Excerpt:

In the dingiest corner of the warm room stood a battered, round table. Its surface was marred with the careless marks and jaded graffiti of many years’ hard abuse, and time had worn the pitted surface to an unvarnished tar-coloured stain. More remarkable than the table itself was its near-permanent monopoly by a certain group- rarely has a piece of territory been so thoroughly staked out. On this dreary night, when the back room of the Cloak and Dagger was more crowded than usual, a spare seat would have been impossible to find at this most coveted of settings. On his feet, regaling his bemused (if not enthralled) companions stood a tall man in his thirties, green of eye, dark of hair and big of mouth, Reykir was his name. To hear him speak you would believe that not an underhanded deed, nor political feint nor fashion faux pas could pass in the whole city without his knowledge. It was his business to know things; when those in the know needed the low down on the up and up they knew who to go to. Reykir would find his way to them even if they didn’t, for he had a knack for knowing who would be interested in what information, and furthermore, exactly how much they would be willing to pay for it. Tonight, however, his tale was not of the latest political intrigue or social scandal (for it never pays to give away such news for free) but rather the more prosaic subject of his most recent lady friend...