Renado 64

“I’m not going to buy any,” Renado told the peddler for the third time.  Irritably, Ren stepped away from the stall of displayed silver trinkets, toward the next market stand.  He was on his own, browsing through the merchants as he watched for the grey-robed man to make up his mind about a gold necklace.

“Then stop wasting my time!” called the silver peddler after Ren.  His shout was lost in the hubbub of the Saanazar market—fortunately before it reached the shopping priest—but Ren shot the salesman a dirty glance in retaliation.

The Grey Brethren that Renado tailed was none other than Morrus, the Archpriest of the Militant Creed.  Morrus was accompanied by only one guard on outings such as these, for reasons that Renado had heard, but had not yet seen.  Morrus was a forty-year-old man—young compared to his colleagues.  He had a fat, round nose, though his belly was so frail it made Ren uncomfortable, and his hair was brushed back thinly, streaked with silver and brown.  His plain grey cloth made him easy to tail through the busy city streets.

Renado’s strategy had grown more specific over the last few days.  His actions in Saanazar had taken a two-pronged approach.  He intended to leak information to Hartho of the Sage’s Creed.  Hartho and his spies dabbled in such precious intelligences according to every rumour, historical account, and suspicion that Renado’s men had uncovered.  Omma had discovered a few accounts in record-books of the disbanding of the Sage’s Creed, after their over-commitment to political schemes.  Irrith had told Ren back in Vagren that an operative not unlike her was organizing the Conclave’s missions in the region of Saanazar.  As this conversation did not take place on the Isle of Dusk and did not solely pertain to topics he had learned there, Renado could speak of it freely—a loophole in the Tether.

While he followed Morrus away from the market and through the district of Hedgeon, Ren’s subordinates pursued such a ploy with Hartho.  While that Archpriest rarely left his temples, Woodro and Urro were putting on a feigned conversation at an academy forum frequented by Hartho’s good friend, Tobud.  Renado and his friends hoped Tobud would hear their bait and contact them—or Hartho—about a supposed “dangerous magician nearby, scheming in the shadows.”

The second prong was about damaging the Grey Brethren, not the Conclave.  Renado was confident that Morrus had a direct hand in the downfall of the Family of Sheld.  The Militant Creed would have commanded the mercenary fleet that had strung up Ren’s siblings and had burned their holdings.

They had learned most of Morrus’ schedule to build a list of places he frequented.  The place to which Renado tailed him today was one of his most vulnerable.

The Perfumed Palace was a three-storey mansion overlooking the Harbour District from a ridge on the east side of Saanazar Hill.  The property was protected by a detachment of The Saltwater Army—the renowned mercenary company—but its gates were open every hour.  Morrus strode through the garden path to the front door as though he owned it.  Renado glimpsed a lace-clad woman welcome him with a kiss and lead him deeper into the brothel, but Ren did not follow further.

He chuckled to himself as he walked past the “mansion of sin.”  It’s true, then, he thought.  After the pious sermon the Archpriest had given last week, Renado had scarcely believed that this was one of the places he regularly went.

It was a far quicker walk back to Parla’s Place without frequent pausing in the streets and shops.  Renado found he had arrived before Woodro and Urro—who were to report here before returning to their own respective inns.  Only Renado, Ira, Virn, and Kalikus stayed at Parla’s now.

Ira was busy with a game of cards, but she waved to Ren when he entered.  While he waited, he crossed to the bar and paid for a cider.  There were a few thugs in the corner—the narrow-eyed, armed sort of men who were just waiting for a coin to drop before they let out their violence.  Ren caught one watching him and briefly worried that one of the heirs of the infamous crime syndicate of Sheld might be recognizable, but the man raised a finger to Parla as soon as she finished pouring Ren’s drink.  Lerran was always the better known of us, he thought.  Renado had spent too many years on Vanci Dispatch for that sort of recognition.

“Well?” Ira asked, sliding her hand onto Ren’s wrist as she dropped onto the stool next to him.  “Did you enjoy the whorehouse?”  The barkeep raised her eyebrows at Ren.

Renado smirked.  “I didn’t go in,” he said.  He gave Parla a wide-eyed look before turning back to Ira.  The tavern-owner waddled away to deliver the mercenaries’ drinks.

“I know,” Ira said.  “But it’s called a Palace!  Was it truly that size?”

“It was as large as a small one, I suppose,” Ren replied.  “It was certainly built like a Palace—white marble walls and iron gates.”

“I’ve never seen anywhere like that before.  I wonder what the girls are like…” Ira murmured.

Renado laughed uncomfortably and took a drink of his cider.

His lover leaned closer.  “And the priest?” she asked.  She took hold of his mug and pulled until Renado let go.  After a large mouthful, she smiled and questioned, “Did he go in?  Is that the place to learn more?”

“He certainly did go in.  Bought something nice for someone first,” Renado said.  He rested one elbow on the bar so no one could see his face except her.  “And I think it is the place.  Might be expensive bribery though.”

Ira grinned and handed him a pouch.  “Today’s winnings,” she said.  The bag was surprisingly heavy.  Ren opened it and stared at the money inside.  She raised an eyebrow.  “And, before you say it, I don’t cheat.”

Ren held up his hands innocently and chuckled yet again.

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