Teraeth was walking down the street when he heard his name shouted behind him.

"Sir! Over here, sir!"

He turned to see a young soldier holding an arrow aimed squarely at his heart.

"I need to buy a horse, then I'm going home," Teraeth explained. "You can kill me later."

The soldier lowered the arrow. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely positive," Teraeth said.

"If we're not busy…" The guard smiled.

Teraeth nodded. "What is your name?"

"Kell."

"Where are you from?"

"Cantonada."

"And where will you go now that you're finished here?"

"I'd rather not say."

"I understand. My name is Teraeth. If you're ever in Cantanada, look me up."

"I'll do that, sir," Kell said, lowering the bow. "I'll do that."

"Good. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir." The soldier saluted, smiling, and walked away.

Teraeth waited for him to turn a corner then walked toward the stable.

Dalar watched as the three men left the alley, then he started across the street toward them. They were dressed in dark clothing; only one of them had a sword strapped to his waist, and he was carrying a small knife that he kept sheathed in a boot. The two others carried daggers; they weren't armed to the teeth, but they were prepared to defend themselves, which was more than they deserved.

He moved into position, getting himself between the alley and the road. He hoped they were just here to rob someone. They wouldn't be coming back, because they didn't deserve to walk free.

One of the men pulled something out of his boot, a gun, and pointed it at Dalar, who froze.

"Give us all your money," the man said.

"I don't have any money," Dalar said.

The man laughed. "Then I guess we'll have to steal it from you."

"You can't do that," Dalar said. "I'm a priest—"

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The man fired. Two bullets slammed into Dalar's chest, the force of them throwing him backward. The third bullet missed.

"It looks like it could have used some work, but no more than what I've already done," Rolan said.

"That's it? That's the whole thing?" Dalar asked. His hands were shaking; he felt sick. "Is that all you did?"

Rolan shrugged. "It took me a few days, and I had to hire an engineer to make a new floor for it. But that's it. What about it? It's just a room."

"Just a room."

"So why are you so upset?"

"Because…" Dalar sighed.

He had spent two years and a fortune getting his house built, and now it was ruined. He'd wanted to live in this room with his wife, the way it had been meant to be lived in. He had wanted to grow old there, and die there, and then his son would live there and raise his children there. And they had been so excited to move in, and he'd been so excited for them, and then…

"What did you use for paint, anyway?" he asked Rolan.

"Why are you painting?"

"I need to cover the wall. I need to fix what you fucking wrecked."

"How much paint does a wall need?"

"Enough to be opaque, I suppose. I don't know." He grabbed a brush that had been lying on the floor beside the table.

"You need to be careful," Rolan said. "If you're not careful—"

He didn't finish his sentence. A knife flashed, then Rolan grunted and a spray of blood sprayed across his face.

Dalar jumped to his feet, looking around wildly.

"Don't hurt him," a voice said. "We need him."

Two more men entered the room, both with knives drawn. One held a handkerchief to his bloody nose, the other had his hand over his mouth to stop the bleeding from his nose.

"Get off him," Dalar barked. "He tried to stab me."

"I didn't," Rolan said.

Dalar looked at him, and for the first time realized that Rolan was missing an eye. "The hell happened to your eye?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Trying not to dwell too much on the fact that one of his attackers was holding a knife, Dalar turned to the men holding Rolan down. "Leave him alone."

"Are you going to pay us the money you owe us?" one of them asked.

Dalar looked at the door. He could hear the sound of footsteps outside; there were two more men out there, probably.

"I already paid you," Dalar replied. "Three times."

"That was for the housework, isn't it?"

Dalar felt a surge of anger. "I have my own money! It's mine to spend how I want!"

"You're wasting it," the man on top of Rolan said. "And it's our job to waste what you give us."

The one with the bloody nose nodded in agreement.

"Well?" the man asked. "Do you have it or not? We'll take it if you don't."

"I'm trying to fix what I fucked up," Dalar insisted. "Give me time."

"You don't even have a fucking shovel," another man said. "I saw you digging with your bare hands."

Dalar ignored them. "Give me time," he repeated.

"Fine," the man said.

He got off Rolan, who pushed himself up, groaning as his ribs popped.

"Are you all right?" Dalar asked. "Let's get you out of here."

"No," Rolan said. "I'm not leaving. Not until I find out what happened to the money."

Dalar looked at the two men still in the room, and then back at Rolan. He sighed. "Alright. I'll stay, but you have to promise to let me fix it."

"Of course," the man said.

"And you have to stay quiet."

Rolan nodded. "Deal."

Dalar took the broom and the mop he had been using to clean up from the floor, and started working on the walls.