Coins clinked against the countertop. “A week for six iron.” On the customer side of the counter stood a thin man. His skin was tanned by days riding on the front bench of the wagon that could be seen through the front glass windows of the trading post. The rope-raw hands pushed the coins towards the young boy who stood on the other side of the counter, who held a firm smile upon his face.

“For three wagons of filled wine barrels? Vey be damned. That wouldn’t even cover the cost of the guards we’d need to hire.” The boy snarked. “You’re not exactly discreet about what you’re carrying. Look,” The boy pointed out the windows to the wagon, “Any merchant worth their salt – or wine – would know to pull their wagon through the alleyway marked Customers and not leave their wares on the street for every urchin to poke through.”

The man stood silent, whatever thought he had next died in his throat as his mind slowly processed the boys words. “I’m… sorry?” He was obviously confused. Poor man. He wouldn’t last long in the business.

“You should be. Now every petty thief in this town and the next knows that barrels of wine will be stored in our warehouse now. Twelve iron for a week.” The boy stated.

“Twelve!” The man shouted outraged, “Robbing me blind, you are.”

“Robbed blind you will be if you don’t pay up soon.” The boy pointed outside again. A small gathering of children were surreptitiously checking the tension of the ropes on the wagon. “Look. We have the closest access to the marketplace and the Highside for you to go and flog your wares all week. Anywhere else you’d be driving your wagons for another half an hour before being able to set up on the outer edge. Here, and you’ll be there bright and early, centre stage, draining the wealth of the mighty.” The boy watched as the man’s face went from outrage to distrust to thoughtfulness as he spoke. He had him. Just another little push. “You know what, since I haven’t seen your face around before, I’ll make you a deal. Ten iron for the week, and a sample of your wine. As you can see,” The boy gestured behind him to a shelf filled with bright, gleaming bottles, “My stock is running low.”

The man opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the chiming of the front door. “Icy! Which mongrel has left his wagons in front of the alley? I can’t move my cargo out.”

“That’d be this man, Two-bit.” The boy waved a careless hand towards the wine merchant. “He goes by Aurelie.”

“Laurelie. Move your wagons before I slAsh the ropes and move them myself! I have a business to run, and I’m not going to make the Marquis wait simply because you couldn’t move your lazy inbred ass!”

“Now, now Two-bit. Be kind, I believe he is new here. Aurelie, nine for the week, and excuse Two-bit. He’s Spiran.” The boy said, watching Aurelie throw a furtive glance over his shoulder at the simmering Two-bit, who was picking between his teeth with a dagger. “Nine, and a small bottle. I see the crates out there.”

Aurelie nodded, placing three more iron coins onto the table a blink before they disappeared beneath the counter, and were replaced by a heavy ledger. The boy opened the ledger and dipped a quill into a small inkwell, also hidden beneath the polished wood of the countertop. “Aurelie. Three wagons of wine. Nine iron.” The boy read aloud, although he only wrote six, “Sign here please.” The boy indicated an empty lined square beside the contents of the wagon and handed Aurelie the quill. Aurelie wrote a small curled signature and passed the quill back. The boy left the ledger open, allowing the ink to dry on the thick pages. Jumping down from the tall seat at the counter, the boy skirted the edge and made haste to the door, calling for Aurelie to follow him.

Aurelie had blocked the Customer alleyway with his wagons as he parked them. His other drivers sat off to the side in the shade, apparently unaccustomed to the mugginess of a city-lake summer. Their road-stained white cotton shirts were dappled with patches of grey sweat in the mid-day heat. Rushing forward, Aurelie started shouting at them about watching the carts, and keeping away the would-be thieves.

That behaviour doesn’t work, the boy knew. If his men wouldn’t do it on their own, they were more than likely only a step or two away from becoming the thieves themselves. Aurelie’s hoarse voice continued its rant as the men looked up at him lazily, unmoving. Two-bit nudged the boy, watching the passers-by in the street slowing, crowding to watch Aurelie’s screams. “Aurelie.” The boy called to save him from further embarrassment. “We need to move your wagons. Tell your men there’s cold water by the warehouse to rinse down in.”

At the mention of cold water the men sprang to their feet, rushing to the wagons. The boy commanded them to circle the streets until they returned to the store front, and this time stop before they reached the alleyway. Two-bit shook the boy’s hand and left to climb into his own wagon.

“Ingrates.” Aurelie said, amongst other mumbled slurs, as he walked to stand in the shade of the store front.

“You’ve paid and signed. I can handle the rest. I suggest taking a room at the Tiber. Failing that, the Marcon. Both are good, and they spice the rooms to rid that pervasive smell of the lake. Both are towards the market end of the spoke.” The boy pointed to his right.

“How do I know my goods are safe?” Aurelie asked pointedly as Two-bit pulled his own wagonload around the front, facing towards the central hub of the city.

The boy stood quiet for a moment, his movements still, and cold. Two-bit cracked an awful smirk from his seat on the wagon. “How do we know your wine isn’t water?” Two-bit called over his shoulder as he nudged the horses lAshed to his wagon to move.

“I suggest that you trust that I can do my job.” The boy said icily. He turned his back on Aurelie and hailed the rapidly approaching wagons of wine. Ordering the men astride them, they made the turn into the alley by moving wide on the road and sharply turning in. The boy thanked them individually as they passed for their patience and promised them cold water was only moments away. The venom he held for their leader was not shared for his men. They were just trying to make a living after all. He turned back to Aurelie. “Go sort your lodgings. We have suitable accommodation for the drivers.” The boy walked back to the door of the trading post. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Again. Tiber or Marcon are the better ones. Enjoy your stay in Verdante.”

The boy stepped through and slumped against the inside of the door. “Vix, water, please. These summers only seem to be getting hotter.”

A woman appeared at the top of the staircase that ran along the far wall of the trading post to it’s second floor. The wood was dried, and the lacquer had lost a lot of its shine over the many hard years since the war began. Trade was profitable, his mother always maintained, but the boy could not see that. All he could see was the haggard, dying, decay that held within the eyes of people who came seeking solace. The coloured glass on the shelf behind the counter was simply that – coloured glass filled with the murky water of the lake. The appearance of wealth needed to be maintained to continue operating. Even if it was for a few lowly Proms a week. The gold candelabras had been exchanged for pig iron. Anything of value had been scrounged from the post over time to maintain the flat tax employed by the Marquis. Wars were expensive. Especially wars that show no signs of ending.

The boy was interrupted from his thoughts as the woman placed two glasses and a wooden pitcher on the countertop. His mother had purchased her when he was nine, and she twelve. A slave from Gargak. She had all the hallmarks of any village girl, long brownish-red hair that shimmered in the afternoon light. Deep green eyes, the colour of the sky before a hailstorm. She stood head and shoulders taller than him and flaunted the fact at any opportunity, despite her lowly status. 

Why had his mother not yet sold her on? The boy did not know. There were simple reasons of course; Gargak slaves were fierce, especially the fresh ones, and who would want a slave from the enemy? They could slit your throat in your sleep. Perhaps his mother could not recoup the value. Then there was the most base reason. Most of them were considered unsightly, it was not uncommon for them to bare likings to animals – lizards, birds, cats – and be treated as such. Asides the long vulpine ears and bushy tail Vix sported, she was a figure of human beauty.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“You’re staring, Isidrian.” Vix cut through the boy’s thoughts again like a warm knife through butter. He did not acknowledge the jibe. Any response would have lit a spark in her eyes. Isidrian moved to his seat at the counter. Vix stood away from the customer’s stool, her tail wagging slowly as her ears pricked tall. “Two-bit will be back shortly. He’s just pulled down the side alley. You’d think he’d have learned a new song by now.” Vix said as she poured them both a glass.

Isidrian drained it in a single gulp, slammed his glass down, and reached for the pitcher. Vix was faster and his fingers gripped hers as she held the pitcher. His blood ran hot and she quirked an eyebrow as his hand darted back. “Another, thanks.”

“Always the gentleman.” Vix remarked, pouring them both another glass as the front door opened behind her, “Unlike a certain other man I know.”

“Lucky Icy is here or I’d crack you up the side of the head for that wench.” Two-bit snarled, “No way to talk to your betters. It’s going to get Icy in trouble some day if the Mistress doesn’t sell you first.”

“Lucky you aren’t my better then.” Vix retorted, “And speaking of, Icy, the Mistress wanted you to know that she will be back in two days’ time and that I am to tuck you into bed.”

“Bastard.” Two-bit grumbled.

“I will only believe the first half, Vix. There’s work to be done besides. Two-bit, I take it the wine has been stored safely?” Isidrian asked.

Holding out his hand, Two-bit remained silent. Reaching beneath the counter, Isidrian threw a copper dot to him, loosening the man’s tongue. “Of course. The drivers are fine, I checked ‘em out. They were grateful for the water.” He unlooped a pouch that hung from his belt and lobbed it onto the counter. Isidrian poked it surreptitiously. “Your and your mother’s cut.” Then, at Isidrian’s confused expression he added, “Not many allow me to store my cargo in relative safety without question. This is just a continued expression of gratitude.”

“I’ll take your money,” Isidrian said, “But I don’t need your charity. Vix, take this upstairs. Two-bit, next time you lie about your cargo there will be consequences. We’re merchants, not liars, no matter how we may stand in Verdante.”

“Yeah, yeah. Laurelie spat at me on the way past, made some comment about a rock-brained vagrant. What did you tell him to make him hate me so much?” Two-bit asked.

“I said you were Spiran.” Isidrian replied.

“And what if he was from the Spire?”

“I’d tell him where the best food and ale are and he wouldn’t give two shits about some brat shouting at him to move his wagons. Speaking of, set those drivers up with somewhere to stay. Noran, he should have some room at this time of year. He’d be glad for the work.” Isidrian threw another half-prom at Two-bit. “That’s for Noran. Make sure he knows I sent them. And make sure to have one of them open a crate for me. One bottle. I don’t need any more problems.”

Two-bit bowed deep at the waist, his arm making a flowery, curling motion, as he proclaimed “Yes, my Lord Isidrian. Whatever shall us poor common folk do without you shoving your foot up our ass.” He spun on his heel and finished his remark outside, the chiming of the door marking his exit.

Isidrian drained the last of his pitcher into the glass. There would be no guards, feeding the urchins prevents the problem of them trying to steal from him. It is better to have them grateful than fearful. Any deviants would be dealt with by their own hands saving him both time and money.

The real problem would be attracting new customers. Expansion, or perhaps reclamation would be a better term. But what was there to reclaim? The barren shop fronts of the surrounding buildings spoke volumes. The Verdante that flourished, a jewel of the nation, now was reduced to a wilted flower in poisoned water. There was no money to be made here anymore. He counted the stacks within the trays beneath the counter. Enough iron to last a month, at most, before taxes sank the float. Copper dots were almost worthless now, going from ten to an iron, to twenty in the last six months.

It was bad enough he needed to have Vix out of sight whenever a customer came by. Only those lined with gold could be seen fraternising with Gargans without recompense. A lowly shopkeeper – or worse, a travelling merchant – would lose friends as fast as their pockets emptied.

He needed a plan. Something to lift his station. Perhaps his father had been right to return to the relative unsafety of the road. It most certainly was the more profitable route than sitting here, watching his home fall to pieces around him. Although, he was less than a year from being a man, who would take him seriously?

Standing from his seat, he turned to face the shelf of coloured glass bottles and reached into the long cabinet below it. Within was a nearly empty jar of pine tar and beeswax and a stained scrap of cloth. With care, Isidrian dipped the white cloth into the tar and began the long patient movements of rubbing the polish along the grain of the counter top.

The sun set outside while Isidrian polished. Vix wandered about, lighting rush candles, and watched Isidrian as he worked and left him be. His clouded eyes that reflected in the gleaming counter only conveyed dark thoughts. He stood as his father did, the same movements, the same expression. Ochre was a strong man. A smart man. A callous man. Vix never understood how the kind Mistress came to love him.

It was an hour after night fell that a lamplight gave a soft radiance to the windows of the post. Isidrian sat at a table in the front left corner of the shop with Vix. Between them was a loaf of bread, mushrooms, nuts, and a small cutting of cheese. Meat was hard to come by, and even the fish had become small and sickly. Vix was certain however that mushrooms held special properties that meat had.

Three thuds came from the front door. The door handle rattled as the outsider tried to force it open. Vix darted for behind the counter as Isidrian flung his chair backwards as he made haste to the door. Standing aside from the sliding plate to see outside, he called back “Who’s there?”

“I seek Dawn of the Brighthills.” The stranger’s voice boomed.

“She’s not here.” Isidrian replied. “Come back in the daylight.”

“I cannot. It is urgent. Who am I speaking to?”

“You speak to Icy of Verdante.” Isidrian replied. There was a creaking behind him. He crooked his head to look at Vix, who was now poised behind the counter, an arrow ready to be drawn in a shortbow. Isidrian held up a hand to caution.

“Isidrian?” The voice boomed with laughter. “Avelli’s bad foot. I haven’t seen you since you were a pup. I am an old friend of your father’s.” Then the stranger dropped his voice. “I’d say my name aloud but some around here may not take it too kindly.”

“If I opened the door to any scum who claimed to know my father then this would hardly be a reputable business.” Isidrian said calmly.

The man outside laughed again. “Your father would say the same thing, except colder. And there is truth to that, many things your father was, but honourable he was not. If you need proof, go no further than the smell of your hands. Pine tar and beeswax. The hours your father would spend polishing that fucking countertop, it was enough to make my own hands bleed.”

Isidrian closed the sliding plate. “Be ready, but do not shoot. Not yet.” He murmured to Vix. He slid the bar from the door and twisted the lock. He flung the door wide and darted left. The door slammed to the right. A large shadow held the lamp in the doorway. He had a long beard and a wide, square face. His hood was held high, but Isidrian could make out small, beetle-black eyes glittering within, and a large bulbous nose.

The stranger did not come inside, instead setting the lantern onto the doostep and showing his empty palms. Vix did not lower her bow. “Come into the light. Lower the hood.” Isidrian commanded.

The hood lowered to reveal the man’s bald head. “My name is Ash. I would appreciate if you closed the door before the whole world knows I’m here.”

“You may close the door yourself.” Isidrian said stepping backwards from the man’s hands. They were closer to bear paws. The man turned slowly, hands high, and closed the door. He stopped, shocked, when an arrow thudded into the wood beside his head.

“Vix!” Isidrian shouted.

“It’s quite alright.” Ash said. “My size sets people on edge. You would laugh at the number of times I’ve been loosed at or nicked by a dagger. I mean you and your fiancé no harm little fox.”

Ignoring the comment Vix knocked another arrow.

“Ash, friend of my father, why are you here?” Isidrian asked.

“I see you have food set out. What I bring is not news to be shared with strangers, but in my family, those who we break bread with are friends.” Ash said, his hands high, he moved slowly towards the table.

“Icy. Knife.” Vix warned.

Skirting wide around the bear of a man, Isidrian reached the table first, reaving the table of its cutlery. “We do not need knives to break bread.” Isidrian said, scattering the cutlery across the floor towards the stairwell, except for a single knife he slid into his shirt sleeve.

“Rightly so.” Ash concurred. Isidrian took the seat Vix had been sitting at and placed it with the back hard against the wall. Skirting away again, he offered the seat to Ash, who accepted graciously. It creaked beneath his weight. Isidrian then took the other seat, leaving a measured gap between him and the large man’s hands. “Your caution comes from your father. On the other hand, your mother would be appalled at the treatment you are showing a guest.” Ash chided from his seat. The odd calmness he displayed made Isidrian feel ill at ease. “It does not matter. My time here will be short. Hurry, we must break bread and wine together.”

Eyes never leaving Ash, Isidrian leaned forwards for the loaf. Ash held his hands close to his chest, a friendly smile upon his face. With a flex of his wrists the hard loaf of seeded brown bread tore in two. Isidrian tossed one half to Ash, who caught it with ease. The creak of Vix’s bow strained in the background as she tracked the big man’s movements. Next, Isidrian poured them each a cup of Aurelie’s wine. His right hand gripping the hidden knife tightly, he offered the cup to Ash with his left. Vix’s bow creaked again. Ash slowly took the cup and forced himself back against the wall. He took a bite of bread and drained the wine glass and waited for Isidrian to do the same.

Isidrian mirrored the large man’s actions. When he was done, the large man’s face quivered. He bit his lip as his small black eyes crinkled. Startled, Isidrian moved backwards, unsure of what was happening.

“Boy.” Ash said, his powerful voice cracking and broken. “Your father is dead.”