"Absolutely not." Kael's voice was final.

  Eirik looked down at his cloak. "What's wrong with—"

  "Everything." Kael steered him firmly toward a side street. "You want information from people who matter? You need to look like someone who matters."

  "It's a brothel."

  "It's a very expensive brothel. And expensive means exclusive. Exclusive means scrutiny. You walk in dressed like a northern hedge-knight, you'll learn nothing except the color of the doorman's livery."

  Eirik considered arguing. Then he considered the stakes.

  "Fine. What do you suggest?"

  Kael led him to a narrow building wedged between a goldsmith and a perfumer. The sign above the door read: Madame Ellara's Wardrobe.

  Inside, racks of clothing filled every available space. Velvet doublets. Silk shirts. A thin woman with measuring tape draped around her neck emerged from behind a curtain.

  "Gentlemen. Visitors to the tournament, I presume?"

  "Salt merchants." Kael corrected. "Northern provinces."

  "Rental or purchase?"

  "Rental. One evening." Kael produced a leather purse.

  Eirik found himself stripped of his practical travel clothes and dressed in layers he'd never imagined wearing: A deep blue doublet of Valdrian silk, black trousers cut precisely to his form, boots of polished leather, and a cloak of midnight wool lined with silver fox fur.

  "The jewelry costs extra," Madame Ellara produced a tray of rings, chains, and pins.

  Kael selected pieces—a signet ring bearing a meaningless but impressive-looking seal, a silver chain with a sapphire pendant, subtle cufflinks that caught light when Eirik moved his wrists.

  The final bill came to two hundred silver talons.

  For rental.

  Eirik paid without comment, though his mind automatically calculated how many soldiers that sum could have equipped.

  "Now," Kael said, examining his own reflection in a polished mirror—he'd chosen similar attire in darker hues—"now we visit The House of Silk."

  They found a quiet corner in a tea house three doors down. Kael ordered something fragrant, then began Eirik's education.

  "You're Aldric Frost. Salt merchant. Your family has controlled the northeastern trade routes for three generations. You're in Frostfall to expand into the capital markets and looking for investment opportunities." Kael sipped his tea. "You're wealthy enough to be reckless but smart enough to seek advice."

  "And you?"

  "Brennan Vale. Your factor. I handle the details while you make the decisions." Kael's smile was thin. "Every wealthy man needs someone to blame when things go wrong. And remember the social protocols, they are vital."

  "What protocols?"

  "Speak less. And above all—" Kael leaned forward, "—never seem impressed. Everything you see, you've seen better."

  It wasn't so different from the games he'd observed at Borin's table, just dressed in different rules.

  "The House of Silk operates on reputation. They remember faces, preferences, spending patterns. First visits are evaluated." Kael paused. "The gatekeeping is intentional. It ensures that every patron has been... vetted, in a sense. Disease, violence, scandal—all bad for business."

  Eirik absorbed the instructions. "Shall we, then?"

  The House of Silk occupied a corner building where two prosperous streets met.

  A single lantern burned above the entrance. No sign announced the establishment's nature. Those who needed to know, knew.

  A doorman in immaculate black opened the way as they approached, eyes swept over their attire.

  "Good evening, gentlemen. Your first visit to the Frost?"

  "It is," Kael answered smoothly. "We were recommended by associates in the northern salt trade. The Vanberg consortium."

  "Of course. Please, follow me."

  They were led through a reception area, past velvet drapes to the main saloon.

  The space was bigger than he had anticipated. It was circular, and the ceiling was domed, painted with what was clearly intended to resemble the night sky. Isolated areas held groupings of plush chairs and privacy screens. On the raised stage, musicians played.

  And the women.

  Their gowns cut to emphasize and suggest rather than reveal. One passed near Eirik—tall, dark-haired, her hips swaying as she carried a silver tray of sweetmeats. She caught his gaze and smiled, dimples forming in her cheeks, before gliding onward.

  "Your preferences, gentlemen?" A hostess materialized at their side.

  "We are here for relaxation," Kael said casually. "Wine, good company, perhaps some amusement. Nothing much."

  "Of course." The hostess waved toward an alcove with perfect viewing of the main floor. "I'll have refreshments sent. And companions to attend to you shortly."

  They sank into chairs of butter-soft leather. Moments later, a waiter emerged with a decanter, followed by two young women who introduced themselves as Seren and Ivory.

  Seren was small with auburn ringlets and a mischievous grin. She stood close to Eirik so that he could smell roses in her hair. Ivory had attached herself to Kael with similar efficiency.

  "You're from the north, aren't you?" Seren’s voice is a playful purr. "I can always tell."

  Eirik allowed Seren's attention while his eyes swept the room.

  He was cataloging.

  It was easy to pick out the merchants, as they were congregated around the bar, loudly discussing margins. The officers were in their alcoves, while there were few lone individuals in corners.

  And then there was him.

  The man held the biggest recess, with not fewer than five women and an entourage of attendants. His clothing was ostentatious, even for the House of Silk.

  "—told them the venture was doomed from the start, but would they listen? Of course not! And who profited when the whole thing collapsed? Me!" His laughter was like a bark. "That's the difference between understanding money and merely having it!"

  The women around him giggled on cue. One fed him grapes. Another massaged his shoulders with adoration.

  "Who's that?" Eirik murmured to Seren.

  "Lord Harvas Coyne." Her voice dropped. "He handles lending for some noble houses attending the tournament."

  A moneylender.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Eirik watched Coyne summon another bottle of wine with an imperious snap of his fingers. One of the women rushed to comply.

  Something in Eirik's chest soured.

  He'd seen men like this before. Garrick had been one—secure in inherited privilege, treating everything and everyone as tools for his amusement. The difference was that Garrick used fists. Coyne used gold.

  The effect was the same.

  Kael caught his expression and leaned close. "Problem?"

  "I want to know what he knows."

  "The lender?" Kael's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "He'll know everything worth knowing about this tournament. The bets being placed, the favorites, the political currents..." He paused. "But he won't share it. Not with strangers. Men like that trade information for advantage."

  Eirik's mind was already working.

  "Then we give him an advantage."

  He lifted his wine glass, examining the vintage with exaggerated care. He pitched his voice to travel in the room's acoustics.

  "The thing about salt futures, Brennan, is that most investors don't understand scale."

  Kael's eyebrows rose fractionally, but he adapted instantly. "Scale?"

  "Exactly." Eirik swirled his wine. "Ten thousand talons here, Twenty thousand there—child's play. I'm talking about significant positioning."

  Seren's professional attention sharpening into genuine interest.

  "The tournament presents an opportunity," Eirik continued. "If we position correctly before the ceremonies conclude..."

  "You're talking about betting on outcomes."

  "I'm talking about one hundred thousand talons." Eirik let the number fall like a stone into still water. "That's what I'm prepared to commit. I need to know who's favored, who's weak, where the smart money is flowing."

  From the corner of his eye, Eirik saw Coyne's head turn.

  Hooked.

  "A hundred thousand is substantial," Kael said, frowning. "Perhaps we should consult with the Vanberg factors first—"

  "The Vanbergs are too cautious. That's why they're comfortable while I intend to be wealthy." Eirik signaled for another bottle. "No, I need someone who understands how money moves in Frostfall."

  The footsteps approached before Coyne arrived—the rustle of silk, the clink of jewelry.

  "Gentlemen! I couldn't help but overhear!"

  Harvas Coyne inserted himself into their alcove like he'd been invited. Up close, his face was florid, well-fed, with small eyes that gleamed.

  "I am Lord Harvas Coyne." He presented this as if announcing the rising sun. "And I believe we may have interests in alignment."

  Eirik rose slowly, extending a hand with precisely the right amount of reluctance. "Aldric Frost. Northern salt trade."

  "Salt! Essential commodity! The foundation of preservation itself!" Coyne pumped his hand vigorously. "And your associate?"

  "Brennan Vale. I handle Lord Frost's accounts."

  "Splendid! Splendid!" Coyne was already gesturing to his attendants. "Gentlemen, this alcove is far too cramped for proper discussion. I've secured a private suite—much more suitable for men of substance. Join me! I insist!"

  Eirik exchanged a glance with Kael.

  "We wouldn't want to impose—"

  "Impose? Nonsense!" Coyne was already herding them toward a side corridor. "Any friend of commerce is a friend of mine!"

  The private suite was obscene.

  Velvet drapes. A table filled with fruits, cheese, and exotic delicacies. Crystal chandeliers. And half dozen women—every one of them lovelier than the last. Coyne lowered himself onto a divan large enough to constitute a bed. The women willingly accommodated him.

  "Please! Make yourselves comfortable!" He gestured grandly. "The Frost spares no expense for valued guests. Order whatever you like—it shall be my treat!"

  Eirik chose a seat with sightlines to both Coyne and the door. Seren had followed from the main room; she resumed her position at his side, though her eyes now held professional calculation.

  Kael positioned himself strategically, accepting Ivory's attentions while maintaining his role as the cautious factor.

  "Lord Coyne," Eirik began, "you mentioned aligned interests—"

  "Wine first! Business later!" Coyne snapped his fingers. "The Valdrian! Three bottles! And the smoked eel! And those pastries my chef created—the ones with the honeyed cream!"

  The orders multiplied. More wine. More food. More women summoned to join the growing entourage. A troupe of dancers appeared.

  Eirik sipped his wine—genuinely excellent—and waited.

  "Now then!" Coyne wiped fig juice from his chin. "A hundred thousand talons, you said. Positioned against tournament outcomes." His small eyes sharpened. "You're looking to bet."

  "I'm looking to invest," Eirik corrected. "Betting implies chance. I want information that removes chance from the equation."

  "A man after my own heart!" Coyne's laugh echoed off the draped walls. "The secret, my northern friend, is that this tournament is unlike any before it. The Duke's changed the rules."

  Eirik leaned forward slightly, letting eagerness show. "Changed how?"

  "Used to be straightforward, didn't it?" Coyne leaned in. "Jousting. Melee. Archery. Standard fare. Lords show off their champions, champions win glory, everyone goes home with stories to tell. But this year..." He shook his head. "This year, there's Trials."

  "Trials?"

  "Three in total. The Trial of Blood, the Trial of Wit, and the Trial of Worth. Nobody knows exactly what they involve—the Duke's keeping it secret until the opening ceremony."

  "That sounds brutal," Kael's shock sounded genuine.

  "That's the point, boy." The scarred veteran's eyes had gone hard. "The Duke ain't looking for pretty swordsmanship this year. He's looking for something else."

  "What?"

  "I'll tell you this much—I've attended in six tournaments at Frostfall. Six. Never once seen the Duke take personal interest in the proceedings. This year? His Grace has reviewed every single entry personally. Rejected half of them outright. And the ones he accepted..." The Valdrian appeared, and Coyne gestured for it to be poured all around. "Some are Glacier realm fighters! That's the fourth tier, boy. Most are lucky to reach Frost."

  Kael made an appropriately awed sound. "Glacier realm? I didn't even know people could reach that high."

  "Most can't. That's the point. The Duke's stacked this tournament with killers. Whatever he's looking for, he wants the best."

  Eirik stared into his fine wine.

  Glacier realm. The fourth tier of cultivation, two full stages above his own Frost rank. Even if he used the advancement crystal in his spatial ring and ascended to Hail, he'd still be a full tier below the elite competitors. He'd be average at best, possibly below average compared to the champions the great houses had brought.

  And that assumed he was even allowed to compete.

  Which he wasn't.

  Kael broke the brief silence. "Seems a lot has changed. How can anyone bet on unknown events?"

  "Exactly!" Coyne jabbed a finger at him. "The favorites for traditional combat may founder in these Trials. " His grin widened. "Bot those of us who guess correctly..."

  "You have guesses?" Eirik pressed.

  "Educated suppositions." Coyne signaled for more wine. "Consider this: the Grand Tournament used to require leagues of open ground. Jousting fields, melee arenas, space for thousands of spectators. But this year? Rumor has it the Trials will occur within Highfrost Keep itself."

  Eirik processed this. "Indoor trials? For a tournament?"

  "Peculiar, isn't it?" Coyne's eyes glittered. "And that's not the strangest thing. The Duke has brought in an archmage. From the Mage Tower."

  "The Mage Tower," Kael repeated slowly. "Not the Order?"

  "The Order is busy fighting itself." Coyne snorted dismissively. "All that nonsense with the Ascendant Circle and the new High Priest. Meanwhile, the Tower provides the kingdom a more practical option." He leaned back. "The Duke is many things, but a fool isn't one of them."

  "Who's this archmage?" Eirik prompted.

  "Archmage Velthan. One of the Tower's inner circle. He's been here as a 'consultant' on matters of realm security. But here's the truly delicious part—the Duke's own son, Lord Caelum Frostgrip, has been training under this mage for three years."

  Eirik filed the name away. "The Duke's heir uses magic?"

  "Uses it, studies it, embodies it, from what I hear." Coyne drained his wine. "Funny, isn't it? The boy spent his youth training in sword, then suddenly, three years ago, he's shipped off to study under a Tower mage."

  The dancers concluded their performance with a flourishing bow.

  "More entertainment!" he declared. "Something livelier! And bring the Meridian spirits—the ones that burn blue!"

  The suite devolved into chaos again as servants rushed to comply. A singer began a ballad about lost love while her companions provided harmony.

  Eirik accepted the refreshments, allowing the girls leaning against him with intimacy, but his mind was churning.

  Trials of unknown nature. Indoor events. An archmage from the Mage Tower. The Duke's son.

  "Lord Coyne," Eirik said, "if you were in my position—a hundred thousand talons to place on tournament outcomes—who would you favor?"

  Coyne stroked his chin, but did not answer. Eirik realized it wasn't a question to be thrown around just like that.

  Kael jumped in swiftly to cover. "Probably Lord Caelum Frostgrip himself. The Duke's son. Whatever these Trials involve, you can bet the Duke designed them with his heir's strengths in mind. The man doesn't leave anything to chance."

  "Which is precisely why the smart money looks elsewhere." Coyne tapped his nose knowingly. "The Duke wants his son to win, yes. But he also wants it to look legitimate. The Trials will be challenging enough that upset is possible. Find the right dark horse, and the returns could be astronomical."

  More wine arrived.

  "I think," Eirik said slowly, "that we might do business, Lord Coyne."

  "Excellent! Excellent!" Coyne was practically vibrating with anticipation. "I can facilitate investments through any house. My fees are reasonable—merely fifteen percent of profits—and my discretion is absolute. But we'll need something in writing."

  "Of course! Of course!" Eirik snapped his fingers. "Let's get this over with!"

  Materials appeared as if by magic. Coyne himself produced a quill, laying out terms with the practiced speed of someone who'd closed countless deals in countless private suites.

  "Aldric Frost," he signed in a hand nothing like his actual writing.

  Coyne countersigned with a flourish, then raised his glass.

  "To profitable ventures!"

  They drank as a servant approached, bowing low. "My lords, the total for the suite, the wine, the entertainment, and the... amenities..."

  Eirik put down his glass. "Let me handle—"

  "Nonsense!" Coyne physically blocked his path to the servant. "Put it on my tab. A gesture of goodwill to our new partners from the north."

  "You are too kind, Lord Coyne," Eirik allowed himself to be persuaded. "Brennan, we have preparations to make."

  "Indeed, my lord," Kael said, rising smoothly. "Lord Coyne, we will be in touch."

  "Expect us at the Guild tomorrow," Eirik added.

  As soon as the heavy door clicked shut behind them, Eirik let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

  "Good work, Brennan," Eirik said dryly.

  "And you, Aldric," Kael replied with a rare smile. "Though you really should work on your taste in wine. That reserve was barely drinkable."

  "I prefer ale," Eirik admitted. "And the sooner we get out of this house, the better."

  They stepped out into the cold night air of Frostfall.