All That Glitters by Auston Habershaw

Taqar,” Hool announced. “There are almost no humans there to bother you.”
    Tyvian rolled his eyes. “I can see how that might be a selling point for you, Hool, but as humans, I’m not certain we’d be well-­adapted to life among the gnolls.”
    Hool snorted. “I did not say you would live with gnolls. Brana and I would live with gnolls; you would live by yourselves.” After a moment, she added, “Probably in a hut.”
    Tyvian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hool, I will never, ever live in a hut. Not so long as I breathe. Saldor is where we’re going. That’s final. Take it or leave it.”
    Nobody said anything.
    Tyvian let out a long, slow breath. “None of you understand the danger we are about to encounter—­ none of you. Nowhere are the Defenders more powerful than in Saldor, and you have only the barest notion of how powerful they are. Everything we do—­everything we think we want to do—­from now until the moment we cross the Vedo­, could be the difference between being caught and going unnoticed. Even my explaining this to you changes things. I don’t expect you to understand, and I’m not going to bother teaching you. Suffice to say we are playing a game now—­a very dangerous game against very dangerous players. We don’t get to not play, and I’m the only person who knows the rules. You’re going to have to trust me, understood?”
    Artus said nothing. He could only mutter dark complaints beneath his breath.
    Tyvian went to the door. “Now, as I have adequately explained myself for the evening, I’m going downstairs to have a drink. In the morning, be ready to go. Hool and Brana, wear your shrouds when you leave this room and in public from now on. As Artus is fond of mentioning, I have a tendency to put us in danger, so let’s not draw any more attention to ourselves than needed.”
    The door slammed behind him. Artus didn’t look at Hool or Brana. He kept staring at his feet, waiting for the churning tempest in his stomach to subside. He took long, slow breaths.
    Brana’s head butted him gently from behind and he felt the gnoll’s tongue lick the back of his neck. “Ah! Brana!” He turned around to see the spitting image of his older brother smiling at him with his tongue hanging out. “Gods! What the hell?”
    Hool nodded. “See—­I told you those things were disgusting.”

 
CHAPTER 6
    THE FIRST MOVE
    T yvian sat in a corner booth of the well-­maintained taproom of the Bastard. It was high-­backed, solid oak, and about as comfortable as a church pew. Still, it kept his back to the wall, made it hard for ­people coming in to see him before he saw them, and it was not, at present, coated with any kind of errant fluid originating from carelessly handled tankards or, as case may be, carelessly treated human bodies. Given the celebrations following the Earl of Derby’s victories in the field, this was no mean feat. Even now a barmaid with a mop and a bucket was making the rounds, giving each patron a quick assessment of their current state of inebriation and their likelihood of baptizing the floor with their vomit. As mentioned, it was a well-­maintained taproom.
    Tyvian hated ale and didn’t feel up to drinking oggra, but this was not a night for wine. This was a night to get quickly inebriated and forget about his problems for a few hours. He ordered Verisi rum and they brought him a cup of something no doubt labeled as Verisi but with all the flavor of the conjured swill packed up in Ihyn and shipped all over the Syrin at bargain prices. Tyvian scowled but drank it anyway.
    Artus complaining wasn’t new—­the boy was desperate for more independence. Tyvian might not have been the boy’s father, but he wasn’t an idiot. If he were looking out for Artus’s happiness, he