paused.

Glanced down at what he was wearing.

The guy recognized him in his usual clothes? He narrowed his eyes.

“It was a suspicion only,” Morumain soothed, deducing the reason for his glare. “But sirens can recognize voices very well, you know.”

Tsk. He did know that.

Krow tossed a serpens to the barman as Morumain pulled him out the tavern door.

“Where are we going?”

“The Dragonsinger.”

“The best tavern in town, I suppose.”

“You know it!”