The main hall thrummed with life.
Tyren moved through it like water finding cracks in stone.
Sandy brown hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that suggested he was too busy working to bother with a comb.
He wove between clusters of merchants first, his hands carrying a silver tray laden with empty glasses.
A portly man in crimson velvet gestured wildly as he spoke, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his goblet.
"Absolute robbery, I tell you! Fifteen percent tariff on Southward grain shipments—"
Tyren slipped past, close enough that the man's sleeve brushed his shoulder. Close enough to hear. Not close enough to be noticed.
The information filed in his mind as he angled toward a refreshment stall.
Crystal decanters lined the white-clothed table, their contents glowing amber and ruby and gold under chandelier light.
