Roel spent his next few days walking around Stuhhofen. The duchy of Brackith was a mountainous area that relied on mining, but Stuhhofen sat at its border, making it a city of commerce and trade for the duchy’s citizens and the merchants coming from outside of the region.

Contrary to expectations, it wasn’t battle that got his blood pumping; all he felt now was numbness during combat and exhaustion after it. For him, there was nothing like the thrill he got from walking into a shop or stopping at a stall at random and browsing their wares with hope and excitement. He had once confessed that to the herbalist and though she laughed at him, she told him she agreed.

Of course, she didn’t understand the complete meaning of what he said. Because he couldn’t just rely on his blessing’s strength like high-ranking paladins could, he was always looking for something that would give him the edge in battle.

Some trinkets from some far-off country could mean the difference between life and death, especially when he considered that only more dangerous missions were awaiting him from here on out. He had long held suspicions about the purpose of the prince’s death, and if he were right, then he had to be prepared.

Being who he was, walking around the city took much longer than it should have. He would’ve liked to take off his armor and disguise himself, but with so many soldiers still around, it’d be embarrassing if he were recognized. There was nothing else to do but politely nod as soldiers and civilians stopped him to profusely give him their thanks and express their sorrow at the prince’s passing.

That was the euphemism: “passing.” Not “death” or “assassination.” It was improper to discuss things like that in the open, but he knew that the city was abuzz with such talk. One just had to know where to look. The social world hidden out of sight – farmers trading conspiracy theories as they tilled the fields, merchants exchanging gossip with each other as if it were a form of currency, and aristocrats discussing the ramifications behind closed doors – took events and made stories and schemes of them.

Escaping from the throngs of people ahead of him, he entered a shop with such a low ceiling that he had to stoop when he walked in.

“Welcome–ah, it’s the Hero of Rove!” the shopkeeper, a small, thin man with a reedy voice, said with excitement and gave a low bow.

Hero of Rove – that was the unimaginative moniker he had been given. It was a bit barbaric, he thought, the way they claimed him to be the hero of a country that had resisted being conquered with all of its might. If Jocelyne heard of this, she’d be furious.

He greeted the shopkeeper with a slight nod; as a paladin, someone who ranked between high and low nobility, that was the most courteous greeting he could’ve given. It made him a bit uncomfortable to be so cold, but anything more would violate the etiquette between social classes.

The shop was a cluttered mess with nothing more than wooden trays and buckets filled with sundry items that were vaguely organized. But that suited him just fine. It was like searching for a treasure chest with none of the danger involved. A lot of the things in the store, though, seemed to be failures that couldn’t be sold anywhere else – cracked relief ornaments, dented metals vaguely in the shape of blades, and ugly pewter jugs that either depicted animals or humans with oversized limbs.

The shopkeeper was watching him nervously, but he would avert his gaze whenever Roel looked over at him. It was clear that he wanted to start a conversation but was holding back because it would be rude for someone of a lower social class to do so. Although he enjoyed combing through the items in silence, he decided to throw the man a bone.

“You have a wide array of items, shopkeeper,” he said.

“Ah, yes!” the shopkeeper said with a squeak. “This is a secondhand shop. I deeply apologize for the dismal state of the items, Sir Rove Hero.” The man was so nervous that he couldn’t address him properly.

“Which items are your most noteworthy?”

“Let me show you, sir!” The shopkeeper rummaged through the barrels, seemingly choosing items at random. He pulled out an ornate halberd that was more suited for ceremonies than battle. “I know you have a great weapon yourself, sir, but might you consider this? No need to waste your blade on unworthy foes!” When Roel shook his head, the shopkeeper went back to the barrels before pulling out more weapons that were similarly gaudy.

“I’m not looking for traditional weapons,” he said as the thin man was giving a sales pitch about the importance of a hero having as many spare swords as mistresses. “They don’t even have to be weapons. Anything strange or odd would do.”

“Odd?” the shopkeeper repeated, blinking his eyes rapidly in confusion. “Well…there is maybe that.” He rummaged through a wooden tray, and Roel waited with bated breath.

“Here it is!” Finally, he pulled something out of the pile. “This is certainly the odd item that you’re looking for,” the shopkeeper said with a confident smile.

“Ah, this is…” As Roel stared at the item, his expectations sank in his chest. The item was small, and it looked like a thin yellow piece of wood in the shape of a T. “What exactly is this?”

“I was told it came from the far east. They call it a bamboo dragonfly. You just spin the bottom piece in your hand like this…” The shopkeeper rolled the stick between his hands. “…and then you let go, and it flies!”

The little wooden stick flew into the air, the top part spinning rapidly, and the shopkeeper caught it as it was descending. “It’s very impressive, isn’t it?”

Roel was a little intrigued but mostly disappointed. He knew it was wishful to think that he could just walk into any tiny shop and find something rare and valuable that had somehow escaped notice, but he had been hoping for a little more than…well, this.

The shopkeeper was still going on. “They say it’s a popular children’s toy. Oh, but you don’t have children, right? Well, plan for the future, you never know.”

He was about to thank the shopkeeper and walk out, but those words drew him back in. “Hmm, actually, that’ll work.”

Tomorrow, he’d have to head back to the Palace of Yvailles to deliver his report to the king and the council, which meant that he’d probably run into the prince. Or, knowing the prince, Charlie would be the one running into him. The little toy might make a good gift.

He paid for the bamboo dragonfly and a hideous clay pot. The pot, which depicted a naked woman either dying or swimming, was a gift for Olivier; they both traveled often, so they made it a contest to give each other the ugliest gift they could find.

“Thank you for your patronage,” the shopkeeper said as he handed him his change. Despite Roel’s protests, the shopkeeper had insisted on giving him a hefty discount. “And thank you for all you did in subjugating those Rove heretics. Though it is too bad that the prisoners escaped. I will pray that they are found quickly and punished for what they did to His Majesty, may his feast be bountiful.”

“Yes, it’s only a matter of time.” It didn’t surprise him that the finer details of their return journey, such as the escape of the Rove aristocrats, had started to circulate. The prevalent rumor seemed to be that the prisoners had conspired with Graecian heretics.

The fact that the two groups held different religious beliefs didn’t seem to matter; the pope’s influence was becoming more and more pervasive every year, and “heretics” had become a usefully ambiguous term to refer to enemies of the state and church.

After leaving the shop, he roamed about the streets for another hour, but the constant attention wore him down and he retreated to the inn. As he walked through the door, he immediately noticed the tension in the air.

He looked over at the dining area and saw the source – Marquis Joseph and Rados were sitting at a table together. The patrons, most of whom were soldiers, kept their distance and spoke in low mutters. The marquis was rather popular among the men, but Rados, being a red-haired foreigner and a mercenary, was largely disliked and that kept everyone away.

The pair noticed him as he entered – no, they had been waiting for him. There was no other reason for someone like Marquis Joseph to be at such an establishment. After all, he had chosen the inn because it was small and inconspicuous, the type of place that one stumbled upon rather than sought out.

“Sir Roel, Hero of Rove,” the marquis said with a wave. “If you have some time, perhaps we can talk.”