No one answers immediately.
Not because the intent is unclear—but because none of us yet have the certainty she's asking for.
"We don't know where he is," I say at last. "Only that people are afraid."
Branwen absorbs that without comment.
"Fear spreads faster than truth," she says. "Then we begin where it gathers."
Rasaad inclines his head. "Understanding tempers action."
"Or delays it," Xan adds mildly. "Still—delay has its uses."
Imoen shifts beside me. "So we ask around."
Branwen adjusts the strap of her shield, testing its fit like something she intends to rely on.
"Good," she says. "I have no interest in striking shadows."
She turns toward the road leading back into Nashkel.
"Lead."
I take a step—
—and a voice cuts across the space between tents, sharp with strain and practiced projection.
"Ah. There you are."
We stop.
The man strides toward us from the direction of the striped tents, sleeves bright, smile fixed a fraction too tightly to be natural. His attention passes over Imoen and Xan without pause before settling, pointedly, on Rasaad.
"The monk," he says. "I was wondering how long it would take."
Imoen mutters, "That sounds promising."
The man plants his feet, spreading his hands as though the space itself belongs to him.
"Great Gazib," he announces. "Formerly of a full audience. Formerly of a functioning performance."
His smile twitches.
"And you," he says to Rasaad, "owe me."
Rasaad meets his gaze calmly. "If harm came from my presence, it was not intended."
"Oh, harm came," Gazib replies briskly. "To my livelihood. To my reputation. To the trust of an audience that prefers its miracles contained."
Xan tilts his head. "A tragic loss. The applause, I mean."
Gazib ignores him.
"I had permits," he continues. "Agreements. Coin invested. And now?" He gestures vaguely toward the tents behind him. "Now I have rumors instead of customers."
Imoen crosses her arms. "So what is it you want?"
Gazib's smile brightens. "Compensation."
Branwen speaks for the first time since he arrived.
"Your grievance is with deception," she says evenly. "Not with us."
Gazib finally looks at her.
Whatever he sees there gives him pause—but not enough to stop.
"Deception is my profession," he says. "Disaster is not."
"Coin cannot undo what was revealed," Rasaad replies.
"No," Gazib agrees. "But it can ease the transition."
Xan's mouth curves faintly. "I admire the honesty."
Gazib spreads his hands again, palms up. "I am a lawful man. I don't deal in threats. I deal in remedies."
Imoen glances at me. "He means money."
Branwen's gaze moves between us, assessing—not impatient.
"Decide quickly," Gazib adds. "The longer I stand here unpaid, the more inclined I become to speak with anyone else asking questions."
Imoen's head tilts, just slightly.
"Anyone else?"
Gazib hesitates.
Not long. Just enough to betray that he's weighing how much this is worth.
"There's a dwarf," he says at last. "Name's unimportant. He's been haunting the carnival edges since before I set up my last tent."
Rasaad's voice stays level. "A performer?"
Gazib snorts. "A con artist. He bleeds coin from the inattentive and vanishes before anyone thinks to complain. Harmless, as these things go."
Imoen's eyes flick briefly toward the crowd, then back. "And he's asking questions?"
"Yes," Gazib says. "Careful ones. About someone who matches your general description." His gaze flicks briefly toward me before returning to the group.
Xan exhales softly. "Visibility is rarely a choice, I find."
"He isn't dangerous," Gazib continues, almost dismissively. "Couldn't threaten a child without apologizing for the inconvenience. But he doesn't ask without reason."
Branwen's voice cuts in, calm and precise. "Meaning he's asking for someone else."
Gazib meets her gaze and nods once. "That's my read."
Imoen's expression tightens. "And you didn't tell him anything?"
"Not yet," Gazib replies. "Curiosity pays better when it lingers."
Silence settles—not heavy, but alert.
Whatever is coming next hasn't arrived yet.
But it's already moving.
I reach into my pouch before anyone else speaks.
The coins clink softly as I press them into Gazib's waiting hands—enough to matter, not enough to buy loyalty outright.
"For the disruption," I say. "And for the warning."
Gazib blinks, momentarily caught off-balance. He hadn't expected payment to come so cleanly.
He weighs the coins once, then nods. "Professional courtesy," he says. "Always appreciated."
"There's more," I add.
That gets his attention back on me.
"You said this dwarf lingers," I continue. "If he asks more questions. If he starts circling closer than he already is—I'd like to know."
Gazib considers this carefully. Not greedily. Practically.
"You're asking me to watch a watcher," he says.
"I'm asking you to do what you already do," I reply. "And I'll continue compensating you until you decide what comes next for your act."
Imoen glances at me, surprised—but not disapproving.
Rasaad studies Gazib's face, as though gauging how much this request costs him internally.
Xan murmurs, "A temporary patronage. How civilized."
Gazib exhales, slow and thoughtful.
"I won't provoke him," he says at last. "And I won't promise miracles. But if he lingers where he shouldn't, I'll notice."
"That's all I'm asking."
Branwen watches the exchange without comment. When Gazib finally looks her way, she meets his gaze steadily.
"Do not endanger yourself," she says.
Gazib inclines his head. "I have no interest in heroics."
He closes his fingers around the coin and steps back, already scanning the crowd again—not as a performer, but as a man recalculating his position.
"Enjoy the rest of the carnival," he adds dryly. "Such as it is."
He turns away, slipping back into the movement between tents.
The noise resumes around us as though nothing has changed.
But it has.
We move again—not unaware now, but measured.
Someone is asking questions.
And someone has agreed to listen for the answers.