Clad in a worn coat, his oldest boots splashed with mud from the street and his cravat removed, Michael alighted from the hired hack and entered the building. He found it half full of patrons, and the proprietor himself served ale to the modest crowd. A low cloud of tobacco smoke mingled with an ill-lit fireplace gave the interior of the taproom the look of a foggy morning. He rather doubted he’d find out anything helpful, but one never knew. Parts of his job were actually tedious. He’d been meeting with informants ever since the second attack and learned nothing. Of course, he’d been looking for Roget, but he now suspected he’d been asking the wrong questions about the wrong opponent. Michael chose a chair in a corner, and when the man came over, he said succinctly, “I’ll take a tankard, but I came for a bit of advice.” The owner was a burly man in middle age, with a bristling black beard and deep-set, sharp eyes. He scowled. “The ale I can provide, but as for the advice—”
