The tiny writing table that Farek had brought upstairs shook in unison with the wooden frame of the Riled Stead. A chorus of laughter and leering voices punctuated the tremor and Farek absently wondered if he should go downstairs. The barkeep, Eraal, had hired Farek to help throw the trouble-makers out, as well as serve drinks, but he’d given the disguised Prince the evening off. Farek sighed impatiently, having lost his place in the last quake, and reread his message in progress.
“Dear Baron Norlam,” he began. His whisper loosely scattered in the smoky room as he continued. “I remained in New Mallam to see if I could find information on your wife. Sadly, I have had no such luck. I apologize for your misfortune.”
He picked up the quill he had taken from the back room of the tavern. Most strands of the feather were bent or scratched away, making it hard to balance the utensil as he wrote. “I have just heard from my sources in the city,” he wrote, referring, of course, to the drunk rangers downstairs, “that bandits are forming an alliance of some sort, inland. If any possible issues arise from this, please do not hesitate to contact me. From your dearest history enthusiast F.G.”
As he rolled up the letter and bound it with a small white string, he considered their unfortunate circumstances again. There had been two weeks of this awful tavern in Farek’s life, and he hadn’t learned one thing about the missing Lady Norlam. Sievus and Matek had been hired in a market, as guards, and had no overheard useful information either. Now there was news of a rogue army forming, and it had Tarro of Kiaraka written all over it.
“Diaren,” Farek said, opening the door of his tiny room. Diaren leaned against a support beam down the corridor, toking on a thin pipe to add to the medley of vapours hanging near the ceiling. He stood up straight and blinked. Farek ordered, “Put the pipe out. We’re going up to the Castle now.”
It was a warm walk up to the Castle of New Mallam, despite the breeze coming off the sea. The Baron had not been heard from since their return to the city—part of Farek’s hope was to elicit a reply with the letter, or gauge the temperament of the fortress while delivering it. He found the three-storey stone hall to be guarded by close to ten guards at its front gate. Two approached, to speak with Farek by torchlight and the glow of the setting sun.
Only one spoke, his lips barely moving as he peered out of a braced helm with deep-set eyes. “What’s your business?”
“Just a letter,” Farek said, presenting his bound scroll. “For the Baron only.”
“He’s asked not to be disturbed, so we can deliver the letter for you,” the guard drawled.
Farek shrugged. “They said specifically his hands only.”
The guard blinked and said nothing. His bottom lip stuck out as he waited for the poor message runner before them to make up his mind. Farek looked at Diaren, then back at the guard. “Is there a chamberlain or captain I could deliver it to?”
“The steward.” The guard’s eyes looked around dully and then he started to turn away. “Wait here,” he said, his voice stagnant with boredom.
To Farek’s surprise, the Steward of Norlam’s castle was even younger than he. The man had a knot of night black hair bound behind his head and the olive skin of a Raderan. There was such a mix of ethnicities on the Great Isle that somehow Farek felt his expectations had been subverted. The Raderan bowed his head efficiently and dismissed the guard back a few paces with a wave of two fingers. “A letter? Who from?” he asked.
“I’m familiar with the Baron,” he said. “But it’s not just a letter. It regards an important matter the Baron would like to know about immediately.”
“I’ll see he gets it right away,” the steward replied. “How should I find you to send his reply?”
“I’m staying at the Riled Stead,” Farek said, earning a grimace from guards and stewards alike. They all looked down their nose at him, but Farek had enough wealth back home to buy their entire castle. He walked away down the street with a scowl and drummed his fingers against the hilt of his old family sword.
Diaren trailed him in silence, thoughtful, or high, or maybe the hubbub of the town was draining out his words.
Nonetheless, Farek said what was on his mind. “If I don’t hear back from the Baron in a week—no in three damned days—we’re gone,” he said. Diaren let out a loud hum of surprise and Farek declared, “I’m tired of New Mallam.” The passersby turned to glare at him.