Robin smiled as he used [Legerdemain] to clean and polish the room in the tavern he planned to use later tonight. Rerebos was curled up near the fireplace, soaking up heat from the stones while also practically purring amidst the dancing shadows cast by the fire and the grate. Happy dragonling.

‘They’re idiots,’ Rerebos was concluding.

The little dragon had spied on the Broken Knucklebones—that name, so ridiculous—extensively at this point. Robin now knew the names of the five core members, as well as details of the sort of manpower the gang could easily call on in terms of lesser members and the like. It was well over two dozen roustabouts, enough to really trash the place if they put their minds to it.

‘Even idiots can be dangerous. In fact, they’re usually more dangerous because they don’t know when to quit.’ Robin finished polishing the last of the lighting fixtures with a flourish. The shinier they were, the further the reed-lights would stretch. The place had clearly once had a reliable way to cast magelights into the fixtures, but whatever or whomever that was it was long since gone and Robin wasn’t in a position to change that, so cheap reeds dipped in tallow it was.

For now.

The Broken Knucklebones were also annoyingly solid. They had some disagreements, sure, but the lieutenants all seemed annoyingly loyal to their Bossman, Dag. Their territory was likewise frustrating. It was fairly small, and mostly uncontested. There were no nearby rival gangs Robin might stir up to distract or otherwise deal with the Knucklebones.

Of course, that very loyalty might be something he could work with, if he could get Dag out of the way for a bit. There might be something there. Robin set the thought to the back of his mind to percolate for a bit. There wasn’t time to really focus. His customers for the evening would be showing up soon, and before they did he knew Clara would show her sour face. The amount of attention he’d have to pay to keep her from tumbling on to any more of his secrets—she tended to snoop everywhere, thinking he was holding out on the gang—would make it all but impossible to think properly.

‘Shiny!’ Rerebos demanded.

‘Shiny,’ Robin agreed, pulling a small spoon—real silver, lifted from an arrogant merchant—from his storage space and tossing it into the air.

Rerebos sprang into the air, snatching the spoon before it could complete its glittering arc, and flapping his wings to carry himself upwards into the shadows of the rafters. He had a nest, somewhere in one of the high places of the tavern, where he kept much of his growing hoard (though Robin had also seen him stash the odd piece here and there in different hidey-holes around the place).

Robin smiled, leaving the little dragon to his own devices. It was time to conjure up a bit of atmosphere. Tonight he had spread the word amongst a pleasingly mixed crowd. There would be mages and academics, as well as a few merchants and labourers. The theme was cold fire, and anyone who worked with ice or flame was fair game for an invite. There would be icemen and forge-stokers, cryomancers and pyromancers, blacksmiths and sculptors.

He had been tempted to start inviting members of the watch and the adventurers’ guild, the better to make the Knucklebones sweat, but without a solid way to use that to take out the whole gang it wasn’t worth it.

Yet.

So for now Robin turned his mind to decorating for the evening. He used [Visual Phantasm] to shroud the walls in a haze of slowly drifting snowflakes, each one dancing with a merry blue or silver flame. Larger specimens, ranging in size from the smallest coin to nearly as large as his palm, danced and swirled nearer the ceiling, though their paths would cause each to dip down through the room so their patterns could be seen and admired by Robin’s guests. Frost and flame, order and chaos.

‘The fuck is this shit?’ Clara’s voice rasped across Robin’s ears.

He hadn’t heard the woman enter, but that wasn’t anything new. Clara was as subtle as the poniards she favoured, out of sight until she was about to draw blood. She’d probably arrived early in the hopes of catching him hiding money somewhere or something equally idiotic.

‘This “shit” is what makes us money,’ Robin said back, his tone matching the decor, cold enough to burn. ‘Your boss is enjoying his cut of the money I bring in, isn’t he? I guarantee, without this—’ he gestured to the illusion around them, ‘—there would be a lot less.’

Clara just hummed her scepticism. B-sharp would be Robin’s guess as to the pitch. Three guesses what the ‘B’ stood for, too.

The gang member slid over to a nearby table and flopped down.

‘Get me something to drink. Now,’ she ordered.

Robin was tempted to bring out Bertha’s Bottle and use [Lesser Phantasm] to make it taste foul, but he’d used that trick a bit too often with the Knucklebones already, and he didn’t want to press his luck before he was ready to move against them. And if he played nice, maybe Clara would let some useful bit of information drop.

Riff certainly did when he was the one running the take back to Dag.

Instead, Robin flicked his hands, conjuring up a ballad full of highwaymen’s exploits and the brutal ways in which they perished. It was in English, so there was no way Clara would appreciate the details. Then he grabbed the cheapest swill he had, and slammed a cup of it down in front of her.

‘Your drink, Madame.’

Before either of them could say anything else, Robin’s patrons began filtering in to the room. One of the first of which was Vance. The librarian scanned the room and then made a beeline for Robin.

The bard pretended not to notice him and moved around greeting the few others that were present. He needed to put some distance between himself and Clara before Tellurian caught up with him. The gang member was suspicious of everything Robin did and he didn’t want any more information falling into the Knucklebones’ hands than necessary.

Vance caught up with him eventually, though. There were not that many others Robin could hide behind, and the room, while spacious, was not that large. Even as the librarian drew near, Robin could feel Clara’s eyes hot on his back.

He moved his hands behind his back, well out of Clara’s sight, and used [Lesser Phantasm] to add some more music, louder now, to the atmosphere. He flexed his will and [Visual Phantasm] increased the flurries around the room. It looked like a part of the performance, and it would keep Clara from snooping.

‘This is lovely,’ Vance said. ‘You’ve quite an artistic eye.’

‘Thank you.’ Robin twitched his hands for show and a snowflake drifted down to spin, trailing small streams of fire, before their eyes. ‘It helps stretch myself as an artist.’

Might as well play the role to the hilt.

‘Where did you travel that you had this much opportunity to study snow in depth? We rarely get any here in Noviel.’

That was surprising. The climate here was fairly temperate. Robin assumed snow and winter would come eventually. But then, he was in a world where massive continents floated in orbit around a central sun and there was no turning of the wobbling globe to naturally produce the seasons as he was familiar with them. Maybe whatever snow sprites brought winter and capped the mountains didn’t venture to Noviel often? Another mystery to investigate at some point.

‘There was plenty of snow in the mountains I travelled through to get here,’ he answered, temporising, ‘and snow was more common where I grew up.’

‘Where was that?’ Vance had acquired a cup on his way to Robin and took a sip from it now. He tried—and failed—to hide his grimace at the burn of the cheap liquor. ‘Wow. Ah. Robust.’

‘Another land. I had a magical transportation accident and arrived here quite unexpectedly.’

‘I’d heard something like that at the guild, but you never know which rumours to credit and which are just wine-tales.’ Vance looked at Robin with increased interest. ‘You’re a positive fount of new knowledge. I’m surprised you managed to offend the Head Librarian enough that he would ignore that.’

‘Speaking of, do you have that information for me?’ Robin tried to dance away from the question around his origins. Secrets kept you safe, after all.

‘Depends. Is a detailed account of your adventures in the undercity part of the evening’s entertainments?’

Vance was too sharp for simple games. Robin smiled ruefully, eyeing Clara without moving his head. The less the gang knew about him returning from a treasure-filled dungeon the better.

Frell. She wasn’t sitting at the table any more.

‘I could recount the bravery and cleverness of my fellow adventurers,’ Robin said, resisting the urge to look wildly around the room for the errant gang member, ‘but it’s not really in keeping with the theme of the evening. No snow underground.’

‘Not usually,’ Vance agreed, ‘though there are tales of living dungeons who could—and did—do such things.’

‘Really? I assume the books or ballads are in the library then?’

‘Stop trying to distract me!’ Vance laughed. ‘Or are you trying to back out of our deal?’

‘I would never!’ The man had something Robin needed, after all, and the price was a small enough thing.

So long as no one else heard what he said when he paid it. As it was, he’d have to dance fairly nimbly around accounts to downplay his part in things. Wouldn’t do to have people get an accurate picture of his abilities, after all.

‘What I’ve heard so far through the rumour mill is fascinating. Shapeshifters and hidden passages, traps and trap doors, tragedy—’ Vance trailed off briefly at that, having no way to know that Khavren’s loss was more benefit than drawback of the excursion, —and treasure.’

Damn. There was that cursedly dangerous T-word.

Robin felt the weight of too-sharp interest on his back. He casually glanced over his shoulder as if looking around the room and taking in the scenery. The source was not at all hard to find.

Clara was staring avidly at him.

Fuck.

She’d heard that, then.