The burly man led Tassa to a small room on the second floor of the tavern, instructed the waiter to continue cleaning, and then closed the door.
This was a humble spot catering to customers with special needs, charging just twenty-five copper eagles per night—its decor hardly elegant. The cramped bed reeked of musty mold, its crumpled linens as if they'd been left unwashed for ages. The cracked wooden table, missing a corner, was caked with black, powdery residue, its surface greasy and grimy. But Tasa couldn't care less. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, waiting in silence for the other party to speak.
"Long time no see," the burly man grinned. "Ever since Lord Nagi took your place, you haven't even visited the tavern. Even if you're no longer in charge, why not come for a drink?" His nickname was Black Hammer, the watchman of the "Underground Bards" tavern and a member of the Skull Finger. Though intimidating, he was just one of the many rats in the capital's Black Street. These rats formed gangs, carved out territories, and created sprawling yet loosely organized groups based on their trades. Behind most of these underground groups lurked powerful Nobles or wealthy merchants, and the Skull Finger was no exception. Unlike domesticated dogs, however, most rats didn't pledge allegiance to any single leader—they'd work for anyone who offered them profit.
"Cut the crap," Tasa said bluntly. "Call Sylvie, the pig farmer, the silver ring, and the pottery pot over here tonight. I've got some arrangements to make." "These are all underground couriers," Black Hammer said, stunned. "Just them?" "I told you this is a good deal," he shrugged. "I specifically hired you because you've done me so much." The standard procedure for dealing with Black Street involved finding an intermediary who would assess the job. Once agreed, the intermediary would assign the task to the right person and collect payment. Of course, there were no contracts or written agreements to back this process, and whether the job would meet expectations remained uncertain. Generally, established organizations valued their reputation more and charged higher fees, while newer groups offered lower rates but risked losing both money and clients. These rats and the city patrol formed a delicate balance, collectively maintaining the capital's superficial order.
Before joining the royal palace as a palace guard, Tasa had served in the patrol squad, tasked with handling confidential matters for various underworld organizations. This gave him inside knowledge of the capital's most powerful factions, saving him the hassle of dealing with intermediaries. As for choosing the Skull Finger, it was simply because they hadn't gone completely rogue yet.
"May I ask, who are you serving now?" Black Hammer asked after a moment's hesitation.
Tasa didn't reply, but instead gave a thumbs-up gesture toward the palace in the distance.
Whether it was the patrol squad or the rats, most people only knew he became a royal guard, unaware that he was soon chosen by King Wimbledon III as the Fourth Prince's personal guard, accompanying Your Royal Highness to Border Town. During those six vanished months, they likely believed they remained in the palace. After all, they were merely pointing toward the royal palace, not lying—the royal family wasn't limited to Tiffico; Roland Wimbledon was also a member of the royal family.
"I see," he nodded. "But Sylvie and the pig farmer are gone. Can I take my own hand?" "What happened to them?" "They're dead," Blackhammer said resentfully. "Last winter, they clashed with Dreamwater's men. They trafficked poppies and long-dormant ferns into the North City district, but Khasas led the gang to drive them back. Sylvie had a knife wound to her neck that wouldn't stop bleeding, and the pig farmer was stuffed into the canal." Tassar frowned. Patrols wouldn't bother with such matters. They'd even periodically provoke the rats to fight among themselves to control their numbers. As for the dead? Nobody cared. "Fine. But remember: it must be someone from the tavern."...
After leaving the underground conductor, Tasa took a deep breath.
The musty, damp smell in the tavern made him feel nauseous, but the hot air that rushed into his lungs finally eased the muddled, oppressive sensation.
Though Black Hammer cordially invited him to wait in the tavern and promised to serve fine wine, Tasa was reluctant to linger in such a cramped space. Had anything gone wrong, he wouldn't have noticed the anomaly immediately.
He then decided to head to the inner city to book a reliable hotel for tonight. As for the First Army soldiers, they were already well-versed in night camping and didn't need to worry about it.
At night, Tasa returned to the underground trumpeter.
The tavern was now open, with customers coming and going. He lingered in the shadows for a while before following a patron into the room.
As a low-end tavern in the outer district, it catered mostly to common folk who drank cheap, shoddy wheat beer. For ten copper eagles, one could down several large bowls in succession. Amid the clamor, he swiftly located Black Hammer's men, who were huddled around a partition wall, with a white finger bone lying on the table.
Tasa walked over without a word, and someone immediately made way for him.
Good evening, sir," said the silver ring and the earthenware jar, nodding in greeting.
"Let me introduce these two to you. She's Little Finger," Black Hammer patted the little one beside him and pointed at the young man nearby. "Hill Fox, who just joined Skull Finger." "Fox?" Tasa's gaze lingered on him, and the man bowed slightly, looking somewhat nervous.
"In our line of work, it's rare to find someone with a full set of surnames," Black Hammer chuckled. "He lost everything gambling, his wife ran off with someone else, and he even sold his house—forced to turn to the underworld. Don't worry, he used to live in the North District and occasionally frequented underground gambling dens." Silver Ring and the Pottery Pot were old acquaintances; Little Finger looked no different from an ordinary street kid. But this Hill Fox, Tasa found somewhat peculiar... His appearance did resemble God's—those weary souls who'd weathered life's storms—but there was something indescribable in his eyes, as if... He pondered, yet couldn't pin down the answer.
After all, since he lived in the North District and was acquainted with the tavern, there should be no problem. Moreover, his primary task was to evacuate refugees, which posed no risk whatsoever.
"Listen carefully, the situation is straightforward. The authorities can't afford to see more refugees fleeing the Eastern Frontier. With relief supplies dwindling daily, this unrest will inevitably erupt. Once it breaks out, dealing with it will be far more difficult. We must find a way to drive them out of the capital." "What do you need us to do?" Black Hammer asked.
"It's simple: spread the word that the western frontier is reclaiming wasteland, and the local lord is ready to take in these refugees. The escorting mercenaries and fleet have already set off and will reach the canal wharf in three days. Your job is to get this message to the fools outside the city walls—fill in the details as you please, but make it sound as real as possible." "But... if those mercenaries and fleet aren't there by then, all that convincing won't matter," said the Silver Ring.
"Of course they will," Tasa said with a smile.
"Ah?" He froze in shock. "Is there really a Lord in the Western Frontier who'd take them in?" "You fool," Black Hammer slapped him across the head. "If you're acting, you should do it properly. After being transported to the Western Frontier, can they possibly walk back to the capital on their own? As for how to deal with them? Let the local lord handle that." He turned to Tasa. "It's not exactly a tough job, but as for the pay..." Tasa raised two fingers. "Double. My new employer isn't like the patrol team—he just wants results fast. The Golden Dragon means nothing to him." He smiled faintly. "I told you, this is a good deal."