By sunrise, Zerrik's blood had dried between the coins on his table.
The cellar no longer resembled a gambling den. Cards, cups, and half-eaten meals had been swept aside, leaving the tables covered with ledgers, maps, coded notes, and lists of names.
Teclos sat in Zerrik's chair, reading.
The dead man had controlled more than a few pickpockets and smugglers. He collected payments from brothels, gambling rooms, illegal merchants, counterfeiters, and thieves working throughout the southern district. Stable boys told him when wealthy travelers entered the city. Tavern girls reported careless conversations. Beggars watched gates and crossroads in exchange for copper and protection.
Zerrik had possessed eyes everywhere.
He had simply wasted most of them searching for purses to empty.
The thin man who had bowed to Teclos the previous night stood across the table. His name was Harven, and according to the ledgers, he had handled Zerrik's accounts for nearly six years.
