The usual band of cutthroats, thieves, and murderers quickly fell silent when the most powerful leader of all vice and crime in the Land Between the Rivers made it clear that their racket was disturbing his rest. He was even more angry to learn that the ruckus was caused by a bird that had flown into the tavern. Every vagabond and roughneck in the place had tried to kill the thing. Nebuchar held out his arm and the scraggly feathered, fat crow landed on it at once. The big man retreated to his tiny sanctuary and placed the bird on the small table, where it cocked its head, looked at him, and cawed loudly. “All right, enough,” Nebuchar growled. “Just a minute.” From a plain wooden box that sat by the foot of his chair he withdrew the vial of blue liquid that Valdaimon had given him. How badly, he wondered, did he want Bagsby dead? Badly enough to risk being poisoned by Valdaimon? He placed the vial on the table by the bird. His fingers felt cold. He stared at the bottle and rubbed them.
