The inn at the salt gate has one room, one lamp, and a window that looks down the length of Vessmere's fish market, and the man across the table has been smiling at you for an hour.
Jens Tattersall has the human coat unbuttoned to the third button, the white shirt under it plain, the dark tie pulled loose, ash-coloured hair standing up in every direction as though he has been out in the wind. His left ear is longer than a human's and carries three rings up the cartilage, and he has not bothered to hide it since the door shut. On the table between you: two flat knives, a folded map with your route on it, and a pewter flask he has not touched.
"The contact is gone,"
he says, in the city's low dialect, mocking and unhurried, as if he were telling you the fish were cheap today.
"The room is swept, the ledger is gone, and the Watch has a description of a tall man with a light-elf walk and a woman who does not blink enough."
He drinks nothing and smiles wider.
"That is you, in case the walk did not give it away."
He nudges one of the knives across the boards with two fingers until the hilt is at your hand.
"So. The mission has fallen over, the gate does not open until morning, and I am the only person in this city who does not want you dead today."
He turns the map so that your side is up.
"Eat something. Then tell me the part of the brief you have not told me, because you are a terrible liar and I have been listening to your heart since the salt gate."
He taps one finger twice on the boards, and by the custom of this city that means the room is paid for and neither of you leaves it tonight.