Chapter 6

His rations for the horse, and himself, almost run out, and he is not even halfway. He enters the mountain range, a route quicker than the serpentine road through the valley. As he rises toward a summit about halfway through the golden-white mountains, he sees a vista opening on in front and a wide chasm to his right. The road follows and hugs the mountain before descending into the forest ahead.

He stops. On the other side of the chasm, he sees a group of soldiers and, on a warhorse, a tall man with blonde hair and a white cloak, stopped at their road's peak. Renzo knows the man can see him too. But the howling wind and the distance make it impossible to say anything, even if he wanted to. Fabio halts his horse, flabbergasted. Waiting no longer, Renzo hurries on, and in an hour or so descends into the valley.

He reaches Valenfall by early evening. The town is quiet and fairly small, and used to be a quaint but picturesque stopover – but the parts he remembers from before his imprisonment seem run-down. Wearing a hood made from a rag, and a new pair of pants, he manages not to catch much attention. He easily finds an inn with the money he stole from Thredmore’s mansion, a place to nurse away the pain from his legs. But his next task proves harder. Roads from five different towns crisscross Valenfall, and barges navigating the wide Ondala river stop at its ports, bringing masses of passersby. Searching for one, Renzo spends every day scouring one tavern after another, until at last, in a small beer hall under the name of The Striped Pheasant, behind a cloud of pipe smoke, he notices an unkempt man with a scar across his nose. The man is sitting in a dim alove, away from the main hall, finishing off an ale, part of his beard dipped into the beer with some foam left on his mustache.

"Long time no see," Renzo says, sitting next to him.

"Do I know you?" the man asks slowly. He looks confused but also somewhat resigned.

"I believe we worked in the same profession before," Renzo and leans in. "Jarel."

"You know my name?" the man asks. Then his eyes seem to finally focus, and a look of recognition visits his face. "No way. There’s no way you’re alive."

"You have to believe me that I am." Renzo says, and after checking that the people around them are not looking, removes the hood from his head, and turns his head around. Lowering it, he shows a brand on the back of his skull that looks like an eagle in a circle.

"I think you’ve seen a Patrianes brand, have you not?" Renzo asks.

Jarel moves his hand to touch the back of his own head. "The brand means nothing," he says. "You can buy a fake one in the capital for three copper pieces, a bit more outside of it. The real Renzo I knew died legless in exile."

"I figured old tales wouldn't convince you." Renzo reaches into his pocket and brings out a pouch of coins. "And you don't have to believe me. But you’ll have to believe that I could use your help. I have a difficult mission ahead of me."

"This mission," Jarel says, swaying a bit in his chair, "does it have anything to do with leaving Valenfall? Going somewhere?"

"Indeed."

"Does it perhaps have anything to do with fighting, or anything of that sort?"

"There’s some violence that I expect will be had," Renzo admits. "Seems suitable for a sellsword."

Jarel nods and leans back a bit. He looks left and right before continuing, quietly. "Do you perhaps plan on enacting this violence upon people who might be connected to the Crown?"

"You’re reading my mind, Jarel. But even for your standards, you’ve let yourself go," Renzo answers, crossing his arms.

Jarel smiles a crooked smile. "Well, first of all, I do not believe that you are Renzo. Second of all, you cannot ask me to go with you on that mission. I’m not nearly drunk enough to think it’s a good idea."

"You can't escape from your past, and neither can I."

"I'm not escaping, I'm leaving," Jarel says, getting up too quickly and having to steady himself for a moment. "Now, if you don’t mind, do not follow me or I'll throw you out of my town." He turns and stumbles out of the bar.

Renzo clicks his tongue and finishes his drink.

---

The next day brings him to a more prosperous part of town, one where money changers and fabric merchants live in buildings with bright peach and off-white facades. He makes his way around a corner into an inner courtyard and to an unassuming grayish building with a dark entryway, under a lacquered oak banner. "Come in," a male voice says after he knocks thrice on a black door.

He walks into a dusty pawnshop. Its windows overlook the courtyard on one side and the street on the other. Light floods in to illuminate rows of books, valuables and timepieces. In the very middle is a desk piled high with ledgers, and behind it sits a plump man with narrow eyes. He is thoroughly occupied with weighing one gold coin after another on a small brass scale. He wears a frayed velvet doublet, and smells of cheap lilac water.

"I told the Red Vane my taxes are paid," he mutters.

Renzo walks up to the desk, takes off his hood, and pulls up his pants legs to expose his ankles. The man behind the desk finally stops counting and looks up. A gold coin slips from his finger and clinks on the scale. A greasy smile spreads slowly across his face.

"By the Wind God. So they did cut your legs off–and you grew new ones!"

Renzo steps up and leans on the desk. "Hello, Sterien. I believe you owe me something."

"What would that be?"

"Your life, for one, and half of the banknotes you carried out of the fire during the Siege of Bairn."

The man stops smiling.

"I’m looking for two things. One, information on a man called Jarel Tynvist. And two, a way to get to Kalandor’s court from here."

Sterien begins to cough and almost chokes. He clears his throat. "That’s a dangerous debt to collect, Renzo," he says, rubbing his temples. "And it’s not really a conversation we should be having here." He leans in and whispers. "I don’t know if people are listening. Anyway, what’s up with you and this Jarel?"

"I need someone I can rely on. I need muscle. I know him, and I know he is good, when not drunk."

"Well, have you tried talking to him?"

"He brushed me off. He doesn’t believe me."

Sterien leans back. "I think that tells you everything you need to know about working with him."

"I’m not asking you for advice, Sterien Landhorg," Renzo's arms flex when he glares at the pawnshop owner. "You know things, you know where people are. Where is Jarel?"

"Not here, that's for sure," Sterien says and shuts the book of ledgers in front of him. "And I can't give you any information in this place, or at this time."

"Then where? How fast can you get me what I need?"

Sterien clicks his tongue. He looks behind Renzo to check if the doors are closed, then rises slightly and tries peering out the windows on his left and right. "These things take time. Meet me in two days. There’s an abandoned storehouse behind the bank at the end of the main street, right before it changes into the trade market. Make sure to come alone, when the clock strikes five in the afternoon."

Renzo looks down at him. "You’d better not be setting me up."

"How could I? After all, I owe you my life," Sterien says, smiling. "Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather we don’t stay in the same room for too long. I’m not really sure if it would be good for me... Or for you."

Renzo straightens out his back to size up the man, his gilded chair and leather-bound books. Sterien always hid things, but it was also why he was valuable.

"I'll be seeing you then," Renzo nods and leaves quickly, going back to the tavern. Making his way past the regulars, he hears lowered voices talking of guards looking for an escapee. He wastes no time getting back to his room. If Jarel won’t come with him, and if Sterien wants to take his time, there is at least one more person in Valenfall he can ask for help.