Kingdom of Jovana: Day 1

The schooner Seasprite bumped gently against the only pier in Onher, a town that smelled of dried seaweed and oil-stained wood. Her weathered oak hull, banded with iron, had carried Jimmy across a cool, clear autumn sea to the Kingdom of Jovana. Four crew unloaded cargo, chickens clucked about their cages, and a dozen small fishing boats bobbed further along the shore.

South, a narrow alley cut between two warehouses toward a town square. Jimmy adjusted his cloak and went that way. The right-hand warehouse buzzed with activity as sailors heaved barrels stamped with the names of distant merchants. The left-hand door was shut tight, the building inert as a sleeping ox. Past the warehouses the alley became a canyon of stained timber and green, opaque glass framed in wrought iron. Somewhere ahead someone had recently oiled hinges; the scent lingered under the clean bite of the sea breeze. On his right a bakery door stood open, and the warm breath of fresh bread rolled out to meet him.

He stepped inside beneath a hand-painted arc of red letters: Nivard’s Cupcakes.

A man shorter than Jimmy was clapping flour from his hands onto his trousers. One pant leg ended in a polished peg. He had a voice like a file dragged over iron. “Ah, a customer, is it? Or, something else, hmm? You don’t smell like you’re here for cupcakes. What do you want?”

Behind him, racks of loaves cooled. On a counter to his left, two dozen cupcakes gleamed beneath frosting in town-banner blue and bright white.

“Not into cupcakes,” Jimmy said, soft but sure, the voice of a serious elf doing his best to seem ordinary. “How much for a loaf of bread?”

The baker’s shoulders loosened. “Oh, a proper customer after all. Forgive the rough welcome. Been a day, you understand. Fresh rye, baked this morning, six copper pieces.”

Jimmy set six small coins on the counter. “Anything interesting going on in town? Might be looking for work.”

The baker swept up the copper and slid a warm loaf into Jimmy’s hands. “Work, eh? Music to my ears. I have a little errand you could help with.” He glanced toward the back room, lowered his voice, and let the words out carefully. “There’s a crate I need taken to Eirlys at the Barn & Yarn. Nice enough fellow. Not a hard job, just needs a steady hand and a bit of discretion. Seven gold pieces.”

Jimmy’s law-abiding instincts tightened. “Is this legal?” He held the baker’s gaze.

Color crept into the man’s face. He stammered. “It is not like that. I have a standing agreement with Eirlys, but I cannot leave the shop. Fifteen gold, then. The Barn & Yarn is just around the corner.”

The pay had doubled for no reason, which made the elf’s eyebrow rise, but he nodded. “Where exactly, and I hope that crate is not too heavy.”

“It should not be too bad. You can manage it yourself.”

The baker hobbled to the back, opened a door into a dim little kitchen, and wrestled up a wooden crate roughly 30 by 60 by 30 centimeters. Rope handles jutted from the sides. Two nails stuck up partway from the lid, ready for prying. He set it on the counter. “Keep it upright. Walk south to the square, turn left. You will see the sign with the chicken. It is prepaid, so no need to collect. Drop it with Eirlys and come back for your coin.”

Jimmy lifted the crate. The weight settled low and to one side. He listened. No sound from within, no skitter, no slosh. He sighed once, thinking of human kingdoms and their new, noisy obsession with sensible units, as if elven measures had not served for thousands of years before there were humans to measure anything at all. Nothing wrong with an elf foot, he told himself, and stepped out.

At the square the town opened bright and wide. To the west a road led to a manor and, beyond, the gray bite of a citadel wall. To the east a lane of tight buildings slotted between shadows. Children shrieked through a game that involved a kicked ball, a skinny half-elf boy, and a larger boy swinging a stick with bewildering ritual. Older townsfolk made a show of sitting on benches and ignoring everything.

Jimmy kept the crate steady and turned left into a narrow lane barely two meters across, ruts from small carts etched into the dirt. Houses pressed close on both sides, two stories of stained timber and stone footings. A rusted iron sign creaked overhead, cut into the shape of a chicken and lettered: Eirlys’s Barn & Yarn.

He went in. The air turned to hay and leather, dried grain and lamp oil. Shelves sagged under sacks and jars, coils of rope and nets. Collars and leashes stood in crates on the floor. Behind a sturdy counter, small salves and ointments lined a shelf. The proprietor stood there, a wiry man with thin blond hair clinging to his scalp and a faded spiral tattoo curling from temple to cheekbone. He wore a patched vest and a loose linen shirt.

“Welcome,” he said. “I have not seen you before. I am Eirlys. What are you looking for?”

“Delivery,” Jimmy said, glancing at the crate. “From, the baker.”

“Where is Nivard? I did not know he hired help.” Disappointment flickered across the man’s face.

“Could not leave the store,” Jimmy said. “Where do you want this crate, sir?”

“On the counter, if you will.” Under his breath, Eirlys muttered, “Ten gold pieces for a cake and he cannot show his miserable face.”

Must be quite a cake, Jimmy thought, but set the crate down, bid the man polite farewell, and turned for the door.

“Wait,” Eirlys called, catching Jimmy by the shoulder. His voice was even, the emphasis precise. “One more thing. If you go back to Nivard’s, ask him for a jar of his special jam. On my behalf.” He leaned on the word jar. “I will reward you regardless, seeing as your boss cannot be bothered to come himself.” He let Jimmy go and shut the door.

These errands were getting ridiculous, Jimmy reflected. Humans lacked the ingrained sophistication of elves. Still, absurdity was a neighbor to profit. He crossed the square again. The game continued. The half-elf’s ears were not as sharp as Jimmy’s but pointed enough, his cheekbones high, eyes large, his hair a telltale banner of mixed lineage. The ball went skittering, children chased, the stick flashed. Then the small boy tripped on a loose cobble and the older boy laid into him with savage gusto while the others whooped.

“Easy now,” Jimmy called. “Give the small one a break.”

The stick-bearer looked up, raised his weapon, and hollered “WaaaaOooooo,” a war cry of local dialects and questionable meaning, but he stayed his hand. One of the girls helped the half-elf up and dusted him with friendly smacks. They reset their strange rules with a flurry of fingers like rock and paper deciding fate.

Satisfied it was only cruelty in the bounds of sport, Jimmy returned to the bakery. The Seasprite’s crew were already reloading her with neatly stamped barrels. Inside, the door’s bellless silence broke when he coughed. From the back came the baker’s rasp. “Just a minute.” The scrape of trays. The uneven hobble-tap of peg and foot. Then the man appeared, blushing. “How did it go?”

“The crate is delivered. Chicken man was missing you, I think. Now, the fifteen gold.”

The baker paid up without argument. Jimmy pocketed the coins. “Listen, Eirlys asked for a jar of your special jam.”

All color fled the man’s face. He looked like someone had pulled his soul out through his teeth. He retreated, then returned carrying a smooth clay jar with a rounded lid, watermelon-sized and utterly unmarked. He set it on the counter as if it might explode.

“I did not realize,” he breathed. “Get it out of here. I do not want more trouble.”

Jimmy lifted the jar, suspicion prickling. “Trouble, you say. Care to elaborate?”

“Listen,” the baker said, shaken. “I did everything Malric said. I just want to be done with this madness.”

“I do not know a Malric,” Jimmy said mildly. “I once knew an Elric.”

The baker swallowed and pushed on. “Who knows if that is his name. A traveling alchemist, he showed up this morning with this jar. Said I should keep it safe until its courier came asking for it later. I told him that part of my life was over, I came here to start fresh, but this was not something I could refuse.”

“Anything wrong with the jar?”

“I know better than to tamper with smuggled goods. That is a good way to wake up dead.”

“Fair enough.” Jimmy bowed, the jar heavy against his palms, and left.

The bakery door, so welcoming before, clicked shut behind him. In the square, the smaller of the two girls now fled with the ball, shrieking in triumph and terror while the others took up the chase. A figure in partial armor lingered far to the west near the citadel’s wall, the only hint of official notice in a town that preferred to let children settle their own skirmishes.

Jimmy kept the jar tucked close and slipped back to the iron chicken. He pushed through the door with an elbow. The Barn & Yarn was as before, but now the crate on the counter stood open. It had contained a cake. An obscene cake, of the kind that appears at certain parties and inspires both laughter and pointed coughs. A raccoon perched on the counter, happily devouring it.

Jimmy coughed.

From the back room Eirlys emerged, pleased. “Ah, welcome back. We have been enjoying the cake you delivered, as you can see.”

Jimmy lifted the jar. “What is with the raccoon?”

“Oh, that is Buttons,” Eirlys said fondly. “She is like a child to me. I see you managed to get my jam too. I hope it was not too much trouble.” He came closer and produced a pouch from his vest. As he reached Jimmy, his voice slipped into a quiet, measured register. “I hope this is sufficient to keep this between us.”

The pouch felt heavier than the baker’s fifteen gold sitting in Jimmy’s pocket. He weighed it briefly in his palm. He considered the etiquette of peeking and decided against it. Shadiness had its rituals. He handed over the jar. “Of course.”

Eirlys set the clay upon the counter, grinning wide, and drew a knife. “Care for a slice of cake?”

“I will take it for the road, if you do not mind.”

“Of course.” He sliced a generous hunk. The sponge smelled of citrus, bright and clean, while the icing, unfortunately flesh-toned, refused to be dignified by scrutiny. “Farewell, friend.”

“Farewell. Goodbye, Buttons.” Jimmy tucked the cake, stepped out into the empty lane, and let the distant children’s shrieks melt into the day’s quiet.

A little way east, away from watching eyes and iron chickens, he loosened the pouch’s mouth and counted. Fifty gold pieces gleamed up at him. He bit one experimentally. A small dent answered. Real enough.

He wrapped the cake tighter, the citrus scent tickling his nose, and let himself smile. Profit and absurdity, side by side, as always. For a moment an old memory surfaced, a sweet blond apprentice named Charlotte in a bakery far away, then another, a half-elf witch in the north named Amanda who made potions that tasted like early frost. He tucked the memories away with the coins.

Somewhere behind him the Seasprite sighed against her ropes. Ahead lay streets of stained wood and green glass, a citadel’s shadow, and the question of where to wander next.

Jimmy found himself wandering the northeastern edge of town, where the cobblestones gave way to rolling hills of late-summer grass. The last building crouched before the countryside, marked with a wooden loaf that swung gently in the breeze. A baker’s guild outpost, no doubt, but to linger here seemed a lonely sort of errand. Better to turn back toward the square, where the pulse of Onher beat strongest.

The day had aged into late afternoon. Shadows stretched across the streets, and a golden haze began to settle. Jimmy’s thoughts turned to inns and beds, to warmth and a roof for the night. He retraced his steps and came again to the square, where an elderly couple occupied a bench, hands folded, eyes glazed with the long patience of those with nowhere else to be.

“Excuse me,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I am looking for an inn. Is there one nearby? Preferably a good one.”

The old woman squinted at him, then cackled through the words as if every sound were an afterthought. “Tha’ cursed erra tavern, it would. Erathia’ll set ye right, she will. South-east road, square’s edge, look for the ‘erra ‘angin’ from the wall.”

The old man, never lifting his gaze, merely grunted: “Eh-jep.”

Jimmy thanked them with a polite smile and left their peculiar dialect behind.

The southeastern road curved gently among dark-wood houses with green-glass windows. Soon, jutting out from one of the buildings, a plank in the shape of an arrow announced itself boldly in block letters: THE CURSED ARROW TAVERN. Laughter and voices spilled from its open door.

Inside, warmth and noise embraced him. The room spread wide around a bar of polished dark wood. Behind it, a woman with short, braided almond-brown hair polished tankards with calm authority. A hearth roared along one wall, above it a mounted fish glimmered in firelight. Round tables cluttered the center, mismatched chairs gathered like old acquaintances. Nets and beams dangled above, straining to suggest a seafarer’s life.

A dozen patrons scattered about—some in shadowed nooks, others at tables bent over drink. A man in leather armor loitered by the bar, watching the door, though he made nothing of Jimmy’s arrival.

The barkeep gave a single nod, sharp eyes catching him, then returned to her work.

Jimmy’s gaze lingered a moment on the fish, and thoughts drifted unbidden to the sea. Legends of sea elves disguised as dolphins played in his mind—creatures said to be beautiful beyond mortal reckoning. He sighed wistfully, then crossed to the bar.

“Good afternoon,” he said, voice steady. “I am looking for a room for the night.”

“Good afternoon to you as well,” she replied, smiling faintly. “I don’t recognize you, but welcome to the Cursed Arrow. Glad to have you.”

Her ocean-blue eyes measured him quickly before she continued. “I have a couple rooms left. A fine one, with a clean big bed, polished furniture, even a window. Eight gold a night. Or”—she gestured toward a nearby table of rougher men—“a smaller, simpler one. Still private, still with a bed and washbasin. Only two gold a night.”

Jimmy tilted his head amiably. “It is always a pleasure to come across a well-kept establishment, run by capable hands. But forgive me asking… does that mean the cheaper beds are not always so clean? Not that I’d suggest any neglect on your part.”

The woman chuckled. “Let’s just say they see a lot of traffic. We keep them clean, but sometimes the critters guests bring along—bedbugs, lice—they travel faster than a merchant’s gossip.” She laughed at her own jest. “Not saying you’ll leave with more company than you arrived, but if you’re particular about your comfort—or your skin—well, the upscale option might suit you better.” Her smile carried the sharp edge of practiced salesmanship.

Jimmy’s lips curled faintly. “I shall trust your staff’s capable efforts to keep the bugs at bay. My funds are limited, but not forever. I’ll take the simpler room.” Inwardly, he thought bedbugs would be no match for the hardy, supple skin of elves, weathered and perfected by ages alongside nature.

He added, “I’ll need food and drink as well. And perhaps—since you mentioned gossip—anything interesting in town? A handsome barkeep such as yourself surely hears whispers.”

She slipped a bronze key across the bar. The number 7 was stamped upon it. “Tonight, you can have honey-glazed chicken tenders over mashed potatoes, or pork marinated in garlic and wine with rice. Both for two silver.” She gestured to the kegs behind her. “Beer for five copper, wine for two silver. Though, I’ve got fine craft wine from Greenfell, four silver a cup if you’d like to treat yourself.”

Her smile turned sly. “And they say Queen Weltrude herself is staying in Greenfell instead of Aral. I don’t know why for certain, but if I had to guess—it’s the wine.”

“I might try that exquisite wine,” Jimmy said, ordering the glazed chicken as well. He pocketed the key, then wandered toward the notice board by the door while he waited.

Two messages were pinned there:

⸻

Item LOST!
A possession of mine was lost. Finder’s reward guaranteed.
Inquire at Valtarius’s Salt & Pepper – Valtarius of Majeste

⸻

Seeking Observant Traveler
Looking for a reliable individual or group to gather some basic details about the area and activities around Greenfell.
Simple work, no risk involved. Ideal for someone passing through.
Fair pay offered upon completion.
Inquire with T.V. at the market square at dusk for more information.

⸻

Jimmy read the second note twice, rolling the letters of “T.V.” over in his thoughts. Dusk was not far off. He considered it, though for the moment the promise of food and wine tugged harder. Returning from the board, he let his gaze wander among the patrons, weighing faces and groups, wondering if any looked the sort who could be coaxed into honest adventure—if his lean purse would stretch that far.

The tavern’s warmth closed around Jimmy like a heavy cloak. He let his eyes sweep the room, fixing each table in his mind. A barkeep with braided almond-brown hair polished tankards behind a polished counter. In a shadowed nook a white-bearded human bent over some delicate contraption, wires and springs catching the firelight. Another nook held the silhouette of a woman, only a pale hand and the curve of a cheek visible. In the open floor a man in an oversized, pointy leather hat roared at a joke only he found funny. Near him sat an elf woman with perfectly kept almond hair, and a third figure in a colorful robe stitched with sigils. A hulking man in battered leather armor took up half a chair with his shoulders. At another table a woman with jet-black hair and a scar across her left eye watched the room through sleepy brown eyes, her makeup dark and deliberate. Beyond her a black-robed man kept his back to everyone, and not far from him a silver-haired patron sat with head bowed, impossible to place.

Jimmy fetched the wine he had ordered. The first sip was honest. Not exceptional, but also not the sort of wine that tasted of damp cellars and rat footprints. He carried three more cheap cups to the loud man’s table and paused with a courteous cough.

“Excuse me for the disturbance. I am Jimmy, looking for people to join me on adventures. May I sit?”

The elf with the almond hair smiled and moved her cup aside. “Funny you should say that. I am Aureliana. This is Adegar.” She tilted her head toward the man in the ridiculous hat. “And Unica.” The human woman nodded, relieved to be included in something that promised forward motion.

Adegar brightened at the wine. “We were just visiting the Academy of Magic. The tower northeast of here. Now we are wasting away in Onher.”

Unica sighed. “And our coin purses are empty. We were discussing ideas.”

“I was thinking to start with local work,” Jimmy said, flicking his gaze toward the notice board. “We will stumble into larger things soon enough. What are your skills? Wizards among you, perhaps?”

Adegar set his hat at a bragging angle. “Both Unica and I are novice wizards.”

Aureliana tamped leaf into a slender pipe. “I escorted them to the Academy. As a fey, you understand the call of magic. I came for curiosity’s sake. The trip was worth it, but now we are at a loss.”

Jimmy nodded. In this part of the world, custom was simple enough: daily pay and a share of whatever glitter fate coughed up. He set the wine down. “Join me for a while. Five silver a day for each of you, and a combined half share of any treasure.”

Their faces arranged themselves in polite shapes that did not quite agree with their eyes.

“Perhaps,” Adegar said carefully, “with better terms.”

Jimmy laughed it off and raised a hand to the staff. “Food, then. Chicken tenders all around.”

Plates arrived in a cheerful procession. The chicken was dry, but the honey-herb glaze did heroic work, and the mashed potatoes were generous. They ate. Conversation improved, but when the matter of pay returned, so did the hesitations. The trio exchanged looks, then Aureliana shook her head, regret tempering her voice. “I am sorry. Not at those terms.”

A touch settled on Jimmy’s shoulder. He turned to find the armored man standing over him, red hair thin and bright, green eyes keen. Scars had chewed lines into his leather, and a round shield rode his back like a stubborn turtle.

“Looking for hired hands?” the man rumbled. “Need someone stronger than this lot?”

Aureliana’s mouth flattened, but she said nothing. Jimmy stood, finished his wine, and offered the stranger a seat at a nearby table. “Strength is welcome. Magic cannot do everything. Are you good with weapons?”

“I used to be garrison in Zamara,” the man said, voice low and gravelly. “Trained with the spear.” He nodded at the wall where a spear leaned beside a longer polearm. “Got plenty of experience fighting. Name’s Azwin.”

“Likely there will be fighting, though we will see,” Jimmy said. “Five silver a day, half a share of treasure.”

Azwin blew out a relieved breath that almost whistled. “It is a deal. I am staying at Rosin’s Companions. And it is not what you think. Rooms are cheap if you do not need a companion.”

Jimmy glanced toward the weapons at the wall just as Aureliana rose, lifted the polearm with one hand as if it were a length of ribbon, and strode out without another word. The wizards, Adegar and Unica, remained, looking taken aback by the abrupt exit. Jimmy pointed. “Was that not your spear?”

Azwin laughed. “Mine is the shorter one.”

They agreed to meet at dawn in front of the tavern. With that settled, Jimmy let his eyes wander back over the room and finally came to rest on the scarred woman. He approached her table with a courteous incline of the head.

“Excuse me. Are you a fighter, perhaps? Looking for adventure?”

She regarded him over the rim of her cup. “Evening, Jimmy of nowhere. The name is Tryia, have you finally come to proposition me as well?” Her voice was dry as tinder. Up close, the scar was a pale brushstroke across the left eye, and the sleepy set of her brown eyes made it seem like nothing in the world could startle her. Her braid kept the jet-black hair in a severe line. Rouge warmed her cheeks, and kohl sharpened her gaze.

“I thought from the scar. It is not very visible. It does not affect your looks,” he added, fumbling honesty into something that hoped to be charm. “Are you a wizard of some sort?”

“I am no pathetic wizard like Adegar and Unica over there,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. “I am an acquisition specialist. A relocation expert.” She winked. “And, like you, an opportunity seeker. Treasure does not like to sit still.”

A thief, then. Lawful instincts shifted in Jimmy’s chest but did not kick. “Embrace the opportunity. Join me. Same terms as my other hire.”

She leaned back. “I am not desperate like Azwin. I know my worth. I will take a half share, but I want a gold piece a day. You will get your value. My skills pay for themselves when paired with a capable party.”

Jimmy is troubled at the inequity of wages, but decide to find out if what she says about her skills is true, and nods at her counter offer.

Tyria’s mouth tightened before she spoke, as if agreeing scraped against her pride. “Then I accept. As much as it pains me to say it, I have more success working with teams than alone. My presence in Onher is evidence enough of that.”

Her gaze slid through Jimmy like a dagger testing a seam.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I did not plan to be here tonight. Since I am, and you are my employer, you will arrange somewhere for me to sleep. And no, before you say it, I will not entertain staying at that brothel like Azwin.” She met his seriousness with a glare of equal weight.

Jimmy rolled his eyes, the gesture mostly for himself, and set two neat gold coins on the table. Thief, this one certainly is, he thought, and kept his face smooth. “Excellent. We start in the morning. Here is for a room.”

Tyria’s sternness flipped to a wide grin. She slid the coins off the wood with practiced fingers and sauntered toward the bar.

It was a little past dusk when Jimmy stepped out. The town had softened to amber and green. In every window, the sea-glass panes held a flicker of lamplight like shy fish in a tide pool. The market square that had throbbed with children earlier now rested. Only a few figures moved across the open stones. A stocky dwarf sat on a bench, pipe smoke curling around him while he tried to bribe wary seagulls with crumbs. Across the square, a tall hooded figure in a dark green cloak leaned against the manor house, still as a nail in old timber.

Jimmy approached the hooded stranger first. Better a mystery than a dwarf with opinions about elves.

“Excuse me,” he said softly. “Do you happen to know someone named T. V.?”

“Shhhh.” The figure lifted a finger to her lips.

They stood in the silence that follows a drawn bowstring. As his eyes adjusted, Jimmy caught what the hood tried to hide. Obsidian skin. Silver-white hair. Sharp angles in the face, a geometry that would cut your thumb if you traced it. Eyes like polished violets beneath the shadow of the hood.

Voices drifted from the manor’s thick walls, muffled but clear if you had the ears for it. Jimmy did. He leaned into the sound.

An older man spoke first, his tone calm and measured in the noble dialect of the common tongue. “Merchants always grumble when they feel their purses are lighter. If there have been fewer patrols, the queen’s attention is elsewhere. Jovana’s borders will not guard themselves.”

A younger voice, a boy on the edge of manhood, came quieter, like someone learning to speak up in rooms that bite. “But it is not just the…” The rest smeared into silence. “They are saying the taxes are…” Gone again. “And fewer caravans bringing royal orders. Some think…” More lost. “…trouble brewing.”

An older woman scoffed, the sound wrapped in velvet and dismissal. “Some think, indeed. Gossip-mongers and busybodies have stirred trouble since the beginning of time. The Queen’s court has far more to manage than placating bored merchants. You would do well to ignore their prattle, Harys.”

“Still, it is strange, is it not?” the boy protested, louder now with the sting of his name. “Even in Onher, we have seen fewer riders on the king’s road. And what of those travelers who passed through last week? They said—”

“They said whatever they thought would earn them a hot meal and a roof for the night,” the older man cut in, all edge. “Travelers are notorious for spinning tales.”

“Still, he has a point,” the older woman murmured, her voice nearly swallowed by the wall. “The roads have been quieter. Even Gerin said his shipments have been fewer, and the man drinks enough to ignore half the world.”

The man sighed. “I will write to the court in Aral. If there is anything we need to know, they will tell us. Until then, let us not invent problems where there are none.”

Cutlery chimed, the conversation ending like a door drawn to.

The hooded figure pushed off the wall and gestured for Jimmy to follow her away from the manor.

“It is always the same with nobles,” she said. “They would rather write letters than face reality. Easier to pretend everything is normal when you have a warm fire and full larders.”

She adjusted her hood and straightened to her full height. “I suppose you are here about the job posting in The Cursed Arrow. You are a bit late, but the job is still available if you are interested. You handled yourself well just now with the lord and lady, so the work is more of the same. Simple reconnaissance. You will head to Greenfell, spend a few days observing the citadel, and return with your notes, nothing more. Count the guards, note the patrols, and watch who comes and goes. Pay special attention to anyone who does not look like they belong. Visiting nobles, caravans, that sort of thing. If you hear any interesting rumors from the townsfolk, write those down too. Do not draw attention to yourself, and do not meddle. You will be paid for your discretion, not your curiosity. Bring the information back to me here in Onher, and you will leave a little richer, and a lot wiser.”

Across the plaza, a commotion spiked into the quiet. Loud, indignant squawks. Jimmy turned. The dwarf had somehow captured a seagull and now held it aloft like a prize, laughing with the flat joy of a man who had finally outwitted a bird.

Jimmy sighed, reassured that such creatures belonged under mountains and not among civilized folk. He turned back to the hooded figure. “I am Jimmy,” he said, angling his words to learn what T. V. stood for. The job did not glitter with treasure, not at first blush, but gold was gold, and he was curious. “All right. I will see what I can do.” He tried to peer under the hood, preferring to know exactly whom he was dealing with.

“Well, Jimmy, in this place I am called Telsara Vaunt.” Her voice held the smile her lips did not show. “I do not hide the fact that, for all intents and purposes, I am a spy. Every faction in Jovana employs spies, though the methods vary. I prefer to subcontract some of the work, hence the notice at the tavern.” She tilted her head. “Stop trying to be coy.”

She threw back the hood. The lamplight turned her obsidian skin to polished night. Her long hair fell like spilled moonlight.

“It does not matter if you see my face,” Telsara said. “If someone starts asking too many questions, or things get too hot here, you will never see this face again.”

She let the hood fall back into place. “Bring me what I asked for, and I will pay you in gold. Look for someone in a green robe like this in the square at dusk. Mention you have a delivery for T. V., and you will be given the location to stash the information. Payment will be delivered to you discreetly.”

Jimmy’s ears twitched with interest at the sight of a so-called dark elf, and not an unlovely one at that. The old lessons about ancient grudges between their peoples slid off him like rain. He let admiration color his voice. “It shall be done,” he declared with confidence he did not entirely feel, since spying with notes and schedules did not yet sing to him. He softened his tone. “By the way, what if I wish to see this face again?” He arranged the most Charming Jimmy expression he possessed.

“Bring back information first,” Telsara said, amused. “Then maybe you will.” She gave a brief bow and slipped away toward the western lanes, where the citadel’s walls loomed against the dark.

Jimmy glanced back to the bench. The dwarf was gone, the victory seagull likely reduced to an ill-advised dinner. The thought made him grimace. He turned his steps toward The Cursed Arrow.

The south road ran dark as Jimmy returned to The Cursed Arrow, but far beyond the last wooden roofs a scatter of lights pricked the night. Fires or torches, he thought, like a second constellation laid across the ground.

The tavern door stood open, spilling heat and the smell of hops into the street. Inside, the faces were mostly the same as before. Aureliana and Azwin were gone. The dwarf from earlier had migrated indoors and now harangued the barkeep at close range. Tyria sat with Unica and Adegar at a corner table, her posture casual in the way of someone ready to spring.

Jimmy drifted to the bar, ears pricked.

“Now listen here, woman,” the dwarf said, leaning forward, a stubby finger jabbing the air. “I have eaten seagull roasted on a campfire in the middle of a blizzard. This tavern has a proper kitchen. You are wasting an opportunity to showcase your skills.”

The barkeep rubbed her temples. “I run a respectable establishment. People come here for stew and beer, not flying vermin on a plate.”

“I will let you keep one of the wings,” the dwarf offered, grinning. “Free of charge. Call it a bonus for your troubles, eh?”

“The only thing I am keeping is my sanity, and you are wearing it thin. Take your delicacy to the smokehouse, or wherever you mountain folk make these decisions, but it is not going in my kitchen.”

“Bah,” he cried, throwing up his hands. “You have no appreciation for the finer things. When the rest of the world is feasting on gull, you will be kicking yourself.”

“I will take my chances.”

The dwarf harrumphed and stomped away toward the door in a flurry of injured pride.

Jimmy shook his head and crossed to Tyria’s table. “How about dessert?” he said, setting his gaze on Tyria. “I got this cake today that is supposed to be very good. A responsible employer takes care of their employees.”

He added a wink for Tyria and a cool glance for the wizards.

Tyria’s eyebrows climbed. “You just have pocket cake? I mean, I am not turning down cake, but it is a bit odd.”

“Where is my pocket cake?” Unica asked.

“Only those willing to work with me get free cake,” Jimmy said, glacial to Unica. He offered the slice to Tyria. “From an earlier errand. Long story.”

He watched closely as she ate, ready to act if she sprouted raccoon ears or burst into flame. Nothing happened besides the melting of frosting.

“This is amazing cake,” Tyria said around a contented sigh. “Nivard’s or Galindro’s?”

“Nivard,” Jimmy said, pointedly ignoring the wizards’ hunger. Elves had dignity too.

“Well,” Unica muttered, “maybe if you offered a living wage, I could have cake money.”

Tyria dabbed a crumb from her lip and leaned in, smiling like a knife that had just remembered how to cut. “About that unique opportunity. You ever hear of a village called Jokka?”

Unica shook her head. “No.”

“Me either,” Adegar added.

“It is small,” Tyria said. “Down in the Goldenswan Woods.”

“That would have to be very small,” Adegar said, dry as old parchment. “We have never heard of it.”

“Oh, it is small,” Tyria said, pleased. “A couple hundred people, maybe. But something strange is going on there. Lights in the forest at night. Voices in the wind. Rumors about a magical artifact hidden in the woods.”

Unica brightened. “What kind of artifact?”

“Details are scarce,” Tyria said. “They say it is tied to the village’s history. Something left behind by a long-dead witch. The villagers are too superstitious to go near it, but you two are wizards. This is the kind of thing you do, right?”

“Not exactly,” Adegar said, skeptical. “And who would pay us to fetch it? Why would anyone want it?”

“It is not about the villagers. They have nothing, and they probably do not want you poking around anyway. But the right people would pay handsomely for whatever you find. You know those rare pieces at market with insane prices. That usually starts as some artifact scared villagers do not want you touching in case a witch’s ghost terrorizes them in their sleep.”

“Yes,” Unica breathed, eyes wide. She grabbed Adegar’s sleeve. “Yes, Adegar, this is it.”

Adegar hesitated. “And why are you not going after it yourself, Tyria? Seems exactly your sort of trouble. Why give us the lead?”

Tyria’s grin sharpened. “Because I am employed by this fellow here, Jimmy. Booked for the foreseeable future. And maybe I feel like helping two down-on-their-luck wizards.”

Jimmy cleared his throat, planting his voice in the center of the table. “Witches can be very dangerous, even long after they are gone. There might be more than one. There are always three, as they say.” He let his tone go reflective. “I once met a coven of three witches. They were set on forcing me into a magical contract and making me their familiar. As a wise and handsome elf, I could even become a Greater Familiar, they said. Tempting, but shady. I barely escaped their claws.” He smiled at the memory. “Not real claws. They were very pretty, in fact. Alice, Cheryl, and Serena.”

He surfaced from reminiscence and glanced at Tyria. “If there is treasure involved, we will look into it. And perhaps the novice wizards could join us after all.”

He made the offer cleanly. “Five silver per day, and half a share for each of you, same as for Azwin.”

Tyria paused, her smile freezing before she forced it back into place. “You want us to go to Jokka as well? Are you sure? Jokka is not exactly welcoming.”

Adegar rubbed his neck. “I do not know anything about witches, but you make it sound like we might meet pretty witches and then have our eyes clawed out.”

Unica reached across the table. “Agreed. Better to stick together. I guess Aureliana will be fine without us.” She extended her hand to Jimmy.

He took it and held it perhaps a heartbeat too long. “Unfortunately there is only one slice of cake. Maybe Tyria will spare you a bit. It is delicious.” He looked into Unica’s eyes with practiced warmth, then aside, a little annoyed the cake had no magical features. He still halfway hoped Tyria would sprout small striped ears.

“As for witches and their artifacts,” he added, “we have a reconnaissance mission first. Once we know what that is about, we can look into Jokka.”

At the word reconnaissance, Tyria accelerated, cramming the rest of the cake into her mouth like a chipmunk preparing for winter. She swallowed triumphantly and chased it with a deep pull of ale.

Jimmy let his gaze take his new companions’ measure. Unica had wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair that might have been glossy if it ever met a comb. Her brown eyes glowed with mischief and resolve. She was of average height and generously built at the hips. A silver skull hung from her septum, turning her smile into a dare. Adegar by contrast was a lanky string of a man with dark, wise eyes and eyebrows like thickets. His hat was a problem. It was so absurdly large it made a caricature of a wizard’s hat. No one could take him seriously in it. Both of them wore the road and tavern on their clothes and skin. Dirt had made friends with them.

“Anyway,” Unica said, standing, “it is getting late. We will call it a night. Meet back here in the morning? We are staying elsewhere tonight, but hopefully tomorrow somewhere nicer.”

Adegar gave an awkward bow. “Evening, Jimmy. Tyria.”

“Yes,” Jimmy said, relieved that no more coin would be spent on retainers tonight. “We meet here in the morning. Good night.”

When they had gone, he turned to Tyria. “You could have left some of that cake.”

She smirked, licking a crumb from her thumb. He hoped feeding her well would grease the wheels of loyalty.

“I will retire too,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Tyria said. “And do not let the bed bugs bite if Erathia is right. Ha.”

She lifted her mug and washed the last of the cake down with a heroic swallow.

Jimmy climbed the narrow stairs, thinking that if any bugs found Tyria’s face they would drown in the makeup. His room was small, private, and clean. A single bed waited with fresh linens. A ceramic basin in the corner held clear water, and the door lock turned smoothly from the inside. Respectable, he thought, in the barkeep’s own words.

Satisfied, he lay down and let the noise of the tavern fade. He slept, and if he dreamed, he hoped it would be of constellations on the ground and not of gulls dressed for supper.