Only to a discerning eye did the food merchant’s cart stand out against the crowd of people roaming the street. There was an underlying frustration in the air around the merchant himself, directed at the city at large. Despite the fact that Torteburg’s population had barely dwindled with the lack of light, none of the denizens of the bustling and over-packed city seemed interested in filling their stomachs with his food. On occasion, he might vocalize to passersby. The words “Sausage in a bun, ma’am? Only five copper a piece” didn’t seem to be selling to potential customers.

In spite of his overwhelmingly apparent frustration, he still hadn’t given up for the day. His eyes eagerly picked through the packed street in front of him, searching for a rube or two to sell to. Torteburgians—as they called themselves on occasion—often found themselves too high class to eat his food. The rare bird for him was the out-of-town visitor who had no concept of class or refinement … unlike the people of Torteburg who persisted in pretentious act of revering the city’s persnickety culture, despite its death decades prior.

The merchant’s eyes caught a glimpse of a girl in a simple white gown, carrying a rooster in her arms. “Excuse me, miss!” he called to her. “Care for a sausage in a bun? Only five copper a piece!”

She turned and looked directly at him. The girl motioned for a young man walking next to her to follow as she walked through the crowd over to the stand. “Now, where exactly did you get sausage?” she asked as she approached.

The young man in her company walked up behind her, followed by a white dog.

“I made it, miss, if that’s what you’re asking,” the food vendor said.

“What she means is, what is it made of?” the young man asked. “There’s not exactly cows, pigs, or goats anywhere in this country to use for meat.”

“Are you yokels actually questioning the quality of my food?” the vendor asked angrily. “If you must know, the sausage is made from dormouse meat … one of the few rodents that happen to be vaguely pleasant to eat, compared to marmots or rats. The bun portion is made from potato flour. There may not be many resources to use, but I’m not going to allow it to affect the quality of my cooking.”

“Pardon me for being cautious,” the young man said. “I’ve had to eat far too much marmot meat in the past few years.”

Retrieving a pouch from his pocket, he took out a small handful of copper coins. “I guess we’ll take four. Twenty copper?” he said. “You guys want one, right?”

“I could eat,” the girl replied.

The vendor eagerly opened his cart and retrieved four of his concoctions, switching them with the coins from the young man’s hand. Sausage buns in hand, the man handed them off to his company.

“Catch, Lola,” he said, as he tossed one to the dog.

The canine caught the bun in her mouth and began picking it apart on the ground, loudly enjoying it. “Oh my … that’s good. It’s like heaven in a bun …”

“Is that dog talking?” the sausage bun vendor asked.

“It sounds like it, but no,” Venice lied. “She’s a very noisy eater. You know how Buhunds are.”

The vendor closed his cart. “Not really. Never been fond of dogs. No need for one in the city, anyhow.”

Still chewing noisily on the sausage bun, Lola looked up at the vendor with a slight glare.

The vendor jumped slightly, shaking off his uneasiness at the dog’s reaction. “So, where are you kids from?”

“Down south from around Bleuetshire and Hollyton,” Aurora said.

“We’re just passing through,” Venice added.

“Where to?” the vendor persisted.

“We’re trying to get an audience with the queen,” Aurora let slip.

“Aurora!” Venice scolded.

The vendor burst out laughing hysterically. “Going to see the queen? The waiting list to get an audience with her is almost two years long … and that’s for Torteburgians!” he blurted out. “You think she’d actually want to grant an audience to a couple of bumpkins like you?”

He rolled his food cart away, still laughing at their expense.

“What a jerk,” Lola grumbled.

“Yeah, suddenly I’m not very hungry.” Venice shook his head. “Do you think he was serious?”

“It’s the first I’m hearing of a waiting list for an audience with the queen,” Rook commented.

“Maybe we should ask around?” Lola suggested.

Venice groaned. “Let’s just hope the people we ask are less rude than that sausage salesman.”

A volley of translucent red liquid splashed down on Venice’s head.

“What on Lumea is that?” Aurora asked.

Mocking laughter could be heard from above as Venice held a soaked arm up to his nose. “It smells like … wine?”

They all looked up at the source of the laughter to see a group of well-dressed people laughing and pointing down at them, several empty bottles of wine in their hands. “Wine is rarer than a winter rose nowadays and they just wasted a scarce resource for the sole purpose of humiliating someone?” Rook exclaimed.

“I’m guessing our time here isn’t going to be pleasant,” Aurora concluded.

###

They began their search from the busy street at the front of town. Every person Venice or Aurora tried to talk to on the streets would turn their back on them when asked about the queen. Few people would pay them much mind when they took notice of Lola or Rook in their company.

When they began going door to door they had even less luck. Most people laughed hysterically at them when asked about the queen’s waiting list. Several happened to slam the door in their faces after doing so. One old woman narrowly missed the four of them when attempting to empty a chamber pot out of her front door after being asked.

Time passed, and they continued asking around with no success whatsoever. Eventually after an altercation involving a businessman and Lola biting him, they found themselves driven into one of the darker alleys of the bustling city by a group of guards. By the time they had completely fled the alerted soldiers, the group found themselves incredibly lost within the Torteburg backstreets.

Weak lanterns kept the alleys dimly lit, dyeing them a familiar yet disgusting orange tint. In contrast to the outer streets, the alleys were devoid of activity. A few walls were lined with the occasional staircase and doorway, although most of the doors were heavily locked or the homes abandoned. An old yet still ticking clock hanging upon the alley walls indicated that it had grown late. Below it hung a painted wooden sign that read ‘The Night Eagle’.

A doorway stood under the sign and the clock, light shining through its dusty windows.

“What’s a pub doing back here?” Aurora asked.

“How do you know it’s a pub?” Lola inquired.

“Hello? Pub owner’s daughter?” the lutenist replied. “Maybe they’re still open.”

She made her way up the steps and pushed down on the door handle, a soft sounding entrance bell echoing when she entered. Venice, Rook, and Lola reluctantly followed her inside.

The pub’s interior was moderately well lit, although not bright in any regard. Its walls and tables were made from an aging mahogany wood that showed signs of heavy use and occupation from years past, by way of numerous nicks and scratches. The bar itself seated a few people, even fewer scattered the tables throughout the rest of the pub.

A portly older woman stood behind the bar, polishing a glass—her glance catching theirs as they entered. “Well, you’re a bunch of new faces, aren’t you?” she commented. “Ya look a bit young to drink, honey, but have a seat and I’ll see what I can get you.”

It was abundantly clear to all of them that her accent was from outside of Prithvi, but they made no comment as they took a seat at the bar. The bartender gave Lola a confused look as the dog hopped up on a barstool next to Venice. “Well, I’ve never met a dog before that does that,” she remarked. “Where are you kids from? You look tuckered out.”

“We’re from the South End of Prithvi,” Venice commented. “Dare I ask where you’re from? You don’t talk like a Prithvian.”

The bartender drew in close. “If you must know, I’m from Alyeska. Moved here from the east when I was younger,” she said. “I’m surprised how most of you cultured Prithvians seem to be lacking in manners.”

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” the carpenter replied. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“No worries, honey,” she said. “My name’s Pat. Welcome to the Night Eagle. I built this place as an oasis for folks who don’t seem to fit with the snobbery of Torteburg’s city life.”

“Then it’s a good thing we found it,” Aurora commented. “The people here are like a walking nightmare.”

The bartender patted the girl’s hand sympathetically. “I know, honey. Lemme get you some extra-buttery taro ale to take your minds off it for a spell,” she said as she turned to a keg behind the counter.

“Would you mind pouring some for my dog?” Venice asked. “She’s been a bit shaken up by the city.”

Pat blinked in confusion. “If you’re willing to pay for it, I suppose so.” She reached for a mug, filling it up with the pale, purple liquid. “I didn’t realize there were dogs that liked it.”

She filled two mugs and proceeded to fill a small wooden bowl with the bubbling purple drink. With a gentle hand, she placed the bowl down in front of Lola and briefly scratched the dog’s head. “There ya go, darlin’.”

As the Buhund began lapping up the beverage, the bartender handed off the two mugs to Venice and Aurora. “You kids need anything else? Food? Seed for your rooster?”

“Both would be nice, if you could manage,” Venice commented.

The old barmaid winked. “Hold on for just a second.”

As Pat departed from behind the counter and back into the pub’s kitchen, the entry bell sounded. In the doorway stood what appeared to be a Royal Soldier, although his armor was much more brightly decorated than that of those they’d encountered before. The top portion of his face was hidden by his helmet, although a scrupulously trimmed beard was apparent where his mouth was visible. As he approached the bar, they grew uneasy with his arrival. Lola almost fell from her chair when he sat down on the stool next to her, unaffected by her presence. She felt a strong urge to growl at the soldier as she remembered the problems people in that same uniform had caused her in the past.

Before she could snap at him, however, he began removing his gauntlets as well as his helmet. Beneath his helmet, he hid a head of cropped brown hair, pale skin, and soft hazel eyes. He reached over and scratched Lola behind the ears. “I didn’t realize Pat was letting dogs in here. This is a nice surprise!” he said in an unfamiliar accent.

Leaning over, Aurora whispered into Venice’s ear, “He talks like Lola and Rook do. I’ve never heard anyone talk like that in all of Prithvi, save for the Alyeskan bartender.”

“I’ve always wondered if that was part of the spell, or if it was just a sign they were gruff and uncultured like most westerners, to tell you the truth,” Venice whispered back.

“I happen to have really good hearing, you know …” Lola grumbled back at them, feeling slightly insulted.

The solider arched his brow. “I’m from the east, if you’re that curious,” he said. “The dog’s not the only one with good hearing.”

With a huff, he turned his glace back across the counter and away from them. “I get enough guff about that sort of thing at work. I’m not exactly in the mood to deal with it here,” the solider griped.

Pat emerged from the kitchen with a plate of assorted foods. “Wesley, grow a little thicker skin, would ya?” she said. “These kids are from out of town. Save your frustration for the queen and the rest of her guard.”

“I’ll grow a little thicker skin if you get me a lager,” he said.

Pat sighed as she set down the plate. “Let me see what I have in the back. You be nice to these kids, though!”

The barmaid turned and headed back into the pub’s kitchen once again, leaving the four of them with the disgruntled solider. “You work for the queen?” Venice asked in a vain attempt to cut the tension.

“If you can call it that. I’m pretty much an underpaid watchman who stands around the castle all day,” Wesley replied. “Not as if there’s much other work for a young man from the west around here, though. I’ve always been good with a sword and a pole-arm, so I managed to land a job on her guard a few years back.”

“You don’t sound like you enjoy it,” the carpenter pointed out.

“That would be an understatement. I really don’t like the queen,” the soldier replied.

Pat returned from the kitchen and set a dusty brown bottle down in front of Wesley. “Enjoy. It’s probably older than you are,” she said before making her way to the other end of the counter to tend to other patrons.

The solider popped the cap off the bottle and took a swig of its contents. He swallowed and paused briefly, as if he was analyzing what he’d just drank. “It tastes horrid. I think it may’ve turned to vinegar,” he concluded.

However, he continued drinking the beverage.

“You wouldn’t happen to be able to help people get ahead on her waiting list, would you?” Aurora asked.

Wesley put down the bottle and looked over at them. “The waiting list is a ruse, actually. She pretty much cancels on any person who she deems ‘uninteresting’,” he replied, making air quotes with his hands. “She doesn’t normally take visitors unless they’re entertaining in some way. Why would you folks need to see her anyways?”

“Her son burnt down my home,” Venice replied plainly.

“Did he also give your dog the ability to talk, or did that happen later?” Wesley asked.

“That happened later,” Lola butted in.

“So, you’re going to confront her about her son? That’s a stupid idea. Even if you get to the audience chamber, she’ll probably have you thrown in jail for speaking out against the young earl,” Wesley took another swig of his drink, grimacing as he did. “She honestly believes that brat can do no wrong. It’s pretty disturbing.”

“The Sage of the Southern Vale sent us on this journey to get inside her castle, to be perfectly honestly,” the carpenter replied. “It’s become apparent as we’ve been continuing on that outright confronting her about what her son did to my home isn’t going to work.”

“I suppose I could distract her with my music while you guys snooped around,” Aurora suggested. “That’s if we could get an appointment for an audience with her.”

The off-duty soldier stared blankly at them, unenthused by their idea. “You’re saying this sage sent you up here? For what?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

Venice looked around cautiously, and then motioned for Wesley to come closer. “She had this crazy idea that the queen’s behind the light going missing from the skies.”

Wesley scoffed. “That’s just plain nuts. I doubt the queen could ever do anything of that sort. She can’t even feed or clothe herself without a servant to do it for her.”

“You’re doubting this when it’s coming from a group of bumpkins traveling with a talking dog and rooster?” Lola interrupted.

“The rooster talks, too?” Wesley inquired.

Rook was occupied pecking at a potato bun on the plate of food. “When I have something worth saying, usually,” he replied, before returning to the meal.

“My point is, you can say you don’t believe in the hunch put forward by the sage in question, but I can tell you’re a little more inclined to believe it than you’re willing to admit,” the Buhund continued. “After all, if she can magic a dog and a chicken to talk, she’s got to be at least somewhat competent.”

“Although we’re not exactly sure what hunch she was following,” Venice added. “She seemed rather … eager to send us off to the North.”

The soldier turned quietly to his drink, his face wracked indecision. “If I get you guys in tomorrow, I want to make sure you’re not going to do anything daft,” he uttered. “As in: it’d better not end with me losing my job or ending up in the queen’s dungeon.”

Wesley got up from his stool and retrieved a large silver coin from his pocket; setting it down on the counter before her turned to depart. “If you’re serious, then meet me at the castle gates tomorrow morning. Early,” the soldier declared. “And, let me make it as clear as possible … no funny business!”

He turned from them and exited in a hurry.

“That was easy,” Venice uttered in disbelief.

Lola’s ears perked up, as she looked at his seat. “He left his helmet and gloves behind,” the Buhund pointed out.

“He’ll be back,” Pat said from across the bar. “Wesley gets a little caught up in the moment sometimes. He’ll make his way back here once he realizes he forgot to eat dinner.”

The entry bell sounded and Wesley emerged back from behind the door. “Almost forgot my gauntlets and helmet.” He picked them up off the counter. “Wouldn’t want to lose ’em: they make you pay for the uniform.”

In his second stride out the door, the solider snatched a potato bun off of the group’s plate, much to everyone’s chagrin. “I’ll pay you guys back tomorrow morning,” he promised before shoving the pastry into his mouth. “Later!”

Next Chapter: (Book 1) Chapter 09 -  An Audience with the Queen