"Sam! Sam!" Sela ran full tilt down the main road of the shantytown, a dozen identical wooden huts on either side. Many riverfolk didn’t bother with street addresses. It was the doors he checked, head bobbing as he sprinted past. Chip’s, of course, had his baskets out front, next to his yoke. The door itself was covered in blue and orange, the family colors. Sela skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding a collision with River, sprinting up the street from the opposite direction.

"Sela?"

"River?"

The door opened.

"What are you two up to?" said Sam. The dusting of flour clinging to her fur made her look almost ghostly. "Chip has been baking up a storm today. I don't think you should disturb his flow."

"I've got important information, though," River said.

"I need to tell him something because I have important information," Sela said, attempting to tower over the druid.

"You know what, I still think you would make a good ranger. Have you considered a life in my service, Sela?" River walked around Sela, inspecting him as if he were livestock, and she a bee-wrangler.

"Hey! You two,” Sam sighed. “What is going on? River first please."

River preened, playfully smug. Sela huffed.

"I know who the judge is going to be at the contest on board the ship," River said, curtseying to Sam.

Sam turned to Sela, gesturing for him to speak.

He straightened, tugging at his whiskers proudly. "I know what one of the other competitors is going to make. I even had him tell me the recipe!"

River and Sam both did a double-take.

"Okay, I have a good idea that the judge will be a druid. Do you know them?" Sam said.

"Not only do I know them, but it's the druid that I am apprenticed to! She's going to go in otter form, as is the custom."

Sam lifted her whiskers, pulling them to the side. "I take it this means..."

"I know what she likes to eat," River said.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Alright then!” Sela clapped his paws together. "Let's get Chip prepped."

***

The conspirators converged in the kitchen. Chip greeted them absently, intently focused on the dough he was molding. He’d been practicing, his entire face covered in flour.

“Chip, I think that you might want to listen to these two,” Sam said, pacing like a general before her troops.

“I know her taste palette,” River said.

“Wh-” Chip’s raw voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Sorry. Who?”

Sela blinked.

“He’s been barking orders at me all day. He lost his voice a little bit,” Sam said.

“You don’t need to talk, Chip. You need to bake,” River said.

Sela looked around the kitchen. “Can I carry anything to the boat?”

Sam pointed to a wrapped package. Purple cloth covered a wicker basket, and Sela had a sinking suspicion it was heavier than it looked.

“They’re going to supply the ingredients. He’ll want you to grab his knives.” Sam handed the basket to Sela. It clinked as he grabbed it.

***

River tapped her talons impatiently. “Are we ready then?”

“We’ll get there in time for some good seats,” Chip said, weakly.

“That’s the spirit!” River said.

The conspiracy gathered itself and made for the docks.

With every step Chip seemed more spry, the excitement buoying him. By the time they had reached the dock, Sela was tired and Chip was re-energized, completing the transfer of energy.

"Sela, it's you and me on rowing,” River said. “Sam got the sous chef job, so she needs to stay strong."

Sela steeled himself. Tomorrow, win or lose, he would sleep in. He didn’t realize the raft’s first date would be so exhausting.

Tired or not, River’s infectious grin was enough motivation to get them to the main deck of the Otter Plotter.

***

Already crowds were gathering, eager to see the competition (and if they could get some free food out of it). Up on the fourth bleacher, Stone and Carol chatted.

“The thing about mercenaries is, you don’t tell them everything. You pay them to do the work, but you don’t pay them to think. They stay on contract, and if they’re good mercenaries, they stick to the contract. The riverfolk I don’t understand? The merchants. See, you can trust a mercenary to be honest, you can, but merchants are always trying to get a few more clams out of a deal. A few more clams to grease their palms makes a merchant happy. A mercenary? He just wants to go home,” Stone said, gesticulating wildly.

“He or she,” Carol said.

“Right? There are plenty of female mercenaries, why, I fought with a few back when.”

“Stone, you never fought anyone. The most you did was to exchange insults.”

“That’s not the point, Carol.”

“Yes it is, and Brit would back me up on this. The company trusts you to make a decision, but the client? They just want you to do your job and, when you’re done, to forget whatever or whoever you were guarding. I’m sure if you lobbied hard enough, you could change the way that we do things, but a lot of otters and beavers are happy with the way things are going. Or is this one of those times you don’t want a fix and just want to vent?”

Stone nodded enthusiastically as the small crowd on the boat roared. The judges were about to be announced. A beaver in a gaudy striped apron was making her way through the bleachers, exchanging scrip for bags of candied nuts, and Stone leaned forward eagerly. “Selling food to this crowd? Now there is an idea!”

“Good,” Carol said. “Tell Chip after the contest. I want him to focus, not be thinking about business plans.”