Inside, the tavern's air hung thick with pipe smoke and unwashed bodies. Tallow candles cast sickly light across scarred tables where dock workers and other less savory characters hunched over their cups. A one-eyed cat watched her from its perch atop a barrel, its remaining eye reflecting the candlelight like molten copper.
Drizella chose her position carefully—a corner table partially hidden behind a support beam, where shadows pooled deep enough to conceal her face but still offered a clear view of Master Corbin's table. She ordered ale she had no intention of drinking, keeping her voice low and unremarkable.
The floorboards beneath her feet were sticky with spilled beer, and something that might have been blood. She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the worn bench while keeping her cloak from touching any suspicious stains. Mother would have a fit if she could see me here. Then again, she'd probably be proud I'm finally putting her lessons in eavesdropping to use.
"—can't let her continue," Master Corbin's voice carried across the room, pitched low but clear enough. "The timing couldn't be better, with everyone distracted by the ball announcements."
His companion leaned forward, and Drizella caught a glimpse of a face too smooth, too perfect to be natural. "The price remains as discussed. Half now, half when the job is done."
"Steep, for simple property damage," Corbin's affected jovial tone had vanished, replaced by something cold and calculating.
"You're not paying for the act itself," the stranger's voice carried an accent Drizella couldn't place. "You're paying for our discretion and expertise. Unless you'd prefer to handle it yourself?"
A pouch clinked against the table. "No need for threats. But I want it done properly this time. That girl has more resources than we initially thought."
"We've studied the warehouse's layout. The guards' patrol patterns. Even identified which support beams, when removed, will cause the most devastating collapse." The stranger's fingers traced patterns on the table's surface. "By the time we're finished, it will look like simple structural failure. No evidence of tampering."
Drizella gripped her cup tightly as she clearly hears the word 'warehouse', the ceramic nearly cracking under her white-knuckled grip.
The stale air of The Broken Barrel tavern clung to Drizella's skin like old cooking grease. She hunched deeper into her worn cloak, grateful for how the hood's shadow concealed her face. Around her, dock workers and merchants crowded the sticky tables, their voices a constant rumble beneath the crackle of the hearth fire.
Master Corbin's distinctive laugh cut through the din – too loud, too practiced. Drizella's fingers tightened around her cup of watered wine as she tracked the sound to a darkened alcove near the back. Through gaps between patron's shoulders, she caught glimpses of his silk-clad bulk squeezed into a corner bench.
Of course he'd choose the most shadowed spot in this cesspit. She shifted on her wooden stool, angling her body away while keeping her head tilted just enough to listen. The tavern's layout forced conversation to bounce off the low ceiling beams, channeling snippets of whispered plans directly to her position.
"—warehouse on Cooper's Lane." A hoarse voice, unfamiliar. "Tomorrow night, when the moon's highest."
"And you're certain?" Master Corbin's affected joviality had vanished, replaced by something sharp and cold. "The guard rotations—"
"All arranged." A third voice, this one wrapped in an accent Drizella couldn't place. "Your coin opened the right doors."
The fire popped, sending sparks dancing. A barmaid bumped Drizella's elbow, nearly spilling her drink. She steadied the cup, using the motion to shift her stool a fraction closer to the alcove. The smell of spilled ale and unwashed bodies pressed closer, but she forced herself to breathe through it.
"The merchandise must burn." Master Corbin again, his voice barely a whisper. "Every bolt of silk, every spool of thread. Leave nothing salvageable."
"Seems a waste," the hoarse voice grumbled. "Could fetch good coin on the shadow market—"
"No." The accented speaker cut in. "The natural order must be maintained. The story demands her fall from grace, her descent into—"
A burst of raucous laughter from a nearby table drowned out the rest. Drizella's heart hammered against her ribs. The story. They know. They're part of it. Her fingers found the rough edge of a splinter in the table's surface, focusing on its sharp presence to keep her breathing steady.
"—just ensure it's done before the ball," Master Corbin was saying. "Can't have her supplying half the noble ladies with their finery. Bad for business, you understand."
"Business?" The accent carried a note of disdain. "This goes far beyond mere commerce, merchant. The tale must follow its ordained path. The magic demands—"
"Yes, yes." Master Corbin's chair creaked as he shifted. "So long as her operation burns, our interests align. The price we discussed?"
Metal clinked against wood – the sound of coins being counted. Drizella forced herself to take another sip of wine, though her throat threatened to close around it. Through the gaps between patrons, she watched a cloaked figure lean forward, its face hidden in shadow far deeper than the tavern's dim lighting should allow.
"Remember," the figure whispered, "we do this not just for profit, but to maintain what must be. The story will have its due."
The scrape of chairs signaled movement. Drizella's hand trembled as she set down her cup, watching the conspirators seal their deal with a handshake – Master Corbin's pudgy fingers engulfed by a sleeve that seemed to swallow all light.