Friday, December 22, 2006
The Raven
I am here, in a provincial tavern on the outskirts of Poix. I have been sitting in this dark corner for two hours now, nursing a single tankard and watching with scorn the drunken antics of the local farmers. My contact is late. Yesterday, a local boy tugged at my surcoat and I was about to backhand the insolent peasant when he passed me a note. Scrawled upon it were five words. “The Blue Bell, sundown. Raven.” The boy, seeing my black look, was smart enough not to wait for a denier for his trouble.
The Raven refuses to follow the orders of the King and work to any timetable but his own. But I tolerate his insolence for he often has useful information for me. And so I am here, in the shadows, wrapped in a black cloak and ignoring the curious looks of the provincials.
“My lord?” It is the innkeeper. He drops an envelope on the table and takes my empty tankard. I can see that upon it is a seal. The seal of the Raven.