“So how are things?” Farek asked. He reclined in an armchair in Norrey’s Pub, his arm resting on the nearby window sill and a fine ale making a ring of condensation on the tabletop in front of him. He looked at his sister and smiled as she shrugged.
“I cannot complain. Dorean and I are practically inseparable these days,” Simi said. She hadn’t looked away from the small jewelry boxed she had only just opened. While she continued to smile at the twinkling sapphires that Farek had brought back for her, Farek turned to look at Dorean, the startlingly handsome man speaking with Norrey at the bar.
The necklace container was loaded with a spring, so it clapped deeply when Simisar shut it. Farek looked back to her with a raised eyebrow. “Aside from purchasing such lovelies for your friends and family,” his sister asked him, “What else did you manage to do on your voyage?”
“There were some surprising twists involving fire,” Farek explained with a smirk. “And at least two false identities.”
“Ooh,” she said, leaning forward. “But did you accomplish what you set out to accomplish?”
“I was trying to learn more about the history of that assassin we caught last year,” Farek said, in a hushed voice. “I did, but it didn’t really shed light on the schemes of lords here. The security of our family comes first, and I feel I failed in creating any of it.”
Simi frowned. “Well, not every adventure leads to where you think it does,” she said.
Farek nodded. “I also let down a leader I met—the man had lost his wife, but I couldn’t find it. And I couldn’t justify staying there longer.”
They both took a drink from their respective mugs at that juncture. Then Farek, with a glint in his eyes, added, “But I’m not sorry about lighting a mansion on fire.”
“Nor should you be,” Simi said, with a giggle. “What is that, four for you now?”
“There were two on this trip,” Farek admitted. “So five.”
His sister’s laughter lightened his spirits and drew a quizzical glance from Norrey and Dorean. Farek stood up, holding his drink and bobbed his head toward the bar. Simisar followed him over; the afternoon inn was only hosting a handful of patrons at the moment and their group had the bar to themselves. “Norrey,” Farek said. “Do you have any news for me?”
Norrey shrugged and scratched his thick silvery moustache. “Nothing more than these two have filled you in on. Lots of Paral Mavagar at your estate, and all that. You’ve surely got more stories for me, than I for you.”
“I robbed a bunch of drunk people,” Farek admitted.
Norrey rolled his eyes. “I do that nightly.” He tapped the bar top.
Farek chuckled, then widened his eyes with a look of mock pride. “I was the greatest bartender in all the lands, Norrey! The owner of the tavern didn’t know what to do with me.”
Now it was Simi’s turn to guffaw. “What lands? The ones under the Orrish?”
“No, it was a real inn,” Farek huffed, defensively. He took a drink of his ale and made a face like his ale was better than this sludge.
After a few minutes socializing with them, Farek excused himself. He had sent Silea a letter over a week ago, and received no reply. Simi had since told him she had seen Silea at a few parties after Farek left, but then heard she had left Soros. No one could give Farek more information, so he resolved to get to the bottom of it. With the ring he had purchased for her in another jewelry case and in his pocket, he set off for the estate of House Shandrell.
Walking through the streets of Soros reminded him how long he had been gone. It was not that much had changed—rather, Farek thought he must have, because he felt estranged in his own home. Paral Mavagar was working to support the city? He had taken Mavagar’s malice for granted when he had left. And what of Thrane, their once-alliance now split? Or the Organization of contract killers that lurked in the midst of Var Nordos? Farek needed to walk these streets even more, he decided, until they felt like his again.
Then he reached Silea’s home, and paused to remedy his discomforted mood. He pulled out the ring box in his pocket and approached the front door.
The servants received him nervously, for he was the brother of the Mazaar. When Silea’s father appeared, Farek sensed a dose of awkwardness in his handshake and greeting words. Farek had left Silea for six months and she was, it seemed, not happy with him for it, but Farek was still by far Lord Shandrell’s superior and he was afforded all the customs that were entailed. Lord Shandrell invited Lord Gallendris in for a drink in his sitting room.
“How can I help you, milord?” Shandrell asked him. “Silea is not here. She’s been gone about two Moons.”
Farek waved his free hand. His other held a glass of whiskey. “Farek is fine,” he said. “Where did she go?”
“Just around Var Nordos. She just wanted to get out of town,” Shandrell explained. He bowed his head and went on, hesitantly. “She waited for you, but then started seeing someone else. I should not get into the particulars. That’s between you and her.”
Farek took a drink of his whiskey. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Alright.” So that’s done, then, he thought, disappointed. He thanked Lord Shandrell for the honesty and the drink.
As Farek left the Shandrell home, a few moments later, he was approached by one of the maids in the property’s employ. She kept her gaze lowered, respectfully, and presented Farek with a letter. Farek looked to see if Lord Shandrell was around, but he had disappeared already. The maid said, “I was asked to give this to you, if you visited, my lord Gallendris. By milady Silea.”
“Thank you,” Farek said. He took the letter and left by the broad front door. The gift he had bought her weighed on him as heavily as the letter did, but he didn’t touch either until he reached the Gallendris estate on Coin Hill once more.
Safely back in his quarters, Farek set himself down onto a cushioned armchair. He had dismissed a servant cleaning in here a moment ago. He opened the letter and read it in a whisper. “Farek, I’m sorry. I tried to wait for you, but I was so lonely. I hate my parents. Before you was the drink, but after you it wasn’t enough. I found a friend, for the distraction, and I’m leaving Soros for a while.” The next few words were crossed out: “If things had been different.” After that, she started a new sentence. “Maybe someday I’ll come find you again. Hoping you survived your voyage, Silea.”
Farek closed the letter again. He was most disappointed that he had never had a chance to see where their relationship would have gone. Their time together had been short, but that same point of sadness was the reason that Farek was not more distraught about this news. After a moment, he went over to a small writing desk in the corner of his sitting room and used a knife to cut a small snippet from a page. He wrote his own note on that, just three words a letter: “You deserve better. —F.”
He would go back to the Shandrell that evening to deliver the note and the ring box, in case that trustworthy maid saw Silea again. Then, as the waxing moon rose, he wandered the shadowy streets of his city again. The clatter of tables from a drinking house drowned out the shouts of a domestic dispute. The tranquil chaos of the city washed over Farek again. Here, unlike overseas or standing awkwardly in Lord Shandrell’s company, he was not useless.
Close to midnight, he saw a man follow a drunk couple down an alleyway. While the two locked lips ignorantly, the mugger strode ominously toward them. Farek unbuckled his old family sword from his belt and put the fear of night into the thief, before the lovebirds even noticed.