Page 22 of Minor Works of Meda

Even his shirt had gold embroidery around the cuffs. Was he made of money?

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He turned my way and raised an eyebrow.

His skin was free of blemishes, his lips full. Long-lashed brown eyes looked me once over before the corner of his lips tilted up at one edge. He looked too young to be a diplomat. Maybe he was a visiting royal, though he didn’t have a guard. Perhaps he was a wealthy merchant’s son, I decided. Very wealthy.

“Another round for me,” he told the woman. “And whatever it is my friend wanted.”

Chapter 12

The woman behind the counter took his cup and the coins and left. I turned to the stranger beside me.

“Why would you do that?” I asked, as he leaned against the counter.

He tilted his head. “Are you this suspicious of everyone or ought I to be specially offended?”

“It’s been a day. A few days.” I lowered myself onto the bar stool again, hugging my bag.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good. I detest sad stories.”

I blinked at him, and he grinned, eyes dancing. The woman behind the counter set down his cup, now full again, and a handful of change.

“Wine or juice?” she asked me in a clipped voice that seemed to imply she would have preferred me to leave.

“Wine,” I told her without thinking, before turning back to the wealthy stranger. “I can’t pay you back. If you’re expecting something from me…”

“Mysteries, you’re acting like I’ve brought you a cart of treasure,” he muttered. “It was just a few argor. As for wanting something, I’m tired of eating by myself. Let me sit with you, and pretend I’m not here alone?”

Eating alone sounded perfect to me just then. But what was I supposed to say? Thank you for the food and the drink and the room, the prices of which are practically piracy, and without which I would have been sleeping on the street. Now please never speak to me again, human?

I nodded curtly. He swung smoothly into the seat beside me and dragged his cup closer with a contented sigh.

For a moment we sat in silence. He tapped the counter, staring straight ahead, and then the woman returned with a cup of wine in one hand and a steaming bowl in the other. Chunks of fish and colorful peppers bobbed in a dark, but clear broth.

“I’m Oraik,” he said abruptly, as I accepted a spoon from the woman.

“Meda,” I said. “Thank you, again. For the meal.” He waved off my gratitude and took a sip from his cup.

The broth was spicy and as thin as I liked it, the fish fresh and cooked to perfection. The ridiculous price seemed a little less offensive. Though perhaps I was just hungry.

“So, Meda, if you only had one night in Rovileis, what would you do? The sin-boats or the night market?” Oraik asked. He propped his face up with a fist, eyes searching mine. I frowned and spat out a fishbone.

“I don’t know. I’m not from here.”

“Yes, I guessed as much,” he drawled. “But which sounds more fun? Because I read the market even has wares from traders beyond the Ward, but I don’t need anything. Though I suppose, when all is said and done, a souvenir wouldn’t be amiss.”

What wonders might make it here from the fae outlands? Even if I couldn’t buy the books, the merchants might let me peruse through the pages if I looked suitably like a customer. Might a book from the outlands mention the Ward?

“So go to the market,” I said, bending low over my bowl and ladling soup into my mouth with determined precision.

“That’s what I thought, at first. But I also read there’s no better kick than a night on the sin-boats. I can’t do both. Can I? Do you think I have time? It is still early.”

“What’s a sin-boat?”

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