He leaned before a thick wooden door bolted from the outside. He removed the latch and flung it open. Inside had once been a spytower, but the strange contraption of mirrors and glass was long broken and removed. The room had also taken a stint as a prison cell, but over the past ten years it had fallen into disarray.
Waiting inside was a wiry little man wrapped in a brown cloak.
“You’re late,” the man said, his voice spoken with each inhalation of air instead of exhalation, which gave him an ill, out of breath sound.
Gerand shook his head, baffled as to how his contact always made it up the tall tower without being spotted. Unless he had the hands of a spider, he surely could not climb the outer wall. No matter how, every fourth day at an hour before dawn, Gileas the Worm waited for Gerand in the cramped room, always smiling, always unarmed.
“Matters have gotten worse,” Gerand said, rubbing the bruise on his forehead without realizing it. “Ever since our involvement with Aaron Felhorn, King Vaelor has grown even more fearful of his food and drink. He has suggested rotating his cooks and keeping them under a soldier’s watch at all times. I’ve told him a food taster would be a much simpler answer, but for a cowardly son of a bitch, he can be so stubborn…”
The advisor realized just how out of place his speech was and halted. He glared at Gileas, his warning clear, but the Worm only laughed. Even his laugh sounded sickly and false.
“As amusing as informing the king of your candid talk would be, I’d only earn myself a noose for the trouble,” Gileas said.
“I’m sure you’d hang just as well as any other man,” Gerand said. “Worms pop in half when squeezed tight enough. I wonder if you’d do the same.”
“Let us pray we never find out,” Gileas said. “And after what I come to tell you, even you may discover my presence easier to bear.”
Gerand doubted that. The Worm was aptly named, for his face had a conical look to it, with his nose and eyes scrunched inward toward his mouth. His hair was the color of dirt, another detail that helped enforce the adopted name. Gerand didn’t know if Gileas had come up with the title, or if some other man had years prior. It didn’t matter much to Gerand. All he wanted was information worth the coin and the trek up the stairs. Most often not, but every now and then…
The gleam in Gileas’s eyes showed that perhaps this was one of those times.
“Tell me what you know, and quickly, otherwise Edwin will soon believe me to be one of his lurking phantoms.”
The Worm tapped his fingers, and Gerand did his best to suppress a shudder. For whatever vile reason, the man had no fingernails.
“My ears are often full of mud,” the ugly man began, “but sometimes I hear so clearly, I might believe myself an elf.”
“No elf could be so ugly,” Gerand said.
Gileas laughed, but there was danger in it, and the advisor knew he should choose his words more carefully. In those cramped quarters, and lacking any weapons or guards, the Worm had more than enough skill to end his life.
“True, no elf so ugly, but at least I am not as ugly as an orc, yes? Always a light of hope, if you know where to look, and I pride myself in looking. Always looking. And I listen too, and what I hear is that Thren Felhorn has a plan in motion to end his war with the Trifect.”
“I’m sure it’s not his first, either. Why should I care about his scheming?”
“Because this plan has been sent to the other guildmasters, and all but one have agreed.”
Gerand raised an eyebrow. To have so many guilds agree meant this was not some fantasy of assassination or burning buildings.
“Tell me the plan,” he ordered. The Worm blinked and waved his finger.
“Coin first.”
The advisor tossed him a bag from his pocket.
“There, now speak.”
“You command me like I am a dog,” Gileas said. “But I am a worm, not a dog, remember? I will not speak. I will tell.”
And tell he did. When finished, Gerand felt his chest tighten. His mind raced. The plan was deceptively simple, and a bit more brutish than Thren most likely preferred, but the potential was there…potential for both sides to exploit.