Ask about Miller's wife

The guard shrugs as he sees you think about the information he gave. You already paid him enough for a month's wage, probably.

You look at Miller, the stout, loud-mouthed man currently occupied with a redhead on each knee. "A question,"

"Go ahead. It's on me." The guard is your best friend for the night, the kind that appreciates your generosity.

"How do you find out about his wife? "

"A man in my line of work hears things, " he whispers. "Get him drunk and he brags about his 'foolish' wife back home to anyone who'll listen."

The guard smirks, revealing a missing molar. "And me Missus is friend with his wife. She knows he's here, and will stay 'er until dawn. Still, she waits for him until morning. Well, his fault for not being home when a handsome young man visited his house in the middle of the night, is it?"

You nod and finish your mead before leaving the brother.

The city is a different beast after midnight. You navigate the winding cobblestone streets, counting the houses east of the town well. The sixth house is dark, but the seventh, a modest but sturdy timber-framed home, has a faint amber glow flickering through the shuttered windows. Miller’s wife is home, and evidently, she is still awake.