The return to Saanazar had been unfortunately uneventful. Renado and his entourage to Trell reunited with Urro and his men in one of the taverns they had learned to trust—only to learn that no news had returned from their Squora assassin. Then two weeks had passed, but still no news had come. Either it had been very successful, Ren told his men, or it had been very not.
One day, Renado went with Ira and Kalikus to bribe a few city patrolmen. They didn’t ask about Squora directly at first, because it wasn’t supposed to be common knowledge. Instead, they asked if the guards knew anything about the absence of Speaker Serand, who was allegedly on an evangelical mission. The guards said they had not heard a thing—and that it was talk among the priesthood. What could have delayed his return, by now, half a month? It was dangerous times for sailing, of course.
Ren was about to try pushing the guards for information on other absent priests when he saw Asar jog up the dimly lit street, dripping with sweat. It was the hour of dawn, so the morning showers had not yet begun. Ren had chosen this hour to try getting grouchy guards from the night shift—those who might appreciate a silver lining to their night and their pocket.
Seeing his trusty warrior, Ren excused himself from the guards, giving them another coin each for their information. Even with Ira’s gambling and a month of Urro’s men working about town, money was in short supply since they had hired the assassin. Half of the payment was still in Ren’s possession, but he didn’t want to spend it and then face a successful and greedy assassin. He pocketed his coin-purse with a slight scowl, and stepped along the street toward a torch mounted on a boarded-up shopfront. “What’s the matter, Asar?”
“It’s Woodro,” Asar said. “They took him again.”
Ren smirked. “Ha-ha,” he said, unimpressed. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows—Asar was still breathing heavily. Had he run the whole way here from his inn? “Wait, you’re being truthful?” Ren asked.
Asar nodded, smoothing his tunic with clammy hands. “They knew what he looked like, of course, because they’ve grabbed him once before. Marched into the tavern, according to the innkeeper, and marched out with him.”
“More guards? The Grey Brethren?” Ren asked. He still could scarcely believe it. Woodro had been captured twice in Saanazar—why? What were the chances?
“It was them,” Asar confirmed. “But, sir, they didn’t take him to a random guardhouse this time. They took him to Burnt Keep.”
Where Ren had almost felt humour at Woodro’s constant danger, he now felt a tug at his stomach. This was probably even worse than last time. The Atmos Septi had treated him peacefully once and—it seemed—they had taken his advice to act against a Conclave operative in Trell. This was far from peaceful. This was a return to arms.
“Let’s go,” Ren said. He glanced at Kalikus, who was pacing over from his own chatted-up guardsman. He spread his hands quizzically. “Kal, go fetch Virn, Urro, and a few of your comrades. Meet us at the Keep.”
“The Keep?” Kal questioned, running a hand through his hair. The ambitious smuggler had recently shaved the sides of his head, in a style that would be more fitting for the Elder Coast or Numa’nakres.
Ren nodded sternly. “Ira, go with him. I don’t want you coming in with us.” Ira bristled at the order, but on second thought, she agreed. She joined Kal in a casual jog down the street.
Asar fell into step with Ren as they strode uphill. The Grey Temple was surrounded by a district of estates for the pious, and a hefty stone fortification that ran for nearly ten miles in circumference. Two miles of this wall were shared by the wall that surrounded the old Keep grounds. It took them nearly half an hour to trek along the inside of the wall to the gate into the royal courtyards of the Saanazar monarchy.
Ren had scarcely believed that Saanazar even had a King. He had lived in this part of the world for most of his life, but had learned about the monarchy only two months ago. King Tavam III was mostly a puppet and, a little bit, a governor. His predecessors had sworn fealty to Atmos and to the Speaker himself. They were not a state that accepted the religion; they were part of the institute itself.
“Why here?” Ren wondered, as they waited anxiously in front of the gate. “Why not the Temple or some religious prison?”
Asar shrugged. “I caught up with them in the streets and watched them march him right through here,” he said. “Perhaps the King schemes separately from the priests?”
Ren shook his head. That seemed unlikely—but so did Woodro’s repetitive capture.
They waited nearly an hour before Virn, Urro, Kal, and two others of Urro’s group arrived. Ren led them across the street to the line of bronze-armoured soldiers on duty. They held up hands or spears to stop the advancing men—clearly these were mercenaries coming to the royal grounds. “What’s your business?” one demanded.
“A man of ours was taken and imprisoned here,” Ren said, matter-of-factly. “We want to know why.”
The guard shrugged. “You’ll need to take that up with Lord Vikilio, the Civil Steward. You can leave your weapons with us, or you can enter with an escort—your call.”
Ren smirked. What a casual security rule, he thought. It offered no protection against a man like Virn, whose weapons were worth twenty normal ones. He turned his smirk into an amiable smile and told the guard, “Escort, please.”
With a company of ten guards as their guides, Ren and his team were led into the castle courtyards. Though black streaks marred the masonry of three sides of the castle, the wall that gave it the namesake of “Burnt” was built into the surrounding stone wall, so visitors could visit it without bothering the Keep guards.
The Civil Steward met with guests on the grounds in a Great Hall of sorts, in the forward wing of the Keep. Four other citizens were in front of Ren, his men, and his escort, giving Ren a chance to look around the Hall and observe the Steward himself. Lord Vikilio was a thick man with a heavily belted beer gut, though his forearms were thick with muscles. He made messy notes in a ledger as he spoke with the civilians, occasionally dispatching a waiting guard or servant to procure more information for his guests. Only once did he decree that a civilian should take up their issue before the King’s Court—at a greatly delayed date.
Aside from the escort and the guards that attended Vikilio, the room was light on security. Off-duty men and women sat at some of the tables behind the Steward’s desk. A few were eating food; the smell of warm bread spread through the Hall from either their plates or a nearby kitchen. If Renado ordered his men to fight, they could overpower this room easily enough.
Lord Vikilio eventually waved them forward. “Welcome,” he said dully. “How can the Monarchy assist you?”
“I want to know why my man, Woodro, was arrested this night past.” It was now midmorning, but Asar had not been clear on how long it had taken him to find Ren with the news.
“I see,” Vikilio said. “A brawl perhaps?”
“A misunderstanding, I think,” Ren insisted.
The Steward sighed. It was hard to gauge if his wistfulness was due to displeasure with his post or if he had simply seen such issues too many times. He waved for the attendant guard. “Please determine what we know about a man named Woodro or arrests last night.” The sergeant saluted and marched for a door at the back of the Hall.
Renado and his men waited a few minutes more, while the Steward spoke with a group of women that had arrived after his mercenaries. It looked to be a busy day for the tired man. After the women had passed—and received winks from Urro and Kal—Lord Vikilio waved them to his desk once again. “What do you have to report?” he asked the returned guard.
“No one arrested by that name. No one here with that name except a servant who has worked here for forty years.” With a bow, the soldier returned to his position nearby. Ren felt a second tug on his stomach. He suppressed it uneasily.
Lord Vikilio spread his hands in a shrug. “Are you certain your friend was brought here?”
Ren turned to Asar. He stepped closer for some privacy. “How certain are you?”
“There’s no doubt,” Asar said. He looked Ren in the eye without wavering. “I was not drinking last night, and I watched them drag Woodro in here. Maybe an hour before sunup.”
With a nod, Ren spun back to the Civil Steward. “There’s no doubt that Woodro was brought here,” he said. “My men say an hour before sunup. Can I see the cells myself, to verify there hasn’t been confusion about his name or something?”
Vikilio barely blinked. “Very well,” he said. “Your escort can show you the way.” He lifted a ring-laden hand to wave the next plaintiff forward.
Virn followed close on the heels of their guides, startling two of the guards with his unusual appearance—tough skin, malnourished hair, and slightly too-wide mouth. Renado and Asar followed behind with Urro and the others. The route was a little convoluted, bringing them down two flights of stairs and through a long corridor that surely reached beneath the city itself. There certainly could have been passageways within the Keep—maybe even reaching beyond the grounds themselves—but Ren would have had to study floor plans to comprehend where they might be found.
At last they were admitted to a long, low-ceilinged room. Two dozen cells ran along each wall to the end of the room. A guard-table was set up in the center of the long chamber, where three jailkeepers played cards amidst removed helmets. The room stunk of nearby sewage, though a wooden door at the end likely led to a privy cistern, and attempted to block the stench. The escort dispersed on some ungiven cue, to chat with their comrades or survey the room.
Ren walked with Asar along one of the rows of cells, passing malnourished men and women. Many wore tattered clothes. Some did not even look up as they passed by. Urro and his subordinates walked along the other wall, pausing every so often if the prisoner was not facing them.
When they reached the end of the chamber, they turned to face one another with confusion. None of the prison bars had revealed their missing companion. Ren glanced at Asar, who looked even more confounded than the rest of them, and then walked past Urro to the wall he had not personally examined. The two groups of mercenaries repeated their search, making sure neither had missed anything.
Woodro was not here. The tugging in Ren’s gut grew insistent. Something was very wrong.
They soon led their escort out of the jail—without answers. Vikilio would shed no more light. The only party who would act against them without giving them answers was the Grey Brethren. The monarchy would only act so aggressively at their behest. Ren’s questions needed a priest for answers.
As they careened angrily through the streets, Ren glanced at Urro. “Reach out to Tobud again,” he said. “Set up a meet. I want to know why they stole my damned man!” He clenched his teeth and branched off from the others. He would go to their training ground for the tenth time since returning to Saanazar. As always, he needed to hit something.