There it is. Undeniable. A man scowling at him in the washbasin. He had a face his mother would have described as robust. Not handsome, not unfortunate, just… put together. Strong brow, straight nose, jaw a little too broad to ever look delicate. Dark hair that refused to sit neatly, falling into his eyes in a way that suggested stubbornness rather than style. The sort of face that looked better in motion than at rest, more convincing when animated by expression than when caught still and judging.

  It was scowling at him.

  He sighed. Calling himself robust made him think of his mother. He missed her, he realised. His shoulders slumped as he sat back on the bed, staring at the blank wall.

  Why is everything itchy? he thought, attempting to scratch every part of himself at once.

  His shoulders slumped further. He let out a fake, quiet sob and pouted. He debated whether he was allowed to sulk or not before deciding it didn’t matter.

  With a tired sigh, he pulled a list from his item box and stared at it for a moment. Another sigh followed. He hung yesterday’s undergarments from the pegs, retrieved a set of muted clothes from his item box, and got dressed. It took him longer than it should have to get his feet wrapped and into his boots.

  Finally, he stood. Ready, but sulky.

  He headed for the door, locked it behind him, put the key and list away in his item box, and stumbled toward the stairs.

  The reception was empty, but voices carried from the dining room, so he went that way. He took a seat at one of the tables, shoved his elbows onto it, and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Not so good in the mornings, I see?” came the nearby voice of the woman Alric had come to quietly think of as the inn’s mother.

  “Definitely not,” he said. “Do you do breakfast?” He made an effort to straighten, though it didn’t quite take.

  “We do. It’s porridge,” she said. “It’s always porridge. Want an ale with that?” Her tone was casual.

  Alric did a double take. Does this woman think I’m an alcoholic?

  “No, no. Just water is fine,” he said, a little too quickly.

  This time it was her turn to pause. “Water?” she repeated. “You sure you don’t want tea or something?” She tilted her head slightly.

  “Uh… alright. Tea is fine,” he said.

  She nodded and moved away, leaving Alric sitting there, somehow more confused than when he’d arrived.

  She returned shortly after with a tray, set it down, and moved on again as another patron arrived. Alric had expected a mug, or something similar, but instead it was another wooden tankard, identical to the one from the night before.

  He tried the tea first. It was so weak he wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t just water that had once flirted with a leaf but the relationship went nowhere further.

  He lifted the spoon from the porridge and paused.

  This? This is porridge?

  He stirred the contents of the bowl, uncovering a substance that somehow managed to be both watery and lumpy at the same time. He glanced around and noted two other patrons eating it without hesitation, apparently quite content.

  He shrugged, brought a spoonful to his mouth, and tasted it. It was bland in a way that felt almost intentional — faintly grainy, faintly sour, with no clear flavour at all, as though it existed solely to be swallowed and forgotten.

  He swallowed and noted that this was it. No butter. No sugar. No honey, syrup, or anything else that might reasonably be called flavour. He sighed, a little guiltily. He’d ordered it.

  He ate it. Not because it was good or terrible, but because it simply was.

  He had just finished the bowl and was lifting the tankard again when a small face appeared around the staff door at about hip height.

  Tyke wandered over, hands behind his back. “Going somewhere today?” he asked. “It’ll cost ya.”

  He wore the smug expression of a child who knew, with absolute certainty, that he had just gotten one over on an adult.

  Alric nodded. “I am, but I need to talk to your mom about it first,” he added.

  Tyke nodded as well, then glanced around the room for his mother before climbing onto the bench opposite Alric. He settled there as if it were a throne, surveying his domain while waiting for his motherly subject to arrive.

  Alric had to suppress a laugh.

  It wasn’t long before Tyke’s mother noticed him. She rolled her eyes as she walked over, though a faint grin came with it.

  “So,” Alric said, “I’m looking for a place that sells grain. Apples. Farmer’s produce, that sort of thing.”

  “Marketplace,” she replied without hesitation. “There are two, but…” Her gaze flicked to Tyke. “I’d be happier if you didn’t go to the lower city market.”

  Tyke crossed his arms, already drawing breath, but Alric nodded immediately. “That’s fine.”

  Tyke’s mother gave a small, satisfied nod, as if the matter were settled, and turned back to the patrons. Alric stopped her and the two quibbled over the price which she didn’t want to charge him for, but he insisted and eventually they agreed to two smalls.

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  Tyke turned slowly toward Alric, the smug expression returning in full. He held up three sticky-looking fingers.

  Alric shook his head and held up two.

  Tyke considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. You ready?” he asked.

  Alric nodded, standing as they headed for the entrance.

  The walk to the marketplace was the first time Alric found himself enjoying the city. He and Tyke moved at a relaxed pace, taking advantage of the early morning sun, lack of other pedestrians and the cool breeze. Alric made a point of not thinking too hard about the smells he couldn’t quite identify or those he could.

  The route twisted and turned a few times before opening out, and then they had arrived.

  The market, however, was nearly empty. Rows of poles stood in place, benches set beneath them, but very few stalls were operating yet. One vendor was in the process of hanging chickens, methodically arranging them.

  Alric sighed. There was nothing for it. He glanced around and noted that the river lay not far off.

  “Tyke, let’s go down to the river quick?”

  Tyke glanced at him, then nodded and set off downhill. The market was an obvious bust this early.

  Before they reached the river’s edge, Alric was distracted. At the edge of the marketplace stood a well, and he veered toward it without thinking.

  He leaned over the stone rim and peered down, trying to judge the height of the water compared to the nearby river. He examined the mechanism for the bucket next, testing the rope, the handle, the way the whole thing fit together.

  Deciding there was nothing else for it, he gave it what he would have considered a test drive. The bucket dropped with a dull sploosh, then rose again, heavier now. He fumbled briefly, trying to control the handle and guide the bucket to the edge, before realising there was a simple wooden peg meant to lock it in place. He set it, feeling faintly smug, and rested the bucket on the stone brim.

  He smelled the water carefully before dipping a finger in and tasting it. It wasn’t brackish, at least. It didn’t taste of much at all — but he spat it out anyway.

  He glanced up at the sky, thinking.

  “Are you gonna do mage stuff all day?” Tyke asked, his head tilting politely.

  Alric looked back at the well and, for the first time, took in the scene from the outside. He straightened slowly, his shoulders slumping as the realisation settled in.

  “Uh… no. I guess we just go to the river then,” he said, feeling faintly defeated.

  Alric studied the river and its gentle brown flow. It was the clearest view of it he’d had so far. He glanced off, trying to gauge how large the city was from here, but it was pointless.

  Tyke had wandered a little way off and was trying to skip stones across the surface. Alric watched him for a moment, smiling despite himself.

  Tyke drifted back over and held out a stone.

  “My friend says he got six skips,” he said casually. “But none of us believe him.”

  Why not? Alric thought, suddenly aware again of how young his body was.

  They skipped stones together for a while, passing the time without talking much. In the end, they both topped out at four.

  Deciding to check the market again, the two set off once more. The distance from the inn to the marketplace wasn’t far, and the route was straightforward enough.

  “Listen, Tyke,” Alric said as they walked. “I’m going to be here a while. I’ll pay you now, and you can head home if you like.”

  Tyke glanced at him, shrugged, and held out his hand.

  Alric placed the two coppers into it.

  Tyke vanished down a nearby alley without a word, denying Alric the chance to change his mind.

  Alric chuckled to himself, then headed toward the now much more active marketplace. He wandered between the stalls, noting how many of them sold essentially the same things.

  Spotting an apple seller, he stepped closer.

  “How much for apples?” he asked.

  “A small for four,” the woman behind the stall said. “Two smalls if you don’t have a sack. I’ll give you six then.”

  Alric shrugged and handed over the two coppers, accepting the burlap bag she passed to him. The rough texture scratched against his fingers as he filled it. He studied it briefly.

  The small copper denomination was proving itself profoundly useless, he noted with a quiet sigh. He selected six apples from the baskets and inspected one. They were thinner than he was used to.

  Nodding to the stall operator, who returned a small smile, Alric moved on. He bought a few different fruits, reusing the apple sack where he could, all the while bemoaning how the small copper was becoming increasingly irritating. The fruit followed a similar theme: serviceable, unimpressive. One pear in particular caught his attention — thin, with barely a bulge on one side — and he set it aside to study later.

  A small commotion near the market entrance drew his eye. A hand wagon had been set down, and a short queue was already forming around it. Curious, Alric wandered over. A man stood beside the cart, huffing slightly as he negotiated with a woman. One of the sacks had a small tear, grain spilling slowly onto the ground.

  Alric’s mood lifted immediately. He joined the queue.

  People ahead of him were buying grain by the bag, though the cart also held flour, which others were taking instead. By the time he reached the front, the man had stopped haggling and was leaning against the wagon.

  “How much for a bag?” Alric asked, nodding toward the large sacks of grain.

  “Two large coppers,” the man replied.

  “And if I wanted less?”

  The man shrugged. “You’d go elsewhere.”

  Alric nodded and passed over the two large coppers. The bag was heavy — easily fifteen kilos — but his body managed it. He hefted it up and slung it over his shoulder, copying what he’d seen others do.

  Somewhere to sit down was what passed through Alric’s mind. He moved over to a tavern that served the market place. He ordered a one small copper beer which made him sceptical.

  Regardless, he found a nearby seat intent to study his hoard. He opened the fruit bag first taking out an apple.

  The apple was, decidedly, apple-ish — which somehow defied all expectations. It was smaller than he was used to, the shape slightly uneven, as if it had grown however it pleased rather than to specification. The skin was thicker, tougher under his fingers.

  He bit into it and frowned. The flesh had resistance, fibrous rather than crisp, with a sharpness that made his mouth water without quite being pleasant. It wasn’t sweet, the flavour simple and faintly sour, fading quickly once swallowed.

  It wasn’t bad. It just felt like an apple that had been bred to endure.

  He repeated the process with the other fruits he’d bought just as his flagon of beer arrived. It was served, interestingly, in a horn set into a small stand that kept it upright. He paid the small copper and the man moved on without comment.

  Alric eyed the horn with a larger measure of skepticism before returning his attention to the fruit. They followed the same pattern: all slightly sour, all faintly unsatisfying. He took only a bite of each before setting the half-eaten pieces aside.

  Finally, he turned his attention to the beer. The horn was an interesting touch, but studying it gave him a brief moment of concern. He took a cautious sip and felt his face pull before he managed to swallow.

  It was weak, soapy, and sour — clearly young, and thin enough to make itself known without ever committing to anything. If Alric had to describe the flavour, he would have said it tasted like a very hygienic lemon in the middle of shampooing. He set the horn down and looked around the tavern. Despite his reaction, everyone else appeared to be enjoying theirs.

  With nothing better to do, he began taking notes. He pulled out paper and charcoal, jotting down prices and impressions. He turned his attention to the grain next, loosening the string and inspecting it more closely. It wasn’t very uniform. He extracted a small twig and tossed it aside.

  He started putting everything away in his item box, returning his focus to the page. He was nearly finished when he became aware of a subtle but unmistakable discomfort.

  People were staring. Or, more precisely, not staring — glancing in his direction and then away again. The tavern was full, yet the space around him had emptied. No one said anything. No one needed to.

  He sighed and inclined his head toward the barkeep, who had also begun glancing his way a little too often. Then he stood and moved to leave. His item box, it seemed, had a way of making people uneasy.