Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 233 - 232: Tavern Queen Amber

To be honest, when Gawain first thought of establishing an intelligence network based on low to middle-level individuals, the first group that came to mind wasn’t the thugs, thieves, and scoundrels lurking in the slums and alleys, but rather the mercenary friends known to Sir Byron.

Sir Byron was a latecomer to knighthood. In his early years, he was a somewhat famous mercenary leader active in the southern borders, with a small team and quite extensive connections. Gawain was aware of this, and he also knew that Sir Byron’s opportunity to swear loyalty to the Cecil Clan came after a major setback in his mercenary career. It was said that he lost all his subordinates during that setback and narrowly escaped death himself. If not for the previous Viscount Cecil’s assistance, his life would have been forfeit a long time ago — now he was no longer a mercenary. He had attained aristocratic status as a knight through personal prowess and years of loyal service, but his connections had not vanished.

In fact, because a mercenary had coincidentally entered the aristocratic circles, Sir Byron had become even more popular in the mercenary world. No one would refuse the chance to establish a connection with a noble, even a declining noble family. For mercenaries desperately in need of business, they were huge benefactors.

Gawain had utilized Sir Byron’s mercenary connections many times during his operations in the southern borders, including spreading messages, recruiting refugees, and attracting trade caravans — none of these could have been done without the mercenaries’ presence. But when building the intelligence network, Gawain ultimately chose to let Amber connect with her "old friends."

He considered it from many angles: firstly, in terms of loyalty, mercenaries and slum scoundrels could be considered similar; their loyalty was all based on money. Comparatively, the scoundrels’ "loyalty" was even cheaper. Secondly, in terms of the level of information, mercenaries were no match for the "rats in the sewer." The latter mixed in the lower social strata and needed to be more astute to survive, and they were the source of much intelligence for many mercenaries. Lastly, mercenaries had an unreliable aspect: the leading ones often had intricate connections with the nobility, with some veteran mercenaries secretly becoming shadows and informants for certain nobles. In fact, becoming a noble’s covert henchman was the goal for many mercenaries, while the slum scoundrels... they were completely overlooked by the nobility, each one being "independent."

For Gawain, who needed to build a "clean" team, those sewer rats, who belonged to no faction, clearly met his requirements better.

As for the issues of those people’s abilities, discipline, obedience, and loyalty — these could be cultivated slowly. Sir Byron was a clear example — he had once been a lawless mercenary leader navigating the gray area, but now wasn’t he also a... oh no, honest... oh no, upright... didn’t he become a proficient comic performer?

Gawain knew little about Amber’s past; he wasn’t one to pry into others’ private affairs. He only knew that this half-elf bandit, although not strong in combat, was indeed a shadow grandmaster. She had once mingled in the sewers and alleys of the old Cecil territory, yet besides sneaking into the Cecil Clan’s ancestral tomb and being caught, she hadn’t caused any major incidents. Three days ago, after a chat with Pittman, he realized that this seemingly jokey Amber had once also led a tumultuous life.

In other words, before settling in the Cecil territory for steady crimes, she lived a nomadic life of crime...

Upon realizing this, he didn’t hesitate to toss this half-elf, who wasted days doing nothing and ate prodigiously, out to do some proper work as a personal guard for the leader.

In Leslie territory, in another town north of Tanzan Town, the "Black Whistle" Tavern was brightly lit. Scoundrels, thugs, thieves, and cheats mingled there for another round of night-long revelry — before the silver coins and copper coins scammed and swindled into their pockets ran out, their revelry continued day after day.

The tavern owner, "Scarface Anton," who had an ugly scar across his face, sat behind the rugged bar, absentmindedly wiping a glass with a dirty rag. His eyes, however, vigilantly roamed among the riotous drunken rogues and scoundrels. He didn’t mind if people drank and caused trouble in his tavern, didn’t mind if they broke his things while fighting — but if anyone drank, broke things, and didn’t pay, that he minded a lot.

The tavern was filled with a foul odor, a mix of cheap alcohol, moldy wood, and the sweat of those who’ve not bathed for long periods, creating an extremely unpleasant environment. Yet no one was willing to leave — at least it was warm, better than the freezing cold outside.

Two more drunks started causing a ruckus, tearing into each other and fighting. Anton gave a sign with his eyes, and immediately two strong men stepped forward, kicked the two brawling drunks to the ground, and dragged them to the corner to let them fuss.

This was the daily routine of these sewer rats.

They were the "wealthy ones" among the slum dwellers, the scum and worms in the eyes of noble lords, the intelligence peddlers to mercenaries, and "villains" to honest, lawful commoners. Most of them had some hidden skills, like half-baked stealth skills, a few magical tricks up their sleeves, natural brute strength, or simply a sharp mind with a silver tongue that could talk someone to death. And with these little skills, they managed to establish connections with passing mercenaries or traders, surviving by swindling or selling intelligence.

But these people never accumulated wealth. Even though every "business deal" could earn them more money than a commoner’s half-year income, they always swiftly spent it all. Being often involved with mercenaries, and not favored by the leader, they clearly understood one thing: life is fickle, and it’s better to enjoy it while they can. Who knows when the mercenary buying their intelligence might suffer a loss or be deceived outside and come back to cut them down in anger — and it didn’t matter if the intelligence was accurate.

In such cases, the leader wouldn’t protect them.

So they enjoyed promptly, in this cheap, filthy tavern that no one but sewer rats would patronize, partying till dawn. And if one day they found fewer revellers in the tavern and that person didn’t show up in the town, they would laugh loudly, shouting, "Hush—another poor bloke!"

Scarface Anton threw the glass into the counter below, counted the number of people in the tavern, then turned and asked the nearby worker, "Why hasn’t the Old Cripple come?"

The waiter shook his head, "I don’t know. Haven’t seen him for two days. Heard he got hacked to death by someone."

Scarface Anton frowned, his ugly features twitching into an even more unsightly expression. But before he could speak, a small figure cloaked approached the bar suddenly, a few copper coins clinking as they landed in front of him, accompanied by a muffled female voice from beneath the cloak: "Rye beer."

When did this person appear?!

Scarface Anton’s heart skipped a beat. He knew every person who frequented this tavern well, and he himself was a half-baked "stealth user" with some understanding of shadow manipulation. Yet, this stranger silently appeared before him at the bar, and neither he nor his waiter remembered how the person showed up!

Despite the astonishment, he casually filled a cup with low-quality rye beer. As he passed the cup over, he sneaked a glance under the hood, only to discover nothing but an impenetrable shadow inside.

Acting spooky.

Anton heightened his vigilance, discreetly signaling the waiter to check out the commotion outside the main door. But, just as the waiter stepped away, the cloaked figure suddenly spat out all the beer with a loud "puh," making quite a noise as if deliberately drawing attention. After spitting it out, she slammed the cup onto the bar: "You used to water down your drinks, and now it’s just water with some beer, huh?! Believe it or not, I’ll smash up your place!"

The people in the tavern seemed to be rowdy and rambunctious drinkers, but everyone was perceptive. In an instant, nearly everyone took notice of the commotion by the bar, and those familiar with the "rules" quickly realized: someone had come to create trouble.

Then everything happened in a flash: everyone near the bar practically teleported away, each person picking up their cup and food and finding the best spot to watch the show. Gamblers started setting up betting games at nearby tables, while thieves quickly sought targets to pickpocket.

Anton slowly tossed his rag and cup aside, subtly flexing his broad shoulders, feeling instead a relief in his heart: just someone looking to cause trouble, much easier to handle.

Fists will teach these reckless fools a lesson.

And the small cloaked figure before him raised a hand, pulling down the hood that hid the face, revealing a half-elf’s visage.

Anton gazed at the face, raising an arm to flex his chest muscles, his scarred face displaying a grotesque smile: "Boss lady, want to see me crush rocks with my chest..."

The people in the tavern ready to watch the spectacle: "..."

Amber glared at the bald ugly guy: "...Damn, you’re even more shameless than before?!"

"After showing off muscles, only then realizing I’m no match, how to concede defeat without embarrassment—you taught us all about it back in the day," Anton’s smile grew broader—or perhaps uglier, "Boss lady! It’s truly you! Where have you been all these years?!"

At this point, the people in the tavern seemed to finally snap out of their stupor, whispers beginning to fill the air from all directions. Some clearly recognized the figure standing at the bar; some were astonished, some delighted, some awed—yet without exception, they soon became excited and enthusiastic. Meanwhile, the others looked utterly baffled, starting to pull aside nearby people to quietly inquire, asking who this suddenly appearing half-elf was—these folks were mostly the newcomers who had only become active here in the last couple of years.

Amber’s pointed ears twitched as she turned, giving a playful half-smile, "Quite a few newcomers here, nearly half don’t recognize me."

Anton murmured beside her, "You’ve been gone from here for a few years now..."

"So be it, let the newcomers recognize me," Amber yawned, raising her hand and snapping her fingers, "Sober up! You little rascals!"