The horizon begins to light up. It is not the red glow of the fire anymore but a herald announcing the arrival of the rising sun. The distant tree line draws steep silhouettes in the morning gloom. My eyes fall upon the two still blissfully sleeping siblings. I smile. It would be nice to stay a while, relax, eat freshly collected fruits and vegetables, and learn about farming. I think they would like that. Well, the girl surely would.

  But I can not do that. I am still too close to my pursuers. If they find me here and recognize me, I will only cause problems for the farmers. I need to move on. Move on before Minae wakes up, or she will not let me go that easily.

  I sneak over the polished bamboo planks, smothering the creaks with my silence runes. Maybe I can leave them a present, a thank you for inviting me in. My ring is still nearly bursting. Yes, I will do that.

  Sacks of rice and barrels of pickled cabbage appear on the ground near the entrance. Bunnybean woofs at me softly and looks at me with pleading eyes, his tongue lolling between his teeth. He stubs me with his moist, apple-sized nose, tickling me with his breath.

  “Okay, buddy,” I giggle, raising my shoulders to protect my sensitive neck. “Stop!” I whisper. I take out my last strip of jerky and surrender it to him. It disappears in a flash before reaching the ground. He looks at me again, expecting more. “Sorry, that was all I had.”

  He tilts his head and huffs, disappointed, making no further attempt to stand in my way. I step outside into the soft morning breeze. The excited chirps of hidden, early-rising birds greet me.

  I have arrived at the port Lamac spoke of. Already well into the afternoon. Port is one way to call it; town could be another. I sneak in, glad in invisibility, because I don’t want anyone to see me arriving from the forest. I don’t know if my pursuers could have lookouts here, searching for lonely girls. The hustle and bustle of the people has a calming effect on my nerves. I am not the only girl strolling around. Some gallivant in groups, conversing in excited chatters. Others walk alone, busy trying to reach some place only they know about. I do not stand out here. Perfect!

  I stroll into a side alley, dismiss my invisibility, and step back into the street, following the crowd further into the town.

  A sharp stench of ammonia waves over the street and bites into my sinuses. I scrunch my nose, trying to dismiss it, but it sticks to me like a burr. I look up. My eyes fall over vats of soured liquid filled with rawhide. The cloying musk they release reaches me. A sickly sweetness, the ghost of something wild becoming tamed and preserved. The pungent brew of sweat and decay, flesh in transformation, hangs over everything. It worms its way through the fabric of clothing and into the very bones of those who linger too long. The crowd disperses around here, opting to meander through parallel side streets or to flicker past in a hurry, looking back in disgust.

  The tanners do not seem to care about it. They may have grown anosmic over the years. Their animated chatter rings through the air. I watch them hoist sodden skins out of the vats and slap them onto flat stones. Sluggish beats echo across the courtyard. The remaining liquid sloshes and gurgles. It looks thick as old blood. It hums with the characteristic buzz of mana, too. Dull knives scrap and peel away useless flesh, transforming the hides into fine leather.

  Apart from being a trading stop for the passing ships to resupply, this town seems to be a meeting point for all the hunters and gatherers of the region, where they come to sell their catches. Where they transform and preserve raw beasts. Before shipping them away into polite society. Could there be an alchemist store here? I wander in search. A bit reluctant to ask. I do not want my accent to give me away as a foreigner. I need to get the local accent right. Or maybe not, now that I focus on it. I can hear different accents and see multiple styles of clothes. Lots of people from adjacent and distant regions seem to pass through.

  “Excuse me,” I ask a young boy. “Do you know if there is an alchemist supply store somewhere?”

  He looks at me like I am dumb. “It is just behind you.”

  Oh! Okay. Maybe this was not my finest moment.

  “Fifty silvers per ounce? Are you trying to rob me?” I half-yell, trying to sound indignant. Should I haggle or not? I have seen others doing it. It seems to be common practice, and he may expect it.

  “Girl, this is quality ink. Freshly mixed mana-ink, still full of potency, not the watered-down ages-old slosh they sell you in the big cities.” He looks at me, at my clothes, judging them. “I can maybe go as low as forty-five, but you are bleeding me dry.”

  How much even is an ounce? I should have inquired about the local measurement units before coming in here. I am not sure if he is trying to swindle me or not. What are the superior measurement units? I will look like a country bumpkin if I do not know them. “We are reaching nowhere,” I announce, lifting my chin. “Tell me your bulk price. I need much more than an ounce.”

  He looks at me, eyes gleaming, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “I could go as low as 5 gold per pint, or 35 gold per gallon. I have seven mouths to feed.”

  More measurements I do not understand. It is so frustrating. Has he even gone lower or not? Will I look stupid if I am not able to recognize if he has? “That is still too much. I will give you 20 gold coins for one gallon.”

  “That barely covers the cost of the materials!” he yammers back. “The gatherers that supply me have been raising their prices lately, you know. First, it was because of those rebels. Now, they say something is going on in the forest. Always whining and swindling poor old Marak.” He nearly seems to whine himself, crying in tears. “I need to make some profit to pay for the hours of work it takes to refine and mix the ingredients." He gives me a stern look before declaring. "30 gold, at least.”

  “Okay, okay. But that is still a lot. I will give you 50 gold for two gallons.”

  He catches my hand in a blink and shakes it. “Sold.”

  The tears have disappeared, an illusion that fades away. Now, only a smiling man remains. Did he rip me off? He starts filling four large glass bottles from a big, metallic barrel. Okay, maybe two gallons is a lot. Not sure if he scammed me or not. At least inside my ring, it will not spoil. I may have enough to practice for years. I can dispose of the lumpy, fast-fading blood I have been using. It will be way easier to draw fine details. There is so much I want to try out. My fingers twitch in anticipation. I count out the coins into a pouch, hidden from sight. Then I throw them onto the counter.

  The store owner looks up briefly, then continues filling my bottles. “Something else?”

  “No, that is all.”

  The docks welcome me with the stench of fish guts. The boards are slick with algae and old, slushy scales. The afternoon sun casts long shadows over a group of fishers unloading their haul, their voices rising and falling with the waves that dance over the kilometer-wide river.

  “Look at this one, eh?” a burly man with a grizzled beard holds up a glistening, mottled pike, grinning from ear to ear. “Damn near took my arm off. Ain't she a beauty?”

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  “A beauty to you, maybe,” scoffs a wiry man gutting salmon with quick, practiced strokes. “To me, she is tomorrow’s supper.”

  Laughter ripples through the group. More pikes lay on the wooden planks around them, still slick with river water, scales catching the light in sharp, metallic glints. Gaping mouths reveal rows of sharp, needle-like teeth, curved and precise, built for holding on and never letting go. Their glassy eyes seem to have no recognition of the sky, lost in the memories of murky depths and sudden violence. Even in death, they look fierce and coiled, as if, given half a chance, they would trash in search of freedom. Slip back into the water, to vanish like ghosts into the reeds before getting revenge on those who dared to disturb them.

  I step onto the dock, hesitating. My boots scuff against the wood. “Excuse me,” I call, trying to push my voice over the wind and chatter.

  A few men look up, hands and knives still hidden inside fish guts. “Well, ain’t that a beauty too?” More laughter erupts. I can feel my cheeks burning. “You lost, lass?”

  “What? No! I am trying to find someone who can tell me where to buy a ticket for one of those passenger ships.”

  A young boy snorts, disentangling his arms from a pile of nets. “Passenger ship? You one of those nobles or something, looking for a pleasant ride, cushions, and warm meals? There are no passenger ships. Just us fishing skippers and merchants.”

  I roll my eyes and square my shoulders. “Do I look like a noble to you? I need passage, not a lecture nor silky cushions, boy.”

  More laughter erupts.

  “She got you there, Evan,” asserts the wiry man. Chuckles cascade around the crowd. “Those silver-grey eyes the lass has do seem like those of a noble, though.” He looks at me, grooming his nearly non-existent mustache. “But she is too feisty to be one, isn’t she?”

  “The lords and ladies over in Peruvia have those eyes.” Asserts a red-haired guy. “Lots of bastards have ’em too. Them nobles like to fuck around.”

  Hello? I am right here! What are they even talking about?

  The grizzled man wipes his hands on his apron. “Sorry lass, don’t listen to those idiots. You won’t find much here, only fishing boats and fools. They could take you at most to some of the close villages if you don’t mind a rough ride.”

  The wiry man tosses another gutted pike into a wooden basin. Then he points toward the eastern side of the town with his knife, flicking fish guts off the blade. “You should go to the opposite side of town. There are more piers there. Next to ‘em is an inn called the Drunken Siren. That’s where the merchants stay. They take passengers if you’ve got the coin. Just ask the barmaid. She knows when they will arrive and who you should approach.”

  I nod, already turning. “Thanks.”

  Laughter follows me down the dock, swallowed by the breeze and the rhythmic crash of the waves.

  The scent of woodsmoke, ale, spilled wine, and expensive perfumes washes over me through the still swinging door. The inn is dim inside, soft glowing oil-lamps, barely banish the shadows. The fire in the hearth crackles low. The light it projects flickers over smooth, polished beams, grey smudges revealing rests of years of smoke infused between the wood-grains.

  Heavy boots rush over the damp floor. Patrons stand at the bar or hunch around the wooden tables. They have tankards or fine glassware in their hands and dine and chat in a low murmur. Talking of trade or cursing the weather. Relating the movements of bandits, of which routes are safe or not. I step closer, trying to listen in.

  “This situation will ruin us,” spits a pot-bellied man with a thinning hairline. He slams his fists on the table. Their glasses vibrate, and some wine spills over. “I had to hire four extra spell-blades just to come up here. The bandits have boats now. They sail over the river in broad daylight. We may as well throw our coin into the water and save the trouble.”

  “It has gotten even worse this season,” grumbles another one, rubbing his temples. “They won’t say it, but the legion is stretched thin with the rebels. Entire ships have gone missing, people and all. Do you want to end up like that?”

  “I want to keep my profits!” shoots the half-bald one back. “Every bloody hand we hire eats into the margins, and I am not in this business for charity.”

  “Then feel free to go alone,” drawls the third merchant. A tall, square-built one, picking at his nails with a butterknife. “I am sure your charming personality will scare off those wannabe pirates.”

  The half-bald one glares at him. “If those nobles would do something about it, we would not need to. I don’t know what they are waiting for to smash that stupid rebellion.” He takes a sip of wine and continues to rant, “They say most of them are just peasants. How hard can it be? They are wasting the taxes they extort from us.”

  “Keep your voice low,” admonishes the tall one. He points with the knife towards a group of finely dressed young boys who have been eyeballing me since I entered this place. “They may take offense; you know how proud and hot-blooded they are.”

  “It is not as simple as it seems,” explains the last merchant in a hush. “They have those thundersticks. They say those can shoot a metal ball strong enough to kill a Diamond-ranked mage if he has nothing to counter it.”

  “I thought those were slow to load and unwieldy, really hard to aim,” says the pot-bellied one.

  “That doesn’t matter if they have dozens of them.” The tall one casts a wary glance at the loudly chatting noble youth before hushing in an even lower voice. “They level the playing field. A group of well-armed farmers and peasants can kill a noble mage now. That is why they hide in their castles and let the legion fight it out for them.”

  The third merchant whistles. “Where did they even get something like that from.”

  “How should I know? The dwarves, maybe? Maybe those bastards are covertly trying to take over.”

  The pot-bellied one leans closer over the table and asks in a low voice, "Do you think there is money to be made over on the rebel side?"

  "No."

  "Don’t make me laugh," answers the tall one. "They don’t like people like us either." He slurps some mussels out of their shell before continuing. "They may just decide that they need your money more than yourself. To finance their cause or some other bullshit."

  They scrunch their noses for some reason as I pass by and fall silent. Rude! I decide to ignore them for now and wait for more friendly merchants. I pass another group of grizzly-looking men sipping ale from big wooden tankards. Massive swords lean against the wooden window frames. They look at me, grunting between gulps, then continue to drink.

  “What do you want, lass?” asks the innkeeper. She pauses mid-wipe once I reach the counter. A thick-armed woman who looks like she could give those mercenaries a run for their money. She sizes me up with the practiced wariness of one who sees all kinds of people traipsing through her door. She scrunches her nose, too.

  “A room for the night and a ship passage towards Minas Kalin,” I say. I hope that it is possible to reach that place by river. Maybe I should have tried to get a map first. She scrunches her nose again. I feel a bit offended about how she looks at me. Am I a bug or a cockroach? “Well, a room for as long as it takes to find a ship-passage.”

  “Can you pay?” She grunts. What the hell is wrong with her?

  “Sure.” I toss a few gold coins on the counter.

  She wipes them away in a flash, smiling broadly now. “Don’t worry, honey. I can get you both. That should be enough. How many ship passages do you need?”

  “Thanks?” I look at her change of attitude towards me, bewildered. "Just one." Is it strange for a girl to travel alone here? Probably. "Well, if you can recommend a trusty guard to hire, maybe two passages." I cast my eyes down and mumble. "I lost my last guard to some bandits."

  "Oh, you poor girl!"

  "Another ale!" orders someone.

  "Coming!" She starts filling a tankard. "You could try post a quest over at the mercenaries guild. You may not even need it, though, traveling by ship in a group. Your choice."

  Could it be a good idea? It could let me craft a different persona to confound the people looking for me. I wouldn’t be a lonely girl from the slums anymore but some noble or merchant daughter traveling through the countryside. I don’t know if a mercenaries guild would be the best place to hire. How private are they with the information they gather about their clients? The last thing I need is to leave a paper trail.

  The barmaid tosses me a key after coming back. "Here you go. Your room is the last door on the left on the first floor." She leans closer to me and whispers, “You should take a bath first, though. You reek like a tanner.” Oh! I facepalm, my cheeks flush hot in embarrassment. “Oh, you were not aware of it?” Her laughter erupts like a ringing bell. “Sorry, don’t bother about it. It happens often.” She winks at me, still smiling. “I can prepare you a bath in your room. But if I were in your place, I would go to the hot springs.”

  “Hohohot springs?” I stutter.

  “Yes, they are over at the foot of the hill, right next to the temples.”

  “I think I will go there.”

  “Good choice. Should I prepare you something to eat for when you come back?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay. Ah! You can let them wash your clothes there too. Tell them that Tomoe sent you. The attendants are both cousins of mine.”

  “Okay!” I rush out without looking back, like a beaten dog. Trying to ignore a group of finely dressed ladies that snicker while pointing their fingers at me.