In a field beside the road leading into Umlea Chast leaned idly against his trading wagon chewing on willow bark to help with his aching tooth. He watched the goings on at the tavern from a safe distance and with a detached air. He wasn’t the sort of man who put his own neck on the line unnecessarily. It was a dangerous enough business on its own, trading was, and he didn’t need to court danger for it to come along all on its own. The ruckus had spilled out into the street and Rimbeaux the tavern keeper had been pushed to the mud. The men in uniform kneeled down next to him, speaking in low tones, their well-shined, black boots squelching in the muck as if to show their contrast to the frumpy tavern keeper in his homespuns.

It was not for some time after the men left and the tavern keeper had stood and walked with his head down into his own establishment that Chast stood up, spit the disgusting willow bark to the ground and stretched his back. He walked to the front of his wagon and patted Maisie the mule on her rump.

-If only everyone were as sweet as you, Maisie. ‘Tis not to be.

With that, he set off down towards the tavern against his better instincts, to see what exactly had happened earlier. Chast was hoping his intuitions about what was going on earlier proved to be wrong, but that was rarely the case. He found Rimbeaux on the wrong side of his own bar, having a strong drink of brown popskull. In these sorts of situations, the wronged man rarely needs much invitation to speak his piece, and Chast knew this. He simply sat down next to the old tavern keeper and pulled his own flask. Before long Rimbeaux was spilling.

-What do I know about a dissident ways up in Luxan? What business is it of mine?

-I expect none, Chast said, absentmindedly pulling another willow bark from his vest pocket and placing it between his back teeth, grimacing at the taste.

-Was in your establishment, they says. Establishment. Goddamn islanders. Even when they’re pissing you around they speak so pretty.

-What did you tell them?

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-Didn’t have nothing to tell them. I don’t folk from Luxan any more than any other place. They all look like customers to me. So’s I told them.

Chast put a hand on Rimbeaux’s shoulder and patted him.

-You did well. Handled the Island Home Guard better than most people ever do.

-Can’t imagine what they’re bleeding guarding all the way out here. Not an island in sight.

-No, Chast said. No there isn’t.

He spent a few more minutes talking with Rimbeaux, calming him down and offering a bit of his own brew, but his mind never left what the tavern keeper had said about the Island Guards. Back at his wagon, he tied a bag of oats on Maisie and remembered back a month or so when he spied the young Luxan boy in the corner booth of the tavern. It wasn’t surprising that Rimbeaux didn’t remember. As he said, they all looked like customers to him. But Chast knew better. That was a Luxan boy and no doubt about it. It was in his best interest as a trader to take an interest in folks and their customs so as to better sell to them what they liked and needed. He could tell were most folk hailed from before they even opened their mouths.

He followed Torv that night; watched him leave the inn on Chast’s advice and make his way out of town. The boy took the road less traveled by, so he wasn’t entirely devoid of sense. Chast stayed a ways back of the boy, but he knew these roads and ways better than most and wouldn’t likely lose track of him. He followed him to where the south road wound down to little more than a deer path winding into the woods. Not many folk went that way. There was a wagon road that went Southeast out of town which was well-traveled and mostly safe in these times. At the edge of the trees, Chast watched the boy disappear into tall ferns, taking mechanical steps with no joy in them. As a trader, he knew the difference. Travel was well and fine if you were making money and enjoying yourself, but circumstances are everything. The boy was trudging with a weight on his shoulders far heavier than the slight pack he carried. A far heavier weight.

On warm nights, Chast slept on a bedroll beside his wagon. It was a generosity most towns afforded him, especially those like Umlea in which he came through enough to be something of a regular fixture. He wasn’t ever bothered too much. On this particular night, he sat up at his fire unable to go to sleep. He poked at the coals with a stick. His tooth ached something awful, and his short leg was giving him the old phantom itch. Pulling another chunk of willow bark from his pocket, he chewed thoughtfully before spitting it out into the fire, causing a spitting hiss. Standing up and going over to his trusty mule, the old trader spoke into the ear of the loyal pack animal.

-Fancy a bit of a journey in the morning, my dear?