The circus crowd swept them across Yarko Village to Delia’s Dreghouse. The common room of the inn doubled as a tavern and was, somehow, even more raucous than the carnival tent. A group of minstrels played on a small raised dais in the corner. One man played the flute, another woman a lute, and the third member—an incredibly small woman with pink hair who Eldren assumed was a gnome— played an oversized accordion while standing on a stool. The tune was upbeat and quick.

In front of the band people danced, sloshing ale and wine out of wooden tankards and pewter goblets onto the floor as they swung each other wildly around. The benches along the tables were all crammed full of customers. Some sat on each others’ laps to make room for more to join the fun.

Eldren saw a few frazzled-looking wait staff in aprons bustling between tables, refreshing drinks and carrying platters of meat and cheese and bowls of stew to the tables while avoiding newcomers who hadn’t yet been served. The latter jingled their coin pouches in the air, trying in vain to grab the attention of a waiter.

“Best luck will be at the bar, I think,” Ink said, slipping between two women who were trying to make their way toward the dancing area. Eldren followed.

“I don’t like this,” Ardos said from inside the backpack. “We should be finding a place to lay low and plot out your first spell shrine. You can’t do any magic at all yet.”

“I know,” Eldren said over the din. “Just one drink, then we’ll head out.” He still didn’t trust the turtle but felt a similar unease about being so casual when the Iron Square would be looking for him.

“The gray cloaks will eventually search here,” Ardos said. “They know the carnival is in Yarko Village and they’ll want to make sure we don’t try to hitch a ride in their caravan when they pack up.”

As Eldren approached the bar, he saw that Ink had bought them two tankards of ale, foaming and overflowing at the top.

“Figured I’d have to spot you anyway since you don’t have any golden scales,” she said. He thanked her as they tried to find an open spot to lean against a wall. Eldren sipped the ale. It had a faint floral aroma, like hibiscus, and was quite good.

They enjoyed their ales while watching the villagers in the common room drink and laugh and occasionally fight. A few of the carnival performers even joined in the fun, arriving later than the rest. They ordered drinks and mingled with the townsfolk. Baltran was especially popular with the other tavern goers, who flocked around him and bombarded him with questions. How he had learned to shoot black powder pistols? Could they try to shoot one for themselves?

As the night wore on, one drink became several — fueled in part by what Ink claimed was an unnatural streak of good luck at a wagering dice game in the corner. She kept playing, round after round, against new challengers who couldn’t seem to beat her. Eldren suspected there may be more to her winning than luck, but didn’t mind the free drinks she kept having the bartender pour.

“Eldren. Eldren!”

His mind was warm and fuzzy from the ale, but he focused his attention on his backpack where, through a small hole he had left open between the zippers, Ardos had also been people-watching.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Over there, at the door!”

A regiment of eight gray-cloaked soldiers of the Iron Square had arrived in the tavern.

Shit.

His insides turned to ice and he suddenly felt the bile rise, wanting to puke up his ale. He glanced to the corner where Ink was still shaking a cup of dice against an opponent. She hadn’t noticed the soldiers yet.

Eldren could see that the gray cloaks put everyone on edge. People were going out of their way to avoid them. One man who had his back toward them and accidentally blocked their way had his tankard upended over his head and then tossed aside clattering on the floor. Another gray cloak roughly shoved him aside. The minstrels cut their music and the room, momentarily confused, quickly caught on. Chatter and laughing came to a halt.

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“We are looking for fugitives of the church!”

One of the gray cloaks stepped forward. He had olive skin and was quite handsome. His silver chain mail glimmered in the firelight of the hearth. “We have reason to believe that they are here, hiding Yarko Village.”

“What do they look like?” Someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

“A middle-aged man and a young woman,” the soldier replied.

Middle-aged? thought Eldren.

“The man is wearing a red tunic with a robe’s hood and the woman a green hunting tunic and boots,” the soldier continued. “By order of the High Imperator, anyone found to be aiding these two will be branded a heretic and suffer as such by Holy right.”

Eldren truly began to panic.

Why didn’t I change out of my sweatshirt? So stupid.

He saw that Ink had now noticed the gray cloaks and broken off her dice game. She slowly scooted her way back toward him along the wall while the crowd was still asking the gray cloak captain questions.

“We gotta go,” she whispered. “Out the back, through the kitchen maybe?”

At that moment, Eldren made eye contact with none other than Baltran son of Baltran, the circus sharpshooter. Baltran stared at him intently and was standing near one of the gray cloaks.

“Oye. Gray cloaks,” Baltran said suddenly. Eldren’s stomach churned.

The gun-toting dwarf is going to turn us in.

“Dwarf.” The gray cloak captain turned to Baltran. “What do you want?” His voice dripped with contempt.

“We ain’t seen none of your boy nor girl here. So, if ye’ don’t mind, we’d like ter keep enjoyin’ our evening after a long day’s work.” Eldren could have sung. The dwarf was giving them a distraction. For whatever reason, he must not be a fan of the Iron Square either. Eldren nudged Ink and they began to make their way toward the part of the bar that flipped up on hinges, which would allow them to get through the door into the kitchens and out the back.

“What would one of your kind know about a long day’s work?” spat another gray cloak.

“Oh. More than one of ye’ can talk?” Baltran said, smiling. “Actually, where are my manners? Why don’t you stay and join us fer a drink?” Faster than any of the soldiers could react, he splashed his full tankard of ale in the face of the second gray cloak.

“You filthy little—” the gray cloak stammered. He advanced toward Baltran, face sopping wet with the Dwarf’s backwashed ale. Eldren froze as they reached the bar. The gray cloak had his hand on his sword hilt.

One of Baltran’s co-stars at the circus—one of the two trapeze artists— stepped out of the crowd. She was a younger girl and sober. She tried to slide between the soldier and the dwarf and diffuse the tension.

“Gentleman, he meant you no offense. I apologize. We’d love to help however we—” She was cut off and her voice became a gurgle as the soldier rammed her through the stomach with his sword. The crowd scattered away from the soldiers, recoiling from the sudden violence as some people screamed and others shouted in anger and protest.

The captain of the gray cloaks now gripped his sword, frowning and clearly on edge. The other soldiers in the brigade followed suit and closed ranks. Eldren could tell they must have hoped to keep things calm. “Sorry, captain. But now at least there’s one less circus freak in Aldimia,” the soldier who had stabbed the trapeze girl said.

Any hope of keeping things calm, however, faded with the death of the acrobat. No sooner had the word ‘freak’ left the soldier’s mouth than his head exploded, splattering blood across the armor and cloaks of stunned gray cloaks. Baltran stood, one of his revolvers in his hand with smoke drifting from the end. The bullet had struck the gray cloak right between the eyes.

Chaos erupted. The remaining soldiers drew their swords and townsfolk scampered for whatever exit they could find. Some jumped from windows while others rushed past Eldren and Ink toward the kitchen. Eldren saw Baltran holster his gun and dash for the door. He was faster than his muscular and stout frame looked. He darted out into the street before the soldiers had even drawn their blades. Four of the gray cloaks shouted and gave chase to the dwarf while the remaining three began to upend tables and trash the inn in retribution.

“Eldren, come on!” Ink tugged his arm, dragging him away. He wanted to be sick. In the pit of his stomach, he felt disgust, pain, and outrage. The young trapeze artist had been trying to help keep things calm!

It was a new sensation that Cam had never felt before. He wanted to fight. He wanted to right the injustice of the whole encounter. He wanted to stand up for these people who suffered only because he had come to their town.

Reluctantly, he let Ink pull him away.

“Training Eldren. Training!” Ardos chirped from the bag as they ran through the kitchen to the back door of the inn. “You can’t fight the Iron Square without learning any spells. There will be a time. But it isn’t now!”

They spilled out into the alleyway behind the tavern and kept going into the night. As they ran, Eldren couldn’t stop thinking about the stunned look on the girl’s face as the gray cloak had stabbed her. He would learn spells, he decided. He would visit the shrines. And he would make sure that nobody else was killed like that again by High Imperator Uther and the soldiers of the Iron Square.