When the woman stepped into the tavern, the mercenary lieutenant known as 'Fishhook' didn't quite shift his gaze from his game of bones, but he still pegged her as a clerk. The Goat & Goose was a ramshackle tavern on the bloody-knuckled outskirts of Leotide City. The kind of place with a reputation.

Still, sometimes a stranger wandered through. And Muntz, the old veteran who owned the place, insisted that they be allowed to wander right back out again. Muntz enjoyed the tavern's reputation but he did not appreciate trouble ... unless he started it himself.

Fishhook checked that none of the regulars, especially nobody from his company of sellswords, was sober enough to make trouble ... and changed his read of the woman. She didn't look like a clerk. She looked like she was trying to look like a clerk.

Far more interesting.

So interesting that he went to the trouble of raising his gaze. A tallish woman, probably in her third decade. Too skinny for his taste, though she held herself with the ease of a dancer... or a noblewoman. She'd stuffed her wavy black hair under a confining cap or bonnet, Fish didn't really keep current on fashion. Some aggressively ugly piece of headgear, in any case, that made her look homelier than she was.

She was wearing a plain dress, a clerk's dress, but she didn't stand like a clerk. She didn't stand like she spent her days bent over ledgers and obeying orders.

Then she met his gaze directly, which people usually didn't. They didn't call him Fishhook on account of any like for trawling for mackerel or billfill or--Angel stuff him with parsley--for rising early to cast lines into a river or lake.

No, they called him Fishhook because that was the shape of the scar that covered the left half of his face. So clearly shaped that it had obviously been carved there with intention, and great attention to detail. So no, meek little clerks didn't often meet his gaze like that.

Not scared, not challenging. Not pitying or disgusted or ... well, a certain kind of woman--the ones Fishhook considered 'priceless treasures'--found his scar exciting. But this one? The non-clerk? She mostly looked curious and confident.

Which considering the current state of the Goat & Goose--packed with mercenaries and cutthroats and various hangers-on--meant either she was stupid or she knew something. Or someone. Probably Muntz, at a guess. She was too old to know any of the lads or lasses in the bedroom sense. Though maybe she wasn't that old, maybe that was a trick of her dress and bonnet, too ...

She crossed the room toward him, and only then did he noticed her ... what? Chaperone? A proper older woman, in her sixties if she was a day, who looked like a grannie. The both of them moved with a certain grace, but it was ballroom grace, not battlefield grace.

Still, his gut gave him a twinge that meant there was more here than he saw. Maybe grannie was a mage?

"I beg your pardon," she said to him, in a voice like smoked honey.

For a moment, he didn't respond. Damn. A man would follow a voice like that into an ambush. He wasn't the only one who noticed, neither. Half the lads and a good number of the lasses turned slow, considering eyes toward her.

Still too skinny, though.

"Yes, m'lady?" he said.

She harrumphed, but in good humor. "So much for blending in. How could you tell?"

"Your eyes," he told her. "They're not scared enough. Look at mine. See the fear there?"

She was supposed to say that she didn't see any fear in his eyes, but she just smiled gently like she did see fear, then said, "You must be Fishhook. My name is Brazika Savradar. I believe I'm here to speak with a man named Muntz."

"Yes'm," he said, and stood from the game. "Follow along, I'll fetch you to him."

The interior of the Goat & Goose startled Brazie. She'd known what to expect, of course, and she wasn't as sheltered as her upbringing might suggest. Still, the air of unashamed dissipation took her aback. Only a short carriage-ride from her office, and she'd stepped into what felt like a different province entirely.

Well, no reason to surprised, even if she felt her Elsavet--her companion, her bodyguard--stiffened beside her. She breathed herself calm and inspected the tavern, until she recognized a face from her files: Fishhook, the lieutenant of the Cygnet Mercenary Company. Graying hair, unshaven chin, and a whipcord body despite his fifty-something years.

It was an easy face to recognize, but she hadn't expected the humor in his eyes. He led Brazie, with Elsavet following warily, behind the bar and through a narrow door into a cramped office where a plump old man was beating a small jug against his desk, apparently trying to dislodge the cork.

"Boss, a lady to see you," Fishhook said.

The man whacked the jug again. "If she's here, she ain't no lady."

Which he'd meant as an insult, but Brazie had to admit he had a point. What she was doing wasn't precisely ladylike. She didn't care about that, but she cared about the chance--the likelihood--that innocent people would get hurt. Still, her inaction would lead to far worse, so there she was.

"Have a seat, m'lady," Fishhook told her. "Muntz will be with you when he gets bored of playing around."

"Ungrateful goblin," Muntz muttered.

"She knew my name without asking," Fishhook told him, and slunk back into the common room.

Muntz finally looked at Brazie--then Elsavet--then Brazie again. "Oh."

"Good evening," she said.

"You might as well sit," he told her.

She took the uncomfortable chair opposite him, though Elsavet remained standing. On guard, as always. This time, not without reason. She'd never spoken to a sellsword captain before. Still, Brazie had spent months assuring herself that this was the best possible step, despite worrying that it was premature. And while she occasionally still doubted her own assurances, she always--well, almost--heeded them.

"Thank you," she said.

"You want to tell me why you're here, or you want me to tell you?"

"I believe that you'd prefer to tell me."

He scowled. "Of course I would. You want to hire a mercenary company, and you heard that the Cygnets know how to fight, and keep their noses outta trouble if they ain't paid to nosify."

"Yes," she said.

"So, what? You have a suitor you want scared off? We don't put the hurt on nobles. Bad for business."

"Why would you think I'm here about a suitor?" She stilled for a moment. "Ah, because I'm dressed to avoid attention? No. I'm here because I'm going to require a military advisor--and a standing military force."

He whistled. "Now that I didn't guess."

"I'm making several initial inquiries but ... the Cygnet Company is my first choice."

"Then you're gonna want to speak to the commander."

"Your daughter," Brazie said.

"You did your research."

"Yes, well, research is my--"

He raised a hand. "I don't want to know. Not your name, not your goal. From here, it's between you and Swan."

"Very well," she said.

"I'll drag her outta the library. Won't take but a minute or two. Ten, maybe fifteen, depending on the how deep she is into all that make-believe. My own daughter, a bookworm. Who would've thought?"

Brazie considered for a moment, then raised a finger to Elsavet. Without hesitation--and without the slightest sign of magic--the cork popped from the jug.

"Oh-ho!" Murtz said, as he stepped from behind the desk. "Now what'd you do that for? Just to demonstrate you've got a mage watching your back? Mayhap you're not quite so innocent as you look, m'lady."

"I'm entirely naive," Brazie earnestly told him.

He snorted a laugh.

"However," she continued, "I know enough to ask for what I want."

"Right you are, m'lady, he said, taking his jug and leaving.

After a few minutes' silence, save for the murmurs and shouts from the common room, Elsavet said, "They don't look impressive."

Brazie tsked. "Neither do I, at the moment."

"And Cygnet isn't a name to strike fear into your enemies."

"I imagine that's intentional, if--you'll pardon me saying, Swan--a little obvious."

"Hm?" Elsavet said. "Swan?"

"If she's not listening to us right now, she doesn't deserve her reputation."

With a jingle of hoops, a tapestry shifted aside and a woman stepped in. Built like a warhorse, down to her mane of plaited hair, though wearing a flowery dress. Small mouth, copper eyes, with spectacles perched on her nose. "I was in the middle of a chapter," she said.

"What are you reading?"

"Romantic rubbish," Swan said. "That's my weakness."

"We'll have to compare favorites."

Swan leaned a substantial hip against her father's desk. "You don't read that kinda trash. An anyway, I reckon that ain't what brought you here."

"My name ..." Brazie paused, giving Swan a chance to stop her. "My name is Brazika Savradar. I'm the Steward of the Office of the Stipend Geld."

"Never heard of it."

"Almost nobody has. We're charged with collecting ... payments, call them ... from around the province."

"It's a Crown office?"

"In theory, but the army has been no help. Despite repeated requests."

"Oh, aye. Collecting payments sounds like poking a wasps' nest."

"Indeed. So I hope to galvanize the officers in charge, by showing them a string of successes."

"You want the Cygnets to collect them payments for you?"

"Yes."

"Show the army how it's done?"

"And perhaps make them a little competitive."

"Ha. Begging your pardon, m'lady, but this sounds a wee bit like brigandry. Forcing folk to pay money."

"It's exactly like brigandry, Commander Swan, except legal. Not merely legal but ..." Brazie tried to contain the passion in her voice. "Required. Mandatory."

Swan removed her spectacles. "Huh."

"And it's far better paid than brigandry."

"Now I like the sound of that. But why us?"

"Research," Brazie said, telling only half the truth. "And I'm impressed so far. Fishhook is sharp and--"

"Ha!" Swan slapped her meaty thigh. "Sharp! Fishhook! More like he's barbed."

Brazie couldn't help it: she laughed. "And you're clever, and choosy about your jobs. The Cygnets have a reputation for being brutal, but not indulgent."

"Wary, too," Elsavet said. "Which explains why your father is pointing a crossbow at m'lady from the peephole."

Brazie fell still, though her heart beat harder. She hadn't noticed that. She wasn't good with violence.

"Stop that, Pa!" Swan called, utterly unabashed. "He's protective. You know fathers and daughters."

"Do I?" Brazie said, and looked to Elsavet.

"He's lowered the weapon, m'lady," Elsavet told her. "And I've resisted the urge to castrate him for the effrontery. This time."

"Elsavet!" she said.

Her companion and bodyguard sniffed.

"Er," Swan said. "Well, thanks for resisting the urge? So! You got a target in mind?"

"Not quite yet."

Swan tugged at her plaited hair. "Then why're you here?"

"For a preliminary meeting, Commander. I'd like to give you a retainer, and to start on the paperwork to deputize you to my office, if you've no objection?"

"A retainer?" Swan asked.

"To pay for your expertise while we discuss possible targets."

"Oh. Gotcha, m'lady. Well, in that case, I've no objection. As long as it's just me deputized, as commander. Some of Cygnets, they get nervous around authority."

"That's fine," Brazie said, and they discussed terms for a half an hour before Elsavet placed a pouch of gold on the desk.

Swan whistled. "You're not kidding around."

"No, Commander Swan. I am deadly serious."

Because the valley needed this. The future needed this. Brazie knew as well as she knew the sound of her own heartbeat. Also, she'd already spent the majority of her inheritance. Now she'd either succeed or starve. Or worse than starve.

"Then we're in business." Swam signed the paperwork then turned her canny copper eyes on Brazie. "Are you sure you ain't got a target in mind, m'lady?"

"I truly don't. Though I'm receipt of a letter from Rockbridge which indicates the precise amount of monies owed."

"Slap me sideways!" Swan said. "That is not a soft target. Rockbridge? That one, you wait for the army."

"I agree. Still, at some point we might have a look."

"Always happy to travel, m'lady. Specially if I'm getting paid."

"We can discuss that more when we meet next week."

"Oh, aye. I'll see you then, with both my lieutenants."

"That will do nicely." Brazie stood. "Oh, and Commander Swan? In terms of romantic rubbish? You might enjoy Lady Winter's Secret or Scarlet in the Orchard."

Swan gave a burst of hearty laughter. "You got me! I doubted you, m'lady, but you showed me! I already read Scarlet, though--the pages just about singed my fingertips! No, no--don't leave, let me show you library, if you've got a moment. The port's ready for pouring and I'll send one of the boys for sweet muffins ..."

There it was. The moment of connection that Brazie had been waiting for. This was the right place, the right people. She'd been assured of it.