Somehow, he’d find out what had happened to the missing Nawabs. After all, he’d called them from Marsh Wool to help rebuild the city. Ranald remembered dictating the summons; he remembered the terms. And after that had come his first collapse, when he scarcely remembered anything. 

            “Milo, I’d like the exact number of the men missing.”

            “Women and children as well,” added Fulcruchen.

            “Most certainly.” Ranald grimaced, thinking of his wife and son. “Also, a map where the evidence was found.” 

            “Highness, surely you’re not ordering an investigation,” sputtered Elymas. “The walls lie unrepaired and open to enemies because the Nawabs have gone back to their swamps!”

            “Yet a man’s skull and a child’s hand lie before us,” countered Fulcruchen. “Also, a torn sleeve, red as that worn by your servants.”

            “Red Robes,” corrected Elymas through gritted teeth. 

            “I think,” said Ranald, somehow ignoring the pounding in his head. “That I’ve made myself clear. Now, Milo, if you’d be so kind as to . . .”

            But whatever he was going to say was lost when he looked to the back of the room. An unexpected sight caught and held his attention. Soon, the crowd was craning their necks as well. 

            A giant of a man was standing in the doorway, hair white as snow, loosed from a leather band. Seconds stretched into minutes as he stood without introduction, yet his appearance introduced him all the same: He was Pentacas.