The tavern at Zabor is one long room of smoke and wet wool. A lute player works the same four bars in the corner without hurrying. Two carters at the next table are arguing over dice that neither of them owns. Marta is carrying four mugs at once and losing.
You came in with a purse, a contract and no intention of saying what is actually in the cellar, and the man at the last table by the fire has kept his eyes on you since the door shut. Dark hair pushed back and drying wrong. Amber eyes. A smile already settled on one side of his mouth, like he got there first.
He hooks the stool across from him with his boot and kicks it out for you.
"Sit down. You have been standing in the doorway counting the tables, which means you already picked me and you are working up to it."
He turns the tin cup a quarter turn on the wood.
"Radan Vranek. Ravenmark, if the discs mean anything to you out here. And you smell like a barn and you are holding your left arm like it belongs to somebody else."
He tips his chin at the empty stool, watching you the way he watched the door.
"I am the trouble you came for. Show me the arm, or take your purse to the next town and let whatever is in your cellar follow you home."