For Renado and his henchmen—as well as most of the inhabitants of Trellios’ drinking houses—the celebration of the Raderan New Year lasted well through the first day of the year. When they were not drinking, they were gambling. Virn always won the former—despite Asar’s and Woodro’s years of expertise—and Ira the latter. Ren did more observing of the activities than partaking. Maybe it was his recent weeks in Trellios’ archives and libraries, scouring dull texts for information on the Grey Brethren, Archpriest Roithe, and the recently murdered scholar-or-Conclave-member that made Ren’s eyes remain glazed over for the first thirty hours of their New Year’s celebrations.
The evening of the 1st—as he began to wake up to the infectious energy that persisted among his men and the locals—he found himself sharing a pint with Virn at the bar. “We were talking about time, earlier” he said, absently. He snorted. “Probably what most people do at New Year’s.”
Virn looked at him and didn’t say a thing. The man’s coarse bronze skin made it impossible for him to grow more than a few whiskers on his chin, but it also made him sweat less. Ren felt like his shirt was keeping the humidity of the jungle inside.
“Another?” asked the barkeeper, striding past with a large pewter pitcher painted red and blue. Ren nodded and held out his mug. The foamy brown filled it to the rim.
Turning back to Virn, Ren continued. “It’s been over a year since I left Lerran and Tass. It’s been nearly two since we saw Sheld, our real home. We’ve talked about it a fair share, I’m sure. But what about you?”
Virn raised an eyebrow. He withdrew a straight black pipe from his sleeve and a brown leather pouch from his belt. “Me?” he asked, as he prepared an herb that Ren didn’t recognize. Virn never spoke of his tenfold vices. He rarely spoke about anything at all.
Ren nodded. “How long since you’ve been home, wherever that is for you?”
“Damn you,” Virn mumbled, and started to puff. A tendril of orangish smoke rose from the end of the pipe. “Haven’t thought about that in a while.” More smoke escaped his mouth around each word.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Ren said. “Just reminiscing.”
Virn shrugged. “I honestly could not tell you. It was before… before I made this way. I tried going back five years ago, but my enemy was there.”
“The Circle?” Ren asked, voice hushed. He knew so little about what that was. Another coven of cowardly schemers, likely.
Virn tipped his head, and then puffed rings of smoke that resembled candlelight. His lips quivered, and his eyes closed for longer than a blink. “And your family? Who is your family?”
“A wife, a daughter, a slain son…” Virn said. He thumbed his pipe to the side and slogged a mouthful of beer down his gullet. His voice was growing slurred. “I saw them about a year ago. Just before I was sent with Kazra to bring down the Mage Kings.”
Ren drank solemnly. More than five years since setting foot in his home—was that Ren’s future?
Just as he was about to ask Virn about the exotic contents of his pipe, Ira appeared at his side, shaking his arm. “Your men require you,” she said.
“Is something the matter?” Ren asked, starting to stand up alarmed. The room spiralled around him, either from the booze or from a few inhalations of whatever smoke Virn was breathing.
Ira put his concern at ease with a smile that split her rosy cheeks. “No, for a toast,” she laughed.
“Ah. Virn?” Ren asked.
Virn looked at his drink, then tilted his head. He stayed where he was sitting.
As Ira led Ren across the crowded common room to a round table near the front windows, he realized two things. The first was that he had no clue what tavern this even was. The second was that he had just been lamenting their situation—what cause was there for a toast?
He arrived at the window table to be greeted by the smiling faces of Woodro and Asar. They cheered and waved him to sit next to Woodro. It seemed Ira already had a spot next to Asar. Ren set his beer down in front of him and looked at the others quizzically. “Two questions,” he said. “What is that smell—Woodro? And what are we toasting?”
“It’s coming in the window,” Woodro said, dismissively.
Asar lifted a glass of whiskey. “To a year of working for one of our own,” he said, and winked at Ren.
As Woodro and Ira raised their own cups, Ren looked at Asar in confusion. “You’re toasting this? We’re miles from home, constantly in danger, and accomplishing very little.” The cups hesitated.
“Well, we’re not working for G—him anymore. We’re not working for anyone else,” Woodro said.
“If we were still smuggling for Gharo, or Lerran, we’d be just as endangered and just as far from home,” Asar pointed out. “We were on the Dispatch longer than you. This isn’t much different from that life. And we’re glad to be doing it with, well, with one of our own.”
Ren shook his head. It was madness to hear something like that—that you were enough for people’s lives. He started to smile, and looked at Ira, who was smiling for him.
“Come on,” she said, tilting her cup. “We’re waiting for you.”
“Fine,” Ren said, “but it’s for a more successful New Year.” He raised his mug of beer and clattered it against theirs. Then they all drank. Virn remained at the bar, getting high out of his mind on some sort of drug. But Ren and his friends, for a moment, kicked up their feet and laughed the night away.