Good lookalikes they did not find, so their search turned to finding allies. While the closest they got to the former was a drunkard who vaguely resembled Asar, the latter led them toward a smuggling ring in Saanazar’s underbelly. They heard one name twice—Sarim—and it was a name that meant something to Ren.
Four years ago, during his time aboard Vanci’s smuggling ship out of Sheld, Ren had spent a couple of months in Saanazar and Eastpoint. During those days, he had become friends with another smuggler, a man named Sarim. The crook had been brilliant, as Ren remembered it; Sarim’s schemes had greatly benefited his boss, a gangster known as Curmarn. But now Ren’s men were reporting a boss named Sarim.
As he led Kal and Asar through the narrow streets of one of the less peaceful boroughs of Saanazar, Ren decided he shouldn’t have been surprised to learn of Sarim’s new rank. He only hoped that Sarim remembered their history as friendship and not as competition.
The meeting was to be held at the greatest sort of gathering place there was—a tavern, of course. Specifically, they were to speak over drinks at the Komen Commons, a sprawling plaza of bars, brothels, and bunkhouses that was entirely out of sight of the Grey Temple and Burnt Keep. As they strode down the slope of the hill that obstructed the view, the mercenaries began passing folk more similar to them. Instead of toga-garbed townsfolk or silk-tunicked merchants, they now walked among grim-faced men in boiled leather or hard-earned fur pelts. Most men were armed—and many of the women, too.
Ren caught a gorgeous brunette staring at him as she sat on the deck of an alehouse and sharpened her knife. It was hard not to return the look, though his heart was miles away, tucked behind bars under the Grey Temple.
Their destination was a patio pub set up beneath a large canvas pavilion. It was in the middle of the Commons, easily found and easily observed. It seemed that Sarim was more concerned with his potential criminal allies betraying him than he was with the city guard intervening. That might usually work for him, but Ren was worried that his face could draw more heat than Sarim was expecting—that is, once Ren removed his brown hood.
He did so only after he had ordered a cider at the bar. His sudden appearance in the midst of Sarim’s men seemed to catch everyone off guard. Those were who not ignorant patrons of the establishment, paused mid-drink or rested their hands on their weapons. Sarim put them at ease, rising from a table to the right of the bar and spreading his hands. “Ah, welcome,” he said. “Will you join me at my table?”
Ren bobbed his head and pulled his mug off the bar. He joined Sarim at a table for two—Ren’s subordinates stayed at the counter to quietly drink their own beverages. Kal gave Ren a nod as he sat down.
Sarim smiled as he looked Ren over. He was a man of stocky build, not overweight nor sized similarly to Omma. He rubbed a small beard between one finger and his thumb and drawled, “Good to see you again, Ren. I’ve heard mention of you around town.”
Ren smiled and cursed beneath his breath. “Good seeing you too, my friend. Glad to see your success here.”
“It was a bumpy road, but I’m sure you know all about that.”
Ren rolled his eyes. It reminded him again—just how many of their “allies” had sat in taverns and listened to news of Sheld’s downfall, doing nothing? “Yes, sadly. No thanks to the damned Brethren.”
“Catching their attention is a true danger, these days.”
Ren glanced around. “Then why are we meeting here, out in the open?”
Sarim shrugged. “Most of the guards in this part of town are on my payroll or that of another gang.”
“I’m not worried about that. Most anyone knows what my face looks like by now,” Ren explained.
Sarim rubbed his jaw again. “Well I was expecting a beard—and that hood hid all the rest.”
Ren sighed and sipped his cider. After a moment, he lamented, “Horse shite like this never happened in the old days.”
“Fortunate for then, unfortunate for now,” Sarim said. “Your anonymity aside, I can’t afford to draw more ire for me and my kind. That brings me to my next question. Why are you here, Ren?”
“In the city? Or talking to you?”
Sarim smirked. “Start with the first and finish with the second, I’d say.”
Ren shrugged and pushed his mug aside. He put his palms down on the tabletop. It was surprisingly clean for a low-end drinking venue. “I’m in the city to get revenge for the Family. And for the latter, I’m sure a clever old thief like yourself would already know—or you wouldn’t have agreed to meet in the first place.”
“Well… I had hoped my guesses were in error,” Sarim admitted. He ran a hand through his fuzzy black hair. He had once told Ren about his Numa parents, immigrants to this area. “If interrupting Grey Brethren business could be accomplished successfully, do you really think they’d be as powerful as they are?”
“True,” Ren allowed. “But you must have seen what happened the other week.”
“Seen?” Sarim hissed. “I put as much distance between myself and that business as I could. I heard about what happened—and I heard how much it cost you.”
“It did cost me, but I believe it cost them more.”
Sarim spread his hands in front of him. “I have been operating just fine without such costs. Let me sort this out—do you want me to attack a public exaction? Or stage a prison break? Are you able to compensate such… costs?”
Ren had considered this already. He wouldn’t have met with a coin-counter like Sarim if it had been impossible. They had accrued 4,000 Grey Sea coins since their arrival in Saanazar—quite a feat, as Ren understood it. Two-thousand had been given to Jiyander, the assassin sent to Squora, and the other 2,000 had been promised for his return. It now seemed safe to say that Jiyander would not return. If 4,000, give or take a little, was enough to buy the life of a queen, half should have been enough for a little urban chaos.
Nonetheless, Ren was surprised when Sarim started his bargaining at 3,000. “1,200,” Ren suggested. “I’m not asking you to kill anyone important.”
“That’s less than half. 2,600,” Sarim countered.
Ren shrugged. “You’re not bargaining with the Family this time, my friend. That’s too rich for my blood. 1,500.”
For the first time since Ren’s arrival, Sarim the smuggler touched his keg-like mug. He drank a few gulps of beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “2,000. That’s the lowest I will go. Sweeten the deal with information if you can—you certainly seemed to have an earful for the Brethren to hear—before things fell apart.”
“If that would lower the price down to my last offer, I certainly will,” Ren said. He sipped his cider again. He would need enough money to get his wanted team out of Saanazar when all this was done.
Sarim shook his head. “It will only affect the price if it’s information that is useful to me. Don’t get me wrong—I have no interest in swindling you, Ren. I just can’t sacrifice lives without earning some sort of advantage. So please: what do you know? I will weigh it and earnestly reconsider my price.”
Ren rubbed his forehead. It was a tricky proposition, though that was mainly due to the Tether binding up Ren’s tongue. He spoke slowly and carefully: “The same people who were behind the death of the Mage Kings have operatives around Saanazar. They are willing to blackmail, threaten, and act out aggressively to accomplish their goals. They may be controlling other events, but I don’t have any proof yet.” After a longer pause, Ren continued listing things he knew, “Archpriests Morrus and Roithe were behind the attack on Sheld and the fall of the Family. Archpriest Bradach is supposedly a close ally of Roithe’s. Roithe and Morrus were on the docks. Roithe vanished with magic—he might still live. Morrus is as dead as a deck.”
“What ‘other events’? Are they behind the war on the Grey Sea? The alliance with the Empire of Noress and Eastpoint?” Sarim questioned. “And how do you know about this group? Did you do a job for them?”
Ren closed his eyes. “If you want more, you’ll need to ask one of the people I want you to free.” He blinked and looked Sarim in the eye. He honestly couldn’t tell the man much more than that, but Tass could. She had overheard a dozen secrets—the only loophole they had yet discovered about the Vows on the Isle of Dusk.
Again, Sarim fingered the pointy beard he wore. “You’ve certainly caught my interest. How’s this, I will lower my price to 1,750. Pay me half of that now and I will agree to help with this rescue plan. I will lower the remaining amount to match your 1,500 request, after I hear from your captured friend, as you claim.”
“Always the businessman, aye Sarim?” Ren asked, carefully following Sarim’s convoluted deal around his mind. “Let’s have a drink to seal the deal.”
“Good. A drink—and then planning,” Sarim declared. “This will require quite a lot of both, I am certain.” He stood up and crossed to the bar. His heavy boots clomped on the wooden floorboards of the patio, and he called to the barkeeper, “Two shots of Asha Spirits.”
Ren sighed. Tal’lashar brewed a sharp drink with their distilled agave. He brushed elbows with Sarim and grabbed his shot—they did them out of tiny brass cups. He shuddered ever so slightly, but did his best to hide it from his new ally. He only hoped his ally wasn’t hiding anything from him.