After the mess from the previous night had been cleaned up, and a breakfast that looked sinisterly similar to the dinner they had tried to share the previous night had been cooked, Vix and Isidrian sat down to eat. A knock immediately sounded at the door. Isidrian, sighing, walked to the door and lifted the bar before looking through the shifting plate. Two-bit stood outside, waving a letter in front of the peep hole.

“It’s from your father.” Two-bit said, showing Ochre’s name written on the other side. “I swiped it when I was going past the market. Cost me half a prom it did.”

“Cost me a nice breakfast. Come in. We need to talk.” Isidrian said.

“This sounds like it’s going to be good.” Two-bit said as Isidrian opened the door. He looked to the right and saw Vix sitting in her chair, dishevelled, then eyed the pillows and blanket sitting on the countertop. His eyes flashed as something deviant slid into in his mind. “You fucked her.”

Vix spat her bread across the table, great heaving coughs resounding as she choked on water. “No,” Isidrian said, deftly slipping the letter from Two-bit’s hand, “Last night we had a visit from a supposed friend of my father’s. Apparently he’s dead.” Isidrian finished icily.

“Oh thank the gods. That’s so much better. You really had me going there Icy.” Two-bit said clapping him on the shoulder. “But I doubt it. That letter was addressed less than a month ago. It takes about that long to reach here from the desert edge.”

“I told you to stop reading my letters.” Isidrian scolded.

“Well, technically it’s not your letter, it’s your mothers. And second, she’s the slave, while I’m a completely organic Verillian, you can’t force me to do horseshit.” Two-bit replied.

“We can tell.” Vix called from across the room.

“Shut your object of frustrations up, Icy.” Two-bit snapped back.

“Can we not have one day, an hour even, of you two getting along? For Vey’s sake if not my own. I’m sure they hate hearing all of your thoughts leave your mouths as much as I do.” Isidrian lamented. “Now,” He began, cutting them both off as they prepared another tirade, this time aimed at him, “We have work to do. Two-bit, go check the warehouse. There might have been more strangers lurking about last night. I don’t need to lose the little I have left. Come back when you are sure nothing was stolen. Vix, when you’re finished eating, go and freshen yourself up. Two-bit won’t be the only one making crude assumptions if you’re looking like that.”

Two-bit began whistling shrilly before he left the door leaving Vix’s ears twitching in annoyance. Isidrian sat down beside her at the table and opened the letter. It could easily have been mistaken for a page torn from the ledger beneath the counter. Only the barest of essentials were included. His father would be in a village ten days north in fifteen days’ time to conduct a business negotiation. He wished for Dawn and Isidrian to be present, and from there he would be taking Isidrian along with him for the duration of the journey, and return him to Verdante in approximately three months’ time. It also included that he would be taking up residence at the Cricket’s Hop and undertaking the deal at the Marcelone company.

“Three months?” Vix checked as Isidrian read the letter aloud.

“That’s what it says. If this deal is important enough for father to write home about, then it must be of great value. It might even have something to do with those permits.” Isidrian said. The papers were hidden securely within Isidrian’s room beneath a false floorboard beneath another false floorboard. If they were were important enough for his father to entrust them to him after his death, they were important enough to hide twice.

“That’s the longest he’s wanted to take you for.” Vix continued. “Three months, and on the borderlands too. Did he plan to cross the desert? Three months would get you to the Broken and back comfortably.”

“True, and perhaps even to the Spire and back. Noran says that some travellers made it to the Broken in eleven days either side since the under road was built. That leaves sixteen days spare for trade and recuperation between the Spire and the Broken. I wonder what he was trading to require permits from the Prom himself?”

Vix’s tail swung low and slow. “I don’t know, Icy, but I want you to be careful. Your father had his skill to protect him. You don’t even know what yours is yet. If you get mixed up in something you can’t bargain your way out of… then I don’t know what we’ll do.”

“We?” Isidrian quirked an eyebrow.

“We. If you and the Mistress are away then there is no work here for Two-bit or I to do besides cleaning.” Vix explained.

“Someone needs to guard the place. We can’t just close business, up roots, and leave for nearly a month.” Isidrian countered.

“Then leave Two-bit here. If something gets stolen he can steal it right back. Besides, he knows the urchins well enough to convince them to leave this place lie.” Vix pressed.

“We’ll see what mother has to say on this when she returns.” Isidrian’s mouth drew a thin line as he set aside the letter and took a bite of warm brown bread. The warmth of the sun fell upon him through the windows made opaque by early morning mist on the glass. The soft rhythmic brushing of Vix’s tail on the floor as she sat beside him lulled him gently. Vix herself, sitting close by him, her mere presence bolstering him. Maybe she was right. The now mattered the most. And for the current now? That was something he could live with.

Footsteps thundered up the side alley and across the front porch. Two-bit threw open the front door in haste. “One of Aurelie’s wagons is missing. Some bastard busted the lock.”

Isidrian calmly chewed the last of his brown bread. He took a small sip of water, and turned to Two-bit. “Go to Noran. See if the drivers know anything. I’ll go to the marketplace and speak with Aurelie myself. We’ll soon know if it was an idiot or a thief. Vix,” Isidrian turned back to her, “Lock the door behind us. Go, get changed, then watch the warehouse from the back window. If anything happens, I, as your master, give you permission to leave this household and seek me at the marketplace.”

Isidrian stood and walked to the base of the stairs. He paused at the base when he realised Vix had followed him, still eating her bread. “You were being serious?”

“And this is why you’re a gentleman. You actually listen to what women say. And yes, do we need to have that discussion again?” Vix asked.

“No, but in this case, as you put it, I am not pissing, shitting, or sleeping. I am bathing, then changing, then leaving.” Isidrian stated.

“Then you are just like every other male.” Vix stabbed.

“As if you’d know.” Isidrian riposted, turned, and climbed the stairs, leaving the dumbstruck Vix below. The upper landing of the trading post was a series of eight rooms, arranged four across and two down. Thin hallways, barely large enough for two small men to walk side by side, separated the rooms. Each room had a singular door with a number upon it. The numbers had been gold-plated iron but now they were simply the brighter shade left in their absence. Isidrian opened the door to number four and closed it behind him. On his left was a small window that overlooked the alleyway beside the post.

His bed laid in the far corner, as far away from the window as possible. Some of his father’s more ghastly lessons had left their marks on him. A simple dresser contained a small amount of clothes. One set of fine clothes with accompanying soft leather shoes and stockings. Three wool dress shirts and a spare set of trousers for labouring in. In the lowest draw was a long purple robe hemmed with white thread, the symbol of his profession.

The day was already shaping up to be hotter than the day before it. He took the purple robe and the leather shoes from the drawer and left the room. Throwing a cursory glance out the back windows of the trading post that overlooked the warehouse, he could see Two-bit changing the water of the trough. Isidrian descended the stairs to the receiving area. Vix had cleaned away any remnants of breakfast and seemingly taken the blankets and pillows back to the spare bedroom. Her light-footed nature often left him guessing at her location.

The morning mist had evaporated from the outside of the windows and lingered in the air as its less pleasant twin. Sunlight beat down upon the weathered wooden slats that made up the surface layer of Verdante. The wealthier districts had changed their roads to stone but the mostly abandoned western side of the ring would not be following any time soon.

Isidrian strode with purpose along the road and down the side alley. If Aurelie or his men were not the ones to bust the lock, the other alternative would already be long gone. However, if Aurelie was the one to break in then it was just simple panic-driven stupidity. The man had not come that morning, or at the least, come at a reasonable time. Breaking into another’s property, especially that of a fellow merchant’s, was very dangerous territory to navigate. The Guild at the very least would need to hear of it, and any recompense demanded. A hand? A finger? No. Aurelie was greener than lake moss. He would recover the cost of the lock, but not the morning, or the gentle feeling he had found at breakfast. Now was a time for action. Pleasant times are for when the work is done.

Hanging his fresh clothes on the nearby clothesline, Isidrian ran his cupped hand through the water to test the temperature. Lukewarm and Two-bit had not even attempted to boil it. The summers were getting hotter. Stripping bare, he slid into the trough. A coarse brush hung from a hook on one side. By the time Isidrian had finished using it, his skin was pink. Savouring the last few moments of almost-cool he slid lower into the tub. A glint from the back window of the post caught his eye. Shielding the sun glare from his sight he locked eyes with Vix, who stood watching the warehouse from the back window.

She waved.

Deciding that his bath was over, Isidrian pointed at her, then flicked his wrist to point again. The message was clear between them: turn around. The glint disappeared and Isidrian seized the opportunity before she turned a complete circle. Not bothering to dry, he tugged on the purple robe, the fabric itself already scalding from hanging in the sun. The leather shoes slipped on with ease.

Two-bit had not yet returned from visiting Noran. Wasting no time, Isidrian began the short walk to the marketplace. The wind was still, which meant the lake was still, and in turn meant the road did not undulate. He stalked away from the hot sunlight using the diminishing shadows of the nearby buildings. All one had to do to reach the marketplace was to follow the noise. The smell of stagnant water overpowered the smells of cooking at this distance. Stalking past empty shop front after empty shop front set an unwelcome change in Isidrian’s mood.

Cracks were appearing in his calm façade. He would not end up as these others had. He would survive. He would thrive. No matter the cost. His pace quickened. A sharp turn onto the inner wheel brought him into direct contact with a wall.

It spoke to him.

“Apologise.” The wall boomed. It wore a sleeveless leather vest, fangs, feathers, and scales stitched across it. Two large hatchets hung at its sides. Twice as tall as Isidrian, it moved uncharacteristically and bent at the waist. One of the wall’s sun tanned hands reached forward and clasped Isidrian’s, bounced it once, and then retreated to its side. It stared down at him strangely, and asked “Apologise?”. Its massive head turned, black locks of hair falling across its shoulder like the mane of a great beast. “Danafor, help!” It called.

“What is it?” A shorter man appeared at the walls side, though he still stood a head and a half taller than Isidrian. At this man’s side was an arming sword and duelling dagger. He was lean and fit, and his accent distinctly Spiran.

The wall pointed down at Isidrian. “We hit.” The wall mimed, slamming two meaty fists together with a resounding thwack.

“You what?” Danafor asked, his gaze flicking between the wall’s meaty fists and the boy in front of him.

“I walk. He walk around corner. We hit.” The wall thwacked its fists together again, and pointed down at Isidrian. “Apologise.” It nodded.

“I beg your pardon.” Isidrian said, confused as to why he was apologising to a wall. Dawning realisation spread across Danafor’s face and he promptly cracked Isidrian across the cheek with the back of his hand.

“Likewise.” Danafor replied. “My friend here has a rather useful skill. You could say that his surroundings blend into him. He’s still getting used to it away from the plains.” Isidrian looked up at the towering giant that now stood before him. The plainsmen stared back down with a giant-toothed smile. “He is still working on his Verillian,” Danafor continued, “He means to say that he apologises, not for you to.”

“Please,” Isidrian said to the plainsman, “The fault is mine.”

“I mean no offence my friend, but if we exchange pleasantries any longer I doubt any of us will get done what needs to be done.” Danafor stated. “Although… are you a local?”

“I am.” Isidrian replied.

Danafor’s face alit. “Good. Then perhaps you would know, we seek a man named Goulash. He would be of similar stature to my friend here,” He clapped the plainsman on the upper arm, “But of a more dire demeanour. Has a thing for spoons. Apparently he was sighted in the west side in the late afternoon.”

“I didn’t run into any walls yesterday I’m afraid.” Isidrian said with a mercantile smile.

Danafor’s face drooped somewhat, but he laughed good-naturedly. “I suppose not. Keep an eye out though and come to us first if you see him!” Thumping his companion on the arm, Danafor turned on his heel and strolled back towards the marketplace. The plainsman waved goodbye and followed.

Isidrian collected his thoughts and pushed them aside. He had to focus on Aurelie right now. There would be plenty of time to deal with walls and Spirans later. If Aurelie had broken into the warehouse he would likely have also arrived early to the marketplace. Isidrian weaved his way through the stalls. The crowd was as stagnant as the water beneath their few feet. Reaching the centre-point of the floating wheel-shaped city, a tall anchor of stone, Isidrian began to spiral his way outwards.

He greeted those he knew, made passing conversation and jibes with fellow merchants, and ignored the glares of those who considered themselves the mighty. A common excuse given for them not to like merchants was that of class. The real reason, Isidrian felt, was that they were old money with old names and old words from old houses that had no reason to bind them or still exist. Merchants were new money, new names, new words, bound together by the Verillian Merchants Guild. It was a simple as that.

“Wine! Pure! Fresh! Straight from the vine!” Aurelie’s shrill voice cried, “Six Hills finest!”

He stood atop his wagon, several small barrels situated around him, with his fellow drivers nowhere in sight. A single small cask had been opened to let breath, and judging by the clean wooden cups still stacked together, it had been a slow sale day.

“Aurelie!” Isidrian called as he approached the wagon.

Aurelie’s gaze snapped to him, first filled with the excitement of having a customer, then dread. So, doing the only thing he could seemingly think of, Aurelie shouted “Wine! Pure! Fresh! Straight from the vine!”

Bastard. Isidrian’s icy demeanour hailed. Don’t do anything stupid. He thought to himself. Isidrian kicked over the open barrel of wine, watching its bloody contents spill across the petrified wooden floor, forever staining them the colour of money. Like that.

Aurelie wasted no time. “Guards! Soldiers! Man-at-arms! Make haste and apprehend this vagabond!”

“You cur! I am a merchant, see my colours displayed proudly! Where are yours vintner? Or merchant? Brute? Thief?” Isidrian shouted back.

Footsteps shuddered the slats behind Isidrian. Turning, he saw a gambeson emblazoned with the insignia of the Marquis, a long-stemmed white flower on a field of blue. The man wielded a pike in one hand, then pointed at Isidrian. “Quiet down. You, boy, why did you spill the wine?” The man commanded.

“His wares are under the protection of my trading post. He broke into the warehouse early this morning without my knowledge of permission so that he could get here before other merchants.” Isidrian stated.

“And you,” The man said as he looked up at Aurelie, “Get down here so that you may speak to my face.”

Aurelie staggered down the crates he had built up as a platform. Landing ineptly beside Isidrian, the crested man put a hand on Aurelie’s chest to catch him.

“Why did you break into the warehouse?” The man asked.

“I didn’t break into the warehouse.” Aurelie said.

“The how the fuck did you get your wagon out?” Isidrian snapped. The crested man looked down at him reproachfully, then looked back at Aurelie.

“How did you get the wagon out?”

Aurelie did not reply.

“Wine-seller.” The man said, “If you cannot answer that question then answer this: how much did that barrel of spilt wine cost?”

Aurelie looked to the stained splash across the wooden planks. He remained quiet a moment, then said, “Thirty iron Proms.”

Isidrian burst out an incredulous laugh. “Thirty iron Proms? That swill would be lucky to go for one.”

“Quiet!” The man snapped. Two more men dressed the same as him were approaching from behind. “Now, boy, what kind of lock was on the warehouse door?”

“One straight from the Broken smiths themselves.” Isidrian said. In truth, he didn’t know the inner workings of the lock. All he knew was which symbols to spin the rotating wheels to for it to open.

“Is the lock broken beyond repair?” The man asked. Two-bit hadn’t been precise, but if he deemed the lock broken, then it was likely shattered to pieces.

“Yes.” Isidrian stated.

The man paused and thought the situation through. He conferred with his fellows before turning back to them. “If those colours on your wagon be true, you are of the farmer’s guild. I don’t want inter-guild disputes in this city. So before I deliver my judgement let you both agree that it be fair.”

“I agree.” Aurelie snapped without a second of thought.

Isidrian waited. “If I am unhappy with this judgement and do take it to my guild, what will be the consequences?”

“Telling me your plan in advance isn’t the brightest, boy.” The man said. “These two,” He gestured over his shoulder, “Will tell the representatives what I have deemed just and what you have agreed to. Understood? And, before you get any other ideas, not agreeing here and now would have you both sent to a fine little cell until the Marquis returns. That will be a while.”

If the verdict decided against him, then not only would he lose the value of the lock, but he would also have to repay Aurelie thirty proms – more than the float would be able to cope with. And even if the verdict was in his favour, he would only be recouping the cost of what was taken from him in the first place. However, he also could not afford to lose any days locked in a cell.

“Fine.” Isidrian said, “I agree on my name Isidrian son of Dawn.”

The man quirked his head at Dawn’s name. “Very well then. I judge the value of a Broken lock to be thirty-one iron, no matter how broken it may be. You, wine-maker, pay the boy and be about your business.”

Aurelie staggered, hand to his chest. “But, but, but sir!”

“Pay the man.” The crested man thumped his pike against the ground. Reaching into a stark tray of coins on the front bench of his wagon, Aurelie gave Isidrian a single, dirty, iron Prom. “Now go about your business.” The man commanded. Isidrian turned to leave, then felt the crested man’s heavy grip on the neck of his robe. “Not you. Who knows how much trouble you’ll cause if we let you walk about.”

“Don’t touch him. He sleeps with Gargans.” Aurelie said. Isidrian felt the grip on his robe loosen before it reaffirmed itself.

“Slight another one of my citizens in front of me again and I will kick you out of this city myself!” The man threatened.

Aurelie’s face drained of colour before he shouted, “Wine! Pure! Fresh! Straight from the vine!”

The man nodded, satisfied, and dragged Isidrian by the scruff of the neck back to the western spoke. “I saw you speaking with those travellers. The big one, and the other. Why are they here?”

“Looking for a man named Goulash.” Isidrian spat out, extricating himself from the man’s grip.

The man leaned inward. “Are you sure of this?”

“It’s what they said.” Isidrian replied.

The man remained silent, then said, “Go home. Your mother returns tonight I believe. And if what the idiot vintner said is true, then you have some fur to clean from your mattress.”

Ignoring the slight, Isidrian walked away. He could feel the eyes of the crested man follow him down the spoke, daring him to turn back. He did not, and when Isidrian looked back over his shoulder, the man was gone.

Isidrian opened the front door to the trading post. Two-bit sat at the table inside, helping himself to the last of the pitcher of wine. He bolted upright when Isidrian entered.

“The drivers know nothing.” Two-bit said.

“I don’t doubt it. I have a feeling it was all Aurelie, he only had the one wagon. All I want to know is how he busted the lock.” Isidrian said.

Two-bit rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out two pieces of metal and put them onto the counter with a heavy thud. “The shackle part is broken clean in two places. Almost like it was cut through with a sword. I took it to the smith. He told me a clean break like that was either a skill or a fault in the metal. I’m willing to bet on the former considering they’re all supposed to be checked by the Prom himself.”

“Doesn’t matter now.” Isidrian said. He fished out the single iron Prom and placed it onto the counter. “Did you ask the smith if he could fix it?”

“I’m not Vix, of course I did.” Two-bit said loudly as light footsteps came down the staircase. “He said he could try, but because it’s both Broken and broken, it might be difficult.”

“Take it back to him, and this,” Isidrian said, handing Two-bit the iron prom, “Tell him to fix it if he is able, if not he can keep the parts for scrap. A Broken lock is useful, but a broken lock is not.”

“Trying to make my head hurt?” Two-bit replied sarcastically as he shoved the lock and the coin into his pockets.

“Icy wouldn’t need to say something clever to do that.” Vix said as she slid in between them.

“Anything happen at the warehouse?” Isidrian asked her.

“Dinner and a show.” Vix smirked.