“Don’t know who gave the order. Might be your Anointed here, might be some magistrate. My guild master says I go, and so I go. Is it really so strange? I wouldn’t trust these islanders with building something like a church. Not if I wanted the walls to remain standing longer than a few winters.”

It sickened Arn’s stomach how easy it was to bring the man onto his side, but he had participated in many invasions. He knew the attitude of an imperialist toward native populations. A knowing smile crossed the inspector’s face, and he chuckled as he marked something down on his ledger.

“Indeed, indeed. I suppose if you have the coin, you might as well spend it on the best instead of relying on the inferior. Almost done, then.” He pointed his pencil at the chest tucked underneath Arn’s arm. “What have you there?”

“Just some clothes and personal effects,” Arn said. Thorda’s instructions had made it clear to use this specific inspector’s line, and for a very particular reason. He pulled out a finely minted gold coin from the capital in Eldrid. “Nothing worth the hassle to look over, am I right?”

“I’ll mark it down,” the inspector said as he pocketed the coin. He didn’t even try to hide taking it, which impressed Arn in a way, knowing the corruption was so widely accepted. That, or the inspector thought it better to take the bribe than risk landing on the church’s bad side. “Try to enjoy your stay, Meffrit, but avoid any dark alleys once night falls. The population has proven… stubborn, in its conversion.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Arn said, and he struggled to hold back a darkly amused grin. “My knuckles are used to having a bit of blood on them.”

Once free of the docks, Arn slipped his word-lace over his neck and began checking names on roads. He had memorized his instructions before climbing aboard his caravel, for keeping the scrap of paper from Thorda on his person was much too risky. On it were a series of street names, informing him where to turn and ending with a single number. Arn followed them, hands shoved into his pockets and his head down to avoid catching any stranger’s eye. In less than ten minutes, he arrived.

Such an unassuming two-story house hardly seemed the proper headquarters for a mastermind of a half-dozen insurgences, but Arn hardly looked like the average resistance fighter, either. He knocked on the door hard enough to make the hinges rattle. Not good. Using such excess strength showed he was nervous. He took in a long deep breath and counted backward from ten. On four, the door opened, and an elderly Miquoan stepped out to greet him. His arms folded over his chest, and his scowl could churn butter.

“What is it?” he asked.