Sklaven Kedduryk made his way through the nighttime bustle of the Lower Market Square towards the sign of the Dancing Donkey. It was going to start to rain soon, he could tell. He had chosen to meet at this particular tavern for a reason, several of them in fact. To begin with it was a favourite with teamsters and mercenary guards alike, being located a stone’s throw past the South Gate. That said it also numbered the traders themselves among its patrons. It was cleaner, had a decent menu, and the best selection of wines of any of the 11 other establishments like it in the immediate area. For a working man’s bar it was definitely a cut above the rest. And that would be important.

The man he would be meeting there tonight, the son of a wealthy vintner from the capital, needed to understand exactly how things were done in Morlambandar. To date he had rejected out of hand the offers of those who had employed him for this task to pay the ‘Gate Tax’ to the ‘Greyfinger’, leader of the local thieves guild. The tariff, a non-punitive fee which all out of town merchants paid, ensured their goods moved safely and swiftly on their journey from start to finish. That gold, after those that collected it scrapped their share off of the top, was used as a lending source for local shopkeepers. There was also a ‘Dock Tax’ paid by ships not flying the local flag, but that wasn’t what concerned him on this night.

The well dressed Half-Orc nodded to one or two on the street he recognized as he approached the doors of the bar. The presence of one in particular, a raggedly dressed sailor who had lost all but two fingers in an unfortunate accident at sea, he had paid for. Stepping inside, he glanced around the establishment until his eyes found the one he was seeking, one he was expecting to be here as he was every night at this time, Sergeant Urskrell Vethers of the town guard. The pocked marked man with greasy dark hair, beady black eyes, and a long scar on his cheek was actually a fairly nice person were you to talk to him, a father of three. But talking would not be his part to play here. It was his visage that would be in demand tonight. Well, that and his appetite. He flagged down Embris the barmaid as she passed. Speaking his order into her ear over the din of the patrons while slipping her three silver coins, he pointed to the booth by the window that he had reserved, before making his way over there himself.

It was only moments later that Kedduryk saw the carriage pull up and Cranderbal Harbrick step down from it onto the street. Every bit the upper class dilettante whose father’s gold had paved the road to his success, at least he had the sense not to be too ostentatious with his wardrobe. It was definitely of fine cut, but it wasn’t completely out of place in this establishment which saw its share of merchants. Two guards sitting atop the carriage maintained their place, as he would have expected them to. He took great pains to present this meeting as one of civility despite the location. The private messenger service with livery, the handwritten note sealed with a wax insignia, props in a greater play. He’d even signed his name Sklaven Kedduryk, Esquire. It wasn’t true of course. He hadn’t been recognized by anyone having grown up in the tenements in Squalortown, but he doubted Harbrick would know otherwise.

As instructed, upon seeing the foreigner enter, Embris pointed him towards the Half-Orc she had recently spoken with. Sklaven waved and smiled to his counterpart who, seeing him made his way over. Standing as he arrived, he held out his hand in greeting “Cranderbal Harbrick?”

“Yes, and you must be Skalven Kedduryk? Am I saying that correctly?” the other answered extending his palm in turn.

“Sklaven, Sklaven Kedduryk,” he corrected the mispronounciation with a smile. “Sit, sit, they have a fine selection of wine here, some that might even impress one such as you. I hope you had an easy time finding the place. I chose it for that reason,” he lied.

“Yes, yes,” the other replied with a tinge of impatience as he sat down opposite. His demeanor, the Half-Orc could tell, spoke of someone whose mind was made up and thought the parley a waste of time. Only seconds later Embris appeared at his shoulder with a decanter of particularly fine red wine and a pair of goblets.

“I hope you don’t mind, I was told you enjoyed a good red,” he revealed as two glasses were poured. “This one here is from an island further up the coast. Wonderful people they are and their product equally good. Cheers good sir.” The two shared a drink in good faith, each face a mask of good will, though one decidedly more convincing than the other. “So as I understand it, there is some problem with the payment of the Gate Tax,” the half breed began leaning back in his chair.

“My father does not deal with the likes of your ‘Greyfinger,” he sneered slightly seemingly pleased that he was able to name the man at the top of Morlambandar’s criminal ladder. “And nor do I. We have our own guards to secure our passage on the roads of this region. We have no need to pay for further protection.”

“No I’m sure your men are very good at what they do,” he agreed easily glancing out the window at the two guards by the carriage. “They look to be quite vigilant,” he added as he nodded to the street where the two mercenaries were currently helping themselves to a plateful of sweetmeats that Sklaven had arranged to be delivered from the tavern once Harbrick was inside. His counterpart growled a curse at the scene and made to rise from his seat. “Relax, relax good sir. There is no reason why your men cannot enjoy the same hospitality that you do. It will start to drizzle shortly and here you will be in the warmth of this establishment while they stand out there in the cold.”

“I was not of the opinion that you and your masters cared for anything beyond lining your pockets with the gold of others,” he put forth not convinced by this act of good will.

“You mistake us Cranderbal, I may call you Cranderbal?” the negotiator then asked to which he received a dismissive hand wave in return. “This is not our intent at all. I merely represent the interests of ‘Greyfinger’ and he is but a small piece in a rather large pie himself. The only reason I am here and not he is that the man is in bad health and the damp makes it worse. He rarely leaves his house these days you know,” he continued, weaving a thread of half-truths into a quilt of lies. “But he is good with numbers and because of that he maintains his station, such as it is.”

The Half-Orc paused and unnoticed by the vintner gave a small nod to Embris who retreated to the kitchen returning shortly thereafter with one of the specialties of the Dancing Donkey, a plateful of finger sized spiced beef sausages served with a small bowl of rich red dipping sauce in the middle of the platter. She proceeded to swing gracefully through the crowded room until she reached Sergeant Urskrell Vethers. As she served them to the pockmarked man she pointed to their table. The well dressed half-breed raised his glass in acknowledgement as the guard did likewise and grinned with uneven teeth.