Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude) by Simon R. Green Page A

is.…
    The Blackthorn tavern had known better days. Grubby silks hung at the blue-tinted windows, and a small fire crackled dully in the large fireplace. Most of the tables and booths were occupied, but the customers ordered only the cheapest wines and made their ale last. The air was full of songs and laughter, but the gaiety had the forced, almost desperate sound of people determined to enjoy themselves while they still had the chance. Not for the first time in Mistport’s short history money was in short supply. A slow-moving, cadaverous barman supplied drinks of dubious quality to the regular patrons scattered the length of the long wooden bar. The ancient oil lamps hanging from the overhead beams gave the smoky air a comfortable golden haze, like a fading photograph or a half-forgotten memory. The unpolished walls were stained with old wine and recent blood. The Blackthorn was a lively place on occasion. Sawdust on the floor hadn’t been changed in weeks, but nobody complained. The Blackthorn had known better days.
    Cyder sat in her private booth at the rear of the tavern, and shared wine with Jamie Royal. A tall and willowy platinum blonde who would admit to thirty years if pressed, Cyder was popularly regarded as the most stonyhearted fence in Mistport. She never argued a price and she never gave credit. She had few friends and her enemies were dead. She toyed with a loop of her long silvery hair and smiled prettily at her companion. Jamie sipped cautiously at his wine, and glanced at the heavy brass-bound clock over the bar. He put down his goblet and gazed reproachfully at Cyder.
    “You said he’d be here by now.”
    “Cat goes his own way,” said Cyder calmly. “What do you want with a memory crystal, Jamie?”
    “I’ve a buyer.”
    “I’d guessed that, my sweet. The last time you were here you were so desperate you even begged me for a loan.”
    Jamie winced at the memory. “You’re right, I should have known better. There were… debts to be paid.”
    “You never could throw dice worth a damn, Jamie.”
    He laughed, and looked round the tavern. Two Wampyr had started a fight, and the bartender was taking bets.
    “So, how’s business, Cyder?”
    “It’s been better.”
    “Money’s scarce all round.”
    “That it is. Where did you find a buyer for a memory crystal?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “I’m curious.”
    “Don’t be.” Jamie sipped at his wine, pulled a face, and put his goblet down, pushing it firmly to one side. Cyder didn’t blame him. She wasn’t wasting a good vintage on Jamie Royal.
    “Are you sure this Cat can be trusted?” he asked, checking the time again.
    “He’s the best roof runner I’ve ever worked with,” Cyder said mildly. “You can trust him as you trust me.”
    They shared a sardonic smile.
    “Maybe he ran into some trouble,” said Jamie.
    “He’ll manage,” said Cyder. “He always does.”
    “Even against a Siren?”
    Cyder looked at him sharply, her bright blue eyes suddenly cold and forbidding. “No one said anything to me about a Siren.”
    “They wouldn’t. But I’ve been doing a little checking, on my own behalf.” Jamie smiled grimly. “I don’t go into anything blind. It wasn’t difficult finding out the address you’d been given. Turns out that particular house is the home of Investigator Topaz. I take it you’ve heard of her?”
    “Everybody’s heard of her.”
    “Right. Do you still think he’ll be here this evening?”
    Cyder thought for a moment, and then smiled brilliantly, all the worry gone from her face. “He’ll be here.”
    “And the Siren?”
    “I don’t think she’ll bother him much.”
    “Cold bitch, aren’t you?” said Jamie Royal. Cyder smiled sweetly.
    “Harsh words, dear Jamie, from an Empire agent.”
    Jamie pushed back his chair and was quickly on his feet, a throwing knife poised in his hand. Cyder kept herself carefully relaxed. Anywhere else in the tavern the bartender would have shot Jamie dead