He awoke in a cold spray of brackish water. The Hellknight who'd roused him drew back the half-empty bucket, then brought it forward again for another go. This time, Tarrant inhaled half the putrid stuff and gagged. "Is that really necessary?" he coughed.

Humming anxiously under his breath, Tarrant watched as the last cart of treasure arrived from the docks as the sun set. This time was always torture and ecstasy for him: he could hardly stand the waiting, and yet he could not help his excitement for the game to come. Tarrant shadowed the cart from the docks to Hawkthorne Tower, then slipped around the back.

They met at midnight in the Bloody Fang, a dive down in the Puddles district that catered to sailors, criminals, and the lowest of the low. The authorities of Absalom rarely made it there, and certainly not at this hour of night. Entering after sunset required a chit: a coin-sized disc of wood branded with a crude image of a dragon's fang. Tarrant turned his over in his fingers as he mentally rehearsed the plan.

Tarrant cast his gaze around the Open Palm to check for eavesdroppers. Fat Gorm's tavern bore a fitting name, considering how often the dwarf asked his supposed friends for coin. Tarrant Akayn the Liespinner had been out of prison for all of two hours, and already the dwarf was hitting him up--and for a major take.