Wheat porridge had never tasted so delicious before.

Glic looked on with a smile on his beak as Mousey helped himself to another bowl and slurped it down with glee. The owl had prepared the meal himself, and was, no doubt, flattered that someone actually enjoyed this simplistic supper.

“So,” said the priest as he took a seat across the table from Mousey. “You’re obviously not from around here.” He slid the lit candle a little closer to Mousey, illuminating all the porridge that was still left. “Why have you come to a place like Zucker? And all on your own.”

“I’m looking for some-beast,” said Mousey between mouthfuls. “His name is Nakash.”

Mousey hadn’t thought it possible, but the owl’s eyes grew even wider at the sound of that. “We do not speak that name in a sacred place,” whispered the owl. Then he looked up to the ceiling and said, “Dear Heaven, forgive us!”

Mousey wrung his paws. “I’m sorry, Glic… I didn’t know…”

Glic waved a wing, dismissing Mousey’s apology as unnecessary. “What do you need with the Pale Cobra, child?”

“Pale Cobra?” Mousey repeated. “His name is too wrong to speak here, but I can call him that? Okay. I need to take one of the Pale Cobra’s fangs, so I can save my sister who was turned to

stone.”

“I don’t doubt the wrong-hearted beast’s venom has such power,” said Glic. “But… do you understand the manner of wrong you seek to encounter?”

“I understand he’s a sorcerer of some kind,” said Mousey, scratching behind his ear. “Beyond that… I guess he was a tyrant at some point.”

“Far worse than any tyrant!” said Glic, raising one of his flight feathers to emphasize his point. “Many a tyrant is full of wrongs, but Pale Cobra has even committed Unpardonables! He has poisoned water sources, eaten countless thinking beasts, and some of those he’d eaten were winter night guests!”

Mousey’s jaw fell at the last of these. Though all were Unpardonable wrongs, the first two he’d heard of beasts committing in times of war. But the third was one truly beyond the others. Every beast, no matter how young or savage, knew to be courteous to anyone who came seeking shelter in the winter, and, if one was the winter guest, to be gracious to one’s host.

The Pale Cobra had violated such a basic moral of their society. For a moment, Mousey doubted such a creature had a soul.

Glic continued, “You say you need this to save your sister… please, be honest with me, are you truly just seeking the reward for slaying the serpent?”

“There’s a reward?” Mousey asked, his ears perking up.

“Oh… I’ve just made it worse…” groaned the owl priest. “Yes, the mayor is offering a reward of ten-thousand grains to anyone who can slay that snake. Don’t give me that look! It’s not worth it, child! The Pale Cobra has killed and eaten every hunter who’s come his way. He’s grown fat on rats, weasels, ferrets, and even sparrows. A mouse is surely no match for such a monster!”

“That may be so,” said Mousey. “But I need to save my sister.”

Glic gave a skeptical look. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Button,” said Mousey. “Well, really, her name is Buttondale, but everyone just calls her Button. Sometimes when I’m mad I just call her Bu—”

“I understand,” Glic interrupted. He attempted to roll his eyes, but they were far too large in his sockets to do so. Instead, he rolled his whole head. “You said she was turned to stone… how are you

certain the Pale Cobra’s fang will help?”

Mousey didn’t dare betray Zoi’s existence, even to a priest who seemed so kind.

I read it in a book once? No, even that raises too many questions.

“I heard a rumor,” Mousey said, confident his lie would be enough.

“Rumors aren’t always the best source of information,” said Glic with a raised eyebrow.

“I know…” said Mousey. “But… I mean…” Come to think of it, how did he really know Zoi was telling the truth? No, worse, Vulpa had read Zoi’s words to him. How did he know the self-confessed Trickster was telling the truth? For all he knew, Vulpa was someone with a personal vendetta against Nakash. She could be trying to use Mousey to take revenge for her.

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Glic still stared down at Mousey, waiting for him to complete his thought. In those golden eyes, Mousey saw a soft sympathy. This owl was someone who had surely seen many foolish beasts go off to their death against Nakash. Mousey had no doubt the priest’s heart had been broken many a time, when young, foolish beasts went after the snake and never returned.

“I don’t have anything else to go on,” said Mousey. Tears started to well up in his eyes, and he sniffed loudly. “If I want to save her, this is my only hope. I have to believe it’s true.”

“Oh, there there!” said Glic. He pulled Mousey under his wings and patted his back. Mousey buried his face in the owl’s soft chest and wiped his tears on the front of his robe. Glic held Mousey out at half-wing’s-length. “I’ll help you find the Pale Cobra, but I have one condition.”

Mousey nodded and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Then his eyes on the other sleeve.

“I’ve heard there is a professional snake hunter in the city today. Ermine Dwyn, they call him.” Glic raised a single flight feather in front of Mousey’s eyes. “I want you to get Ermine to go with you… or, maybe, convince him to go with you. Once you have him with you, I’ll tell you where to find the serpent.”

There was raucous laughter, the sound of dishes clinking together, and the music of minstrels by the lit hearth as Mousey entered the tavern.

The trio of bards across the room were each pigeons. One beat drums with his feet, one played a stringed instrument with his wings, and a third blew into a flute built special for the shape of his beak.

Patrons giggled and gossiped. Servers hurried along from one table to the next with drinks in their paws. The drinkers at the tables slipped them a few grains in turn, and the servers were off again to the next table in what appeared to be a rehearsed dance.

Two rats pointed at Mousey as he walked in and snickered to one another.

A lizard at a nearby table, playing dice with a few surly-looking beasts, sneered at Mousey and threw his fork at him.

Mousey ducked under the fork, just as the lizard, predictably, shouted, “Vermin!”

Up ahead, Mousey saw a group of beasts all gathered in front of someone seated under the mounted head of a massive, northern pike.

“Why, sure, I’ve slain many a black mamba!” came a gruff voice from just beyond the crowd. “My fair share of blue kraits and vipers too!”

“Truly?” said one starry-voiced ferret girl.

“You betcher tail, Jill!” said the scratchy voice. “My crossbow never misses.”

Mousey tried to see if he could spot the speaker through the gaps, but there weren’t any gaps in the crowd big enough for him to peer through.

In that moment, he’d had enough of being ignored, stepped on, spat at, and ridiculed. Someone in this city was going to listen to him. “Does that mean you’re Ermine, the snake hunter?” Mousey yelled out. His voice squeaked loudly, far less commanding than he’d intended.

Even so, the crowd parted, revealing the beast around whom they’d gathered.

A weasel sat upon a chair covered in fish scales and beetle shells. He wore a round, wide-brimmed hat; a red, cotton scarf

around his neck; and a long, black, wool coat to cover his body down to his ankles. In his belt sat many vials full of liquids of various colors. Each vial bore the name of a different snake upon it.

Venom or anti-venom?

“Surely anti-venom,” said Sopher.

The weasel held in one paw a crossbow made of stained and polished wood. Just above the bolt, which was ready to launch at the pull of the trigger, was a circle with cross-hairs in the middle. The tip of the bolt appeared to be sharp as a razor.

But the look upon his face was not curiosity, it was an amused smirk. “Yeah, pup. I’m a snake hunter. Ermine Dwyn’s my name. What? You want an autograph or something to show to the other slum-babes?”

The beasts gathered around Ermine snickered, as did the weasel himself.

A female server bumped into Mousey, and he staggered for a moment to stay on his feet. “Umm… no, sir,” Mousey said.

Ermine chuckled and nodded his head.

When the weasel’s ears perked up, Mousey continued. “I’m here because I wish to help you hunt Nakash.”

In an instant, all the hubbub and clamor of the tavern went silent. Even the music had stopped, leaving only the crackling of the fire and a few distant whispers to be heard.

“You want to help me?” Ermine repeated, a snicker hiding behind his words.

Every beast stared at Mousey as if he’d just announced he wished to visit the moon. No, they stared at him as if they’d just heard a mouse say he wished to be king.

“Yes,” said Mousey. “I wish to help you.”

Ermine snickered and nodded his head. “Very well, mouse, let’s hear it. How do you intend to help me? What do you have to offer?”

The tavern’s patrons returned to their conversations and drinks, but now they kept their discussions to hushed tones.

“I know someone who can tell us exactly where Nakash is,” said Mousey.

“I do too,” said Ermine, shrugging his shoulders. “You don’t get to be a famous snake hunter without knowing helpful people.”

“I can also do this,” said Mousey. He waved his paw, and a tiny, candle-flame appeared above his palm. Ermine gasped. Mousey smiled. “As you can see, I’m a wizard. I’d think magic like this would prove quite handy against a sinister, sorcerous serpent.”

Ermine grinned widely and nodded. “Very well. We shall hunt this monster together. What’s your name, mouse?”

“Mousey.”

“Mousey?” Ermine chuckled. “I almost feel guilty calling one of you creatures a name like that. Just… far too on-the-nose. Who named you? An uncreative cat?”

Mousey stared at Ermine in silence, showing no sign that the weasel’s jabs bothered him.

Ermine paused a moment, then snapped two fingers and stood from his chair. “Let’s get going, Mousey. The sooner we leave this place the sooner we can split that reward.” Ermine leaned his head back and took a sip from his drink.

“I don’t need the reward,” said Mousey. “You can keep it all.”

Ermine’s eyes widened, and, in his shock, he spat the drink out over Mousey’s head. “I can keep the entire reward for myself?”

Mousey nodded to him and wiped some of the wild-berry juice out of his ears. “I just want to take one of his fangs.”

“Oh? So, you’re a trophy hunter now?” Ermine chuckled again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “That’s fine. Just remember to do as I say, and you might actually live through this.”