Tiberius rummaged through the original owner's memories until he found the guy.
Lysaro Rogare—eldest son of Lysandro Rogare, and someone the old Tiberius had actually been friendly with. Seventeen years old, freshly married to the daughter of another big slave trader. Sharp on business, economics, and the messy politics of the Free Cities. He'd spent more than one afternoon telling Tiberius all about his grand ambitions: one day he'd outshine his father and become the true "First Triarch" of Lys.
Why would a twelve-year-old sellsword kid be tight with a rich heir like Lysaro? Simple—Tiberius was stupidly good at fishing and throwing spears. He'd helped Lysaro crush every hunting and fishing contest against the other noble sons, letting the boy look like a god in front of his peers. That kind of thing turns a spoiled second-generation rich kid into a real friend. Lysaro was still young enough to be surprisingly straightforward.
"My friend! You're awake—thank the gods!" Lysaro's face lit up. He clapped Tiberius on the shoulder again and again. "I heard you put an Ironborn down with a throwing spear? Beautiful! Those bastards always brag about being blessed by the Drowned God—now they can drink seawater until they burst!"
Tiberius forced a smile and played along.
Lysaro was generous with the praise for one reason only: the Ironborn had raided his family's estate, and Tiberius had killed one of the raiders.
So of course the young lord thought Tiberius was the bravest little bastard alive.
"But… Vito, and you, Tiberius—what brings you here?" Lysaro narrowed his eyes.
His father had just returned from the White Company's villa looking like a storm cloud. From the look on the old man's face, "Honorable" Jules had clearly turned down the request to find Seraphys.
And now Vito and Tiberius showed up…
Lysaro was already worried his father might have them thrown out.
"We're delivering a letter," Vito said.
"Right," Tiberius added smoothly. "The White Company is throwing a victory feast tonight. We'd be honored if Lord Lysandro could join us."
Lysaro didn't answer right away. He first waved the driver to take the carriage around to the Rogare stables, then leaned in and whispered to Tiberius.
"Listen, Tiberius. Whatever you're here for—unless my little sister is right now sitting in your villa—don't go inside. My father might actually toss you out on your asses."
"My sister Seraphys is Father's favorite. She's obedient, smart, reads everything. Two days ago she went out with a girl from House Haen for a ride near Bloodwave Cape Road… and vanished." Lysaro kept his voice low. "And your captain 'the Honorable' Jules probably refused my father's request. When Father came back from your place, his face was black."
"So go home, Tiberius. Right now my father doesn't want to see anyone from the White Company."
Vito's stomach dropped the second he heard it.
[Holy shit—the kid was right. Lysandro will hold a grudge.]
Cold sweat prickled down Vito's back. He didn't even want to imagine what would happen if the richest banker in Lys decided to settle the score once the war with Volantis started. Short rations? Getting shoved onto the worst part of the front line? The White Company could actually get wiped out exactly like Tiberius had warned.
But Tiberius just smiled. "No, Lysaro. Deliver this letter to your father."
"And out of respect for our friendship, please tell him that Captain Vito Coppola of the White Company crossbow troop and Quartermaster Tiberius Mord request a moment of his time."
"Also mention we've brought him exactly what he wants."
Lysaro hesitated, then nodded and went inside to announce them.
"What the hell are you doing, Tiberius?" Vito hissed the second Lysaro was gone. "You said we were just dropping off a letter! Why are we trying to walk straight into the lion's den?"
Tiberius gave him a flat look.
"Vito, listen. If it was my uncle 'the Honorable' Jules himself walking through that door, this would be seventy percent locked in already. But it's us two." He pointed between them. "A twelve-year-old who just got his first kill and still smells like milk, and a horny old bastard whose brain is ninety percent Lysene dancer bellies. Honestly, if I didn't have this friendship with Lysaro, we probably wouldn't even get past the gate today."
Inside the private wing, the Rogare family's old steward was giving Lysandro the latest report.
"My lord, I've already sent word to the other major company captains."
"And the bounty? They liked it?" Lysandro rubbed his temples.
"My lord, the gold dragons you offered would let a four-hundred-man company live like kings in Lys for half a year. The Second Sons' captain heard the number and took fifty of his best men out of the city before noon."
"Any word from the other merchants and ship-owners?"
"They all swear it wasn't them. They say we're on the eve of war with Volantis—none of them would start trouble inside Lys right now."
Lysandro snorted, then slammed his fist on the table so hard the redwood groaned.
"If the Haen girl hadn't vanished too, I'd send my own men and killers through this city tonight and clean out every rat's nest!" he snarled under his breath. "How did my daughter end up on Bloodwave Cape Road? Someone lured them there!"
He rubbed his eyes. "And the city watch?"
The steward's face darkened. "They're stretched thin, my lord. Too many sellswords flooding into Lys these days."
"The First Triarch has ordered them to keep order in the city first—stop the mercenaries from groping the pretty boys…"
Lysandro's chest heaved. He was so furious he could barely breathe, but he couldn't curse the First Triarch.
First, he was still just a rich merchant—even if he was the richest banker and plantation owner in Lys. Second… his own famous pleasure house, the Perfumed Garden, was full of those same pretty boys, and half the sellsword companies in the city had been spending coin there the last few days.
Daughter or not, the business still needed the watch to keep the peace.
Why now? he thought bitterly. Of all the fucking times—right before a war—my daughter disappears.
All his gold, all his connections… useless.
For the first time in years, Lysandro Rogare felt truly powerless.
"Leave me…" he waved the steward away, suddenly exhausted.
Deep down he already suspected his daughter was gone forever.
But he would never say it out loud. Saying it would mean he'd given up.
"Father!" Lysaro strode in. "People from the White Company are here—with a letter…"
"Send them away!" Lysandro snapped. "If they're here for the bounty, pay them. But right now I don't want to see a single man from the White Company."