Flick handed Kyra a large bag. “If he breaks his fast in the inn’s dining room, I’ll flip his purse then. And you, my delightful assistant, will need these.”
Kyra reached into the bag and fished out a long black wig, a trader’s tunic, and a pair of shoes, examining each in turn. Flick grinned when he saw Tristam eyeing the props with curiosity. The wallhugger would be getting quite the education in undercity tactics today.
Kyra rounded the corner with the props. When she came back, she looked taller, thanks to the shoes’ well-concealed heels, and she boasted a head of luxurious ebony curls instead of her usual brown ponytail. In the darkness, Flick could barely make out the intricately patterned leather knots decorating her tunic in the style of the southern traders. Trader women were some of the few who might actually eat or stay at an inn. It wasn’t the best disguise, but it was the best Mercie had. Flick didn’t bother with a costume himself, thinking instead to blend in among the countless tavern-going men. Though he’d grown out his beard since he fled the city. It always made him look quite a bit older.
They took turns watching the inn until light started to shine on the horizon and the city started to stir. When the innkeeper came out to sweep the doorstep, Kyra looked to Flick. “Better if you’re already in the dining room when he comes in. Remember what he looks like?”
“Black hair down to his shoulder, a few years older than me. Small eyes. Mustache.” Flick wiped the dust off his cloak. “You’re paying for my drink, right?”
Kyra rolled her eyes and handed Flick a few coppers.
“The messenger came in late last night, and he might not be up for a while,” said Tristam. “Do you think it’ll be suspicious for Flick to be in there so long?”
Flick and Kyra exchanged a glance, and Kyra’s lips twitched. “Flick always thinks up something to do.” She turned to Flick. “Just, uh, try not to attract too much attention, all right?” The last time Flick had done a day-long stint at an inn, he’d invented a drinking game where each drinker had to be at a higher physical location than the last. The fallout had involved a crowd of people on the roof, multiple bruises, one broken limb (not Flick’s), and a warning never to step foot in The Bow-Legged Canary again.
Flick grinned. “Who, me?” And he sauntered off.
After a night out in the cold, the warm air of the inn’s dining room felt lovely, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting out from the kitchen made Flick’s stomach growl. The room was about half full as the earlier-rising patrons broke their fast, and Flick settled near a window. The serving girl was a friendly lass with dimpled cheeks who laughed at his jokes. She brought him a plate of sausages, and he tucked into the meal.
He’d just about finished his sausages when he saw his mark. The messenger entered alone and sat down with the bristly body language of someone who didn’t want company. Flick washed down his last bite of breakfast with ale, then put a little unsteadiness in his stride and strolled to the messenger’s table.
“Fine morning, in’t it?” said Flick, sinking onto a stool next to him. The messenger didn’t so much as glance at him. Flick had been about to recite some platitudes about delicious food and beautiful serving girls but changed his mind when he saw the man’s scowl. “Of course, can’t quite enjoy it in this type of establishment. Second-rate food and lazy serving lasses.” Flick sent a mental apology to the nice serving girl, grateful she was out of earshot.
Flick studied the man with a careful eye. The messenger was grumpy and standoffish. His clothes were unremarkable in style and color, but his tunic was of surprisingly thick and soft wool, and he wore a finely crafted ring. Flick also noticed that the man’s hair and mustache were meticulously trimmed. Most importantly, he carried a small leather bag across his shoulder. That was likely where his message would be.
“That’s a fine ring you’ve got there,” Flick said. “Impressive detailing. Must have been made by a master.”