Moonlight danced through the warped shutters of St. Marla's orphanage, casting long, flickering patterns across the dusty floorboards. Eamond was thinking as he stood in his room; he did not know enough. Information. That was the currency he lacked.
He tapped a finger on the ledger's margin, lingering over his notes about the Crimson Fang's treasure transport. He needed details: guard rotations, transport schedules, cart capacities, escort numbers—everything. Without intelligence, any plan would crumble.
"Lysandra! Jake!"
They emerged from the corridor with sleepy protests, hair mussed and eyes half-lidded. Lysandra's flames had long faded to embers; Jake clutched his satchel and his pillow.
"Do you know what the most important resource we need right now?" Eamond said, voice low and urgent.
"Money/Food," both said.
" Nope. In business, it's all about information, information, information." Eamond replied
"Not scraps, but solid leads. I want to know every step that the treasure convoy takes from Fang's Hold to the City gate. Whose pockets we must grease, which alley to avoid."
Lysandra rubbed her eyes. "How about asking Information Tavern?"
" Oh, do you know where this tavern is?"
" I don't," Lysandra replied in a downcast.
" I know. My dad told me when he was drunk." Jake said enthusiastically.
Eamond's grin was all business. "Then we'll present ourselves as more than amateurs. Dress sharp, speak sharper. We leave in fifteen."
Within minutes, they transformed. Lysandra shaved soot from her boots and braided her hair into tight cornrows. Jake swapped his threadbare cloak for a patched coat that once belonged to Eamond. The toddlers scurried to tidy stray jars, though most were empty now, remnants of the dawn's preserve sale. Eamond gathered scrolls and maps, stowing them in a leather satchel, then lit a fresh candle. Flames flickered across his face, reflecting gold in his eyes.
"We'll travel on foot," he said, drawing a crude diagram on the desk. "Three blocks to the west, then a narrow street—no lamps. Beyond that, the Flagon's sign: a silver chalice surrounded by swirling mist."
Lysandra arched an eyebrow. "Swirling mist? Really?"
Eamond tapped the sketch. "Embellishment. They want mystery. We'll pay the fee, get our leads, and leave before curiosity costs us."
Jake rolled the map. "And if it goes south? If they realize we're orphans?"
The fire in Eamond's gaze burned hotter. "Then we'll remind them why gold and information are worth more than pity."
They slipped into the night. The city beyond St. Marla's was a maze of dim lanterns and shuttered shops. The wind carried the stench of refuse and fermenting ale. Eamond led with practiced surety, Lysandra ominously silent, Jake careful not to tear the borrowed coat.
At the crossroads of Melancholy Lane and Gutter's End, a street urchin darted from shadows, offering directions in hushed tones for a copper. Eamond tossed him a coin without pause. "Straight on, then left at the third arch."
"Thanks, mister," the boy muttered, scampering off.
"Not so dark after all," Lysandra said as they turned into an alley lit by a single lantern whose flame flickered with every breeze.
Ahead rose the Whispering Flagon, a squat stone building with a low arched doorway and a single, dim window. The sign—etched metal in the shape of a chalice surrounded by ghostly tendrils swayed in the wind.
Eamond inhaled, then stepped across the threshold. Inside, the tavern was a hush of murmur and menace. Candlelit tables hosted furtive meetings—traders in hooded cloaks, sailors with patterned tattoos, a woman in a crimson veil counting bronze coins. The barkeep, a burly man with a bald skull and inked forearms, polished a pewter cup behind the bar.
A low fire crackled in a hearth dominated by iron sconces shaped like snarling wolves. Shelves lined with dusty bottles and leather-bound ledgers hinted at a library of secrets. They come to sit on the counter near the bartender.
Jake leaned close. "We request three seats and a Ham covered in honey and pepper with a side of Apple beer." She laid a heavy pouch of gold on the bar. "Information on the Crimson Fang treasure convoy."
The barkeep's eyes flicked to the pouch, then to Eamond's earnest face. He weighed them—orphans, scavengers—and slid the pouch closer. "One gold per lead, up to three. Speak and I'll listen."
Eamond nodded. "First: route. Second: guard strength. Third: transport day."
" Okay, go to the back room, so we can serve you."
As they stood up and entered the back room. They saw a normal office and decided to sit on the sofa in the room. A wiry man in a black hood then emerged from the shadows. His voice was gravelly and threatening. "Fang caravans avoid the Barricade Road—too many checkpoints. They prefer the quayside route: under the iron bridge at dawn, past the warehouse district and through Mist Alley into Blackthorn Gate."
He paused, letting the information settle. Lysandra scribbled in a tiny notebook; Jake's eyes darted to the map.
Eamond pressed. "Any shortcuts?"
The hooded man's lips twitched. "There's a hidden causeway beneath the bridge—floodgates keep it dry. But the locks use Fang sigils. Without the keys… you'll drown." He leaned back. "Two copper."
Lysandra dropped the coins.
"Fang guards ride expansively—twelve riders on armored steeds, plus a foot squad of eight with crossbows. They stop at the lantern post in Mist Alley for a smoke break."
Eamond clenched his jaw. Twelve riders meant speed; eight crossbowmen meant danger. He dropped one gold.
"They don't trust mercs—only their own," he added. "Mercs handle baggage carts, usually five men, no armor."
Jake's brow furrowed. "So the cart guards are minimal. Could be distracted."
Lysandra tapped her pen. "Good."
"They move treasure every fortnight. The next is in three nights. They load the wagons at midnight and take off before dawn break to remove suspicion."
Eamond's heart pounded: three nights before 19 Krum. Perfect.
The man motioned. "Fifty more copper?"
Eamond hesitated, then counted out the coins: sufficient.
"Done," the man said, breathing relief. "That's all I know."
They then left the backroom and went into the tavern. The barkeep greets them. "You have your answers. Now go, before curiosity drains your purse…and your life."
Eamond stood, straightening his coat. Beside him, Lysandra and Jake rose. He twisted the pouch in his hand, now significantly lighter. Yet the weight of knowledge was heavier.
" But before that, when is the food coming?" They all look at Eamond with a strange expression. " Just because this is an information place doesn't mean you shouldn't serve food."
Lysandra shot him a long, exasperated sigh. Jake's eyes went wide, admiration flickering on his face.
"You think information and hunger mix well?" Lysandra murmured, rolling her eyes but betraying a small, fond grin.
Behind the bar, the barkeep—towering and tattooed—leaned forward, amusement gleaming in his dark eyes. "In this house, curiosity never goes unfed," he rumbled. "We don't keep a 'food'—only a hunger for secrets. But since you three paid in gold and wits, I'll pay you back in taste."
He disappeared through the swinging back door. Moments later, he reemerged bearing a steaming tray: golden roast fowl legs glistening with herb butter; a pewter bowl of rich, savory stew; crusty loaves of bread still warm from the hearth; and a small dish of tangy pickles.
Placing the tray before them, he added with a theatrical flourish, "Our finest menu, forged in flame and served at half price—consider it an investment in future patronage. But next time, your pockets must pay in more than coin."
Eamond allowed himself a rare, genuine smile. Jake dove into the stew, his earlier nerves dissolving with every spoonful. Lysandra hesitated only a heartbeat before tearing off a hunk of bread and dipping it into the rich broth, letting out a contented hum.
The barkeep watched them from behind the bar, his grin proud. In the warm glow of lantern light, the trio—now well-fed, prepared to step back into the night, sharper and stronger for both the knowledge and the meal they'd earned.
As they stepped outside, the night wind battered them. Eamond studied his companions. "Prepare. Three nights to plan the grab, we'll grab the item before they move out at dawn. We'll need disguises, false sigils, and a way through that floodgate lock."
Jake exhaled, tension rippling through his frame. "And an exit strategy."
Lysandra's grin was sharp and dark. "Leave that to me."
As they turned to depart, Eamond felt a prickling at the nape of his neck. From the tavern's corner, a shadow moved—soft as falling ash. The air shifted. He spun, hand on cleaver.
A pale youth in muted leathers slipped between tables, eyes bright and dangerous. He said nothing, but his gaze held Eamond's for a heartbeat. Then he vanished through a side door before Lysandra could flame the lanterns.
Eamond's pulse thumped. "Jake, did you see that?"
Jake nodded, jaw clenched. "He was watching us… purpose unknown."
Lysandra exhaled smoke. "Could be an ally—or a blade in our back."
Eamond watched the door. "Either way, we move fast. Information gave us a map. Now we follow it. And we watch our shadows."