information had never been wrong. Tybolt slapped the bar top. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“I’m sure you will, but I’m running out of patrons for you to chase away.”
Tybolt grinned and tossed Griffon another coin.
“Apology accepted.”
Tybolt strolled out of the tavern and towards the western wall. If Gamel wasn’t at the tavern, he had to be at his house. Only a few homes had survived the Fracture, and Gamel’s was one of them. They would’ve torn it down, but Gamel sat inside it and refused to move. The story was that when they’d gone in and tried to remove him by force, he’d spit on one man and pissed on the other. The foreman was so angry he decided to teach him a lesson by building the wall so close to the house that it looked like the two were leaning on each other for support. The foreman was in for a disappointment—Gamel couldn’t have cared less.
Tybolt didn’t have time to knock before the door swung open. Gamel scowled at him, his dirty cloak still around his shoulders. “I wondered when you would come. Took a bit longer than I expected.”
“I thought I’d find you at the tavern.”
Gamel shook his head and shuffled towards the living area. “That doesn’t seem like a proper place to discuss this sort of thing. Did you at least bring me a drink?”
“No, I prefer you sober when we talk business.”
“Ahhh, so you believe me.”
“No.” Tybolt eyed the filthy couch and decided to stand. It was a wise choice—Gamel plopped down and a cloud of dust puffed up, illuminated by the candle’s faint light.
“Then why bother coming?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to figure out what possessed you to go spouting off such nonsense in the middle of the play? That was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do, and that, my old friend, is saying something.”
Gamel shrugged. “I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.”
“With your ridiculous announcement that Aja didn’t cause the Fracture?”
Gamel nodded.
Tybolt leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “You’re trying to tell me that the only wizard capable of controlling weather wasn’t responsible for bringing in the storm that tore this land apart?”
The sound of horses clopping down the cobblestones filled the house. Gamel tilted his head to the side, listening. Tybolt opened his mouth to talk, but Gamel held a wrinkled finger up. They waited until the hoof beats faded into the city.
“The royal carriage,” Gamel said. “Bringing supplies in for the feast, no doubt. Do you ever wonder where it all comes from?”
“Probably from the same place where Pete gets his produce—Deasroc.”
“Pete has money to purchase with. The royal coffers are surely empty by now. The amount of food and fabric King Rowan brings in would have bankrupt Eriroc a long time ago.”
“And what do you know of such things?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just an old drunk who bumbles mindlessly about…but even the drunk aren’t blind.”
“Seems like everyone else is,” Tybolt muttered.
“Blind? I think not.”
Tybolt looked over his shoulder out of habit, despite knowing they were alone. “They support him,” he seethed, “even when they starve. They sit there and say nothing .”
“Nothing?”
“Not enough,” Tybolt said. “Occasional whispers when people are so deep in their cups they can’t hold their tongues. That will solve nothing.
“They fear him, and fear is not support. Others who are brave have spoken—I’ve heard them. They would choose a different king.”
Tybolt stood straighter and looked down at Gamel. “Who?”
“Who?” Gamel grinned, exposing rows of brown chipped teeth. “You.”
Tybolt snorted. “You’ve lost your mind. No one wants a wizard or a Hunter on the throne. You must be more drunk than usual.”
Gamel pulled his robe tighter around his shoulders. “Perhaps. Drunk or not, I happen to know where Alistair is.”
“So you said, but how could you know that? And why now?
“I’m sure you will, but I’m running out of patrons for you to chase away.”
Tybolt grinned and tossed Griffon another coin.
“Apology accepted.”
Tybolt strolled out of the tavern and towards the western wall. If Gamel wasn’t at the tavern, he had to be at his house. Only a few homes had survived the Fracture, and Gamel’s was one of them. They would’ve torn it down, but Gamel sat inside it and refused to move. The story was that when they’d gone in and tried to remove him by force, he’d spit on one man and pissed on the other. The foreman was so angry he decided to teach him a lesson by building the wall so close to the house that it looked like the two were leaning on each other for support. The foreman was in for a disappointment—Gamel couldn’t have cared less.
Tybolt didn’t have time to knock before the door swung open. Gamel scowled at him, his dirty cloak still around his shoulders. “I wondered when you would come. Took a bit longer than I expected.”
“I thought I’d find you at the tavern.”
Gamel shook his head and shuffled towards the living area. “That doesn’t seem like a proper place to discuss this sort of thing. Did you at least bring me a drink?”
“No, I prefer you sober when we talk business.”
“Ahhh, so you believe me.”
“No.” Tybolt eyed the filthy couch and decided to stand. It was a wise choice—Gamel plopped down and a cloud of dust puffed up, illuminated by the candle’s faint light.
“Then why bother coming?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to figure out what possessed you to go spouting off such nonsense in the middle of the play? That was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do, and that, my old friend, is saying something.”
Gamel shrugged. “I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.”
“With your ridiculous announcement that Aja didn’t cause the Fracture?”
Gamel nodded.
Tybolt leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “You’re trying to tell me that the only wizard capable of controlling weather wasn’t responsible for bringing in the storm that tore this land apart?”
The sound of horses clopping down the cobblestones filled the house. Gamel tilted his head to the side, listening. Tybolt opened his mouth to talk, but Gamel held a wrinkled finger up. They waited until the hoof beats faded into the city.
“The royal carriage,” Gamel said. “Bringing supplies in for the feast, no doubt. Do you ever wonder where it all comes from?”
“Probably from the same place where Pete gets his produce—Deasroc.”
“Pete has money to purchase with. The royal coffers are surely empty by now. The amount of food and fabric King Rowan brings in would have bankrupt Eriroc a long time ago.”
“And what do you know of such things?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just an old drunk who bumbles mindlessly about…but even the drunk aren’t blind.”
“Seems like everyone else is,” Tybolt muttered.
“Blind? I think not.”
Tybolt looked over his shoulder out of habit, despite knowing they were alone. “They support him,” he seethed, “even when they starve. They sit there and say nothing .”
“Nothing?”
“Not enough,” Tybolt said. “Occasional whispers when people are so deep in their cups they can’t hold their tongues. That will solve nothing.
“They fear him, and fear is not support. Others who are brave have spoken—I’ve heard them. They would choose a different king.”
Tybolt stood straighter and looked down at Gamel. “Who?”
“Who?” Gamel grinned, exposing rows of brown chipped teeth. “You.”
Tybolt snorted. “You’ve lost your mind. No one wants a wizard or a Hunter on the throne. You must be more drunk than usual.”
Gamel pulled his robe tighter around his shoulders. “Perhaps. Drunk or not, I happen to know where Alistair is.”
“So you said, but how could you know that? And why now?
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