The Anzi quarter was one of the liveliest places on the left bank. Amusements, bargains, gossip—everything happened here. The market opened in the morning and ran until late afternoon. Meat and vegetables were brought in from the villages; clothing, tools, and the like were made in local workshops. The air, still cool and damp, began to warm from the bakers’ ovens. More and more people poured in. The night’s hush gave way to the creak of carts, the first talk, and the clink of coins, all blending into one unbroken hum.

  — Radishes, turnips, onions, garlic—come on up!

  — Fresh fish! Straight from the nets!

  — The finest boots, belts, and other leather goods. Even folk from the far bank buy here!

  Dwain walked along the narrow, hard-trodden street, catching glances and greetings.

  — Hey, Dwain, you’re looking good! — shouted a fishmonger.

  — The money’ll be tomorrow! — called a carpenter.

  He waved, answered, and stopped to speak with some. Such morning walks gave him great pleasure—and not only because every other passerby owed him. The very liveliness of the place drew him in. They say one may watch fire and water forever; a dwerg could watch people—their bustle, their chatter, their energy, and their laughable folly. Beyond the sheer delight, there were practical reasons as well. There were no fewer rumors and tidings here than goods. One needn’t even speak—only walk between the stalls to glean the prices, learn of the latest happenings, local worries and joys. Mostly, of course, it was useless noise, yet the matters that truly stirred the district always surfaced. And those same “useless” rumors, in a private talk, often found new worth.

  Today’s walk was not only for news. Dwain was headed to Bodo—a strange sort who dealt in alchemical ingredients of animal origin. He owed no debt, and he was a heavy conversationalist, but living stock passed through his hands, and he might help with a question concerning Rize. His shop was not far, but as Dwain passed a tailor’s, he caught sight of a familiar gaudy jacket. Gyuste was arguing fiercely with the master. The attempt to slip away around a corner failed—the pest of a bard spotted him.

  — Oh, praise be to Adealaide! Just listen…

  — I’ve no time now. Come a bit later to the office, we’ll talk there.

  — Oh, believe me—once I tell you, you’ll drop all your business.

  — Doubt it.

  The dwerg walked on, but Gyuste would not fall back.

  — I don’t need a loan! — he said with a breathy flourish.

  — I don’t believe you, — Dwain answered, not slowing.

  — Well—fine. I do, but not quite. We need a patron.

  — We?

  — Me and my troupe.

  — First I’ve heard of it.

  — We’re only starting out, you understand—the theatre needs costumes, scenery—

  — Such talents as yours will manage.

  — I’d like to agree, but no. We need money. But believe me—it’s worth it.

  Their talk broke when they reached a gathered crowd. Cursing under his breath and barely listening to Gyuste’s rapturous notions, Dwain was about to go around when the bard suddenly fell silent.

  A man in a worn doublet bearing the city’s arms climbed onto a small platform before the people. The town crier unrolled a parchment and proclaimed in a loud voice:

  — HEAR YE! HEAR YE ALL, FAITHFUL SUBJECTS OF THE KINGDOM OF SHARLENNE AND THE CITY OF SELTRIVELLE!

  Dwain stopped, listening with interest.

  — BE IT MADE KNOWN UNTO ALL, AND GIVEN INTO COMMON NOTICE! — the crier paused, sweeping the crowd with a weighty gaze. — THERE IS NOW SOUGHT A CRAFTY CRIMINAL, THIEF, AND DESECRATOR, NAMED SEDRIK OF ROWENNA, ALSO CALLED SEDRIK THE FOREIGNER! THIS CREATURE, DENIED BY GODS AND LAW, WHOSE BASE SOUL IS CLOAKED IN DARKNESS AND WICKEDNESS!

  A murmuring of approval ran through the crowd. Most had no notion who was meant, but it sounded intriguing. Gyuste drank in every word.

  — BY THIS VILLAIN HAVE BEEN COMMITTED MANY FOUL THEFTS AGAINST VALIANT AND NOBLE LORDS, WHOSE NAMES, THAT THEIR HONOR BE NOT IMPUGNED, ARE NOT TO BE SPOKEN ALOUD! HIS VILENESS IS SO GREAT THAT NOT ONLY TREASURES WERE TAKEN, BUT HOLY THINGS DEFILED!

  Now the crowd began to buzz.

  — BY THE GREAT MERCY AND JUSTICE OF THE AUTHORITIES, — the crier raised his voice, drowning the rumble, — FOR THE CAPTURE OF THIS MONSTER, ALIVE OR DEAD, A REWARD IS PROCLAIMED! ONE HUNDRED FORRINS! ONE HUNDRED FORRINS TO THE FAITHFUL WHO DELIVER OUR CITY FROM THIS THIEF-AND-FAITH-BREAKER!

  A wave of exclamations rolled through the people—some delighted, some fearful. None remained indifferent, though each heard something different. Gyuste stood frozen, a rush of inspiration upon him. Most, however, were stunned by the sum named. Dwain hastened away.

  “This is no coincidence. The authorities didn’t even know his name before. I need to speak with the guard.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  At “Spicy Boar” the morning began quietly. Rize lay curled in a corner, her muzzle on her paws. Her eyes were closed; only her ears gave small, occasional twitches, catching sounds from the taproom. The plate of food lay untouched.

  Niko sat beside her, knees drawn up, watching. Hemile had said beasts could grieve too. “Perhaps for home,” the boy thought. “For that wild place.” He cautiously reached out, yet did not touch—only waved his fingers in the air. Rize did not even open her eyes.

  Downstairs, the first visitors had already taken the benches, drinking ale and tearing at bread. Colette, a rag over her shoulder and sleeves rolled high, moved between taproom and kitchen. Hemile, as ever, poured drink. Some patrons asked about yesterday’s incident, and the old man waved them off, saying it had been yet another of Gyuste’s performances.

  The door opened again. Hearing heavy footsteps, Hemile looked to the guests. Three men halted in the middle of the hall, looking about. Two younger ones held clubs; the third—older, with a tousled beard and a cleaver at his hip—seemed the leader. With close-set eyes, stubble, and a threatening stare, he resembled a snarling animal.

  The talk at the tables died. Someone froze with a mug halfway to his mouth; someone else lowered his head, staring into his bowl.

  — We’re looking for a man, — the bearded one rasped, without preamble. — A thief named Sedrik of Rowenna, also called “the Foreigner.” Heard of him?

  Hunched over, Hemile leaned on the table, feeling under it for a knife.

  The taproom fell so silent one could hear the cauldron boiling in the kitchen; from there Colette emerged. Her face was calm, yet tense lines had settled at the corners of her mouth.

  — Thieves come to us, but your Sedrik—I’m hearing that name for the first time, — she answered, and her voice was strangely even, near cold. — This is a tavern. Are you hungry, or not?

  She did not raise her voice, did not wave her hands—only stood there, looking the bearded man straight in the eyes.

  In the bandit’s gaze flickered a grudging recognition of the obvious.

  — Fine, — he croaked, and turning, gave his men a nod. Without a word they let him go first, out into the street, then followed. The door slammed shut, cutting off the rush of cold air.

  For a few seconds, silence reigned in the taproom. Then someone banged a mug on the table, someone grunted, and the conversations—restrained, wary—began to flow again.

  The mistress did not move. She stared at the closed door. Hemile slowly came to her side.

  — And where did such… learn that name? — Colette murmured softly, almost to herself, finally tearing her eyes from the door. Bewilderment and care sounded in her voice.

  Hemile only shook his nearly bald head.

  — I’m surprised too. Looks like he’s gotten himself into something serious.

  — If they’ve truly posted a reward, expect trouble, — Colette said with a sigh. — The next few days, bandits like that will roam the streets. We need to warn Dwain and make an arrangement with the militia.

  Unlike the rabble of the left bank militia, the market in Anzi was guarded by professional soldiers, answerable directly to the city authorities. Service on the right bank was, of course, far more respectable, but there were plenty of opportunities here—collecting duties and controlling what came in. Four spearmen inspected wagons passing through the gate, while Sergeant Pasten stood off to the side, one hand braced against the wall. Even from afar, Dwain could see the man was suffering from a hangover.

  — Oh! What an honor! — Pasten said, noticing Dwain approaching. — I’ve told my lads. The money will be along soon.

  — I’m here on other business. By the way, the crier at the market is near bursting. Who is this Sedrik?

  — Afraid he’ll clean you out too? — Pasten forced a smile, then rolled his eyes. — Former member of the guild. Must be either very bold or mad, to decide to betray them.

  — Is he truly from Rowenna? Or is that your invention?

  — Seems so. That’s what the captain said, and the captain—what, the mayor, and the mayor… Aladon knows who told him. Just imagine: a thief from Rowenna! That’s not even a beast, it’s… I don’t even know what.

  — The crier named so many crimes. Why wasn’t he hunted before?

  Pasten waved it off.

  — They knew about the thefts for a long time, but only yesterday did it come out that it was his work. Someone from within must’ve sold him out. I don’t see another way. I’d heard of him when I was transferred here—other thieves mentioned him—but details like this, they’ve surfaced for the first time.

  Wishing the sergeant a swift recovery, Dwain headed toward the market’s edge.

  “Not much, but my suspicions are confirmed. Looks like the guild has decided to get Sed in its claws.”

  The streets and roads narrowed. Bodo’s place lay in a tightly built-up spot where the sun did not reach, and no one wandered by chance. The air was close, with a steady stink of dampness and something sour-sweet—like fruit gone to rot.

  Dwain pushed a low, iron-banded door. Inside, it was even colder than the street.

  The place had always felt unpleasant to the dwerg. On the shelves and in the display lay bunches of roots like crooked fingers; dried bats with membranous wings; rows of glass cylinders where, in cloudy liquid, someone’s eyes drifted, or leeches hung motionless. From ropes dangled bundles of ears, teeth, and claws.

  From behind the cluttered counter—where scales and mortars could be seen—a figure appeared. Bodo was tall and gaunt, bald-headed. A long nose with a pronounced hook made his profile like a bird of prey.

  — Dwain… — his voice was dry and even, like the rustle of paper. — What do you want?

  — I’ve got stock to sell, — the dwerg said, coming up to the counter. — Something unusual.

  — I’m listening.

  — A verid. But not from these lands—not ridan, not cellas, though she resembles the latter, only larger. From the southern continent. She speaks. Not our tongue, but she makes articulate sounds.

  Bodo’s long, knotted fingers came to rest on the tabletop.

  — The southern continent… curiosities from there don’t come often. Male? Female?

  — Female.

  The alchemist nodded, thinking, his gaze detached.

  — Customers… may be found.

  — And what would her fate be after that? — Dwain asked, striving to keep his tone merely businesslike.

  Bodo lifted an eyebrow slightly.

  — Depends on the buyer. Some are interested in research—her anatomy, her mental faculties in comparison to local verids. Others may find value in certain… “parts.” Some may offer her as sacrifice.

  His finger tapped a glass jar where several pairs of eyes floated in water of lyf, faintly gleaming in the half-dark.

  — Best if you bring her. Then we can speak more precisely. Dwain felt cold creep under his skin. Bodo looked at him as though cutting with his eyes, but the dwerg kept his face calm.

  — I have a couple other options yet, but I’ll bear it in mind. If anything—this talk never happened.

  Bodo nodded.

  — Of course. Perhaps you want something else? I can offer a sheep’s eye for hangovers, or a horn of keren for a man’s strength.

  — No, thank you. — Casting one more glance over the shop, Dwain went to the exit—outwardly calm, but troubled within.