The city bells rang out noon, and one after another, the foxes in their best work tunics emerged from the large manor, heading for the bazaar. The air smelled strongly of fish and salt. A young otter sat on the bench nearby, mouth watering, as his uncle gestured at the approaching crowd.

“You get to pick one, nephew… great location, the ideal time of day, or a crowd of hungry foxes, birds, and otters. Which do you pick?”

“The third one every time, Uncle,” said the young otter. “If the foxes from the ministry had lunch at midnight, I would be there to sell.”

Squinting in the midday sun, he gestured to the carts before them.

“All of those vendors, they’re selling regular fish.”

“Ah! You’re perceptive! Good on you!” Uncle beamed, standing to set up behind his own cart. “So my new recipe could be a hit, then! And a hit it will be if we can keep our advantage. Chip, get me my apron if you would.“

Chip hurried to grab the pack behind the bench. It was always exciting, watching his uncle at work. He carefully donned his own apron, tying the strings with practiced paws, and handed the other to his uncle. Affixed to the top of their cart was a large wooden sign with a crude drawing of an otter hawking a fish. Mr. Steal Your Pearl, it read.

By the time the first of the foxes reached the bazaar, they were ready.

“Ah, yer lordship sire, today I’ve got these new salty fish-on-a-sticks fer yas.” With a flourish, Uncle held up a small flounder, smoked and salted to perfection. The smell was pungent. The fox’s eyes teared up as he passed a pearl to Chip.

Chip watched with wide eyes as he bit into the fish, considering, savoring. Trying to pinpoint the mouthfeel. Chip smiled.

“I didn’t think that fish on a stick would work,” said the fox, “but this was something else.”

Uncle stood taller, preening. “I made the sauce myself!”

“Truly?” The fox eyed them both. They nodded.

Dropping a second pearl into Chip’s hand, he said, “Another.”

Watching the fox crunch on the fish, Chip wondered if there was a way to do it a bit better.

“The taste is wonderful,” said the fox, “but I do have to eat around the bone. It’s a bit of a bother.”

"Your lordship sire," Chip said.

The fox nodded for him to speak.

Chip adjusted his apron. Watch how you talk, Uncle always said, they’re paying for the experience as well as the food. "You see, me an’ me uncle, we were thinking ‘bout selling these more often. Do you think other foxes would like ‘em?"

The fox smacked his lips, tongue darting out to snag a stray piece of fish. “I’m no tastemaker, young otter, but I think you're onto something here," he replied.

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Chip and his uncle shared a knowing smile. Uncle Brit stroked his whiskers for a second.

"You know that the winter season is coming up, right?" asked the fox. "The Queen has announced that this year she would love to have a food festival. There will be a competition, and the top three vendors get the prime spots for the season. I heard that the old blast furnaces are up for grabs, and that Baron Cornflower himself, the minister of the interior, is going to be a judge on the panel."

Chip’s eyes widened. The bazaar was set up in what had once been the blacksmithing district, and there were several large furnaces that had been used centuries ago to craft weapons. The few that remained in working order were maintained by the blacksmithing foxes, but they were used by vendors who cooked their food on-site. Chip knew that the vendors didn't have a monopoly on the furnaces, but Uncle’s cart was tough to move around. Because they made fish with open flames they couldn’t sell indoors, which left the mesa bazaar, and they’d never dreamed of such an opportunity to expand their business.

"Uncle! We have to do it! We have to enter the Baron’s contest!" Chip said.

"Remember that the Baron is a mouse, and they don't eat fish the way that you or I do," the fox said.

"Thank you kindly, yer lordship sire. I'll be in your debt if you could tell your friends we’re tryin’ out new recipes before the festival," Uncle Brit said. "Sire, I'm Brit and this here is me nephew Chip, and we'd be right pleased if you could spread the word."

"I'm Lord Henry Richards, and I'd be tickled pink if you two won. I wish you both luck," Lord Richards said. "Will you be selling these delicious sticks tomorrow?"

"I'll make sure to have some ready when I see you, sire," Uncle Brit said.

He nodded to both of them, and headed off. Already another group of foxes was making for their cart.

"We might never get an otter chance like this, Chip," Uncle Brit said.

"We're doing the festival?" Chip asked.

"We're doing it,” Uncle Brit said, “and we're going to win it," and then they turned to the customers queuing for Mr. Steal Your Pearl.

The sun was sinking by the time the dinner rush wound down, the crowds dwindling; there wouldn’t be many more customers that night. Chip took both of their aprons and stuffed them into his rucksack.

“Alright,” Uncle Brit said, settling on the bench. “I’m of two minds, Chip. We need to perfect our sauce, but I don’t know if that will be enough. I think you have the technical aspect of grilling down, so I don’t need to work on that with you, but I also think that we need to get the best fishes for the contest.”

“Aye, Uncle. And since the head judge is a mouse, do you want to think about making some vegetable dish? Something maybe the mice and rabbits will like?”

Cart packed away, the pair began heading towards the eastern stairs. Chip loaded his two empty water buckets on his makeshift yoke, head buzzing with ideas.Uncle Brit was silent as they walked, but it was a thoughtful quiet, not a dismissive one. Finally, he said,“Make food for the rabbits, eh? Kids these days. Alright, you’re on, Chip. I’m going to ask the raft when we get back.”

Chip expected nothing less. Few decisions were made without the consensus of the raft. It was the secret to a good marriage, Chip's father told him once; all four of them had equal say. Running the cart was usually left to Uncle Brit, but a contest before all of Yellowrock was a big deal.

“Now I’ll figure out how to get us the best fish I can. Maybe your father can help. Do you want to work on the sauce? We ought to get some foxes and rabbits and mice to test it out.”

“I can get all the spices together, and maybe some of the oil and vinegar?”

Coming at last to the base of the stairwell, the pair turned to the eastern gate of Yellowrock. Beyond its walls lay the Riverfolk Mercenary Company and Community Trust’s shantytown. Most of the otters worked for the Company, but a few retirees lived right off the river, and as they got closer, their two-story house jutted out north of the outer wall.

Uncle Brit was still debating their next moves. “So tomorrow morning before we head to make lunch, you need to get the spices either in the indoor bazaar or the outdoor one.”

Because they made fish with open flames they couldn’t sell indoors, which was as well. The nobles of all the Yellowrock Union races worked on the top floors.