Chapter 232: Amber, the Tavern Queen
To be honest, when Gawain first thought about building an intelligence network based on the lower and middle classes, the first people who came to mind weren’t the thugs, thieves, and ruffians lurking in the slums and alleys. Instead, he thought of the mercenary friends that Sir Byron knew.
Byron had come to knighthood later in life. In his younger days, he was a somewhat well-known mercenary captain active in the southern regions, commanding a small but reliable band and boasting a wide network of contacts. Gawain knew this well. He also knew that Byron’s oath of loyalty to the Cecil family came after a major setback in his mercenary career—an incident where he lost all his men and nearly lost his own life. Had it not been for the intervention of the previous Viscount Cecil, Byron would have died then and there. Now, Byron was no longer a mercenary but a knight, having earned noble status through his personal strength and years of loyal service. Yet, those old connections in the mercenary world hadn’t vanished.
In fact, it was precisely because a mercenary had somehow found his way into noble circles that Byron became even more popular among mercenaries. No one would turn down the chance to get close to nobility—even a fallen noble family was a major patron for mercenaries desperate for business.
Gawain had tapped into Byron’s mercenary network several times during his operations in the south—whether spreading rumors, recruiting refugees, or attracting merchants, mercenaries were always involved. But when it came to building a proper intelligence network, Gawain ultimately chose to have Amber reach out to her old “friends of the night.”
His reasoning was multifaceted. First, in terms of loyalty, mercenaries and slum thugs were about the same—they were loyal only as long as the money kept coming. If anything, the thugs’ “loyalty” was even cheaper. Second, when it came to being well-informed, mercenaries couldn’t compete with the “rats in the gutters.” These lowlifes lived at society’s bottom, forced to keep their ears and eyes sharp just to survive. They were often the source of intelligence for many mercenaries. Lastly, the mercenaries had a big flaw: the best among them were often tangled up with the nobility, some even acting as secret agents or informants for noble houses. In fact, becoming a noble’s covert operative was a coveted goal for many mercenaries. The slum thugs, on the other hand, were invisible to the nobles—they were all “free agents.”
For Gawain, who needed to build a “clean” team, those independent gutter rats fit the bill perfectly.
As for their skills, discipline, obedience, and loyalty—those could be cultivated over time. Byron himself was a prime example: once a lawless mercenary captain roaming the gray areas, now a skilled, if somewhat quirky, knight.
Gawain didn’t know much about Amber’s past. He wasn’t one to pry into others’ private affairs. All he knew was that this half-elf thief, though not particularly strong in combat, was a master of shadows. She had once roamed the dark alleys of the old Cecil territories but never caused any major trouble—except for the time she broke into the Cecil family crypt and got caught red-handed. It was only three days ago, after a chat with Pittman, that Gawain learned the seemingly goofy Amber had once led a far more turbulent life.
In other words, before settling down in the Cecil lands, she had been a wandering criminal.
Once he understood this, Gawain didn’t hesitate to throw this half-elf—who spent her days loafing around the territory, causing mischief, and eating like a bottomless pit—out the door and set her to work doing what a lord’s guard should do.
In the Leslie Domain, in another town north of Tansan, the “Black Whistle” tavern was brightly lit. Inside, a motley crew of thugs, enforcers, thieves, and swindlers were starting another night of heavy drinking. Until the silver coins and copper pennies they’d earned through scams and tricks ran dry, their revelry repeated day after day.
Behind the battered bar sat the tavern owner, “Scarface Anton,” a man with a nasty scar across his face. He casually wiped a grimy cup with a filthy rag, but his eyes never stopped scanning the rowdy crowd. He didn’t mind people drinking and causing a ruckus—even smashing things during fights—but if anyone got drunk, wrecked the place, and then skipped out on the bill, that was a problem.
The tavern reeked of cheap, low-quality liquor, moldy wood and corners, and the stench of unwashed bodies. It was a harsh environment, but no one wanted to leave—at least it was warm inside, better than the freezing cold outside.
Two drunks started brawling again, tearing at each other in a mess. Anton gave a subtle nod, and two burly men stepped forward, kicking the fighters down and dragging them to a corner to settle their own quarrel.
This was the daily life of these gutter rats.
They were the “wealthy” of the slums, scum and vermin in the eyes of the nobles, information dealers to mercenaries, and “villains” to honest commoners. Most had a few hidden talents—half-baked stealth skills, a few sleight-of-hand tricks, brute strength, or just sharp wits and silver tongues. With these, they could cozy up to passing mercenaries or traveling merchants, surviving by cheating, scamming, or selling information.
But they never saved money. Though each “deal” earned them more than a poor man’s half-year wages, they spent it all quickly. Having frequent dealings with mercenaries and being shunned by the lord, they knew one thing well: life was uncertain, so enjoy it while you can. You never knew when a mercenary who bought your info might get cheated or lose out and come back to slash you in revenge—even if your intel was accurate.
The lord wouldn’t protect them in such cases.
So they lived for the moment, partying in this filthy, cheap tavern that no one but gutter rats would enter, drinking until dawn. And if one day someone was missing from the usual crowd and didn’t show up in town, the others would laugh loudly and say, “Shh—another poor soul gone!”
Anton tossed his cup under the bar, counted the patrons, and asked his assistant, “Where’s Old Limp?”
The assistant shook his head. “Don’t know. He hasn’t been here for two days. Heard he got cut down.”
Anton’s face twisted in a grimace, his ugly features twitching. Before he could say anything, a small figure cloaked in a hood suddenly appeared at the bar. A few copper coins clinked onto the counter, and a low female voice said, “Rye beer.”
When did this person get here?!
Anton’s heart skipped a beat. He knew every regular in this tavern, and he himself was a semi-skilled “shadow walker.” Yet this stranger had appeared silently right in front of him and his assistant, who had no memory of her arrival.
Despite his shock, Anton calmly poured a cup of the cheap rye beer and slid it over. He glanced under the hood and saw only a swirling mass of shadows.
Playing tricks.
Anton raised his guard and subtly signaled his assistant to check outside the door. But just as the assistant stepped away, the cloaked figure suddenly spat out the beer with a loud “phut!”—loud enough to draw attention—and slammed the cup down on the bar.
“You used to water down the booze, now you’re watering down the water with booze, huh?! Believe me, I’ll smash this place to bits!”
Though the tavern crowd appeared to be drunken revelers, they were all sharp and alert. Almost everyone immediately noticed the commotion by the bar. Those familiar with the “rules” knew at once: trouble had arrived.
What happened next was lightning fast. Everyone near the bar seemed to vanish in an instant, retreating to the best vantage points to watch the show. The swindlers quickly set up gambling tables nearby, while the thieves scanned the crowd for potential marks.
Anton slowly tossed aside his rag and cup, stretched his broad shoulders, and felt a strange relief: it was just some troublemaker coming to stir things up. That was easy enough to handle.
His opponent, the small cloaked figure, raised a hand and pulled back the hood, revealing a half-elf face.
Anton looked at her, flexed his chest muscles, and gave a crooked smile. “Boss lady, want me to show you the classic ‘breaking stones on the chest’ trick?”
The crowd ready for a show went silent.
Amber shot the bald, ugly man a glare. “Damn, you’re even more shameless than before!”
“After showing off your muscles, you gotta know how to back down gracefully when you realize you can’t win—that’s what you taught us back in the day,” Anton’s smile grew wider—if uglier. “Boss lady! It really is you! Where’ve you been all these years?”
Only then did the tavern’s patrons seem to snap out of their daze. Whispered conversations erupted from all corners. Some clearly recognized the half-elf at the bar—some with shock, some with joy, some with reverence. All quickly grew excited. The rest, mostly newcomers from the past couple of years, looked confused and began quietly asking their neighbors who this sudden half-elf was.
Amber’s pointed ears twitched. She glanced back with a half-smile. “Quite a few new faces. Almost half of you don’t know me anymore.”
Anton muttered beside her, “You’ve been gone for years…”
“Good. Let the newcomers get to know me,” Amber yawned and snapped her fingers. “Time to sober up, you little brats!”
(End of chapter)