Fal had agreed to meet with Roman alone a little ways down the street before the Stiltwalker’s Fall tavern. Though a select members of the East Watch guard knew of the Captain’s slide of allegiances, and many of the guard would follow the Captain’s orders without a moment’s hesitation, there were still a great many eyes Fal had to be wary of. Turning in traitors was a very profitable business, one the Lord of Swords himself paid handsomely for – but money was never a motive for Fal.

Roman was propped against a lantern-post, brown cloak pulled heavily over his brow; his pot-belly was all that gave him away. Fal was dressed out of uniform, hidden beneath a similar cloak: no one could know he was of the guard, especially not a Captain. Approaching Roman, Roman gave him a silent nod and they walked astride down the street without a word. Ears were just as much a worry as eyes.

Once they reached the secluded location Roman knocked thrice upon the heavy door side entrance: staff only, back this way. Knock, knock, knock. A metal slit was pried aside, and two elusive eyes studied them.

“What’s the password?”

“Nos resurget”, whispered Roman.

“What about him?”, queried the eyes, training their gaze upon the shadowed face of Fal.

“He’s fine: he’s with me”, explained Roman.

The metal slit was drawn back, and the heavy wooden door slowly opened with an ominous creek, and Roman and Fal stepped inside. The room was lit in a dull orange glow from the many lanterns lit around each table. Various characters sat around the room. Some sat in absolute silence, slowly drinking. Some spoke amicably between one another. Others were sharpening daggers and short swords.

Two members of the guard sat in one corner talking amongst themselves. ‘Drat’, thought Fal. ‘I could do without attracting attention from those two’. He recognised the sigil sown into the shoulders of their cloaks, however, as that of House Avar – though he was unfamiliar with their allegiance or, indeed, their purpose this side of the city. On another side of the room Fal noticed a man clad in a heavy leather coat, his face horribly scarred across the cheek, sipping at a brown ale. ‘Ex-slaver’, noticed Fal. ‘What kind of company are we keeping’, he thought bitterly. Another curious man sat along the bar, hunched over a drink, his spiky brown hair looking out of place amongst the other patrons. 

They carried on walking through the tavern to the backdoor where Roman kept the beer kegs in vast stacks. As they got to the door, Roman stopped, placed a hand on Fal’s shoulder and whispered, “Not everyone here is for our cause, I could not throw those ones out, e might raise suspicion. So, you go inside and I’ll give the signal to those who’ve come for the meeting to follow.” 

“How sure are you that any of these people are here to help? Or, indeed, at all trustworthy?”, enquired Fal in an equally quieted voice.

“Not sure in the slightest, but what choice do we have?”.

With that, Fal nodded solemnly and made his way through the backdoor. Roman took off his cloak, and assumed his bartending stance: messy apron around the waist and polishing a flagon behind the bar. With a look around the room he could not spot any of the people who said they’d attend, although, he had no idea what they looked like, only that they were attending. 

With a hesitant cough, Roman announced, “Oi, you lot. No bed or room tonight, got rats up top the size of cats, so go find somewhere else to drink yourself through the morning: we close up in ten.” The room was filled with grunts and growls from dissatisfied drinkers. One gentleman even took it upon himself to launch his tankard across the room at the wall before abruptly leaving. With his signal complete, Roman left it to his two sons currently serving to make sure the rabble quietly left. He went through the door to follow Fal, hoping that those who sent word of their arrival had got the message. And would also follow.

*******

The Lord of Swords sat upon his council seat, a heavy, carved mahogany chair studded with precious metals. The Lord wore no crown, no rich, luxurious fabrics, but instead sat in full-plate armour: solid cobalt coloured metal thick enough to stop the hardest of blows. Across his neck was his royal seal; a heavy emerald amulet plucked from the deepest mind directly beneath his tower. His middle-aged face was beginning to crease with age, yet his thick, long brown hair exclaimed he still had muscle on his bones. His piercing blue eyes cast a gaze across the room. His table was long and narrow, and could accommodate all sixteen of his select counsel. 

However, on this occasion, only two of his counsel sat today. His Counsellor of The Peace of House Raven, a grey haired man wrapped in a tight tunic beneath his leather overcoat, and the Commander of the Crossbowmen; the esteemed Lady Ramia, of one of the oldest serving houses of the guard: House Crow.

“There’s dissidence in the streets, your majesty”, rasped the aging, nasally Counsellor. “We’ve kept true to the peace codes, silencing them when and where we can, but in truth, your majesty, there is just far too many of them and not enough men under my command.”

“Have the public executions not been enough?”, quizzed the Lord with a raise of his eyebrow. His counsellors knew what it was to fail him, and his Counsellor of Peace had been beginning to disappoint him. 

“They have been in the past, my liege, but the crowds grow with anger, not fear.”. He paused with a moment of uncertainty. “I fear an uprising soon.” 

“How many men have you?” 

“Over two thousand, your majesty.” 

“And how much dissidence are we talking about?”.

The Counsellor frowned for a moment, “Anything between hundreds, to thousands, your majesty. But my men are too far spread: events of rabble-rousing have been throughout the city, but my men cannot be in two places at once, your majesty.”

The Lord frowned in contemplation, before concluding, “Send your men and gather twenty people from each district: I want men, women and children. Kill them in front of their fellow citizens. If we cannot punish those that slip our fingers we will teach them that others will have to take up responsibility for their crimes.” 

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Lady Ramia.” The Lord turned to the combat veteran. “What say you? How many men can you spare?.”

Unbeknownst to the three, a young servant stood, tray in hand hidden behind the great door to the chamber. And she knew a certain chef who might very well be interested in this news.

*******

Mandis stepped hesitantly through the run down streets. His father, Roman, had sent him on a mission to seek out the most infamous of characters to their cause. He knew not why he had to go, but, armed with his rusty knife he took from the kitchen, he felt an air of safety in his movement with his palm wrapped tightly around the rotting wooden handle. The streets were ridden with rats scuttling close to the walls; mud and debris scattered the stone floors, walls of cheap cobble and salvaged scrap closed closely either side of him. ‘This place is a maze’, thought Mandis. He had been given no specific directions, and was only told that he would find him in Rat-Town (The place was living up to its name). 

When knocking on doors and asking for him by name had failed, each time being greeted with a petrified face and a slammed door, Mandis had desperately taken to patrolling the streets, day and night. So far, had had no success.

“King of the Guttersnipes”, scoffed Mandis under his breath. “Some king living in a latrine like this.”

He reached the end of the pathway which led to a small opening. A fire was lit in the centre, a rack of skewered rats was propped atop the flames. Though he could not see a soul in sight.

Mandis’ hunger started to get the better of him: the bread his father had packed for him had been plucked from his bag in the night by a fat pie-bald rat, and despite his efforts, the beast had gotten away with his only rations. Roasted rat was beginning to both look and smell delicious.

He made his way towards the fire.