After the Whalestone Jail job, the mercenaries of Adrix’s squad were given a period of respite. Many had small cuts and bruises to heal while a few had more grave injuries. Brellik was off his feet for a few weeks, waiting for the bad sprain in his leg to heal. The gash up his side was all scabbed up but he had finally had the stitches removed. Relis—one of the handful of dedicated magicians in the Company’s ranks—had ensured no infection would take hold. Diggs, on the other hand, was still very much in recovery. The arrow had done serious damage to his shoulder and, upon removal, even grazed the lung. His survival was truly miraculous, but his future remained unclear.
Tirak spent his respite checking up on the others. He spent many an hour chatting and drinking with Brellik at the tavern, but occasionally sought out Diggs at the Storm Fort infirmary. Diggs spent most of the time asleep, but roused himself for a few weary words when Tirak and the others visited him.
Towards the middle of the month, Tirak shared a drink with Ralist, Adrix, and Zelra at their favourite bar: the Red Seal Tavern. Once the others had departed, Tirak sauntered over to the bar to finish the contents of his mug. No sooner had he finished them, than a man had leaned in beside him and blurted, “Tirak?!”
It took Tirak a moment to recognize the man. Something told him that the man’s chin was not supposed to be clean-shaven, which led him closer to the familiarity. “Is that you—Jolas? What are you doing ‘round here?”
The grinning man shrugged. “Ran a delivery to the city. These days, us mercenaries find work even as errand boys.” With a laugh, Jolas tossed a few coins across the bar toward its tender, ordering them both another round. “Why—are you a company man now? Never would have seen that bet.”
“Got reasons,” Tirak said gruffly, crossing his arms in front of him. “At least the jobs come to me now and not the other way around. Pays better than most other jobs.”
In truth, Tirak would not mind being left in peace at the moment. He had never been fond of the mercenaries he worked with over the years—most of them were grizzled old men, stuck in their ways. Those with true skill had an ego to dwarf a true wartime general. He had no interest in fitting in with their lot.
Jolas took a swig of his new drink. “I hear it pays well, but you also have to follow orders. Heard about some rebels up north that the Company put down. You involved in that? Or that jail job—Whalestone, I believe?”
“Don’t know much about that,” Tirak said, finally swallowing a gulp from the drink the bartender had passed him. He leaned to the side and locked eyes with Jolas. “Lots of people talking over a small jailbreak.”
“Most of the prisoners, from a prison that size? I wouldn’t call that small.” Jolas tapped his mug on the countertop. “It’s of no matter—either way, it’s bigger than anything I’ve been up to. What’s the best you’ve done so far—since donning that badge?”
Tirak’s eyes wandered across the walls, full of maps, tapestries, and several paintings. He glanced back at Jolas. “Bar fight.”
Jolas chuckled, but then slid back on the stool, shoulders slumped. “Fine, I see how it is. You always were a quiet one.”
Tirak forced a laugh. “That’s me.” He tossed a coin to the Jolas for the drink, and ordered his another for himself.
“We’ll leave that for the barkeep,” Jolas muttered, without picking up the Grey Sea coin. He took another sip of his drink and looked along the crowded bar for a moment. Then, turning back to Tirak, he perked up. “Remember the merchant we tracked on the Crimson Highway? That was a tricky one.”
“I didn’t think you could track him in the rain,” Tirak grinned. “You were pretty lucky he was fat enough to leave deep footprints.”
“Indeed! We were lucky he left the cobblestones.”
Their stories continued for a long while in that vein, though they had only done a few jobs together. Tirak drank more than he usually did, but he could hold his liquor well. Jolas seemed to watch how much he drank, but Tirak didn’t know what his plans were after the evening. Perhaps he was to meet a potential employer after the bar. Tirak eventually excused himself and clambered up to his room to pass out on the hay bed cot.