Life went on, for the members of Adrix’s squad. Ralist could not return to duty, but there was little to be done for his unfortunate situation. He passed the days drinking in the harbour, riding the edge of a coin between skipping town or continuing to hide in the slums. For the rest of the weary squad, the hint of a potential large job warranted double the training sessions. Between guard and escort jobs, Tirak proved his mettle against their very best. Even Adrix, the most experienced warrior in the squad, lost as many bouts against Tirak as he won.
Tirak spent his nights sleeping more than usual. He had no mission to warrant his nightly search for fights and brawls—Ralist had been found, after all, and his torturers had seemingly absconded with whatever secrets they had gleaned. Fatigued from the long, physical-tolling days, Tirak made sure he had enough energy to face whatever “big gig” the Commanders had in store.
One evening—as he made his way back through the streets of Toradar’s District toward more secure turf—Tirak passed the wide window of a common room and paused. There’d been a familiar face in there. He paced back a few steps, avoiding a merchant’s pushed wagon, and glanced inside the drinking den. The familiar man was playing dice—it was Jolas. Tirak blinked. His old mercenary friend had said he was only in Eastpoint between jobs.
Tirak wandered inside, but was careful not to face the dice tables as he saddled a barstool within earshot. Jolas was never any good at dice, he thought. For a few moments, he listened to Jolas converse with two players, but didn’t hear anything suspicious. They talked about the dangers facing Saanazar, where a bandit fleet had finally landed. They talked about a recent brawl in the harbour. They talked about drinks. Jolas was staying at the inn next door. It was all meaningless to Tirak.
Finally, one of the players left the table and Jolas ordered another round—he was planning to spend the evening in here, it seemed.
Tirak stood up, turned around, and exclaimed, “Jolas?” He grabbed the empty chair—the back was still warm to the touch.
“Tirak!” barked Jolas.
The other man, sitting across from Jolas, gave Tirak a nod.
Tirak grinned to his old friend. “Still playing dice, hm? Are you winning or losing tonight?”
“Losing, always losing,” Jolas said, with a sigh and a mock scowl. “Pull up a chair, you can win some of mine too.”
Tirak shrugged. “Fine, fine. I’ll play a round.” He sized up the tables, noticing the dice kept by both other players and those in the middle. He knew this game—he grabbed his coin purse. “Here’s the buy in.”
“Work is good? You happy with the Company?” Jolas asked. He glanced at the other dice player, who was another friend, it seemed.
Tirak sighed when he saw the other man roll. “Work’s been boring and heavy—the worst kind of wife,” he said. “But at least the pay is worth it, most days. What about yourself? Did you find work around town?”
“Just the scraps the Company doesn’t catch,” Jolas muttered. “I’ll be skipping town soon enough.”
“Not enough to keep a crew content, you know?” added Jolas’ friend.
Jolas shot the man an annoyed glance.
Tirak blinked. “How many on your crew?” he asked. He had thought Jolas was here alone, after the words they had shared a few months ago.
“Well, we’ve got—”
Jolas cut his friend off with: “Just a few. Old friends, you know?”
“Old friends…” Tirak mumbled. “Most of those are dead or retired. Hopefully you can pick up some better paying gigs at least.” He decided to let go of the thread before Jolas got too suspicious and instead focused on their dice game instead.
After a few rounds, Tirak noticed something pass between the two mercenaries—an unvoiced message. He glanced around and noticed that a few of the local District’s guards had entered the common room. Almost on cue, Jolas looked at Tirak apologetically and said, “I had better call it a night,” he said. He counted out the coins he owed Tirak and his other friend.
Tirak bid him a good night, all the while wondering if he ought to follow Jolas outside and demand to know what was going on. Instead, Tirak headed for the bar past the guards and ordered another drink. Once a few minutes had passed, he shifted closer to the guards until he could hear them.
After a few moments, one of the two District guards glanced at the now empty guard table and said, “What do you think that was about—East Storm meeting with him? Should we report—”
The other guard was facing Tirak and quickly shushed his companion. “Not now. Just drink your ale.”
The first speaker quickly looked at Tirak, but then tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed the East Storm Company man drinking at the bar. Tirak gave it a good ten minutes so as to put them at ease—then he hurried out into the street.
Jolas’ inn was a dark shadow next to the brightly lit bar, but the torchlit street called stronger to Tirak. He didn’t quite know what to ask Jolas, if he were to confront his old friend. Instead he continued on his original trajectory across the city—the Red Seal Tavern, his home these last few months.
The familiar common room with its red banners and antler chandeliers beckoned Tirak inside. The mercenary found his superiors—Sergeant Adrix and his right-hand, Marako—sharing a pint at the bar. Tirak sometimes felt like he lived his life between bars, not that he’d have it any other way. He took the third stool, next to Marako.
“And if they come here?” the second-in-charge asked.
“We’ll be ready,” Adrix assured him. Tirak gathered they were speaking about the occupation of Saanazar, down the coast—it was the talk of the town, these days. The sergeant looked past Marako and asked, “You’re back a little early, no? I’ve usually turned in already when you stagger back in here.”
Tirak shrugged. “Decided to turn in early—had a run-in with someone I used to know. He was hiding…something…. I need to puzzle it out.”
“Did you ask him?” Marako asked. Seeing the dry retort springing to Tirak’s tired features, he gave a smirk and patted the knife at his belt.
Adrix frowned. “This fellow an old friend? Or an old enemy?”
“No chance,” Tirak said. “It was a public venue. He was an old comrade when I lived out west. I don’t consider us close—not anymore.”
Marako shifted on his stool so that he reclined against the counter. “Do you know where he’s staying? We could go…”
Adrix looked a little more curious, but he waited to see if Tirak would confirm Marako’s question—the sergeant would back them, it seemed.
“He’s staying tonight near the bar where I met him. I asked too many questions. He split,” Tirak explained. “The city guards were quite interested in him talking to a member of the Storm. They were listening.”
Sergeant Adrix blinked. “What district?”
“Councillor Toradar’s.”
“Wait, so Toradar’s guards were worried because you were talking to this man…” Adrix muttered, trying to make sense of it. “The man’s a mercenary, I presume?”
“He is. Freelance, or so I’m to believe,” Tirak said.
“You think he’s on Toradar’s payroll?” Marako asked Adrix. “Outsourcing.”
Adrix sipped his beer while flexing his other hand. “Rather unusual, but not unheard of,” he said. “You just ran into him today, out of the yonder?”
Tirak clenched his jaw, then answered, “He approached me a few weeks ago. Different bar. Didn’t think anything of it at the time—said he had just finished a job that brought him to Eastpoint.” He paused. “But he wouldn’t stay in one place without work.”
“We better get to the bottom of this,” Adrix sighed. He tossed coins onto the bar-top to pay for his tab.
Tirak was first out the door. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was eager to get it sorted. The moon was finally starting to rise over the twilit city, casting a slight glow where the blues faded to black. After they crossed out of Worlon’s District and into the next, Adrix asked if Tirak remembered anything else about their first meeting—what exactly was Jolas after?
It was a while ago, but Tirak remembered the conversation enough to recount it. “He asked about the Whalestone Jail job—asked if I got a lick of the glory on that one. I told him that no, there’s only been guard duty and shake-downs for me.”
“Could be a coincidence…” Adrix mused. “But we’re hearing about a lot of interest in that job.”
Tirak frowned. He had not even thought of that connection—Ralist was tortured for information on the Whalestone job. He glanced at Adrix with unveiled concern. “Since when to mercenaries believe in coincidence, sir?”
“My worry, precisely,” Adrix said, and grunted a curse beneath his breath.
Jolas was an ordinary sort of merc—but not the sort who connected with Tirak. Tirak had never felt about Jolas as he felt about Adrix, Zelra, and the rest. Still…torture about Whalestone? Tirak wondered. It seemed a stretch.
After a bribe to the innkeeper of Jolas’ inn, Adrix, Marako, and Tirak found an empty bunk and an open window. Jolas had left in a hurry. The way by land mostly led to Saanazar or the Crimson Highway—not an ideal way to skip town. Adrix led the way to Eastpoint’s harbour district—one of the few without a direct ruler among the city’s Council. It took an hour of searching taverns, bars, and the docks themselves, before they found Jolas speaking with a ship’s captain in a drunken dive.
Tirak pointed him out, but by the time he had, Jolas had noticed them coming. He knocked over a chair in his hurry to the drink-house’s side door. They chased him outside and cornered him before he could clamber over a tall wooden fence.
Jolas spun on them, freeing his blade from his scabbard. “Wait,” he said, gasping. “Just—wait.” The oars in his mind were paddling deep but coming up with little.
“Where’re ya headed, old friend?” Tirak asked, rolling up his sleeves.
“If I go with you, I’m as good as dead,” Jolas told them, nodding. “But you don’t want me dead. You just want answers, right?”
“I guess that depends on your answers,” Tirak said. He glanced to Adrix.
The sergeant raised an eyebrow. “Why would we kill you? If we want answers…”
Jolas shook his head. “I didn’t say it would be you who kills me. Listen—I need to get out of Eastpoint. An hour ago. I’d prefer to take this with me,” he said, patting his heavy pack. It had cost him his escape over the fence. “I want your word that you’ll let me go, if I tell you about my contract.”
Marako guffawed. “You’re not really in a position to—”
Adrix lifted a hand, cutting him off swiftly. To Jolas, the sergeant declared, “Fine. If I’m satisfied that you’ve told us all you know, I won’t lay a hand on you.”
Jolas gave a nervous nod.
“Why would Councillor Toradar’s guards be concerned that you met with Tirak?” Adrix questioned.
Jolas, despite his fears, managed a smirk. “Because I work for Toradar and the others. And because they don’t trust the Company.” After a deep breath, he murmured, “I was hired to investigate the Whalestone Jail job.”
Marako sucked in his breath. Tirak could see how pissed he was—this dramatically increased the likelihood that Jolas was behind Ralist’s capture.
“What did you find out about Whalestone?” Tirak asked, holding back his temper.
“That your orders were just to free all the prisoners you could. If there’s a reason not to trust the Company, it’s hidden behind a higher rank than the squads that did the job,” Jolas explained. He shifted the heavy pack to his other shoulder, without lowering the point of his sword.
Adrix lifted his hands. “Why is the Company’s trustworthiness wrapped up with Whalestone? We were trying to destabilize Councillor Cassiya’s district according to Councillor Worlon’s clear instruction.”
“Because you were played,” Jolas said. “This wasn’t about Cassiya’s district. It was about Eastpoint. You freed Darhal from Whalestone.”
“What?” Adrix asked, seeming even more confused. “Darhal is dead.”
Jolas shrugged. “My comrades are still investigating. Was it only Councillor Worlon behind it, or did your Commanders know?” Jolas gave a wave of his blade to accent the hypothetical question. “But the Councillors won’t trust me now—not if they can link me with Tirak. I’ve got to get out of the city.”
Tirak shook his head. “Listen close, Jolas,” he sneered. “Two questions—how did you get your information on the Whalestone job, and what’s in the bag?”
“I tried coming to you,” Jolas said, emphatically. “I told them I had an ‘in’ that we could try first. It didn’t pan out—and I didn’t want to push it. For our history, my friend. So we chose a different mark.”
“Ralist…” Marako growled, ready to leap on Jolas with his blade.
Jolas’ eyes pleaded with Adrix’s. “You gave me your word.”
Tirak was in under the mercenary’s sword before anyone saw him move. He knocked the blade aside with his own short-sword, then buried his off-hand axe deep in Jolas’ chest, slamming him back against the fence. “Adrix said he wouldn’t hurt you. I made no such promises,” he growled. “Consider this the price paid for Ralist—our history is just that.”
When Tirak pulled the end of axe free, Jolas collapsed to the alley stones. His pack slammed against them with a muffled metal sound.
Tirak glanced at Adrix. “He never answered my second question…want to find out what he was trying to leave with?”
Adrix shrugged. “Commanders might have wanted to hear what he had to say, but I guess I can tell them what we learned. I assume that’s his pay?”
“The Commanders…didn’t see what happened to Ralist, or that it was my fault. They can hear it from me if they want.” Tirak claimed two small lockboxes from the heavy sack. He found the keys on a small chain around Jolas’ bloodstained neck. “Let’s open these someplace else,” he said, and shouldered the bag.