Falazar had not slept. The assassination attempt on the king had left a residue of cold fury in his gut. He had spent the night in the Citadel’s deepest, most warded interrogation cells, attempting to pry information from the captured assassin. But the man was a cipher, his mind shielded by alien disciplines and a fanatic’s resolve. Falazar had gleaned fragments; whispers of a "Sun-Scorched Master", of distant southeastern deserts, of oaths sworn in blood and shadow — but nothing that directly implicated Chancellor Lanza or the disgruntled southern lords. Yet, the timing, the audacity… it reeked of internal rot.

  As dawn cast its grey light over Alkaer, Falazar appeared more ancient and frayed than usual, gazing at the paraphernalia on the shelves, his robes smelling faintly of sweat and astringent sorceries.

  Two unexpected visitors arrived in his antechamber. "Archmage," Cyros began, his usual unctuousness tempered by a hint of genuine concern. "We have acquired further intelligence. Whispers from the city’s less savory corners. Concerning certain southern lords and their extracurricular activities."

  Falazar had been about to dismiss them with a curt word, but restrained himself. His bloodshot eyes sharpened. "Speak," he commanded, gesturing them into his cluttered sanctum. He sat in his tattered couch, gesturing them to continue with a sweeping hand gesture.

  Elmyra took the lead, leaning on the backrest of a chair. "The taverns are alive with chatter, Archmage. Lord Emmon of Southwood, Master Sigebert of the River Merchants’ Guild, and several others in their circle; they speak openly of their displeasure with the King’s emergency powers. Their servants whisper of secret meetings, of couriers riding south under cover of darkness."

  Cyros picked up the thread, his voice conspiratorial. "And my own clientele has become rather specific in its requests, illustrious Archmage. Individuals known to be in the employ of these same southern lords are seeking items ill-suited for loyal subjects. Cloaks of deep shadow, alchemical agents capable of breaching secure locks." He arched an eyebrow. "One might almost suspect they are preparing for more than just vigorous political debate."

  Falazar listened, his fingers steepled, his gaze distant. It all pointed towards Lanza and his disaffected faction. The motive was there — resentment, fear of losing wealth and power. The opportunity, too, with the kingdom distracted by the northern war. It was almost too neat, too obvious. And yet… the assassin. The assassin didn't fit. His foreign magic, his thoughts of a "Sun-Scorched Master"— it felt like a different thread entirely, perhaps deliberately woven into this mess to confuse and misdirect.

  Weariness washed over the Archmage. He was old and powerful, but he could not be everywhere. The conspiracies in Alkaer were a tangled knot, and it stung his pride to admit he needed help, especially from these two: a profit-driven alchemist and a back-alley courtesan. Yet, their networks, their particular insights... they were undeniably valuable.

  Falazar exhaled deeply. "There was an attempt on the King’s life last night," he said, the words falling heavily into the sudden silence of the room. Genuine shock flashed on Elmyra’s face, and avaricious calculation—quickly masked—in Cyros’s eyes. "An assassin, highly skilled, with magic unfamiliar to our own traditions. We have apprehended him."

  Elmyra focused, Cyros smoothed his sleeve with too much nonchalance. "The King believes it was Lanza’s doing. A desperate act of retaliation. I… am less certain. It feels too bold for Lanza’s usual cunning, and yet too sophisticated for a simple act of provincial rebellion."

  Falazar leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes pinning them. "This city, our Alkaer, is riddled with whispers, with hidden currents. You, Master Goldenvein, with your extensive connections in the less reputable markets. And you, Mistress Elmyra, whose ears are privy to the confidences of powerful men. I require your assistance." The words felt like gravel in his mouth. "Find out who this assassin served. Discover the full extent of Lanza’s conspiracy, if it is indeed his alone. Identify any other foreign elements at play within our walls. Money is no object—within reason," he added, looking at Cyros. "But discretion is paramount." He paused. "Failure or betrayal will have consequences even your alchemical concoctions, Cyros, cannot mitigate."

  Cyros’ eyes gleamed. "Archmage," he purred, "you wound me with your suspicions! Consider Cyros Goldenvein and his humble resources entirely at your disposal. We shall be your eyes and ears in the shadows."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Elmyra nodded. "The King’s safety and the stability of Argren concerns us all, Archmage. I will listen. And I will report what I hear."

  Falazar watched them go. He had just enlisted a cynical alchemist and a courtesan as his chief intelligence operatives in the capital. Desperate times indeed.

  * * *

  The Alkaer Elmyra knew was a creature of a thousand faces, and she was adept at navigating them all. Hers was a city of shadowed alleys and lamplit doorways, of whispered secrets in crowded taverns and bargains struck in the dim back rooms of pawnshops. And in this city, information was a currency more valuable than gold.

  Her days since her understanding with Archmage Falazar had taken on a new rhythm. She still plied her trade, her wit and charm drawing in the lonely, the boastful, the indiscreet. But now her ears were sharper, her questions more pointed, her observations filed away with a new purpose. Falazar wanted whispers; Elmyra would give him a symphony.

  She moved through the Labyrinthine like a phantom. Here, amidst the leaning tenements and overflowing market stalls, she greeted a one-eyed beggar, slipping him a copper for a snippet of gossip about a new gang in the Dock Ward. She shared a cup of watered wine with Sorcin the Rat, a ferret-faced drunk and dealer in hellresin whose loyalties shifted with the tide but whose knowledge of who met whom in secret was unparalleled. She paid a visit to Mistress Griselda’s "Herbal Remedies and Fortunate Charms" stall, a known front for hot coin, leaving with a packet of headache powders and a keen sense of which city guard captains were in debt to which moneylenders.

  In the evenings she prawled the taverns where off-duty soldiers and rowdy young nobles loosened their tongues with ale and the quieter, more discreet establishments favored by merchants and minor officials. She listened, she laughed, she sympathized, and she built a meticulous ledger of names, connections, and hushed confidences.

  Tonight her path led her to the discreetly appointed rooms of Master Elric Finch, a goldsmith and coin exchanger of considerable repute and, for Elmyra, a long-standing and quite candid client. Finch was a man of precise habits and an encyclopedic knowledge of the currencies that flowed through Alkaer’s veins.

  As they shared a bottle of good southern wine and nibbled on spiced toasted almonds, Elmyra rested an elbow on the plump velvet settee, turning to Elric.

  "The markets are agitated, Master Finch," she observed, refilling his goblet with that pleasantly dry and smooth vintage. "The King’s new levies, the talk of war—it makes for uncertain times, does it not?"

  Finch, a portly man with spectacles of Ssylarr glass worth the yearly wage of a workman perched on his nose, sighed. "Uncertain indeed, my dear. And most irregular. The flow of coin is… erratic. Unpredictable." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "And there are anomalies."

  "Anomalies?" Elmyra prompted, her interest piqued.

  "Indeed. For instance," Finch said, lowering his voice further, "there has been a remarkable uptick in the circulation of Verranzan gold Imperials. Not unusual in itself, given our trade links, but the volume is noteworthy. And the sources are diffuse. Not only through the usual merchant channels."

  He swirled his wine pensively. "But that is not the strangest part. In the past few weeks, I have seen rare coins. Coins I have not handled in years. Perhaps decades." He looked around, as if to ensure they were not overheard. "Coins minted in the Zha Khor Empire."

  Elmyra’s blood ran cold. The Zha Khor Empire. The tyrannical kingdom ruled by the Sorcerer-Tyrant Vorlag. Their coins were rarely seen this far west, mostly as curiosities brought back by daring and foolhardy adventurers.

  "Zha Khor silver?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral. Stories from sailors in the seedier port taverns, tales of public flayings, of dissenters turned into screaming crystal statues, of a magic that was pathologically cruel. "That is unusual. And who is spending such currency?"

  Finch shrugged, a troubled expression on his face. "That is the peculiarity, my dear. It is not coming from travelers or foreign merchants. It is… seeping into the local economy through small, discreet transactions. A few coins here, a few there. Often through intermediaries, individuals not typically associated with such exotic wealth. Some of them have connections, however tenuous, to southern noble houses."

  He looked at Elmyra, his eyes worried. "It feels wrong, Elmyra. Verranzan gold in unusual quantities is one thing. But Zha Khor silver, appearing now, in these troubled times, in the hands of those who whisper against the Crown—it has a dark ring to it. Like blood money."

  She offered Master Finch a sympathetic smile, cataloging this new, vital piece of information. "Indeed, Master Finch," she said softly. "It sounds as though there are currents flowing beneath our city far deeper and far more treacherous than most would suspect."

  As she left Finch’s establishment later that night, the cool air of Alkaer felt charged with a new, sinister electricity. The net she was casting for Falazar was beginning to draw in some very ugly, very dangerous fish.