"Now, Caleb!" she admonished him, still smiling. "Don't tell me you served this fellow from the community keg!"

The bartender's greasy, perforated grin returned.

Reaching down, Tristan moved her hand away. He was almost afraid to ask. "The community keg?" he inquired, amidst another short cough.

The blond pointed down the bar, to the keg Tristan's drink had come from. "All of the mead from every partially drank tankard is saved, and poured back into that barrel," she explained. "Then it's aged good 'n' proper, and served as the cheaper stuff. Rolf-he's the owner, see-he doesn't let a drop go to waste, ya see. Waste none, want none."

Nauseated, Tristan looked back into her eyes. "I'm not interested," he said simply. "I'm looking for a man."

"Well why didn'tcha say so, love?" she answered. "I can arrange that, too. But such a waste that is, a fellow the likes of you."

"Not that kind of a man," Tristan answered. "I'm looking for Ichabod, the sailmaker. I was told that he might be here."

The whore raised a tattooed arm. "He's sitting right over there," she answered. "Practically lives here now, he does. Loves to play at cards, and always seems to win. You can't miss him. Handlebar mustache and expensive black clothes."

Then she came closer-so close that Tristan could smell the stale mead on her breath. "And if you change your mind, handsome, I'll be waiting."

Quickly nodding his thanks, Tristan left both her and his tankard of mead and sauntered across the room. He stopped short of reaching Ichabod, and sat down at an empty table nearby. He wanted to watch and listen first, hoping to form some idea of what the sailmaker might be like before trying to bargain with him.

Ichabod was seated at a table with three other men, playing a game of dreng. A large pile of coins sat in the center, and the game was very animated. Of the four players, the biggest winner so far looked to be the sailmaker.

He was tall, and dressed in black breeches, jacket, ruffled white shirt, and vest. Rings adorned nearly every finger. Shiny black knee boots were on his feet, and he sported an equally dark mustache that he worried almost constantly by twisting its curled, waxed ends. Unlike the other men at the table, Ichabod looked very prosperous. He also seemed to be unarmed, but the prince knew that in a place like this, that meant nothing. Tristan smiled to himself, realizing that the sailmaker reminded him of a particularly unctuous Eutracian undertaker he had once had the displeasure to know.

Watching the game for a few moments, Tristan could see that Ichabod was indeed a very accomplished player. Almost too good, in fact. Then his eyes caught something else, and he smiled to himself.

Certain he had found his edge, Tristan walked casually over to the table to stand directly behind Ichabod. He looked down at the sailmaker's hand, then over at the values on the front sides of the cards being held by the others.

One of the other players glared angrily up at him, then, after looking Tristan over, went back to his cards. Any moment now, one or more of them would most certainly object to his presence. As the precious seconds ticked by, Tristan held his breath.

Finally the moment came that the prince had been waiting for: It was Ichabod's turn to play a card. Reaching down quickly, Tristan selected one of Ichabod's cards and threw it on the table, amidst the others already lying there.

"Dreng," he said quietly.

Ichabod was up on his feet in no time, as were two of the other players, daggers drawn. For a moment the entire place went silent as a tomb, rife with tension. All seventy-three eyes in the tavern had fallen directly onto the man with the strange, curved sword lying across his back.

"And just who are you to be playing my cards for me, you insolent bastard?" the sailmaker shouted. A vein in his forehead beat noticeably. He looked Tristan over, and his face screwed up at the sight of the prince's unorthodox weapons.

"I'm the one who just made you fifty kisa," Tristan replied calmly, never taking his eyes from the sailmaker's. "Your king over the last player's pageboy."

Tristan gave the man a short, conspiratorial smile that he hoped would soften things a bit. "I won't even ask you for half of the pot," he added craftily. "All I want is a little of your time, and now you can afford to give it to me."

Sensing the possibility of a profit, Ichabod calmed a bit. Glancing back down at the table, a short smile crossed his mouth. "Dreng it is," he said softly, looking back over at the prince. "But that's not good enough. Who are you really, and what do you want? Surely it isn't to give me card lessons. I've never seen you before. Tell me true, or I'll have my friends here cut you from groin to gizzard with a dull deer antler and feed what's left to the sharks."

Tristan looked over to the two glaring pirates who had so quickly risen from their chairs. The light from the chandelier glinted off their weapons. The fact that he had just cost each of them money had only added to their desire to act on Ichabod's grisly suggestion, and he knew it. But he stood his ground, holding his own in the contest of wills.

"I'm a prospective customer," he told Ichabod. "One with money to spend. I need a rush job, and I'm willing to pay extra for it. Is there someplace where we might speak in private?"

Thoughtfully rubbing his chin, Ichabod looked back at his friends. With a decisive grunt he finally picked up his money and directed Tristan to a table in the corner. As the tavern slowly returned to normal, the sailmaker came straight to the point.

"I assume you have a list of your needs?" he asked. Tristan produced Tyranny's list and handed it over.

"This is a very big job," Ichabod mused. "You must have more than one ship in distress."

Tristan nodded shortly, almost rudely. He didn't want much small talk, for that might only trip him up. "We were attacked by screechlings," he explained simply.

"When do you need these?"

"By dawn."

Ichabod tossed the list to the table. "These are unusually large and must be custom-made. Not only that, but you want them very quickly. All of my people would have to put everything else aside and work straight through the night in order to accomplish this. And that is going to cost you."

"How much?" Tristan asked, holding his breath.

"One thousand," Ichabod said confidently, leaning back in his chair. Reaching up, he began twirling one end of his mustache with his fingertips.

"Three hundred, and you deliver them to my ships by dawn," Tristan countered.

Ichabod scowled at Tristan as if he had just descended from another world. "I don't even get out of bed in the morning for less than five."

"Four hundred, then, take it or leave it," the prince said.

Pushing his chair back with finality, Ichabod stood. "You're insane," he said gruffly as he turned to go. But before he could, he found Tristan had taken him by one wrist.

"If you don't accept my offer here and now, you will never be able to visit this place again," Tristan growled quietly. "In fact, you may lose your life over it. Tell me, is it really worth it?"

Bending over, Tristan reached down and stuck his hand into the surprised sailmaker's right boot. He pulled out several playing cards, examined them closely, and casually tossed them down onto the table.

"What do you think will happen to you if I drag you back over to those men by your hair and show them what you keep in your boots? Whose friends do you think those drunken morons with the daggers will be then, eh? Not to mention that you have been cheating your partner's patrons, right under his very nose. And I seriously doubt you've been giving Rolf a cut-that's something he won't take kindly to." Tristan's face turned as hard as granite. "Now sit down, before I cause you some real trouble."