The Blackcloaks
The old man had wisps of grey hair that looked like they were stuck on his head. His back was never straight, and his shoulders hunched over his portly staunch. But despite his decrepit looks there was a sharp mind filled with knowledge hidden inside the haze of drunkenness.
He was sipping a hot liquid and I smelled coffee. Loctris was surely the centre of this world, it had coffee.
I sat opposite him. "How old is Loctris?"
He sipped and then gulped the short black down his gullet. "We've got a lot to do tonight. Do you want to sit here and ask questions or go?"
We weren't alone in the common room; it was for everyone after all. "Maybe there's somewhere else we can sit and chat before we do whatever you have planned for this evening."
"It's free here," he said. "And we're just two losers in a corner."
"Do you know a discreet money changer?"
A low chuckle escaped his lips. "Sure, but the more discreet the worse the exchange rate."