Il Mandolino wasn't much to look at from the outside and, as it turned out from the inside, either. It could not compare to the grand inns all over Cattaro that catered to the wealthy merchants, but it was free, and that suited Reiner perfectly. The passengers dreaming of private rooms were severely disappointed. The only thing available was a large common room on the first floor, where you could put your bedroll to sleep; all the beds had already been occupied. The Inn would provide two meals a day and nothing more. A bath would cost five denarii, and every other service was equally expensive. You could use the public baths for one denarius, which Renier would take. There was a large fireplace on one side of the room, but with over thirty people, there was no need to start a fire even in the chilly late autumn weather. The room felt stuffy and smelled of musk and sweat. Since Renier was the last to enter, he had to settle for a place on the left by the entrance. Some passengers ordered baths immediately, and the Inn's staff got organized to serve the unusual influx of customers.

There was a bevy of activities as everyone tried to get settled into their new accommodations and get the attention of the two young girls who served as staff. As Renier entered the room to put down his bedroll and took off his cloak - unbeknownst to him - two men in the back stared at him intently and, after a few minutes, got up and left. Renier spread out his bedroll to save his spot and went to get some food. At the bottom of the stairs to the left, there was a tavern with tables. Renier joined a couple of his fellow passengers and was served freshly baked bread and a stew that had what looked like beef, but he couldn't be sure of the type of meat. He finished his allotted plate and paid for a second; his hunger made everything taste delicious.

"Passengers from the Contarina Pilgrimage," shouted old Alessio. "You may explore the city as you wish. We will be staying here for seven days while the ship is repaired. You must be on the dock next mèrcore at dawn. We will be leaving with the tide. If you are not there, we will not wait for you!" he announced to everyone present.

After he ate, Renier left the Inn looking for a place to replace his depleted provisions. On the roof of the building across from the inn, a shadow watched. His increased hunger during the trip had made him painfully aware of the need to be fully stocked. Three blocks from the Inn, he found an establishment with precisely what he wanted. He filled his satchel with hardtack, jerky, various nuts, and a skin of watered wine; at this rate, he would be out of money before reaching Constantinople, but there was one more purchase he wanted to make.

Cattaro was famous for its swordsmiths. The falchion that his father had given him had been made here. He remembered his father telling him he bought it from a swordsmith next to the St. Luke's Church. So, after asking for directions, he went to the church and found a plethora of weaponsmiths. It turned out this was the smithing quarter. A cacophony of hammers beating against the anvils, furnaces rumbling, and glowing hot steel being quenched added to the incredible scene. He thought it would be simple to find the smith that had made his lost blade, but with so many options, he settled for the first.

A swordsmith's apprentice hammered straight a white-hot piece of steel as the master sat and watched when Renier approached the smithy. "Bunã dzuã, I'm looking for a falchion," Renier greeted the master smith in Vlachian like he had practiced many times with his father. "Bunã dzuã, giovane signore," the smith answered, switching to Venetian as he got up. "I have a falchion just for you. Wait one minute, and I'll get it," the smith continued, his eyes gleaming. He proceeded to the back and, a few minutes later, returned with an ornate falchion. It was a work of art. The polished steel blade gleamed in the sunlight. Patterns were etched in the crossguard. It had a black grip of supple leather embossed with a diamond pattern and gold accents at each end. A round pummel finished the piece with an embedded stone at its center. At first glance, Renier knew this was not something he could afford or needed.

"I know what you are thinking, young sir, but let me explain," interjected the smith. "First, this is the only falchion I have. It's probably the only falchion you'll find," he continued. "They just aren't in style anymore," he explained while offering it to Renier. Renier took it and was surprised by its outstanding feel. The grip felt inviting, and the balance was superb. Renier slashed and twirled the weapon with ease. It wasn't for show as he had initially thought. "The Sommaripa family commissioned this falchion, young master, but while testing it, the tang developed a crack, so I had to make another for the customer. It has been repaired and should service a young master like yourself quite well," he confessed, trying to convince Renier. "It has been gathering dust for over two years. Now, no one wants a falchion. The original sold for thirty ducats; I can let you have this one for three," the master smith finished.

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Now, three was an incredible price for this weapon, but it was more than Renier was planning to pay for a falchion, and he was low on funds. "I can only afford one and a half, master smith. It's a fine weapon, but that's as much as I can pay," Renier countered. "Let's say two and a half young sir, and I won't feel like I'm giving it away," the smith negotiated. "How about two with the hilt included?" Renier asked. The smith thought for a few moments, then agreed, "One of my used plain leather hilts, young master, and it's a deal," the smith replied, offering his hand.

It was mid-afternoon when Renier left the smith two ducats lighter but with a falchion at his hip, going towards the inn. Renier walked through the streets while remembering the day his father had given him his first falchion, oblivious to the two men who watched him from the shadows. Upon arriving, he entered the tavern, found an empty table, and ordered some watered wine. He desperately wanted a bath, but paying for a private bath at the inn was out of the question. He would have to use the public bath, which would be best in the morning when the water was, hopefully, cleaner, and there would be fewer people and less chance of an incident. He nursed the drink, appreciating his father's foresight in teaching him how to survive while traveling. Every day during the trip from Rouen to Venice, he had been filled with lessons and admonishments from his father: What he should do if he found himself alone, How to interact with the type of people he might meet, and how to tell if they could be trusted. How to barter, The landmarks and safe places he could find, How to treat light wounds and injuries, The value of coins and how to keep them secure, The best places to get news and local gossip. His father prepared him for the worst, and the worst happened. Deep in thought, Renier failed to notice the two patrons who entered and sat at a corner table.

The pub slowly filled up as supper neared, and some of his fellow pilgrims joined him at the table. The same bread and stew were served for dinner, and after another round of watered wine, Renier retired for the night. He wanted to get up before dawn to continue his training.

His eyelids fluttered, and he let out a soft, involuntary groan as consciousness reluctantly reclaimed him. His senses slowly awakened, and he realized that something was horribly amiss. A gruff, calloused hand covered his mouth. His hands and feet were also being held. There was a sharp pain in his left temple and darkness.

The shock of icy water drenching him jolted him awake. A rusty, dented metal bucket had been upended, its freezing contents cascading mercilessly over him. Renier gasped, his breath catching in his throat as the cold water invaded every pore of his body. Goosebumps prickled his skin, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Blinded by the sudden deluge, he struggled to stand up, but his hands and feet were tied, his soaked clothes clinging uncomfortably to his shivering form. Gradually, as his vision cleared, he discerned the blurry figure of his uncle standing over him, a cruel smirk on his lips. "A merry chase you've given me, pup. I'd given up, and here you deliver yourself to me," he said while laughing. "At least you have some fire, unlike your idiot father. Just because your whore mother died, he wanted to leave everything. Leave me penniless! But I showed him," Gustav ranted. "Life, rat, is more than just familial bonds and childhood memories. It's about power, survival, and legacy. In our age, our family name and business isn't just an occupation; it's our very lifeblood. A dynasty that must be preserved at all costs," he continued. "And your father wanted to throw it all away because of a woman. Did you know I also killed her?" he added, enjoying the look of horror on Renier's face. "Yes, it was no accident. She just wouldn't cooperate," Gustav said while grinning maliciously.

Then he reached towards Renier's neck, pulled out the medallion he wore around his neck held by a leather cord, and cut it with a small knife, "Finally!" He looked intently at Renier with greedy eyes, "And you struggled for money all this time. Yes, I know what you've been up to. That old man told us everything."

He pushed the knife into the medallion and pulled it apart. A piece of parchment fell to the floor. "There it is!" exclaimed Gustav. As Gustav unfolded the parchment, Renier saw it was a letter of exchange. "The Menart familiy fortune. This should have always been mine. Father should have never left that dreamer in charge," Gustav complained. "I guess I'll have to travel to Constantinople to collect," he said to no one in particular.

Turning towards the two rugged-looking men behind him, he ordered, "While it's still dark, take him outside the city and make it look like an accident. I don't want the Contarina family investigating… just another stupid pilgrim that didn't know any better." For the second time that night, Renier was knocked unconscious.