CHAPTER 45: CHAPTER 45 - THE STONE JACKDAW

She did not ride back to the estate right away. Instead, she stayed on foot and kept walking, hood low, the token warm against her palm inside the pouch.

The streets thinned from bright to narrow and damp, the sounds of market calls giving way to the slap of laundry against boards and the creak of rope over pulleys.

When the scent of old yeast and wet rope slid into the air, she knew she was close.

Tally Street sagged under its own age. Beams leaned and windows were painted with grime. At the end of the row, a cracked signboard hung from two rusted hooks: a bird with a chipped beak and a rubbed-out eye.

The Stone Jackdaw.

She didn’t go straight in. She turned past the door and cut down the next alley, where a rain barrel stood green at the lip. She stood in the damp shade and watched the inn’s door through a slice of space.

Before leaving, she had sent a note with her driver to deliver directly to Adolf. Once Adolf received the note, he would know what to do; so all she had to do was wait.

She waited. A cart rattled past, its wheel wobbling so badly she thought it would shake off, but it didn’t. A child ran by with a stick and a hoop; a dog panted after it.

Morena observed the daily lives of the people, the city that her family held influence over. This side of the city could be called the low end; it wasn’t as poor as the slums, or as dangerous as the dark alleys, but it wasn’t much better.

It was a place where she could see the true face of the people of this world, and it was quite something. Some were warm, others scared, and some even cruel. But she didn’t follow up on any.

It didn’t take long. A broad-shouldered shadow turned into Hark when he stepped out of the sun and into the alley. Plain cloak, hair tied back. No badge.

"Lady."

"Hark. There’s a man I need eyes on. Blond and tall. He’s stained with dirt. He carries a stiff canvas satchel and a leather tube for thin papers. He may be inside."

"You want him followed."

Hark said, more statement than question.

"After we’re sure he’s here. Don’t make it obvious, and don’t ask questions. Just listen and watch. Meet me behind the inn when you know."

He nodded once and didn’t ask any more questions; he didn’t need to, then slid away toward the front like he belonged to the street.

She stayed with the barrel, counting every minute that passed by and how long it would take. She fidgeted with the token in her palm for a while, the minutes ticking away, before finally returning it to the pouch when she heard him.

Hark returned quietly a few minutes later, not hours.

"He’s in," Hark said. "His room is on the top floor, the last door at the end. Back of the house. He came down to grab food and just left with it. Spoke to no one."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

"Good. Stay near and monitor him, don’t make it obvious, just live here for some time. If he leaves, follow at a distance. If he runs, do not catch him. Just keep him in sight."

"As you wish."

She left the alley and stepped into the street like it was the first time. The sign swung. The door stuck halfway, then gave with a groan.

Inside smelled like onion, sour beer, and damp wood. The room was low and dark, lit mostly by light slanting in from two narrow windows. Three men hunched over a table near the hearth, arguing over a dice cup.

Behind the counter, the innkeep lifted his head. Gray hair at the temples, eyes dull from boredom.

"Room or meal?" he asked.

"Neither, I’m just here to pay someone a visit."

He sighed and ignored her, resting his head back on the counter and waiting for the next customer to come.

She walked past him and up the noisy stairway, every few boards creaking under their age. The hall was a narrow throat with a single stub of tallow candle at the far end, doing little for the gloom.

She counted the doors until she reached the one that the man stayed at, standing outside of it for a few seconds. She set her knuckles to the door and knocked twice.

Silence.

"Corin."

She said quietly.

There were a few seconds of silence, and then the sound of shuffling getting closer to the door.

"Who’s that?"

The voice was hoarse, aged, and tired at the edges.

"Someone who bought the book you sold yesterday and still has questions."

There was another long pause, the man seemingly taking the time to think about his next words carefully.

"I have no more books."

"That’s fine, I’m not here just for the book. I’m here to pay for answers, if they’re worth something."

"I’m not selling those either."

He moved close to the door; she could feel the change in the air, the faint difference in sound. She did not lean in.

"You’ll leave a trail if you keep talking to strangers," he said.

"That warning should be mine to give."

She answered.

"I won’t press. But I’ll be downstairs for the next hour. If you’d like a heavier purse when you leave the city, or perhaps help with your steps, you’ll come speak to me."

There was a long pause again, and just as she was about to walk away, a soft voice rang out.

"How much heavier?"

"Enough to pay for new clothing, a better satchel, and months of not sleeping in a ditch."

The silence went thin.

"An hour," he said, still somewhat hesitating. "Don’t wait longer than that."

She stepped away from the door and made her way downstairs without rushing. The innkeep eyed her, then pretended not to.

Morena chose a table with a view of the stairs and the front door. She put her back to the wall. When a woman with a scar came with a jug, Morena ordered something simple, and when it came, she didn’t touch it.

Hark appeared for a breath in the doorway, just long enough for her to see him and for him to see her. Then he was gone again, doing the task she had given him, pretending to be nothing but a guest.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Finally, she heard footsteps coming down the stairway, carefully. Corin reached the bottom already looking toward the back, toward the door to the alley, toward the exits.

He was, as the shopkeeper had said, lean, a head taller than Morena, hair blond but the shade of straw that had seen too much dust. His face could be any man’s.

His eyes couldn’t; they were too busy moving, too many calculations and flinches in them.

He saw her and almost left anyway. Then he came and sat, angling himself so he could see the room.

"I’m glad you decided to come," she said, trying to be friendly.

"I almost left," he replied in a dry tone, cutting the pleasantries short.

"Sit, there’s no need for introductions, so let’s get started."

He huffed out a breath and sat. Up close, she could see the dirt compacted under his nails, the faint rawness of skin at the inside wrist where a burn hadn’t scarred yet.

She could tell the man was somewhat aged, but she couldn’t tell his exact age range. His skin didn’t quite wrinkle, yet it didn’t have that smoothness of youth.

He set his satchel on his lap, never allowing it to leave his hand, and slid his foot to the side of the chair so he could stand easily.

"What is it you want? You already have the book. I don’t have more."

"I’m not after more books, at least not completely. I want to know the story behind it, behind you, and who you angered on the way."

"You think I angered someone."

"You sell a stone, a pendant, and a book you clearly wrote yourself for coins you didn’t want to haggle. You keep touching your stuff and stay in an inn in the middle of nowhere. And you look behind you all the time."

He didn’t answer, yet muscles in his jaw flickered. Morena could tell she had hit the correct point.

"Coin for answers, that was the offer. And that’s how it’ll be."

Morena stated.

He glanced toward the counter. The innkeeper was watching the door. The woman with the scar had disappeared, and the others that lingered in the inn all kept their distance from each other.

Corin reached up, dragged a hand down his face, then looked back at her.

"Fine, but each question will cost you."