6
Veelk grimaced and stared at the thin beer the tavern maid served him. The girl’s tired eyes only glanced at him in passing, and he didn’t want to flirt. The room of the run-down tavern was full, and the stench of sailors’ and port workers’ sweat mixed in the air with the nauseating scent of cheap perfumes local gaharras wore. The beer tasted worse than a demonling’s blood—having tried both, though not voluntarily, Veelk could aver that. Any other time he’d rather be in the Jagged Swordsman or Hircifa’s Peony Garden, enjoying finer drinks and finer women, but this kind of place attracted people he was hoping to find.
As he reluctantly took another swig from the mug, he looked around. It seemed that his luck was in short supply, because so far he’d spotted no one worth approaching. Sail
