Chapter 16: Moonsilver on the Table
"Grand General Ashborne—"
"General Kael."
Kael cut him off so fast it was like he’d been waiting for Silas to make that exact mistake.
Silas hadn’t even finished the rest of the title before that low, rough voice shoved it back down his throat.
Kael leaned back in his chair, his expression sour. He raised one finger and tapped the tabletop twice. The Blackfeather whiskey in his glass rocked with the motion.
"Save that title for my funeral."
Silas paused.
He honestly had no idea why Kael always got so particular about forms of address. By all rights, Grand General wasn’t rude. It was more than formal enough. But every time Kael heard it, his face turned ugly, like he’d just swallowed an entire bottle of moldy vinegar.
Still, Silas didn’t take it to heart.
He only smiled.
At least they were no longer talking in the loudest part of The Black Tankard. Silas had brought Kael to a relatively quiet corner behind the bar, not far from the main hall but just removed from the worst of the crowd. There weren’t as many mercenaries roaring with raised mugs, and no drunks were leaning over with their ears pricked, trying to steal a listen.
That mattered to Silas.
This wasn’t his first time dealing with Kael’s temper. If he let this rough-tempered brute keep shouting in the middle of the hall, frightening the customers would be the least of the problem. Half the mercenaries here had brains pickled solid in booze. One wrong word, one challenging look, one spilled cup of liquor, and trouble could break out.
And when it did, the broken tables, smashed bottles, and frightened-off customers would all go on The Black Tankard’s account.
Silas ran the calculation quickly in his head and decided, for now, to go along with Kael.
"General Kael," he said, switching titles as his smile settled naturally back into place. "What wind blew you here today?"
Kael gave a cold laugh.
"What wind?"
He lifted his eyes, and his stare pressed down.
"The cold wind off the Zephyr Plains outside the Suncrest Empire’s capital. It didn’t just blow me here. It also blew in a group of black-clad figures."
Silas’s smile faded a little.
Kael didn’t give him time to play dumb. He reached behind him, pulled out a silver dagger, and tossed it onto the table.
The dagger struck the wood with a sharp, hard clack.
Silas looked down.
It was a well-made weapon. Very well-made. The silver blade was narrow and sharp, with no unnecessary decoration along its edge, and the texture of the grip had been finished with real care. But the blade was stained with a layer of dark red blood. The blood had dried, congealing into uneven patches that clung to the metal, somehow more glaring than fresh blood.
Silas reached out with his white-gloved hand, his fingertips stopping beside the dagger without touching it right away.
"This is..."
"A weapon from that whatever-it’s-called, the Ghostblade Syndicate."
Kael’s voice was full of impatience.
"How the hell should I know what it is? Anyway, the quality was decent, so I brought a few back and tossed them to the gardener to trim flowers with."
Silas looked up at him.
This time, his smile almost slipped for real.
"You—honestly."
He finally picked up the dagger from the table and slowly turned it through his white glove. Light slid over the blade, catching a cold luster unlike ordinary silverware. The blood on the metal had long since dried, dark red patches stuck against the silver gleam, making the weapon look even less like ordinary merchandise.
"These are fine weapons," Silas said, looking at the dagger with genuine regret in his voice. "Especially since they were forged from moonsilver ingots. And you gave them to a gardener to trim flowers?"
Kael didn’t show the slightest trace of pain.
"Tch."
He picked up the Blackfeather whiskey in front of him and took another swallow. The strong liquor cut down his throat, but his brow didn’t even twitch. After setting the glass down, he lifted his chin toward the dagger in Silas’s hand, indicating there was no need to return it.
"Take it and play with it yourself. I’m not interested in that kind of thing."
"You..."
Silas looked at the dagger in his hand, then swallowed whatever he had been about to say.
Since Kael had already given it to him, any false refusal would only look ridiculous. Besides, a weapon forged from moonsilver ingots truly had no business lying in a garden toolbox mixed in with pruning shears and shovels.
Silas put the dagger away, and his expression slowly turned serious.
Kael’s glass rested on the table.
He did not drink again.
"Now it’s your turn to make things clear."
His voice lowered, but it was more dangerous than before.
"Why did you know two days ago that someone planned to enter the capital carrying suspicious items? And why was it connected to a troublesome thing like the Ghostblade Syndicate?"
Silas raised his eyes and met Kael’s gaze.
In that moment, he heard the surrounding noise get pushed to the edges.
It wasn’t that The Black Tankard had truly gone quiet. It was Kael’s stare forcing every stray sound aside.
There was no exaggerated anger, no extra expression. Yet it made a person’s back tighten first, and only then realize their breathing had already gone shallow.
Silas’s fingers paused on the tabletop.
He had seen plenty of imperial officers who knew how to threaten people, and plenty of nobles who used their status to press others down. But Kael wasn’t putting on airs right now. He was talking about the Suncrest Empire’s security, and he meant every word.
As long as this involved the imperial capital, he would not let it end as a joke.
"I’ll talk, I’ll talk."
Silas immediately raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Actually, I only heard about it. After all, I’m the owner of The Black Tankard. You could call this place an intelligence station."
Kael did not answer.
He only looked at Silas.
So Silas had no choice but to continue. "So, there are people who want to post commissions here, but don’t have the money to pay. They use information as payment instead. As for me, I judge whether the value of that information is equal to the commission."
He said it naturally, as if he were explaining the most ordinary business transaction.
Kael listened, then slowly lifted his head.
That stare landed on Silas’s face again.
Silas’s smile stopped.
In the brief silence, the glass bottles on the liquor cabinet nearby reflected the two of them. One sat with a whiskey glass and an old curved saber at hand. The other stood in white gloves, still holding a polite expression on his face. But the air between them was no longer as loose as before.
Silas knew what Kael was waiting for.
"Uh, of course, I also verify whether the information is true."
He added it quickly.
Kael’s gaze did not withdraw at once.
The pressure bore down on Silas until his chest felt tight. To keep his hands from showing the faintest tremor at the edge of the table, he turned and took a bottle from the nearby cabinet, then poured himself a small drink.
Only when the liquor went down his throat did his chest loosen a little.
Kael watched him finish all of that before speaking coldly.
"Then why are you telling me this now? What do you want?"
Silas’s hand paused.
Some things didn’t have to be said too plainly for Kael to understand. Silas had already said that information could be exchanged as payment. Since he was now telling Kael this information, naturally it wasn’t out of kindness.
He wanted something from Kael.
Silas gave a light cough and put his smile back on.
"Ahem. Grand General Ashborne..."
"Call me General Kael!"
Kael’s voice pressed down again.
Silas very sensibly corrected himself.
"All right, General Kael."
He smiled, his tone more careful than before.
"You know what this place is. This is The Black Tankard. It may not be a particularly respectable establishment, but it is indeed one of the most famous intelligence exchanges in the entire imperial capital."
As Silas spoke, his fingertips lightly brushed over his white glove, as though weighing what tone to use next. He did not state his request immediately. Instead, he glanced first toward the noisy hall outside.
There were mercenaries raising cups and laughing, and others lowering their voices to exchange news. The smell of alcohol, laughter, and the scrape of tables and chairs mixed together. This was what The Black Tankard looked like every day.
"But lately, Blackrat Lane has been getting less and less safe. And I can’t possibly stay in this shop every moment."
He sighed, a helpless expression appearing on his face.
"So I’m hoping that from now on, the imperial army could spare a few men to come by and give this place some protection."
