Atgar had never imagined that the trail of a stolen crate would lead him behind hidden curtains and into the company of smugglers, gamblers, and folk who preferred not to be known too well.
Yet there he sat, tankard in hand within the Spotless Note, a place respectable merchants rarely spoke of openly and honorable merchants rarely entered at all.
The dwarf found little comfort in it.
The room beyond the clerk's office was not the den of cutthroats he had expected. Men and women laughed over drinks, cards changed hands across tables, and quiet conversations filled the air. Yet beneath the warmth of hearthfire and ale lingered the understanding that many gathered there dealt in matters best kept away from the eyes of the Bree Watch.
Had there been another path, Atgar would have taken it.
But there was not.
The honest avenues had yielded little. Merchants knew only fragments. Officials possessed no answers worth speaking of. Every road had led back to the same conclusion: if the Greenway Knives were to be found, someone who walked in darker circles would need to point the way.
Fortunately, Frimsi knew how to open doors that Atgar could not.
Through the Dwarf's reputation and connections, the company gained entry and a place among the tavern's patrons. Food and drink loosened tongues, and before long conversations began to flow. Some spoke nonsense, others spoke half-truths, but among the noise emerged something of value.
A tracker named Buck.
Unlike many present, Buck listened more than he spoke. More importantly, he recognized the description of the mark that Atgar and his companions had uncovered during their search. It was enough to earn the dwarf's attention.
It was also enough to earn the man's price.
The discussion soon moved away from curious ears and into a more private room, where words carried greater weight than coin tossed across a gaming table. There, Atgar and his companions laid out what they knew of the Greenway Knives and what they hoped to learn.
The tracker offered no miracles.
He could not reveal the location of the bandits' lair.
He could not produce the stolen crate.
What he could provide was experience.
The Greenway Knives preyed upon travellers and merchants. If they could not be found, perhaps they could be encouraged to reveal themselves.
Thus a new plan took shape.
Rather than continue chasing fading tracks and scattered rumours, they would become the bait.
A caravan upon the southern roads.
Goods worth stealing.
Travellers worth robbing.
A prize tempting enough to draw the Greenway Knives from whatever hole they called home.
It was a dangerous proposal.
Atgar knew as much.
Yet as he considered the weeks spent following clues from Pickdean to the hills, from the hills to Bree, and now into the shadows behind Bree's respectable face, he could see no better alternative.
The trail had reached its end.
Now it was time to make the bandits come to them.
With terms agreed upon and the bargain struck, the tension of negotiations gave way to one final round of drinks. Tankards were raised, plans reviewed, and cautious optimism settled over the company.
For the first time since the robbery, Atgar felt that the investigation had found a direction.
The Greenway Knives remained hidden.
His crate remained lost.
The answers he sought remained frustratingly out of reach.
But now there was a plan.
Now there was a hunter on their side.
And somewhere upon the southern roads, Buck would soon be searching for the best place to set the trap.
Atgar left the Spotless Note with the taste of ale still lingering and the weight of uncertainty no lighter than before. Yet beneath it rested something that had been absent for many days.
Hope.
If fortune proved kind, the next move would belong to the Greenway Knives.
And when they finally showed themselves, Atgar intended to be waiting.
