Though Farek had spent his last few months listening for sounds of corruption and crime in the city—and there were many, about which he did nothing—the biggest of them played out right beneath his nose.
A few days after he had threatened Tog of the Claycroft Inn into passiveness, Jannia Gallendris had returned home. With her came copies of signed documents between Prince Lerran of Sheld and Matriarch Valakono. The day after her arrival, another ship departed, bearing just over five thousand Grey Sea coins in the form of three thousand Gallendris gold bouillon. It was, of course, escorted by two other ships, full of archers and ballistae.
They were making a criminal one of the richest men on the Seas. It wasn’t until recently that Farek had started to care.
What was he to do? It was his own family, and it was their duty. The Bank of Soros only existed with the permission and support of the Three Matriarchs. Though they stored a sizeable portion of the wealth in the vaults of Soros, they had as much in the city of Noress-That-Was, as well as a sizeable army of loyal sword-sworn.
He sat on a worn wooden stool in Norrey’s Pub and sipped ale with a scowl.
“Why are you nursing such a sore one?” Norrey asked, leaning against the bar a few feet away. Simi and her friends drank at a noisy table, including one young man with a black eye—Imeer, Farek presumed. Farek had heard nothing more about the debt issue, and assumed the bruises he could see were a result of a beating before the visit to the Claycroft.
Farek glanced at the mug he cradled off the edge of the bar. “Got a bruise again,” he said.
“What bruise?” the barkeep asked with a smile. “You look fine—ah, and don’t say it’s a bruise I cannot see.”
“It’s a metaphor,” Farek said. He took another drink and pursed his moustached top lip. “Jannia wasn’t pleased about the amount of money I allowed Lord Mavagar to borrow in her absence. Gave me a verbal beating, but no more than usual. Besides, in the end, she admitted she’d have done the same. She just wasn’t pleased about it.”
Norrey nodded. “You should try working in a bar,” he said.
“Should I?”
“No.” Norrey gave him a smile and Farek chuckled quietly. He took a drink of his mug. At least Norrey brews a great ale, he thought. The barkeep stepped a little closer, sliding his loose hemp shirt along the bar. “Did you hear about Lord Ollu?”
“No,” Farek said. Lord Ollu ruled the outlying village of Targren. “What about Lord Ollu?”
Norrey lowered his head. “Dead.”
“What?” Farek asked. “How?”
“Knife. They found him here in Soros, in an alley. Blade was still there too, sticking out of his lungs,” Norrey said. He sighed and poured himself a cup of clear fermented spirits.
“That’s concerning. What do we know about Lord Ollu?” Farek questioned.
Norrey shrugged. “He’s an enemy of Lord Thrane, they say. Stopped Thrane’s mining industry more than once in the hills around Targren. Word is they’ve argued more than once, and not always in quiet tones.”
“That is concerning,” Farek said, and swallowed another mouthful of his ale with a grimace. He slid the cup across the bar and put his chin in one hand as he considered the news. Gravagan had prophesied that Farek would save Thrane from assassins—but did the wizard know anything? Thrane was corrupt to the core if this latest turn of events was to believe.
“I’ll tell you if I hear anymore,” Norrey said. Farek’s friend slid away down the bar and went to attend another patron.
Farek cradled his aching head in one hand. He didn’t need more news from Norrey; he needed to find more immediate news.