Renado had hired criminals many times before, but he was not used to such a feeling of waiting. His assassin, Jiyander, was sailing along the coast of Radregar—or maybe he had arrived. Ren knew he had to wait for the meeting to take place, and wait for the assassin to succeed or fail, and wait for the news to get back to him. It was a lot more waiting than he preferred.
To fill his time, he helped his men with their research into the mysterious Archpriest Roithe. He alternated between making rounds with Omma to various archives and frequenting bars where Ira knew the soldiers and priests drank. As the days slowly crawled past, Ren became more and more convinced that Roithe was not simply the Archpriest of the Speaker’s Creed. He now knew why so many thought there existed a secretive Sixth Creed. Aside from learning that Roithe was not presently in Saanazar, that he had a friend in the Reformer’s Creed Bradach, and that he had heavily researched volcanos… they knew nothing more.
One evening, Ren stood on the porch of a tavern—he couldn’t even remember the name, he had been to so many—listening to the crackling torches and smelling the tobacco on the air. Ira was standing nearby, and, as a cool salty breeze picked up from Tieko’s Deep, Ren held out his hand to her. She took it, and he wrapped her into his embrace. She stood on the bottom step of the porch’s wide staircase, so he could rest his head on her shoulder; they looked across the rooftops of the city together. The irregular slopes and outlooks were dotted with torch- or lantern-light. The wind carried on it the sounds of brawls and brothels.
“I feel so alive,” Ren said. “This, this is what I want. You and me, just drinking deeply of it all.”
Ira nodded.
It went unspoken that they could not hold this moment for long when so many had plotted against them. They knew that this was the dream. This was their future, if the cards landed right.
After ten minutes had passed, a drunkard from the tavern nearly knocked them off the porch, and the moment passed. Renado leaned in for a kiss, after which Ira smiled consolingly. Then, Ren cleared his throat. “I think it’s time to get away from Saanazar for a bit,” he said.
“Oh?”
Ren nodded. “We’ve stalled. Roithe seems to be able to easily leave no footprints behind. Until he returns, we should do something else.”
Ira looked into the tavern. Through an open window, they watched Asar and Woodro downing shots at the bar amidst a handful of cheering sailors. Ren’s lover looked back at him expectantly. “Where to?” she asked.
“Trell,” Ren said. “I’ve been thinking—we told Archpriest Par about the… operative there, but still have heard no news of success or failure in catching them.” With others sitting on the porch, Ren was unable to say, “Conclave operative,” as he had tried to.
“Good,” Ira said. “Should I go tell them?”
Through the window, Woodro whooped loudly, and tossed another empty cup onto the bar counter. Ren smiled. “Let’s tell them in the morning. We’ll leave Urro and his crew here, and just go with the mercenaries. We can leave day after tomorrow.”
Ira pursed her lips and nodded. “I’ve never been to Trell,” she said.
“Me neither.” Ren patted her shoulder and they walked inside together.