All That Glitters by Auston Habershaw Page B

Gradually, though, Tyvian’s mind caught up and he dropped the rum, a dagger flying into his hand.
    The man did not move or react. He wore a thick black cape with a heavy hood that covered half his face in darkness. His chin was poorly shaven, his skin sallow in complexion. He wore fingerless gloves; above the corner of his mouth was a small tattoo of a button. The rest of him seemed to drop away from Tyvian’s notice, no matter how he tried to focus. He was wearing . . . clothes. He was of average height and build . . . maybe. It was hard to say.
    The hair on the back of Tyvian’s neck stood up. He kept the dagger in his hand and tried to focus on the man’s hands as best he could. They had callused, chipped fingernails—­the hands of a back-­alley cutthroat. Tyvian took a deep breath. “You’re far from home, aren’t you?”
    The hands folded together and then opened, as though the man were about to release a trapped butterfly. Instead, nestled in the hands was a paper note. It read, in a blocky, functional script: Do not go to Saldor.
    Tyvian used the tip of his dagger to clean beneath his thumbnail, doing his best to appear nonchalant, but his pulse was racing. “Pardon me, sir, but since when do the Mute Prophets send a Quiet Man to an Eretherian bar to advise me on travel plans?”
    The Quiet Man’s face revealed nothing. His hands closed again and then opened. The note had changed: There is nothing you can do to help her.
    Tyvian froze. That statement had many implications, none of which he liked one bit. “Do I strike you as the kind of man who rescues damsels in distress?”
    The filthy hands closed and then opened: We know what you plan to do.
    Tyvian frowned, running dates in his head. How long would it take a Quiet Man to get all the way up here? A week, at minimum, probably closer to two. Very few augurs could scry individual behavior that far out—­they were acting on a hunch, not actionable prophecy. “Just because your masters think they see the future, that doesn’t mean they’re right. Auguries aren’t destinies. After this conversation, I might change my mind.”
    Another note, the writing much smaller this time: We are prepared to make you a generous offer to stay here instead.
    Tyvian’s spine literally tingled. He cast an eye around the room, checking if there was anybody else watching him. Nobody. They were completely ignored. “And if I refuse this offer?”
    Death. Right now.
    Tyvian grimaced. “You can’t kill me here. Even with your . . . talents , let’s call them, you couldn’t stab a man in a crowded bar without attracting attention. Don’t you think I’ll cry out?”
    The Quiet Man’s lips pulled into a rare smile, the button tattoo tugging up almost into the shadows of his hood. He presented another note. Your drink is poisoned.
    Tyvian felt his blood pounding in his ears as he looked down at the cup. He’d watched the barkeep pour the cup himself, watched it as it was brought to his table. The Quiet Man wouldn’t have had any chance to poison it until it was sitting in front of him . . . not until he had slipped into the booth across from him. He must have poisoned it right under his nose, and he’d been too blinded by sorcery and his own dark musings to notice.
    Still, he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even distressed. It could be a bluff. “I suppose you’re offering the antidote, then? This old dance? Say I don’t believe you. Prove it—­let me see the poison and let me see the antidote.”
    With a flourish, the filthy hands produced a small pouch from which he shook some finely ground black leaves. Then, in the other hand, a small vial of blue liquid suspended by a lanyard around his neck. Tyvian recognized both materials immediately. He pointed at the poison. “ Arbol de sombra, correct?