The Shadow Assassin

Chapter 5

Still fumming over the ruined day of Grand Bell's ringing, Rowan headed over to the local pub. She had a certain job to do. A certain person to interrogate.

"Where you going, Annie?" someone called from behind her.

"None if your business, Evie," she replied to Evan, whom was around four feet behind her.

"Come on, you can tell me," he pleaded.

"No," she said, not being one to budge.

Rowan didn't want him to find out about the arrow in her hand. Quickly and carefully, she maneuvered it up the sleeve of her black hooded cloak.

She sped up, power walking her way through the drunken people surrounding the bar.

"Wait, Annie!" he yelled.

"My name is Rowan! I am a boy!" she shouted, keeping to her disguise.

"Bolshevik!" Several drunks looked highly affronted.

"Excuse me?" The drunks continued to follow the play-by-play.

"I said, "Bolshevik!"" Evan repeated.

Rowan gasped.

"I don't know what that means," she said, shaking her head and continuing to walk away.

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Opening the bar's front doors, Rowan was consumed by heavenly scent of rock stew and mead. The place had it's fair share of people, men mostly, sitting around wooden tables. Drinking and having a laugh at the fresh-faced boy flirting with a particularily mean barmaid. She was giving him quite the lashing with her tongue.

Rowan's eyes skimming over the whole place. There was a thug giving a small package to a short, balding man in the far right corner; probably dirty money. A portly man argueing loudly with the bartender, who looked ready for murder. A drunken half-wit having a scholoarly sounding conversation with the chair across from him.

The man she was looking for wasn't there yet.

She moved silently to the front of the bar where the main counter lay and sat down on one of the worn, leatherbound stools.

"Mead," she asked of the bartender, pulling him from his argument.

He looked at Rowan with suspicion, "You sure you can pay, boy? Mead ain't cheap."

Rowan dug through her pocket and dropped a small felt pouch full of rocks on the counter. The clink it made against the counter sounded like metal coins. Without looking inside, the bartender grunted and took the bag away.

He came back seconds later and poured her her drink. The frothy mead filled the cup and bubbly foam spilled over the side. Liquid drops of condensation rolled down the side of the metal mug. Rowan brought the cup to her lips and gulped some of it. She winced at the sharp, bitter taste that burned down her throat and trained her eyes to the voices behind her.

"Good lady, I would like some of your wonderful smelling stew and a cup of your finest wine!" a whimsical, sing-song like voice said.

"Flattery won't get you a discount, Jeb," said the main barmaid, "It's not like you could afford wine."

"One day, I'm gonna become an Earl," the voice had lost it's dream-filled sound and became deeper, and rough, "So best start being nicer to me and giving me all of the discounts I want, Margret."

"Oh yeah? You give meh a holler when you become Earl Jebidia Donal and I'll give ya'll the free eatings you can shove down your throat," she said, leaving to get his order.

Donal? That was the name of the man Rowan was waiting for. She gulped the rest of her drink, slammed the cup down on the table and started to move.

The barmaid came back with Donal's food. She set it down on the table and he picked up his spoon. The man ate it at a surprisingly fast pace, wolfing the rock stew down in under a minute.

Margret lingered, her hand in an out stretched position. She was waiting for the money from Donal.

Donal looked at her hand, then to her face, then at her hand again, he gulped, "I'll pay you when I'm done with my meal."

The barmaid's eyes narrowed into slits, "Jebidia, if you don't have the money when I get back here, I'm having you sent to the gallows."

The woman was not jesting and the man was flat-out broke.

She left with a flip of her hair and a stalk to her step. Rowan walked over to the man that she was going to converse with.

Rowan set her small sack of coins on the table and took up a seat.

The man sitting there turned his face in disgust, "I don't want your charity, boy."

"Charity? What charity?" Rowan asked, "I fully expect you to pay me back, Mr."

"Me? There's nothing I can do for you," he said, tipping his pint of mead to his lips.

"Oh please, quit the act. I know you're an Information Broker."

He choked on his sip, leaning forward and slamming his mug on the wooden table, "How is it that you know that?"

"I have my sources," she said, fingering the hidden arrow.

"Then you should know that I no longer am one," he bluffed.

Rowan snorted, "Once a Secret Trader, always a Secret Trader."

Just then, Evan burst through the door.

"Rowan!" he gasped, "I finally found you!"

"Well I think I'll take my leave now," Rowan muttered, shrinking behind the table slightly, trying not to be seen by that stupid prince, "Meet me later."

Another grimy-looking man burst through the doors, "Donal! You sold me lies!"

The man at the table looked at the girl-disguised-as-a-boy with alarm in his steely-grey eyes.

"You know, I might as well go with you now."

The unlikely pair left the bar, leaving two disgruntled men to chase after their wake.

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