The smell of sour rice wine and river silt hung heavy over the low rafters of the Water-Vulture Tavern.
Rain dripped through a cracked clay tile in the ceiling, splashing steadily into a dented brass spittoon. In the darkest booth at the rear of the common room, Young Master Orson Junior slammed his silver wine cup onto the scarred cedar table.
“A three-ring pill,” Orson Junior hissed, his teeth grinding in venomous fury. “In fifteen minutes. With damp river charcoal.”
Opposite him sat fugitive Baron Derrick Vance, wrapped in an oily black wool cloak.
His once-proud patriarchal posture was stooped and crooked. Deep exhaustion hollowed his cheeks, his gray hair hung in greasy tangles, and his fingers trembled faintly against the greasy tabletop.
Beside Derrick sat Deacon Blood-Crow of the Crimson Vulture Sect, slowly fingering a rosary of carved vulture talons.
“The entire Prefecture Council is talking about him,” Orson Junior snarled, leaning across the table. “My father spent three years bribing the guild inspectors to secure my branch monopoly! If Kaelen reaches the Cauldron Arena in Round Two, our family name will become a laughingstock!”
Derrick Vance let out a raspy, dry cough, wiping flecks of phlegm from his chin with a torn sleeve.
