Chapter 82: How to Get a Forced Promotion (3)
Mordrek sat on a broken crate behind his pathetic circus tent, the moonlight turning the stripes of the canvas into prison bars around us.
He had that familiar smirk that looked like it was borrowed from a weasel with social aspirations. The glow from the half-dead torch cast shadows on the ground that danced like they were trying to escape his bullshit.
He scratched at the stubble on his chin, like he was trying to summon wisdom through friction.
"So you want Silven Dorne," he said at last, drawing out the words as though savoring them like fine wine that had, regrettably, turned to vinegar.
"I don’t want him," I corrected, arms folded tight across my chest, eyes locked on his ratty silhouette. "I want the chance to have a very unfriendly conversation with him before someone else buries my boss and pins the whole thing on me."
Mordrek nodded slowly.
"Fair." He let out a breath like he’d been holding it in preparation for a punchline. "He’s not coming straight in like some idiot baron on parade. He’s smarter than that. Traveling in a small party. Two guards, no more. Quiet. He wants to look humble. Respectable. Harder to pin as the executioner when he arrives with no fanfare."
I shifted against the crate, feeling the stiff canvas behind me creak in protest.
"Where."
Mordrek grinned.
"That’s the thing. He’ll be on the south road. The old one. Not the trade road everyone else takes, because it’s too open. He’s meeting with the local heads in Ashveil at dawn. But he’s moving tonight. No big caravan. Just two guards, a small lantern wagon, and a horse he probably calls ’Virtue’ while he sharpens his knives."