The city of High Raena was the first semblance of familiarity to Renado in many months. He had been here several times during his life, but his last visit had been over five years ago. A lot had changed during that time. The dome roof of the Joyous King’s Palace rose over the city, just as it always had, but now the second moon was rising behind it. Though the moon had been hidden during his approach to High Raena, from the east, Ren now walked southwest. They had entered from the north gate of High Raena because the Sunset River, now nearly devoid of ships, prevented the existence of any gates on the east side. That was another difference—High Raena’s waters had been as busy as the harbours of Saanazar or Sheld, when Ren had last visited.
Once they finished their march past the Palace, Ren’s troop finally had a view of the harbour. High Raena had nearly forty docks, but only a few were in use. There were still a dozen anchored mercantile ships, but fishing vessels were the most plentiful. Renado was left wondering what had happened to High Raena’s economy, to cause such a disparity from the way he recalled the port.
The city around them showed no signs of faltering industry. Crowds of workmen pushed past Ren and his men; customers perused every market stall. The Joyous King’s wealth seemed intact.
At the harbour, Captain Urro finally put into words the growing dread they had all felt growing since their first glimpse of the docks. “Submerged gods and drowned men,” the seafarer cursed. “Where’s my damned ship?”
Storm was not in the harbour. Renado looked at his Captain and held out his hands. “You left it here, right? This High Raena?”
“Indeed,” Urro growled around clenched teeth. “Let’s check the inn.”
“Lead the way,” Ren urged him.
Massive stone slabs braced the small doorway of the Barnacle Beer and House. Each was slate grey and showed signs of regular polishing. A length of deck ran away from the slabs, layering away from the door. Kalikus, who was never far from Virn or Ren, waved to one of the men sitting at the deck. The man—one of Storm’s crew—stood up quickly. “Kal—and Captain—and Renado!” A few others stood up. The first bowed his head to Ren quickly. “First Mate Taven is inside.”
“He’d better have some word as to where our ship is,” Captain Urro muttered.
“Yes, sir,” the sailor replied quickly.
The heavy mahogany door opened to a tavern of ascetic decoration: each table was a slab of rock balanced upon a sturdy wooden pillar; the chandelier was an horizontal wooden cross holding torches in its hefty bronze rings at each cardinal point; the bar ran the length of the back wall with a granite counter and white driftwood shelves. The musky cloud of smoke seemed a natural function of the place, as though, without it, the common room would be incomplete.
First Mate Taven, a bearded fellow with fishnet-scarred forearms, clambered out of his chair and sent one of his subordinates striding toward the housing portion of the inn; then, he bowed to Ren and the arrayed troop of travellers. The broad tavern could hold over fifty men, so Ren’s twenty did not need to cram. Renado had only spoken to Taven two or three times in the past, but they quickly added another such instance. “Where’s my ship, Taven?”
“’Tis not my doing, sir. Nearly every ship in the harbour was requisitioned, you see?” Taven asked.
“Requisitioned?” Urro asked. “My Storm?”
Taven nodded. “I’m afraid so, sirs. King Fareon has built—or rather bought—himself a fleet to protect the city should the war come here.”
“King Fareon bought our ship?” Renado asked, incredulously.
The crewman that Taven had sent to the back hallway returned with a heavy wooden coffer—braced and locked with bronze. He set it down on the stone tabletop nearest to Taven and the new arrivals, then bowed to the group of onlookers before retreating towards the bar. Taven removed a length of twine from around his neck and fit a key to the padlock. The chest was full of coin. “Fourteen hundred, in Grey Sea coins so we can spend them without converting them,” Taven reported.
“That is barely the worth of the ship,” Urro gasped. “King Fareon swindled us our ship?”
Renado sighed loudly. “I don’t suppose you were given a choice, Taven?” The First Mate dourly shook his head. “Damn him. We’ve been hunted by a church, betrayed by magicians, and now burglared by a King. What war?”
Taven blinked. “Why, the bandits on the Great Isle, of course.”
“I heard gangs of brigands had been causing chaos there, but… war? What is happening?” Ren asked.
“Cities on the Great Isle are falling by the month,” Taven explained. Woodro let out his breath anxiously, while Ren listened intently. “They are organized in some way—allied at least. The cities that survive, even on the coasts of Radregar, are building up their defences: a fleet in Saanazar, a fleet at Var Nordos. Even if the Raderans win the war, a fleet is the only security for High Raena.”
Ren shook his head. “Anarchy. The whole Grey Sea has fallen under the waves since we left it.” He snatched a hand of coins out of the chest. “At least we will be able to pay for passage to Saanazar.”
“Saanazar?” Taven asked, confused. “Why would we go—”
“Asar, explain things to Taven and his men. Ira, join me at the bar. I need a few drinks,” Ren snarled. He shoved the fistful of copper coins into the pocket of his tunic and strode toward the back of the room. Sooner or later—if people kept taking things from him—Ren was going to snap. But for today, there was Ira’s whiskey.