Two months had passed. Winter had come to the kingdom, and the lives of its subjects had shrunk to the measure of a hearth. Above Seltrivelle hung a sky the color of unpolished silver. The air turned sharp and biting; stove-smoke, never rising higher than the cathedral spires, settled like a heavy blanket into the tight fissures of the streets. In the poorer quarters, without tall chimneys, it seeped through thatch eaves and the cracks of doorways, mingling with the reek of burnt peat and scorched fat drifting out of taverns.

  Townsfolk—barely discernible in the haze—wrapped themselves in layered cloaks and trudged over the crisping snow, breathing out thick clouds of steam. Some, so as not to stiffen through entirely, pressed clay pots of smoldering coals to their bellies, whose ruddy glow barely pierced the bluish murk.

  Over this living cauldron, the mighty toll of the cathedral bell lay unceasingly; its sonorous blows rolled heavily over the rooftops, reminding all that time had not frozen, and life went on.

  In the “Spicy Boar” it was warm. Hemile had caulked every crack back in autumn with moss and tow, and in the cellar he had laid up a whole mountain of firewood, chopping fresh each day. The hearth in the dining hall blazed without pause, and even on the coldest days there was near to stifling heat within. It drew people in—the tavern was seldom empty even in the morning.

  Up on the second floor, Gyuste paced the room, declaiming passages from old poems with lively fervor. Rize sat opposite, paws tucked under herself, listlessly watching the snow fall beyond the window. Niko perched to the side on the edge of a straw mattress, knees hugged to his chest, catching every word.

  “So then, we shall repeat it once more,” said the bard. “‘And Candrus spoke: in an age of chaos and turmoil I swear to bear the light of law and order. Stand, brothers and sisters, beneath my command, for only in unity shall we keep this city safe.’”

  “‘An’ spake Cadrus,’” Rize repeated unwillingly, “in an age of chaaos an’ turmor, I sweah to beah—”

  “No, no, no!” Gyuste cried. “Not Cadrus—Candrus!”

  “Fine. ‘An’ spake Carus…’”

  “Candrus! Rize, learn to hear the sounds apart!”

  “Who’s this Caras, then? I ain’t seen him in the taverrn!”

  “I told you—he is a great warlord, and the founder of the Vidalis Empire.”

  “So he buirt our taverrn too?”

  “Not ‘buirt,’ but ‘built’! Pay heed—you still cannot pronounce an L. And no, he did not build the tavern, nor ever come here—he died many centuries ago.”

  Rize hissed in displeasure. These constant corrections and admonitions nettled her.

  “Then why we talkin’ of him?”

  Niko watched Gyuste closely—unlike Rize, the boy listened to his tales with interest. The bard sighed.

  “The world is not bounded by this tavern, nor even by this city. Great is Seltrivelle, yet the kingdom of Sharlenne is greater. Greater still was Ardalez, which once stretched across the whole earth. But it fell, and in those grievous days the great Candrus Vidalis, with his legion, held this fair city fast. They repelled attacks by orcs, goblins, wild verids… Without them, you and I would not be standing here now.”

  Niko’s mouth even fell open in delight. Rize only waved it off.

  Gyuste meant to go on, but Colette poked her head into the little room.

  “Hey, poets—enough of learnin’! There’s a full hall already. To work, and quick!”

  Rize let out a howl. Working for Colette was a daily nightmare—tedious and exhausting—and today she’d had to sit through the stories of this strange man besides. A dejected Niko got up and stomped downstairs. Noting his indignation, the bard clapped the boy on the shoulder.

  “Soon we shall have a new performance. We’ll be waiting for you both! You too, Rize!”

  The boy nodded with a smile; the cat went on grumbling. Gyuste chose the main door over the back way and, squeezing past the patrons, shouted across the whole hall:

  “The story of Tarren the Foreigner continues! This very Magis, at the market in Anzi!”

  To approving cries he left the tavern, and the children were left in a harsh yet familiar reality.

  Rize had begun to work even before she learned to speak. Colette made it plain she meant to suffer no freeloaders, and, despite the gulf of language, forced her guest to labor. At first she scrubbed and cleaned vegetables, but in time, as she began to understand human speech, serving was added to her duties.

  It was a meat day. By evening Colette lit tallow candles. Hemile, with a great pitcher of ale, went about the hall, pouring drink for the patrons waiting on their food—by the landlady’s words, “that way they start spending coin at once.” Then Rize leapt up onto a table with a heap of bread trenchers in her paws and, in a single bound, reached the first bench, handing them out swiftly, then sprang to the next table. You would not see such a sight in other taverns—she was like a nimble juggler in the ease with which she managed the crockery.

  They did not trust her with the cauldron of stew: Colette carried it out herself, ladling it into bowls. Meanwhile Rize was up on the raised place again—this time with a huge slab of braised beef on a wooden board—and, swallowing her saliva, she jumped onto the nearest bench after bringing out three more portions no less impressively delivered.

  Such performances made Colette nervous, but in a month Rize had not dropped a thing.

  A couple of times someone tugged the cat by ear or tail; food went flying to the floor, and the curious fellow took claws across the face. Afterward such tricks grew rarer—understandably, given the scolding the landlady dealt the jokers.

  The evening passed exemplary—noisy and filling. When the work was done, Rize joined Niko in the kitchen, where he was soaking peas. She could not abide water and so simply chattered, sitting by the window—true relief after the heat and smells of the main hall. For her keen nose, the stench of patrons and grease was unbearable, turning each evening into an ordeal. Usually she went up to the roof, but the last few nights had been too cold.

  A bell-strike announced the start of curfew, and the patrons hurried off, helping the very drunk to find their way out. Colette came into the kitchen, told the children to go to bed, and went to snuff the candles.

  The boy trudged to the little room for his mattress. Rize dragged her bedding from behind the corner and, curling into a ball, settled nearer the hearth. Soon Niko ran in, flung his straw mattress beside her, and lay down, almost at once sinking into sleep. Rize, however, stared long at the stars, knowing that until the next evening she would see nothing so beautiful.

  Sleep proved fleeting. They woke not to the bell’s toll but to Colette’s shout. It all began anew. First came the coals left from last night—Niko was afraid even to imagine what would happen if they went out. He took the bellows and began to drive air beneath the hearth. Rize, meanwhile, set to slicing vegetables: in the pantry waited mountains of dirty turnips and onions. Growing angry at the sameness, she demanded with tearful eyes that they switch places, and when she tired of it, the duties changed again. Hemile came in from time to time with full buckets of water and poured them into the barrels. The kitchen itself was like a living creature—needing care, drink, attention—so that Colette might then set about preparing today’s dishes.

  Soon the landlady herself came in, looked over the kitchen, and planted her hands on her hips with a frown.

  “A new batch of bread should be ready. Someone must go to the baker.”

  Hemile, setting down another bucket, wheezed out:

  “I can, but then the water’ll have to…”

  “Mind your own work,” Colette waved him off, and turned her gaze to Niko. “Can you manage?”

  The boy froze. His face grew troubled. The last time he had gone for bread, he’d been attacked near the bakery—boys his own age took the whole purchase, shoved him into the mud, and vanished. Afterward the old man had to run to the baker and pay extra for a new batch.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “I…” he began, but the words stuck in his throat.

  Colette snorted.

  “Afraid!?” She sighed, looking at Niko sternly but without anger. “But it won’t do, lad. Like it or not, you must learn to solve problems yourself. They won’t be running after you all your life.”

  Niko stayed silent, eyes lowered. Then Rize, who had been peeling onions, lifted her head.

  “I go wif hiiiim.”

  Everyone looked at her. The cat straightened, ears pricked.

  “I wanna grawr an’ see how it is there. They ain’t let me out since Dwain brough’ me.”

  Colette hesitated, but Rize already added brightly:

  “More hands to carry. An’ if they attack Niko—I scratch awr bandits’ faces to ribbons.”

  The landlady could not help a smirk.

  “That much I know,” she muttered, recalling the brawl two months ago.

  “A good idea,” Hemile agreed, sitting on the bench. “It will be very much to the point if you start going for provisions.”

  Colette sighed and flicked her hand.

  “Fine. Go, then. But don’t dawdle—take the bread and straight back.”

  Rize bobbed her head happily, her tail curling like a ring. Niko, though still fearful, nodded.

  Wrapped in coarse wool cloaks, they went out into the street. Bundled so tightly they looked like two shaggy, clumsy balls slowly rolling along the narrow way. The cat always refused shoes; the ground was so cold it burned her paws, and she picked her steps in a comical little dance.

  The biting air gnawed at their throats. The snow on the path had already turned into gray, trampled slush mixed with ash. Smoke seeped from beneath thatched roofs and shuttered windows. Somewhere far off an axe thudded, a saw screeched, and there were occasional shouts. People—wrapped up like them—hurried on their errands, faces buried in their collars.

  “Did you have… snow in your kingdom?” Niko asked, his voice trembling slightly with cold.

  Rize, walking beside him, considered for a moment. Her gaze slid over the snow-laden roofs and grew distant.

  “There was… hot there,” she said at last, choosing her words with care. “An’ the sky… it high there, an’ cleah…”

  Those words stirred in Niko both curiosity and awe. All he had ever seen in life was bounded by the tavern walls and the houses of Anzi; he had never even been to the far bank, and his companion had crossed a sea, which must surely be larger than any river. He imagined that far away there was neither cold nor people, an entire kingdom of verids speaking a strange tongue.

  Rize, meanwhile, kept studying her surroundings. The tall buildings, the walls, seemed to press down upon her; she felt an urge to climb higher and spring out of this place, out to where the air was clean and cold salt did not fall from the sky.

  Talking thus, they reached the market. In the children’s eyes it looked like a great tavern under the open heavens.

  The market lay opposite a massive stone building. Around it stood many low wooden structures and stalls.

  Each merchant tried to shout down his neighbor, praising his wares. Hundreds of people discussed things, argued and cursed, while criers above bawled out the latest news.

  Her keen nose caught a particular sharp odor. The fresh scent of baked goods and pungent herbs mingled here with the heavy taint of raw hides, filth, and smoke from braziers.

  At the sight of it, the cat’s eyes went wide and she involuntarily stepped back. Seeing her reaction, Niko meant to say something, but found no words—he himself was uneasy coming here without Hemile.

  The bulkiest goods, or what needed weighing, were set out on the counters.

  Long things hung from hooks and crossbeams; the rest lay right on the ground, in baskets or sacks.

  The passages were so narrow that Rize, afraid of being crushed, sprang up onto a crossbeam, watching how people in motley clothes shoved and could not get past one another. Niko tried to shout to her, but as always he could scarcely raise his voice. Luckily, his friend did not run off; she climbed down where it was a little freer.

  “Wheh we go?” she asked, twitching an ear and looking about.

  By Niko’s account, the market was like a city within a city, with its own streets and rules; for the cat, the comparison to a tavern made better sense.

  “Well—there’s the hall, there’s the kitchen, the cellar; each place is meant for something, and so it is here.”

  The bread row lay off to the side of the great stone house, along a covered street, easy to recognize by the cloths stretched over the benches. The buildings the benches leaned against had upper stories wider than the lower, literally overhanging the street. Rize liked it here: it was not so bright, and relatively dry. Better still was the wondrous smell.

  From the bakery around the corner poured thick, warm air scented with roasted dough. It was a low, squat building of dark wood and stone. From beneath a heavy iron-banded door spilled a golden light. A few people already crowded by the entrance, rubbing their hands.

  “Now we wait our turn,” Niko said quietly. “When we step up, please don’t eat anything. Master Bushen is a good man, he’s never cheated us, and he never yelled at me.”

  Rize snorted, but obeyed.

  The bakery’s massive wooden shutters were thrown open, revealing the counter facing the street. Buyers went off one by one with steaming loaves in their hands. When their turn came, Niko carefully set both baskets on the edge. Rize rose on her paws, peering in with curiosity to where the oven-flame flickered.

  Behind the counter appeared Bushen’s broad figure in a flour-stained apron. His face, red from heat, spread into a smile at the sight of Niko.

  “Hello, Niko! An unusual company today!” he rasped, then glanced at Rize. “I remember you—you’re that jumpy little server from the ‘Boar.’ And where did Colette even find you?”

  Rize lifted her chin proudly but said nothing. Niko nodded.

  “Good day, Master Bushen. We’ve come for the order.”

  “I know, I know,” the baker turned to the shelves where loaves lay in neat rows. “Thirty brown ones for the tables, and as many trenchers for plates. Wait.”

  He began deftly counting and tossing the heavy, dense loaves into the baskets, tapping the bottom of each. The dull, even sound confirmed the quality. From the back of the bakery came a girl, white all over with flour.

  “Niko!” she cried, smiling wide and coughing.

  “Hello, Lotte,” the boy dropped his gaze to the counter.

  “Why haven’t you come by in so long?”

  “Just… had things…” Niko murmured.

  While the baker finished filling the baskets, Rize looked at Lotte, and Lotte looked at her. The girl was not afraid; rather, she watched with the liveliest curiosity.

  “Your eyes are so beautiful!”

  “Yeah… thank you…”

  With the baskets full—now seeming impossibly heavy—Niko thanked them and, hoisting his burden, started back. Rize followed, carrying her own basket with an ease surprising for her build.

  “Your fwiend?” she asked after a few steps, tail swaying.

  “Lotte. Master Bushen’s daughter,” Niko answered, trying to walk evenly so the basket wouldn’t swing. “W-we don’t see each other that often, but she’s very kind. Sometimes she gives me tasty bread.”

  “And you don’t eat fwom the basket?”

  “What!? It’s for the guests.”

  With a sly grin, Rize reached toward the bread—then stopped. Their way was barred…

  Chapter 14 will be released on February 2nd.