The talk in the Weaver’s Quarter was about how the ship Moon Glider limped into port after being attacked by the pirate Mad Marcus Rishtan, its cargo of ivory and spices gone. In the taverns, the conversation turned to the savage killings that happened in the Snarl the night before. The Temple Quarter was getting ready for Togus’ seasonal Fair of the summer, where every manner of craft would be on display, judged by The Smith’s priests. And the Houses were discussing trade, as always.
The messenger who found you was a plain looking fellow, but his clothes were impeccable, his tunic embroidered with a rampant lion on a red field. He handed you an envelope, your name printed neatly but not decoratively on the outside. Without waiting for you to reply, or even to read it, he turned and left. Apparently, you had little choice in how to respond to the message.
Your presence is requested at sundown, at the offices of Fortis and Nofri in the Weaver’s Quarter, the corner of Barker Road and Seacrest Walkway.
Signed by the son of House Amadei’s information broker, the message was intriguing in its simplicity.
The business was a large textile mill for turning raw wool into bolts of cloth which would later be turned into clothing or blankets. Most of the workers had gone home for the day, and an officious clerk showed you into a room with a table large enough for a dozen people to sit around, though only two others seemed to receive the same invitation. A tray of bread, cheese and fruit sat on the table and a sideboard held wine and brandy.
After assuring you the wait would be short, the clerk left you alone in the room.