The interior of Praccus’ Pocket was like that of a thousand other inns. The walls were stucco, painted off white to hide handprints but still give the place an old Evendarian-style look. The windows lacked glass—not a surprise—and the shudders were open now that the storm had passed.

The patrons were mostly Evendarian, with a few half-Olorians mixed in. Those were isolated off to one side, not quite shunned but not really in the thick of things, either. Everyone else sat together in clumps, laughter and conversations echoing around them. The Night Riders’ customary table in the back corner was empty, too. A good sign.

Shade headed there without a word to anyone, settling in with his back to the wall, his hood still up, and his sword at his hip. No way would he disarm himself. Not with trouble in the air.

“You better pay for that, darling!” The barkeep grinned as a regular snagged a bottle from behind the bar, wagging her finger at him.

He laughed. “Put it on my tab, Nessie.”

“Tab? You mean the one your wife told me she’s not paying no more?” Nessie snatched the bottle back before he could drink. “Coin first. Drink after.”

“Greedy grubber.” Scowling, he slapped a copper aus on the bar, which disappeared down Nessie’s cleavage.

She stuck her tongue out. “Greedy and with a business to run. I know you don’t have much imagination, Bradus, but even you can conjure that.”

Shade ignored the rest of their byplay, his eyes tracking right as someone whooped from the front of the room. Dice players, his mind reported, and he paid them no more mind.

At first glance, it could almost be an inn from before the Fall—from before the Olorians came to claim Evendarian lives and prosperity. But the cracks showed. One man to the left sported whip marks on his face. Another hid a half-burned-off brand on the back of his neck with long hair. And almost everyone glanced towards the door periodically, just in case an Olorian showed up.

Despite his experience a few nights ago, Shade was probably the least worried about that.

“You’re a Night Rider.” The waiter, approaching to take his order, stopped cold. “You here to help with Lleu’s Lords?”

Shade cocked his head, watching the waiter from under the shadow of his hood. Like the twins outside, he was still a boy, probably fourteen. The freckles on his face stood out in stark contrast to his nearly bald head, where bruises decorated his skull in purple and black.

Old enough that the Olorians consider him a man and would hurt him as such, Shade thought but did not say.

“For now, I will settle for wine. Red, if you have it.”

“It’s expensive.”

“Bring me your best bottle. And one glass.” Shade slid two bronze sestertii across the worn table.

The boy’s eyes widened. “On it.”

He was off in a flash, grinning. What he said to Nessie—who looked enough like him to be his mother, or maybe sister—Shade ignored. If he couldn’t have a bath, he was damned well going to have good wine.

Or at least what passed for good wine in this place. It was better in Val’s Barstead, but there were Olorians there. Shade wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight tonight.

His wine showed up quickly, brought by the grinning boy, who bounced as he caught the copper aus Shade tossed him. Shade didn’t watch him go, instead pulling the cork and sniffing at the wine.

Not vinegar. A good start.

Then Shade read the label and scowled. It was a New Gloria River Red—a decent vintage with an unfortunate name. 3001. An even more unfortunate year, marked by the start of the Second Great War and the beginning of a betrayal.

Still, it wasn’t the wine’s fault Shade was a morose bastard. He poured a glass, sipped it, and sat back to let his muscles burn out their tension. Listening to the hum of Evendarian voices was relaxing, was a reminder that this was what he fought for—not for vicious venatores who sought to profit off their own countrymen.

The boy approached again; Shade ordered the house special without looking at the menu. After enough days on the road eating jerky and stale bread, he wasn’t picky. It arrived quickly, and Shade ate absently, thinking that maybe he could take a bath. It wouldn’t be warm, not here, but a decent scrub would—

“Time to pay up, Nessie.”

Shade looked up from his food to study the newcomer. He was heavyset and had bulky muscles gained from lugging heavy loads. A carter, maybe? His dancing blue eyes and fierce smile said he knew he was the most dangerous man in the room, and his swagger proved it.

Nessie crossed her arms. “I should tell you to piss up a rope, Lleu. Particularly after what happened to Kell.”

“Ain’t my fault an Olorian took him.”

“Tried to. You heard what they did.” She leaned across the bar, and for a moment, Shade thought Nessie might slap Lleu, but she didn’t.

“They did what Olorians do. Can’t be helped.” Lleu shrugged. “I’m sorry for your loss, but your husband and I have a deal.”

“It can’t be helped?” Nessie hissed. “Those Olorian bastards wanted Kell as a slave, and when he tried to fight, you—our ‘brave protector’—were nowhere to be found. Instead, they laughed, raped him, and killed him in the street. Can’t be helped? I shit on your prick.”

Lleu threw his head back and laughed. “I like your spirit, Nessie. That’s why I ain’t gonna take that personally. Unless you don’t pay up.”

“I’m not paying you faex.”

Faex was the most commonly remembered swearword from the old tongue; people liked it because it sounded like fuck and meant shit, which meant you got a two-for-one special on profanity.

Lleu lost his smile. “You want to keep this inn running, and you’re gonna.”

Nessie snorted. “You don’t know squat about running this place, and you are as useful as an Olorian in the Lady’s temple. Get lost.”

“Get your husband, woman. This is between me an’ him.”

“My husband’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Praccus!” Lleu threw his head back and bellowed the name. “Get down here before your wife gets herself killed!”

“More likely, I’d knife your ass,” Nessie muttered, fingering a blade.

“Praccus!”

“There’s no need to shout.” Praccus was a small man, a head shorter than Nessie, soft-spoken, and dark of hair and eye. “I’m right here.”

He came down the stairs with a stack of blankets in hand, looking at Lleu like people shouted about death in his inn every day.

Then again, maybe they did. Evendar wasn’t what she used to be.

“Then talk some sense into your woman before I kill her dead.” Lleu drew a nasty-looking knife, a cross between a cleaver and a dagger.

Nessie scoffed and made a show of drinking some ale. Shade followed suit and sipped his wine; that knife was good for threatening but was too big and slow to be efficient at much else.

Clearly, Nessie knew her shit.

“You never said anything about killing anyone,” Praccus said, his voice still soft.

“Yeah, well, she’s getting on my nerves.”

Four men crowded up behind Lleu. One of them, a burly redhead, spoke up: “And we don’t like waiting, Praccus. You know that. Someone’s gonna get hurt if you don’t pay up.”

The others murmured agreement.

Shade sighed and put his wine down.

“I am wondering about the wisdom of our deal,” Praccus said. “If you can’t protect me from the Olorians, why am I paying you?”

The redhead laughed. “You’re paying for protection from us, cunt licker.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.” Nessie rolled her eyes. “But no woman’s gonna let you near her duckies, so I think it might be envy, Cavus.”

Lleu slammed his dagger down on the bar. “Enough of this shit. Pay up, or we start with Nessie.”

Shade rose. “I think not.”