Between the massive ridge-like walls of Ith the rising slope of Pranan’s Hill barely seemed like a hill at all. This was compounded by the thousand structures built upon it—towers manned by archers, estates attended by armies of servants, and sprawling commercial shops invaded by the privileged citizens of the district, hose citizens who had never tried to revolt because they owned slaves and because their assets were protected by the Mage Kings.
From the streets, all Ren could see was the next building—this a bakery—and then the next—a clothier. He glanced at Karsef, who’s healing arm now hung at his side. While it had seemed to Ren that most of the city had suffered from the revolution, he could not comprehend just how vast the populace was, and how varied their circumstances. A man wearing a lavish coat of red and burgundy silk turned up his collar as a handful of slaves carried various trunks and satchels through the market for him. His guards, men and women, were armoured with leather shoulders and scattered chain links that left circular brands visible between their shoulders. Ren had to wonder how a slave could be trusted with his master’s safety…
Someone cried out a shout of anger and desperation, echoing down the walls of a nearby alley. It had come from a nearby street. Woodro piped up, slipping his palm down from a leather pack-strap at his shoulder to the hilt of his sword. “Some action, perhaps?” he asked.
“In your dreams,” Asar muttered. “Some robber, more likely.”
“Let’s check it out,” Ren decided as the shouting continued. It was a woman’s voice, not some stereotypical brigand.
As he had guessed, from the first sound, the crime had not occurred inside an alleyway. As his men and he pressed into the next street, they found themselves buried between the sweaty bodies of a crowd. There was a sight to see, apparently, but the scene was over before Ren and his friends arrived. A woman with smeared makeup all over her cheeks was being hauled away by a few soldiers, barely conscious. As they turned her, her head sagged limply to the other side, revealing a line of blood from a head wound.
Ren watched them with raised eyebrows. One of the warriors, protected by bronze plates and yellow serpent head sigils lifted his hands toward the onlookers. “This is the authority of King Turim. Return to your business.”
“I think I will,” Ren murmured.
“Sir?” asked Asar. “What is it?”
Karsef was smiling. He knew. The chances were incredibly slim, of course, but this seemed as good a lead as any. Karsef walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Ren, leading the other two. They followed the guards from a safe distance. The woman started to recover her lucidity as they rounded the street and marched towards a veritable castle. She was promptly gagged, before her moans and protestations could draw further attention.
That evening, Ren and his men returned to the fortress under the cover of shadows. Shadows, Ren had learned, fell sooner on Ith. The unnecessary walls could be a blessing and a curse. Though a front and rear yard were protected by a high wall, the very defences of the square fortress adjoined the outer barrier directly. And a pair of patrols ensured this garden fence was properly defended.
Ren and his men stopped to speak with a lone guard. “What is this place?” Ren began.
“One of King Turim’s barracks,” the man replied. He glanced nervously along the wall. He likely wasn’t supposed to speaking about it.
“Prisoners are kept here, right?” Ren asked. “Who was that woman that escaped earlier today?”
The guard’s bearded chin remained set. “Not supposed to speak about that,” he drawled. “But these are tough times.”
“So what’ll it cost?” Ren asked. Only Woodro had approached the fort with him, and smirked at the question.
“Ten crowns, I reckon,” the guard replied, looking Ren in the eye.
Ren counted out his silver coins, the ones he’d liberated from Axar’s lockbox. They weren’t the same currency, so he counted out twenty instead. “Who was she?” he asked.
“One of the revolutionaries,” the guard replied. “A magician, named Lotha.”
Woodro whistled through his teeth. Ren’s luck rivaled his own—they had both been fortunate in their feats, from finding Lerran alive to escaping the flaming wreckage of Sheld’s harbour. Ren held his face still, unlike his compatriot, and tapped two more coins together. “And what would it cost to speak with a prisoner here?”
The guard smirked. “A few more than before, certainly.”
Ren nodded. He counted a handful of coins in the pouch to establish its rough amount. Forty or fifty were left in this bag, so he tossed it to the guard. “How’s that?”
“Can’t let you in,” the man said, rubbing the pouch between his fingers. “But I can tell you which window to speak to and when.”
“Good enough,” Ren replied. “And you’ll have a chat with the other guard on duty, right?”
The guard slipped the coins into his leather coat. “A good long chat.” The man did as he had said, and soon Renado leaned against the wall of the fortress beside Woodro and a barred window. Ren tapped the metal opening with a boot.
“Hello?” a voice asked, and a man stirred in the cell. The nearest light source, a torch near a shuttered shop on the next block, cast a pale glow against a bearded and gritty face. “You getting me out of here?”
“Afraid not,” Ren muttered.
“Then why you’re disturbing my sleep?” the man returned, in a rolling mumble. He didn’t make perfect sense.
“Woman escaped today,” Ren said. “Name of Lotha. Seen her around?”
The man sighed. “Did. Used to see her in the mess hall. But not after today’s chaos.”
Ren glanced at Woodro, who grimaced. “What’d she do?”
“Guard man took her chains off for walkin’. She attacked him with’em,” the prisoner replied. “Feisty, said the man. Damn feisty.”
“She didn’t betray then,” Ren whispered. Woodro nodded, but tilted his head against the wall and told Ren he didn’t think they could break her out. He tapped his knuckles against his sword to indicate it. Ren smiled and nodded. “Thanks for your time.”
“Get a grave,” the prisoner replied, and a glob of spit came flying out.
“That wasn’t very kind,” Ren said, and wandered away from the window with Woodro in tow. He looked up at the stars, barely visible from the glow of torchlight against the enormous walls of Pranan’s Hill. Somewhere out there, he prayed, Lerran and Tass were watching the same stars. And they had a child, with eyes still shut. “I think it’s time to go back to Vagren, Woodro. We’ve done all the spying that was asked of us.”
“Didn’t kill anyone,” Woodro muttered.
“No,” Ren scoffed. “We didn’t.”