Between the influx of soldiers in the military wing, sparring with Zevran and Rune, and spending what free time he could with Duncan or Evie or Temperance, Ber hadn’t given Alfric Whitby much thought once the lieutenant had left the greenhouse. Having heard nothing from Woodwick, which was honestly the ideal type of interaction with the man, he had assumed that the lieutenant had received whatever information he had needed about the coded messages from Thom, questioned Whitby, and moved on with whatever else came after that. So when he happened to glance in the right direction during their exercise and see Woodwick approaching, Ber eyed him with the usual mix of irritation and dislike before turning back to his work.

What did Woodwick want now? A drill instructor was right there, which ensured that they were all training like they were supposed to, and interrupting training to lay down some sort of group punishment for some stupid detail one of them had overlooked seemed extreme even for Woodwick. Maybe he would do everyone a favor and just leave.

Well, he would in the end, but apparently he wanted Ber to come with him.

The sound of his name had the soldier pausing and looking over to see the lieutenant gesturing toward him. With the eyes of his peers drilling into the back of his head, Ber glanced around as if there was anyone else the other man could have reasonable addressed and did as he was told, silently amending his earlier question: what did Woodwick want with him? Very little, if anything, that Ber wanted, probably.

While he fell into step beside the lieutenant, he ran over the events of the past few days in his head and couldn’t find anything particularly notable. Ignoring the turn toward Woodwick’s office only confused him further. For a moment, Ber’s eyes lingered in that direction, but as if on cue, the lieutenant began to speak. His words made it clear that he hadn’t simply forgotten the way and that he apparently hadn’t wrapped up everything related to Whitby as Ber had assumed. Quietly resigning himself to more long hours spent in the officer’s company, he looked up at the other man and shook his head. “No, sir,” He answered. “I take it he found something.” Probably a lot of somethings, knowing Thom. With his office full of ledgers and books, the man was nothing if not meticulous and thorough when it came to his work.

Eyes drifting from the lieutenant’s face to somewhere over his shoulder, Ber listened and did his best to piece this new information together with what he could remember from their previous work. Whitby needing to confirm that Long sold faulty potions before killing him explained why the man had spent so long in the same inn as his eventual victim, and the two of them working for the same employer was likely the reason they knew each other. The woman, whom Ber had initially assumed was a prostitute and Woodwick had pointed out could be their boss, seemed to be little more than collateral damage. He nodded his understanding.

The second half of the lieutenant’s words gave him pause. Dark eyes glanced up at him again. “He was waiting for us?” He repeated, but even as Woodwick elaborated, the implications had already started settling in. By nature, soldiering was dangerous, but the threats that Ber was accustomed to facing were ones that stood straight ahead of him with either clenched fists or a sharp weapon in hand. To know that some shadowy figure who had no qualms about betraying their underling had more than likely turned their sights upon them – and learned who knew what about who they were – was unsettling. It posed a danger of an entirely different variety. Ber took a breath then nodded. “Okay.”

Probable knowledge of their identities meant that there was really only one way forward, didn’t it? Nothing Ber or Woodwick could do would erase what Whitby’s employer might already know – and it was probably better to assume that they had all the important information. At the same time, weeks had passed since the two of them had apprehended Whitby, and even more time had passed since they had stepped foot in that inn. “If they know who we are,” He said, reminding himself of the truth of the statement even as he spoke it aloud. “They haven’t done anything to us.” Yet. But perhaps never, if they could move fast enough and neutralize this unknown threat before anything bad could happen. “Do we know anything about who they are?”

The Amber Lotus did not immediately spark any recognition. Many years had passed since Ber had consistently run on the streets as he had in his childhood, and while the lessons he’d learned there served him well enough as a soldier, he had no doubt that the information he remembered was likely outdated. Not to mention that his younger self had never needed to understand the potential underlying patterns of mysterious tea shipments to know what kind of people to avoid when turning down the quieter side streets. An operation so large that it spanned multiple serious crimes, let alone what it was called, would never have crossed his mind.

All in all, leaving the rest of the investigation to hang with Whitby sounded appearling on multiple levels, not the least because it meant Woodwick would have one less excuse to bother Ber. Given that their task had originally been to discover the whereabouts of one Frederick Long, he had been ready to leave when they had found the man in question dead in the chest. Since Woodwick apparently shared Thom’s love of mysteries, one discovery had spiraled into the next, and even Ber could understand the desire to get a murderer off the streets. They had done that, and continuing to push further into this mire that hadn’t even been theirs to investigate in the first place sounded like it would reward them with nothing but trouble.

Then Woodwick kept talking, and as always seemed to happen when the man was around, Ber’s temper flared.

Was the danger something Ber thought he could handle. As if he had spent his entire life sheltered in some mansion instead of fending for himself in a city that hardly cared whether he lived or died. Insult had the soldier’s brow furrowing and he resisted the urge to cross his arms as he held Woodwick’s stare. What kind of question was that? Excuse you, asshole, I’m not a coward. It wasn’t like he was some untested nobleman who would run for cover at the first sign of trouble; for crying out loud, Ber had been the one to help the lieutenant apprehend the murderer he was about to interrogate. Did Ber think he could handle the danger. Please. Give him a break.

For a long moment, the soldier tried and failed to think of something to say that wouldn’t immediately earn him some sort of tedious punishment. Finally, he settled on a still somewhat affronted, “I’ve been in danger before. I can look out for myself.”

While Woodwick’s easy agreement didn’t appease Ber’s offended pride, it did make him pause momentarily when the lieutenant acted as if the soldier had decided to join him in his interrogation of Whitby. What— He thought back over what he’d said to defend himself, but no, none of it had been an agreement or insistence to continue working with Woodwick on this investigation. Had Ber missed an opportunity to leave or was Woodwick just being weird? He didn’t have long to ponder the question before the lieutenant turned on his heel and began to walk away, prompting the somewhat mystified younger man to hurry after him. Orders were orders, even if he was pretty sure he’d missed something in that short conversation.

By now, Ber had learned the route to the dungeons from dragging the occasional criminal in from the streets, but his job usually ended there. Never before had he ventured down to interrogate a prisoner, and as they descended into the darkened depths, his wary anticipation grew. Unlike the lieutenant, he looked around at the other cells and their occupants as they passed by, unable to imagine what it would be like to be on the other side of those thick iron bars.

When Woodwick finally stopped, Ber came to stand beside him with hands behind his back, took a good look at Whitby for the first time quite a while, and couldn’t stop shock from jolting through him. With a pallor that existed only on the very unwell, the murderer looked more skeleton than man. Swallowing, Ber’s attention moved from the dull eyes that stared out from sunken sockets to the blackened foot that lay outstretched in front of him. As he registered what he saw, Woodwick’s words from the dilapidated house where they’d apprehended Whitby returned to him, and evidently, his mind hadn’t been alone in recalling them. The prisoner barely reacted to the lieutenant’s question, but the answer he gave had Ber hiding a grimace. Thirty-two days. He didn’t want to imagine it.

As the silence lingered, Whitby spoke up again. “You two want something or did you just come to admire the view?”

Ber was content to watch the interaction between Whitby and Woodwick in silence. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure why he was here when the lieutenant could just as easily question the prisoner without him. Even if he wanted Ber to see this case through to the miserable end with him, he still could have interrogated Whitby and given the soldier a summary like he had with the information he’d learned from Thom. The soldier in question knew which decision he would have preferred, but he knew better than to expect any superior officer to take his preferences into consideration.

When Whitby claimed to know nothing about the woman who had visited Long, Ber crossed his arms as Woodwick moved closer to lean against the bars. Between the man in the cell and the one who lived with Temperance - or even the lieutenant beside him - the soldier knew whose information he would trust and thought that the response to this question did not bode well for a short interrogation. At least Woodwick couldn’t yell at him for not performing his duties as a soldier since he’d dragged him down here himself to play detective instead. It appeared, however, that the lieutenant hadn’t given Ber all the details either: it was news to him that the woman had been pregnant.

There was a moment before Ber, whose gaze had rested on Whitby, realized that the lieutenant seemed to expect him to respond to the prisoner’s challenge. The soldier blinked. How was he supposed to know what to say?

Stalling for time, he looked back at the prisoner and lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug. “Cool motive.” Taking a cue from Woodwick, Ber kept his tone casual. “Still murder.” Revenge meant that Whitby would have had to know and care about the woman - care enough to needlessly risk putting his head in the noose for someone who was already dead. He thought about what he might do if Temperance were pregnant and then found dead. Admittedly, going after the man responsible was not entirely out of the realm of possibility, but speaking so apathetically about it afterward seemed highly unlikely.

“But if that’s true,” Ber continued, deciding to play along. “What reason would Long have had to kill his own client? Because she was there to buy a potion, right? If word gets out that he killed her and her unborn child, that’s bad for business.”

For a moment, Whitby didn’t respond. Then he offered up, “She couldn’t pay.”

Ber nodded his understanding. “Ok. So she didn’t leave with the potion, then?” He looked at Woodwick, explaining the obvious for the prisoner’s benefit. “See, sir, that’s where I was thinking it had gone, the potion that we didn’t find in Long’s or Whitby’s rooms or in the house where we caught him. I figured the woman had taken it with her.” Having found solid ground and decided to run as far as it would carry him, Ber turned back to Whitby. “But if that’s not the case, then where is it? Surely, you’re not stupid enough to drink an unidentified potion yourself.”

His words were met with silence. Ber shrugged and soldiered on. “If I’m honest, I’m also wondering how he killed her. She wasn’t in his room. Are you saying he let her walk away, then hunted her down after?” He let some incredulity enter his voice. “This is Frederick Long, we’re talking about. The same man, who we found dead in the chest where he tried to hide from you, went and murdered a pregnant woman because she couldn’t pay him for a potion.”

More silence.

Ber shrugged. “Just seems unlikely to me, but if you say so.” A pause, and he glanced over at Woodwick as if the story was remotely plausible before looking back at the man in the cell. “You know, the weirdest thing about all of this, Whitby, is she died after Long did.” Ber had no idea if this was true, but it didn’t need to be for him to make Whitby believe he thought it was true. The man’s story was clearly false for many reasons, not the least because Woodwick and Ber had heard from an outside, reliable source what had already happened. In fact, if Whitby knew differently and called him out on it, then that was even better. Maybe then they could focus less on poking holes in his lies and more on trying to find out about his employer.

“So what was it you were saying about killing Long for revenge?”

On any other occasion, Ber might have agreed that Woodwick was going senile. The man was old, after all; it was bound to happen. But Whitby was on the wrong side of the bars to earn such camaraderie, so he hid his amusement behind a neutral expression and refocused on the task at hand.

“Just a little off, sir,” The soldier admitted easily, glancing at Woodwick before studying the prisoner with a slight head tilt. “I hadn’t realized you and Long were so close, Whitby. Or was Long just the kind of person who discussed his illicit activities with anyone off the street?”

Whitby nodded, a weak movement. “He was just that kind of guy.”

Ostensibly in understanding, Ber nodded with him. “That’s seems a little off too, you know,” He pointed out a moment later. “People who can’t control their tongues don’t last very long in that line of work, let alone the amount of time it would take to become someone’s middleman.”

“Who said anything about him being a middleman?”

Ber’s expression flattened. “He was a man, dipshit. Only witches brew potions.”

Whitby was silent for a long moment.

With a glance at Woodwick to see if he had anything to say, the young man asked, “So how did you and Long know each other?”

“Already covered that, didn’t I? Lived at the same inn. Ate together. People talk.”

Ber wondered if Whitby ever gave a straight answer in his life. “You’re saying you just happened to run into Long one day, become friends, and soon enough you both are regularly heading downstairs to eat together at the inn.” A pause. “While discussing his illegal business practices as one does.”

“Sounds about right.”

That was a lie, and all three of them knew it, though the third might not have known how much the other two knew. According to Woodwick, Whitby had only left his room on occasion, never lingered in the public spaces to eat, and when a girl had seen Long and Whitby interact, she had been scared by whatever silent tension stretched between the two men.

“And, despite this friendship, you decide to kill him one day because… you had a fight with him?”

“Never said we had a fight.”

“Didn’t have to. Clearly something happened or changed to make you decide to kill him, and, I mean…” Ber shrugged. “Friends don’t tend to kill their friends, so. Fight.” A pause. “Unless you weren’t actually friends?”

Whitby didn’t respond, which given what Ber already knew from Woodwick’s information, was confirmation in and of itself.

“Look, man,” He began. “I’m just trying to figure out how you got from sharing meals with a man to killing him. Was it for money? Did he get the girl? Maybe you were jealous of something else?”

“What would I be envious of him for?” Whitby gave a snort that was rendered rather pathetic by his own poor state. “He was an ugly little coward with nothing to his name, including intelligence.”

Ber blinked. “That’s not a very nice thing to say about a friend,” He stated, rather matter of fact, as if the prisoner hadn’t just confirmed that he knew Long - or at least of Long - before he had both set foot in that inn. No pleasant meals would have been shared between the two with that level of animosity. “Especially a dead one.”

There was a long pause as he considered his next question. It would reveal that Ber and Woodwick knew a little more than they were letting on, but they would have to broach the subject of the mysterious Amber Lotus at some point. He doubted Whitby would bring it up on his own. Watching the prisoner for any sign of recognition at the name, the soldier decided to go for it:

“So what did the Amber Lotus promise you in return for killing Long?”

Although Woodwick remained stalwart, Whitby’s pleas for mercy had Ber glancing back when the lieutenant paused to address them with an answer that sent the other man thrashing about. The soldier swallowed before turning forward again and hastening to catch up with the officer’s departing back. In the silent march up out of the dimly lit dungeons and over to Woodwick’s office, Ber felt some of the tension fading from his shoulders. More spacious and illuminated with the gray natural light of Nevermere’s overcast skies, the familiar halls of the military wing felt significantly less oppressive and suffocating.

When he stepped into the office, he turned and closed the door behind him before taking his place in the chair in front of the desk. Hands in his lap and leg bouncing, he watched as Woodwick pulled out writing implements and began jotting down notes from the interrogation. He nodded along in agreement, though a moment of silence passed before he realized that the lieutenant was waiting for him to speak.

“Uh, well, he said the Amber Lotus was a—” Ber’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember the exact phrasing “—a, uh, an organization of like-minded individuals.” A brief pause. “So a gang, or something like it.” Glancing away from the lieutenant, he focused his gaze blankly on the wall as he worked to remember and piece together the other details they’d either learned or confirmed. “There’s no way Whitby found out about Long selling faulty potions through Long, and with the way he talked about him, it seemed like Whitby disliked Long way before meeting him in the inn.”

With Woodwick out of his direct line of sight and only the sound of the pen scratching on parchment, Ber found it easier to pretend the lieutenant didn’t exist. Anyone could have sat at the desk, taking notes as he thought aloud. “They had to have known each other through the Amber Lotus, like Thom said. Long was stupid, and groups like that don’t let stupid people stay around because they’ll get everyone caught. Whitby found whatever proof they needed to justify killing Long, but they wanted to see how much damage Long had done, so they had him wait around for us.” Technically, Thom had already presented these confusions to them, but all the same, Ber found it useful to tie everything together for himself - in part because it led to further observations.

“These Amber Lotus people are confident enough to leave one someone behind to watch us instead of just disappearing,” He said, glancing back toward Woodwick. “They planned ahead and waited. You and Thom both said crime was changing in Skia, becoming more organized. Is that what you meant?”