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his task.

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CHAPTER 1 : Shadows of Death
    Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave.
    —James Thomson The Seasons. Winter
     
    The tavernmaster of Kveldemar hurled wood, glossed with ice, onto the hearth fire. It struck with a hiss, and smoke swirled through the common room, shredded to lace by beer-stained tables. Taziar Medakan blinked, trying to clear the mist from his eyes. His three companions seemed content to sit, sharing wine-loosened conversation, but restlessness drove Taziar until he fidgeted like a child during a priest’s belabored liturgy. His darting, blue eyes missed nothing. He watched the tavernmaster whisk across the room, pausing to collect bowls from a recently vacated table. Flipping a dirty rag across its surface, the tavernmaster ducked around the bar with the efficiency of a man accustomed to tending customers alone. Not a single movement was wasted.
    Taziar turned his attention to the only other patrons; a giggling couple huddled in the farthest corner, their chairs touching as they shared bowls of ale and silent kisses. Larson launched into a tale about two-man sailboats and a red-water lake, just as the outer door creaked open. Evening light streamed through the gap, glazing the eddying smoke. A middle-aged man stepped across the threshold. Dark-haired and clean-shaven, he seemed a welcome change from Norway’s endless sea of blonds. Blinded by the glare, the stranger squinted, sidling around a chair. His soiled, leather tunic scraped against Taziar’s seat with a high-pitched sheeting sound. A broadsword balanced in a scabbard at his waist, its trappings time-worn like a weapon which had been passed down by at least one generation. Depressions pocked its surface where jewels had once been set in fine adornment.
    Taziar had long ago abandoned petty thievery, but boredom drove him to accept the challenge. With practiced dexterity, he flicked his fingers into the stranger’s pocket. Rewarded by the frayed tickle of purse strings and a rush of exhilaration, he pulled his prize free. A subtle gesture masked the movement of placing it into a lap fold of his cloak. Taziar’s gaze never left his companions. He saw no glimmer of horror or recognition on their faces, no indication that anyone had observed his heist. Apparently oblivious, the stranger marched deeper into the common room and took a seat at a table before the bar. The tavernmaster wandered over to attend to his new patron.
    Taziar frowned in consideration. The stranger’s money held no interest for him; having developed more than enough skill to supply necessities for his friends, he had lost all respect for gold. Only the thrill remained, and much of his enjoyment would, in this case, come from devising a clever plan to return the purse to its owner. Taziar regarded his companions. Larson’s words had passed him, unheard. Patiently, Taziar waited until his friend finished. Taking a cue from Silme’s and Astryd’s laughter, Taziar chuckled and then claimed the conversation. “Allerum, do you see that man over there?” He inclined his head slightly.
    Larson nodded without looking. Aside from the engrossed couple, the tavernmaster, and themselves, there was only one man in the barroom. “Sure. What about him?”
    Taziar raked a perpetually sliding comma of hair from his eyes. “When I was a child, my friends and I used to play a game where we’d guess how much money some stranger was carrying.”
    “Yeah?” Larson met Taziar’s gaze with mistrust. “Sounds pretty seedy. What’s it got to do with that man?”
    Taziar clasped his hands behind his head. “I’ll bet you our bar tab I can guess how much he has within ...” Unobtrusively, he massaged coins through the fabric of the stranger’s purse. Some felt thinner, more defined than Scandinavian monies, unmistakably southern coinage. Having discovered familiar territory, Taziar suppressed a smile. “... within three coppers.”
    Larson’s eyes narrowed until his thin