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“Let’s sit down,” rumbles Derrild. “You’re there, Hylin, and Creslin, between Charla and Lorcas.”

Knowing that men are the empowered ones in the east, Creslin holds the chair for Lorcas and eases her into place, assuming that Derrild will do the honors for his wife.

“Ah, Derrild, it’s good to see that some chivalry remains in the world.”

“Chivalry never paid for dinner,” grumbles the trader.

Lorcas and Derla exchange glances across the table.

A white-haired woman appears from the next room with a large steaming bowl, which she places before Charla. Next come two wooden platters, each containing a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Two pitchers already sit upon the table, and before each diner is a wide crockery plate, rimmed, and a heavy brown mug.

“Ale’s in the gray pitcher, redberry in the brown one,” Derrild says.

“Where are you from, young man?” says Charla, her not-quite-round face pleasant under her short thatch of gray hair.

“From the other side of the Westhorns,” he answers.

“That is a long way. Where are you headed?” She breaks the end off a loaf of bread and hands the platter to him.

“Fairhaven, I suspect. I have not decided for sure.” He takes the bread, tears off a chunk, and puts it on his plate. Then he picks up the redberry pitcher, offers it to Lorcas, who nods; he pours for both of them.

“Are you a good fighter?” asks Willum, the boy whose tousled blond head barely clears the edge of the table.

“Willum!” scolds the blonde named Vierdra.

Creslin laughs softly. “That depends on who you ask. Those you defeat will say you are a good fighter. Those who beat you say otherwise.”

“You’re a good fighter!” affirms the boy cheerfully.

“He sees right through you, Creslin,” Hylin mumbles through a mouthful of bread.

“Best I’ve seen,” adds Derrild.

Creslin takes his turn and ladles the thick stew— composed of heavy noodles, a white sauce, and some sort of meat—onto one side of his plate. He manages to do so without dripping or otherwise disgracing himself.

Hylin attacks the huge bowl with the serving spoon, and there is sauce on the polished wood and noodles oozing from his plate onto the table.

Creslin suppresses a wince at the mess, but no one else seems to notice.

“Are you a professional fighter, then?” asks Lorcas.

He finishes a mouthful of the peppery stew, which is not as hot as the burkha of Sarronnyn but still highly spiced, before answering. “No. I have seen the real fighters, and I’m not that good.”

“I haven’t seen them,” adds Hylin. “If they’re that much better than Creslin, I never hope to meet them.”

“Why are you thinking about Fairhaven?” asks Charla.

“It seems to be the place where the unknowable can be discovered.”

“Sometimes it’s better left undiscovered,” mumbles Derrild. “Especially if it involves wizards.” He pauses. “They’re a jealous lot, Creslin.”

“Jealous?”

Splooshh . . .

“Willum!”

The brown pitcher has succumbed to the strong arm of young Willum and disgorged redberry across the lower end of the table.

“Jarra!”

The white-haired serving woman appears with some rags and mops off the table, presenting a clean rag to Vierdra, who shakes her head and says, “Eating with youngsters is always dangerous.”

Creslin grins, though he is glad that the juice sprayed away from him, and turns his head so that the boy does not see his expression.

Young Willum submits to being patted relatively free of juice, chewing on a large piece of bread the while.

“You going to make any more trips?” asks the dark-bearded but already-balding Waltar.

Creslin shakes his head. “I was glad to be of service, but—”

“Good men are hard to find.”

“Even harder to keep,” adds Derrild. “Somehow, I don’t think the young fellow would be all that happy on the trading runs, even if I could afford to pay what he’s worth.”

“. . . he’s really good . . .”

Creslin ignores the words whispered between Derla and Lorcas, breaks off another piece of bread, then ladles out more of the stew.

“There are a few sweets later,” notes Charla.

For some reason, Derla coughs, Lorcas blushes; and Hylin grins at Creslin.