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Mathilde saw the ragged man in the tattered brown leathers that were a shade too clean and shrugged. “Who knows what rulers plan? I just sell flowers, like you work wood.”

Looking at the flowers mock-regretfully, I grinned falsely. “I’d buy some, but I’d better get to the mill.”

“You still supporting that broken-down crafter? Why don’t you open your own shop?”

“I’d have little without him. Someday…”

“Oh…it’s the golden-haired daughter…you want it all, you schemer…” She leered at me, and the pot peddler looked at us both as if we were crazy, while the ragged spy looked at no one.

Listening again, I stepped down from the fountain and headed toward Fair Road.

“…never see better-cured leather west of Recluce…”

“…only half a silver for this, scabbard and all…”

“Fresh yams! Fresh yams!”

Wiping my dripping forehead with the back of my short-sleeved working tunic, I saw another man in ragged leathers, not following me, but watching the arms merchant and noting the blades.

“…the finest in worked steel…flexible enough…sharp enough to cut a spider’s web…”

“…finest Hamorian cotton…cool to wear…the finest in cotton…”

“Winter-saved apples, order-spelled and ready to eat…”

I shook my head at the fruit vendor’s outrageous claim. Winter-saved apples they might be, and even kept in the coolest of root cellars, but order-spelling fruit took more effort than any order-master in his right mind would ever want to do—unless you were talking about killing off the vermin, and cool water and care did almost as well.

“…a half-copper for a tale of adventure! A song of joy…”

A thin woman in rags lingered around the minstrel’s corner. Her muscles were too heavy and her skin too smooth for her to be the beggar she played.

I did not shake my head this time, but I wondered what the autarch wanted to know, and why Kyphrien was important.

At the iron gates to the market square, gates which were rusted open, I suspected, three guards watched the road and the passers-by. Two in leathers, with their clubs and blades—and one posing as a stonemason’s helper. The mason was restoring a damaged arch leading into a leather shop.

The shops on that unnamed street I never frequented, not with my limited funds and disinterest in pure luxury.

My feet carried me automatically toward the turn leading back to the alley behind Destrin’s and the stable. Gairloch needed the exercise, and Brettel’s mill was far enough to make it better for both of us if I rode.

Another reason for Destrin’s problems—the shop he had taken over from his father had catered to the personal needs of merchants and their ladies, supplying a level of crafting Destrin could not match. Destrin’s rough benches and chairs belonged in the trade quarter, but he refused to move from the once-proud house and shop.

Again, I thought about the bid on the chairs for the sub-prefect, wondering if it had been a good idea, even though I could see no other alternative.

Gairloch could tell I was worried, and he danced around a lot as I saddled him.

“Settle down!” I finally snapped. And he did.

I kept thinking about the bid on the chairs.

Compared to the work that would be involved in completing the sub-prefect’s chairs, getting the bid for them had not been all that hard. Destrin had signed the paper, and I put it in the envelope. Then we all had gathered on the steps of the sub-prefect’s house the next morning.

“For a bid of ten golds, the commission on the five matched chairs is let to Destrin the woodworker.”

“What?” Jirrle had been on his feet, his face purpling. But a younger man, with similar features, hauled him back down.

“Bids were also received from Jirrle, the woodcrafter, and from Rasten. If the chairs are defective, the bidder will pay a default fee of one gold and the second bidder will be awarded the commission.”

I had winced at that, not that I expected the quality to be inadequate, but was that phrase merely a way to get out of the contract? I shook my head, not knowing what exactly I would do if that were the