It had been thirty nine days since Oliver Grace last saw his wife.

By now, he knew that she assumed him dead. Though, doubtless, she would be holding onto hope. She would be three and a half months along by now. Entering the second trimester. She would probably be painting the study, like they'd planned. Not blue or pink – she'd have chosen a neutral color, just in case, since she wouldn't know the gender for another couple of months.

He wondered if they'd held the funeral yet. Probably not. Others would have been pushing her to, but she'd wait. "Just a few more days," she'd say, every time. "I just need to make sure." She always was the stubborn one.

Thirty nine days. And likely to be a lot more, too, at this rate.

Oliver drew his hands down over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his new calluses rough against his skin, then dropped his hands back to the railing of the boat. He tabbed to the research ideas spreadsheet inside his system and added time travel the ever growing list. He assigned it moderate priority and resorted the column so it showed up in the appropriate spot in the list.

Time travel was worth looking into, but not likely to become useful for some time if it was even possible at all. The mana expenditure would be enormous, he was sure.

The gangplank hit the dock with a dull thud of wood on wood, one of the river men scuttling down to make fast the boat, tying the thick cords of rope about the dock's anchor poles with the dexterity of long years of practice.

Soon the long barge was bobbing at bay as it disgorged the load of passengers it had borne in its three day journey down the river. Perhaps two dozen or so, of varying ages, heights, genders, and occupations. It had been a tight-crammed three days, the score of passengers occupying all of the space on the barge and then some.

None of them suspected a thing. He'd kept to himself the whole trip, given them the old mysterious dark stranger treatment. Between his height, his appearance and the sword he secretly had no idea how to use, he'd succeeded in putting off inquiries, friendly or otherwise. Mostly.

The suns had not yet risen, and the gray morning light did little to warm him, so when Oliver stepped off the barge, one of the last to do so, his first priority was warmth. And food. And then a cup of something hot.

It had also been thirty nine days since he'd had a cup of coffee, and looked likely to be a lot more.

Between the early morning hour, the lack of coffee, and the depressing thoughts, he was in fine form as he strode up the street, scanning his surroundings as he tried to figure out where he'd find food and lodging.

"So, which inn are you gonna hit?" asked one of the other passengers, coming up along beside him, striding quickly to make up for his shorter legs.

Oliver looked over at him slowly, but didn't respond. The guy was younger, maybe in his mid-twenties, brown hair, short – well, short-ish, and shared the vaguely European look of most of the Marans he'd met. Blue eyes, a case slung over his shoulder big enough for a violin or a tommy gun, clothes that were well-cared for and had once been colorful but now were old, worn thin, mended many times over.

"I think I'll head to the Gray Bean, myself," he said with an easy grin, after Oliver didn't respond. "Name's Tiro, by the way. Tiro of Vanhalda. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"No," he said, as if he hadn't heard Tiro introducing himself to nearly every other passenger on the boat for the last day and a half.

"No, as in you aren't heading to the old Bean? Or, no, as in you haven't heard of me?"

"Yes," he said drily.

The younger man stopped walking for a moment, allowing Oliver to pass him by, then double-timed it until he caught up again, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

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"Well, I warn you, the Bean's the best around. Cheapest, too."

"Thanks," Oliver said. Now he knew one place not to stop in. The last thing he needed was somebody talking to him, asking questions, tripping him up into revealing his ignorance of this place and its customs.

"And I'll be playing there," he added.

"Do you ever shut up?" asked Oliver. The guy was just trying to be friendly, maybe rustle up a crowd for his two-bit performance. But the last thing Oliver Grace needed right now was a friend, and it was best to head this off at the start.

Tiro's smile wavered slightly, but soon regained its earlier sheen. He had oddly white teeth, and Oliver realized that this was perhaps the first time anybody had smiled – really smiled – at him since he'd appeared here. He felt a tinge of guilt worm its way into his soul. But anybody who smiled that much had ulterior motives.

They walked in silence for a few moments down the main street of the town until Tiro pointed to a building with a sign hanging out front.

"Well, this is me," he said. "Nice to meet, you, uh…" he trailed off inquiringly.

"Grace," Oliver found himself saying. Strange. He hadn't introduced himself with his last name in a long time. But it had just sort of slipped out all on its own.

"Nice to meet you, Grace," said Tiro, holding out his hand. It was the first time anybody pronounced his name right, and Oliver was briefly surprised – and suspicious – until an instant later he realized that his last name was also a common noun.

Oliver went to shake his hand and there was a brief fumble where Tiro went to grasp his forearm and Oliver didn't and it was a whole awkward thing until Oliver retargeted and they shook arms like Viking warriors or something. It was not smooth.

But Tiro took it in stride, and with an even bigger smile – he seemed to never stop smiling, so the only way for him to smile when he meant it was to smile bigger – and a nod he was off. As Oliver resumed walking, he saw Tiro take the steps with a quick, sure stride, and as he opened the door a surge of voices and clamor washed out for an instant. Light spilling into the early morning, and the food smelled tantalizingly good, and then the door closed behind him.

Oliver went on his way. There was absolutely no chance he would be staying under the same roof as a friendly, curious musician.

He continued on up the road, surveying his surroundings. This was a proper city, with folks passing by to and fro on the street beside him. The road itself was constructed of flagstone, worked and laid with some precision. The buildings were a mix of stone and wood. Stone on first floor, wood the rest of the way up.

He walked on, looking for a place to stay, taking detours up a few of the side roads but mostly staying on the main road. He figured folks coming off the boats would probably not want to wander far before finding lodging. He passed a few likely suspects, buildings that looked the same as the one Tiro had gone in, signs hanging out front with words he couldn't read, a low window with shutters closed, and smoke leaving the chimney.

He opened the first one and went in. It was the fulfillment of every Dungeons and Dragons fantasy tavern wish he'd ever had. There was a cozy hearth on one side, complete with fire. There were round tables, four chairs to a top, a bar, a bartender behind the bar, barrels stacked up behind the bartender. It was clean, warm, wide-plank flooring and plaster walls. Magical globe lights on the walls, flickering with a warm yellow light to match the fire. There was even a stage in the corner, currently empty, of course.

Yes, this was the right place. There weren't too many people downstairs, but that was fine by him. He'd wanted to be left alone.

He approached the bar, where the bartender was busy writing something in a book, using symbols he didn't understand.

"Can I help you?" the man asked as he approached, without looking up. He was bald, tall, wide, though not as tall as Oliver, wore a shirt with sleeves rolled up and a white apron.

"Yes, I'd like a room and breakfast," said Oliver.

The man looked up, ran his eye over him. "This ain't a charity house," he said upon finishing his cursory inspection.

"I can pay." And he could, too – had been paid a guilden and a half for working with the loggers.

He suspected he hadn't quite earned it, because even working his hardest he was outpaced by the smallest of the lumberjacks, but the two foremen had insisted he was owed the same pay as the rest of them for his time. He hadn't debated, taking the coin gratefully.

"It's a half-guilden a night," the innkeeper said.

Oliver fought to keep the expression of surprise from his face and didn't entirely succeed. He'd worked for two weeks to earn that coin. Although, granted, the first week he hadn't been much help, weak and tired as he was.

"Like I said, we ain't no charity house," he said, and went back to writing in the book.

Oliver was briefly tempted to punch him, then realized that he didn't want to cause any trouble. Also, it would probably end with him on the floor and broken bones and possibly time in a cell. The anger melted into embarrassment as he left the building without another word, drawing a few stares from the other patrons for his trouble.

He stepped gloomily back into the street, resolving that that must have been an exception, that the bartender was just unpleasant, and that surely another inn would be cheaper.

They weren't. In fact, that the first one had been the cheapest, and the other innkeepers were just as snobby, if not more so.

A good forty minutes later, embarrassed, cold, and hungry, he found himself standing before the unfortunately named Gray Bean building the musician had mentioned. Oliver supposed he'd known his stuff. With a sigh, he opened the door and went in.