CH145 · Rewrite
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Chapter 145: Searching for Traces, Finding the Cause (Part 1)

The tavern smelled the way all cheap taverns smelled: malt and sweat and the particular sourness of a floor that was mopped too infrequently. Theo spent a moment in the doorway letting his eyes adjust to the dim.

A table of men at the center, bare-chested in the warmth, pouring beer into each other and laughing in the loose way of people who had already passed the point of meaning anything they said. A barmaid in clothes cut low and practical, moving through them efficiently. Around the edges, the usual scatter of people not at the center table — travelers, regulars, people waiting for something.

He found the man he was looking for in the furthest corner. Young, slight, and placed so that the room’s shadows gave him a natural screen. On the table in front of him: a single dried wild rose.

Theo went to the bar first.

He took a cup of beer and drank a slow quarter of it while scanning the room. Most of the eyes that moved toward the corner were idle and random. One man at the center table glanced there with something more deliberate, too carefully, too often.

One contractor. One lookout. Standard.

“Another cup,” he said to the bartender. “With ice.”

“Double price for ice, sir.”

He flipped a silver royal across the bar. “More ice than beer.”

He carried the cup across the room and set it down on the table in a way that swept the surface — cold water ran along the petals of the dried rose, along the grain of the wood, and the young man looked up with the irritation of someone who takes their props seriously.

“Perfectly good beer going to waste,” he said, in a voice roughened by years of saying things he didn’t mean in places that required discretion. “What kind of madness is that?”

“An offering to the rose,” Theo said, and sat down. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Then you’ve been looking in the wrong places.” The man leaned back with the controlled ease of someone performing comfortable. “Client or seller? State your purpose.”

“I want to spread a rumor.”

The young man shook his head. “Not our service.”

“Hear the rest first.” Theo tapped the table once. “Gold royals, plural. The kind of job that leaves no evidence and can’t be traced back. The rumor is the work — properly done, it draws out the target without any of the legal exposure. You’ll find it cleaner than half the jobs you’ve taken this year.”

A pause. “Which other organizations have you approached?”

“None. I trust the Wild Rose’s reach in this city.” He let that sit, then added: “The others’ names are not as elegant.”

The young man’s expression shifted by a fraction — professional pleasure, well-contained. “What rumor?”

“The Witch Cooperation Association has found the Holy Mountain,” Theo said, and watched the man’s face. “They’ve discovered that the Demon’s Bite stops. That witches who stay with the Association live — live well, and free.”

A long silence.

“Brother.” The young man set down his cup. “That’s stale. Even if I wasn’t opposed to scamming a client, your story should at least be plausible. If you’re hunting a witch, they’re too dangerous for the money — every witch-hunter I know who tried it is dead, God’s Stones or not. If you’re trying to trap the Church—” he spread his hands “—you’re asking for the gallows.”

“Why wouldn’t it be plausible?” Theo asked, with genuine curiosity.

“Because any organization of witches advertising itself would be visible from a mile away. The Church would smell it immediately, and any witch worth her Demon’s Bite would know the same. So no actual witch would respond to the bait — it reads as a trap. And the claim that the Bite stops?” He smacked his lips. “Witches are the Devil’s messengers. Even witches believe it. It’s not a lie anyone would accept.”

“Perhaps the lie has become true,” Theo said.

Another pause.

“Customer’s always right,” the young man said, with a shrug that dispensed with any further investment in the question. “Twenty gold royals. All at once, no deposit.”

Theo reached into his coat and counted out nineteen gold royals, then untied a separate money bag from his belt and added a hundred silver. He turned both bags inside out after emptying them and let the man see the interiors. The young man checked one coin for weight and color, swept everything into his jacket, and stood.

“The Wild Rose keeps its word,” he said, by way of farewell. “If you’re still in the city in a few days, you’ll hear people repeating it. As for what you do with the responses—” he picked up the dried rose and tucked it into his pocket “—sell them to a noble rather than the Church. Better money, less risk of the gallows.”

He left. The lookout at the center table left three minutes later.

Theo drank the rest of his beer, belched quietly, and walked out.


Three cities in sequence — Fallen Dragon Ridge, Redwater City, Silver City — each with its own version of the underground channels: the Wild Rose here, different names and different arrangements elsewhere, but the same function. Street networks that moved information into places where legal methods couldn’t reach. Every city had them. Finding them as an outsider was the hard part, and Theo had done it here only because he’d spent years in King’s City first, learning the vocabulary.

He was two streets from the inn when he became aware of someone behind him.

Not someone loud. Someone careful. But careful in the direction of movement rather than of sound — their footfalls were muffled, their timing irregular to disguise the pattern, which was exactly the technique a professional would use and exactly the mistake that made professional training identifiable if you knew what to listen for.

He turned at the next corner without changing his pace, entered an alley, pressed his back against the wall, and drew his dagger.

He counted the footsteps coming closer. At the precise moment the figure would be passing the alley entrance he moved — out, fast, one arm across the throat, dagger to the neck.

His arm went through fog.

Not person. Fog. Cold and damp and dispersing through his fingers.

Witch.

He turned to shout — a warning, or a call, or just the reflexive noise of a person suddenly very aware of what they had walked into — and the blow caught him at the back of the neck. Precise, practiced, with exactly enough force.

The alley came up to meet him.

The last thing he thought, before the dark, was that at least they hadn’t taken the dagger immediately. That meant they wanted something from him. That meant he was probably still useful.

He held onto that and let himself go under.

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