Rylen pulled the boy through the streets by his arm until they came to a mostly deserted allyway. Then he spun him around and shook him by the shoulders.

“Why did you sell that?”

Pahanna looked scared and hurt, but mostly confused. “Cuz we don’t have money.”

“Did you tell him where it was?”

“No.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“No…I don’t think!”

Pahanna’s voice grew strained as Rylen’s grip tightened. He let go and backed off. He wanted to pull his hair out in anxiety, but he didn’t want to frighten the youngster more than he already had. He walked two steps back and forth across the width of the alley.

“Rylie?”

“I’m thinking. I’m just thinking, okay? You shouldn’t sell what isn’t yours. It’s stealing. What did your parents teach you, anyway?”

“Um, that it was okay.” Pahanna avoided Rylen’s eyes. “Rylie, are you mad?”

“Well, yes. Yes, I am. Because that beer shouldn’t be sold.”

“Why?”

Rylen clenched his hands in claws as if to grab hold of Pahanna again but held off.

“Because we aren’t supposed to have it in the first place,” he said through gritted teeth.

The boy’s worried look changed to one of wariness. It looked like he was fighting back a smile. “Um, what did Hertle teach you, anyway?” He hopped back a few steps, and Rylen’s hand missed smacking him.

Pahanna held his arms close to his sides and tightly pursed his lips, trying to contain his mirth in case Rylen became angrier. If anything, it just showed how much laughter he was holding in.

“You little…stinking little…grrrrr!” Rylen paced again, then pointed an imperious finger at him. “You go back to the inn. And don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Okay!” Pahanna bolted as fast as he could go.

Rylen slumped against the timber wall and banged the back of his head against it over and over. Really, what he should do is have Pahanna go and take the offer back. Nothing would be lost except Zufa knowing that there was a barrel of Blood Harvest Brew somewhere close by. That, and Pahanna knew where it was.

While Pahanna didn’t think Zufa knew him, in all likelihood the merchant did. The stall keepers generally kept tabs on conniving little street urchins who stole things. Pahanna was one of them, though he really wasn’t an urchin. Rylen hadn’t ever met his parents, but from what he’d heard and how Pahanna acted, Rylen didn’t think highly of them.

Zufa likely knew where the barrel was. However, from his reaction, he was willing to keep his mouth shut if he got what he wanted. There would be plenty of royalty and other snobs who would be willing to pay a high price to become the toast of backroom parties during the festivals. Such a barrel of beer would limit who they drank with, but it would certainly give them bragging rights.

Thus Rylen’s dilemma. He wasn’t sure that the man would graciously back out of the arrangement. He could make a lot of money, and he had the best bartering chips on his side. Telling a guardsman would likely get him in trouble too, but he could pass a little of the information off to a lord or even royalty instead. They didn’t have to explain where they got the information, simply they had found out about it. Property could be seized then, or belongings rummaged through. Zufa would get a reward for being a concerned citizen.

Rylen checked his list of things he had to buy. With the barrel deal, they would have enough money to stock up on the other items. He felt trapped. Either way, he risked endangering the inn. On one hand, they might have to close during the height of the festival. Rylen had seen Hyrestl’s schedule, and the inn had been bought out for a few nights by a couple of nobles who wanted to host parties there. On the other hand, there was the risk of the law coming for them. Rylen pushed himself off the wall and started walking back. Father would know: he always knew what to do.

He stopped just as he was about to join the street again. People walked by. He even saw a few who were already wearing some of the cheerful golden livery so common during the days of the festival.

The thought of talking with his father filled him with unease. When he had asked why there weren’t any supplies, Hyrestl had simply been silent, then given him money and the ledger to restock locally.

Almost reluctantly, Rylen resumed his walk home.

With so many newcomers to Edge, he had felt the increase in double takes and wary looks pointed his way. They stung in a way. They weren’t like the looks he got from the people who lived here. Generally, the townsfolk would dismiss him. Their looks said Don’t bother us and we won’t bother you. The looks he got from travelers lingered, either in hatred or the more chilling stare of a person considering whether or not to risk doing something about the nuisance of a stray dog.

Rylen remembered himself and quickly darted into a side street usually only traveled by townsfolk at the height of the festivities. Only wide enough for two people to slide by each other, it opened into a slightly broader one that a loaded donkey could pass through. The corner was tight, so Rylen noticed too late as he cut right in front of a woman in a blazing orange dress. She slapped his arm, and he turned in surprise.

Leyla smiled back at him, then pulled him back out of the way as a man with a basket full of apples pushed past them.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Leyla said.

“I’m sure you weren’t taking the side roads for your own reasons?” Rylen said. He noticed that what he had first taken as a dress was indeed her priestess garb. The closer it came to the festival, the harder it was to point her out in the crowds. Everyone wore yellow or orange then.

Leyla shrugged and set off again, and he followed. Even though these side streets weren’t crowded, if a person stayed still too long, they were bound to block someone’s path eventually. In her case, everyone, even those leading donkeys, deferred to her status. He sometimes wondered if this was what it felt like to be royalty.

When there was no one close enough to hear, she spoke up.

“I don’t like how some of the strangers act toward me. They have…different ideas about priestesses where they come from. Especially the nobles.”

They passed a few more people and came to an area where shops were recessed into the buildings. Shopkeepers hawked their various wares to everyone that passed.

“So, what are these different ideas?” Rylen asked.

Leyla turned her head back to him to be heard over the shouting shopkeepers.

“They’re just…different.” She turned back around and shrugged.

“Where are we going?”

“I have to visit some of the farmers’ houses in the fields. The king is blessing them again this year.”

An idea struck Rylen. “Hey, is it possible for a business’s offering to go to a specific person?”

Leyla glanced back at him but kept walking. Wherever the street was uneven or there was a pothole, she seemed to take the opportunity to nimbly skip over it or otherwise use it as an excuse to put a little more spring in her step.

“What do you mean?” she said sweetly as she jumped down a flagstone step. “All that comes from the temple is from the king.”

He glanced around him and leaned close to her ear as they walked.

“And all that goes to the king comes from the gods in the valley, the mountains, and the sky. Or so my father says.”

Leyla waved him away with her hand. “I don’t care about your father’s beliefs, and you don’t either. You just want to make me mad with your theological talk.”

Rylen shrugged, though he knew she couldn’t see it.

“Pity, I had hoped our ruler would get the praise for sudden good fortune. Now all a person can say is From the ground comes daily food, fortunes out of yearly blue. See? This good fortune will come from the land.”

She turned to him. “Okay, what is it that you wish the king to give?”

He smiled and waited for a woman to pass by. “I’d like the king to generously take my offering of a barrel of beer and bless a certain shopkeeper by the name of Zufa.”

Amused, Leyla shook her head. “Why would you want to do that?”

Rylen grinned and raised a finger. “Nay, why would the king want to do that?”

She almost broke his finger off. He shook the pain out as they stopped at a larger cross street to let a wagon pass.

“So, will your dutiful scribes pick up my grateful offering?”

She smiled. “Sure. The king will gratefully pick up your offering.”

He turned down the street after the wagon and waved behind him.

“Thanks! I gotta get back before Pahanna breaks more plates!”

The priestess waved back. “Tell him I said hi!” she said and continued on to the fields.