One of the benefits of Iago Armin's new home was unexpected and unplanned, but still attractive. Namely, unlike his native Australia, here in Britain he was perfectly free to drink in public. Indeed, as the festival was beginning, plenty of others were indulging themselves as well. Most of the others he saw with alcohol were sipping tins of domestic lager. Iago, however, had gone a different route, instead opting to carry a delicate goblet carved from Swiss crystal, filled with a generous portion of his family label. The man took a moment to appreciate the fragrance of the shiraz, then took a slow and measured sip. He was no lush, nothing as vulgar as that. He simply appreciated the fact that what he was doing was illegal in many parts of the world.

The festival looked to be exactly the sort of hayseed crap he expected from a town like this, the kind of thing where people wandered around drinking tins of domestic lager. Not exactly high society. But perhaps it offered an opportunity. 

One gentleman in particular caught Iago's eye. By his dress, the bulky man had that rare combination of money and taste. By his posture, the wealthy man also had a terrible temper, an innate capacity for violence.

Iago took a sip of wine to hide his grin. He had just struck gold.

He decided to go introduce himself. Flicking imaginary dust from his cream-colored lapel, Iago strolled up to the smoking man. "Lovely evening," he said, his Australian accent noticeable even over the sounds of the growing crowd.