In the hour before dawn on Twoday, Arven slipped into Oak Mill.

  He had done stretches to master the morning stiffness the cold night had brought him. He made sure he was limber and not prone to noisy stumbles before he began to cross the cultivated fields. He wasn't sure where to go, because he had lost Rillik's trail in the heavy foot traffic on the outskirts of town.

  I know he came here. It's been four days since he would have arrived. Now, how will I figure out what happened to him? What if he has been killed?

  Arven's thoughts came up short. What do humans do with their dead? He realized that he didn't know, and it was important. Do they plant a tree over the remains? Do they burn their dead? We did that with the bandits and merchants after the attack, but arguably that was necessity; we didn't have time or manpower to bury them. Is there a place I could go to check for Rillik's body? If the humans had a special burial place for their dead, it likely would either be close to town, or well outside. In either case, he could check whether there were any new bodies.

  After a long walk around the town's perimeter, he did find a square plot of ground with small stone markers, and flowers left on a few. A cemetery, then. Arven looked, but none of the areas looked freshly turned over. At the least, that raised the chances somewhat that Rillik was still alive.

  Where else? Rillik could have been captured, in which case he would probably be kept in their jail. So I can try to find that as well. Maybe their Temple? Who knows what they do with captured elves? Maybe they are holding him for magical testing, or keeping him in quarantine out of fear of elven diseases.

  Arven considered the challenges of sneaking that far in. Do I want to hide in my cloak and try to pass for an unsociable human? Just a quick walk through the town? Arven scouted the town wall, and the gates were both guarded. So, either scale the wall or forget that plan.

  Rillik, you little fool, where did you end up? More to the point, what would you have done, when you got here? Were you here to steal supplies, or to try to kill humans?

  If I spoke the language, I might try to overhear some conversations. Although...I do know the word for “elf” in Western, so I could listen for that. Presumably, if Rillik got captured or killed, it would be a topic of conversation, since there seem to be few if any elves in this region.

  If Rillik didn't get killed and didn't get captured...is it possible that I could have missed him? Would he have the sense not to go straight towards our camp upon leaving town? I might be here for nothing.

  Well, not for nothing. We do need supplies. I should see what I can steal safely. What I wouldn't give for a bow...

  Arven circled the town wall, watching and listening as he scouted the few farms and orchards nearby. No one was about, yet. I need to find out whether Rillik was discovered. I'll have to chance it.

  Arven inspected the town wall. He didn't trust his ability to get past a guard at the gate, but...There. That will work. He retreated a short distance and found a place to stash the contents of his pack; he wanted it to be empty for this. Returning to the wall, he looked around carefully for any observers, then scaled the wall, trying not to grunt with the effort. He dropped onto a firing stand and scurried down the ladder before anyone spotted him.

  Safely on the ground, Arven dusted himself off and gathered his cloak carefully about him. Dawn was breaking, and a chill wind tugged at him. He walked up the alleyway onto one of the main streets, and started scouting the human town.

  The bakery and smiths already had their fires going, but few other people were about yet. Arven walked down street after street, getting the layout of the town firmly in his mind. The Keep, the Temple, the market square, the crafter's row, the houses jammed together...the guardhouse.

  As he walked, the sky lightened, and humans began to come out of their houses. A lot of them were big men, like Tom Walker. They gathered in twos and threes and greeted each other. Many of them carried axes.

  Some walked to the bakery, which opened a half-door to greet them, yellow light spilling out into the street. Arven wandered closer, doing his best to blend in, and casually leaned against the wall while watching the transactions. He spotted the large copper being handed over, and caught the word or phrase, “smauloaf,” that most of them said. He didn't know what it meant, but they all seemed to get the same thing in return for their coin. He took a chance and tried it.

  Arven got in the short line and shuffled forward, his head down. When he reached the front, he held out a large copper in his open palm, muttered, “Smauloaf,” and then faked a little cough. Rough fingers poked him as they grabbed the coin, and then a small loaf of some kind of bread landed on his hand.

  The baker said something more. Arven made a noncommittal, vaguely friendly, vaguely grumpy grunting noise, and bobbed his head ever so slightly in what might be construed as a nod. For the rest, he relied on expectations filling in the empty parts of the scene. He walked off, and no one yelled at him or chased him.

  He tore off a piece of the bread and tried it. It was soft, warm, and surprisingly fluffy; Arven was used to flatbreads, and the human bread back at the caravan had been stale already, so this was his first time having it fresh. It was pretty fancy. Arven couldn't help but devour the whole thing, washing it down with some water.

  I've got to figure out how to bring some of that back to the others. It won't be as good stale, though. All right, that worked, what next?

  Arven considered his options. He could probably walk right out the gate safely at the moment, since there was an exodus happening and he could lose himself in the crowd. He was tempted to do so, but he hadn't found out what he needed to know.

  When the market opened, he could try to watch and mimic a purchase, but that was riskier in the full light of day with a crowd around. There was no way he could buy a weapon, but perhaps he could dump excess coin on someone selling trail rations, and just start stuffing some in his pack and walking off. If only I had even a little of the language, I could run a much better bluff.

  He decided to stake out the Temple first. Depending on what he saw of the traffic, it might be safe to enter and look around. It all depended on whether it was crowded, and whether a temple acolyte came up to greet people as they entered. He made his way there, and lounged in an alley while he tried to unobtrusively watch the entrance.

  A few minutes later, he decided not to chance it. There wasn't a lot of foot traffic, and he couldn't see anyone greeting people at the door, but that didn't mean there wasn't someone approaching visitors once they were inside. The temple was small, so it would be hard to hide inside.

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  The taverns weren't open yet. Those would be the best place to sit in a dark corner and listen for gossip, but he would have to try that in the evening. He was running out of useful options. It was time to try the market, and then get out of town.

  At first, he had to keep moving; whenever he stopped, someone started talking to him, attempting to hawk their wares. He took in everything he could, even so—from the runes that presumably stood for numbers, to the wares for sale, to the guard keeping a lazy eye on the crowd. He listened for oft-repeated phrases, but nothing stood out with an obvious meaning.

  A woman was selling eggs—from what animal, Arven didn't know. They would keep, but only if the fragile things didn't break on the way back. Another stall had plentiful baskets of round red fruit. Yet another had large round orange produce of some sort, perhaps a kind of squash. He held a few random coins ready in his hand, grateful to Tom Walker for insisting that his group take a significant part of their coin, even though he had had no intention of contacting humans.

  The faintest tug on his belt alerted Arven to a thief; one hand shot out and grabbed the wrist automatically, while he turned and with his other hand retrieved his money pouch. The bandit was a human girl, shorter than Rillik, and fairly filthy. Several possible futures unfolded in his soul in that moment, most of them perilous. With a flick of his fingers, Arven dropped a large copper coin into the girl's hand, silencing her before she could start pretending to be a victim. He flashed a silver coin in front of her eyes, then pulled it back, with a tiny beckoning gesture.

  He let go of her and straightened up. The whole exchange had taken two heartbeats. The girl dashed off, and Arven dared to hope that the guard had not spotted them. He watched the child run for a moment, then turned and walked, not quickly, out of the Market Square in the other direction. He turned into the first alley he found, settled into a casual crouch, pulled his cloak tight about himself and waited.

  A few minutes later, he spotted her out of the corner of his eye, watching him warily from farther down the alley. Not giving away that he had seen her, he let a silver coin drop from his palm into his waiting fingers, played it over his knuckles for a moment, then hid it from view again. He dropped a copper in its place and repeated the process, waiting.

  The child crept closer, and when she had closed half the distance, he flicked the copper through the air so that it landed at her feet. He turned his cowled head towards her, but carefully made no further motion. After a nervous jump, the girl darted forward and grabbed the coin out of the dirt, watching him. Softly, she called out something to him.

  This was the tricky part. Arven made the silver coin appear and disappear again. He pointed at the girl, then made a talking gesture with his hand, and beckoned. She moved closer, but stopped well out of arm's reach. Good instincts, he mused.

  He held up one finger, waited a couple of heartbeats, lifted another finger, and two heartbeats later a third finger. He grunted, then repeated the whole set of gestures. Finally he held up one finger and waited. The girl said a long sentence. Arven stayed quiet and waited.

  “One?” she asked, or at least Arven hoped that was what the word meant. He tossed a small copper in the dirt, maybe a third of the way to the girl. He mimicked, “One?” Then he held up a second finger.

  “Two.”

  “Two.” A second copper joined the first.

  “Three.”

  They continued, repeating until Arven could recite the numbers one to ten. At that point, he took a large copper, said, “ten,” and tossed it all the way to the girl. She snatched it out of the air.

  Arven held up one large copper, pointed at her, and made an eating gesture. Then he held up a second one, pointed at himself, and mimed eating. He held out both coins as if offering them to her, then stopped. He took one of the coins, set it on the ground under him, and stepped on it, partially covering it. He pointed at it, then at her. Then, he tossed her the other coin. Again he mimed eating, for himself and for her. He pointed for her to go and come back, and then mimed shoving the coin on the ground at her.

  She saw the scene, Arven could tell. Clutching coins tight in her hands, she got up and ran out of the alley. Time to see whether this gamble pays off or not. He tensed and waited to see what would happen.

  Several minutes passed. Arven didn't stir. Patience was essential for a hunter.

  Finally, the urchin returned. She held one intact meat pie and one already mostly demolished. She approached until she was several paces away, then hesitated. Clearly, she knew not to put the hot food on the ground, but didn't want to get in reach of the mysterious cloaked figure, either. She seemed stuck by the puzzle.

  After several moments, Arven slowly raised a hand in warning, then moved. He dropped to his knees, then hands and knees, and then (making sure he had a grip on his coin purse) lay on his belly. He reached out as far as he could, then waved his hand expectantly. The little girl darted forward, put the pie in his hand, and retreated.

  Carefully, Arven got back up to a crouch, and started eating, being careful to hunch over and keep his hood pulled down over his face. The pie tasted a bit strange, but it was delicious after his recent diet. He couldn't help but sigh after the first few bites.

  A man's voice called out something in the alley.

  Arven held very still for a moment, then resumed chewing. He looked out of the corner of his eye. It was the guard from the marketplace, as near as Arven could recognize without a good look. He thought about the layout of the streets, his chances of getting past the man against the extra time for pursuit to be organized if he ran the other direction, farther from the gate.

  The little girl stepped between them, facing the guard. She clasped her hands behind her back, and in a tone that transcended language, attempted to appear innocent while telling some kind of story. She's trying to help. Arven had to blink when he saw the little girl's hands waving at him to go the other way.

  The guard said something that sounded skeptical. The little girl carefully kept up the act. The guard raised his voice, probably to address Arven. He had no idea what was being said, so he didn't know how to react. Pretending to be stiff and awkward, he slowly got to his feet.

  The little girl talked faster, but the guard stepped closer, putting a more serious tone in his voice, giving Arven what sounded like an order.

  “Nnnn?” he grunted, tilting his head, stalling for time. The child's voice got almost frantic. The guard pushed past the urchin, getting close. Arven made sure to drop a silver coin to his fingers; the girl had earned it. With a sharp motion he flung the silver past the guard, hoping to distract him. It worked for a moment—the guard turned to watch the child snatch the coin out of the air and run out of the alley, shouting something as she fled. Arven bolted in the other direction.

  Within moments, a whistle pierced the air—two blasts, a pause, two more. Arven's feet pounded painfully against the cobblestones as he tried to outrace pursuit. Over the wall? I might turn an ankle in the fall. Dash past the gate guards. Arven dodged the people walking along the street, most of whom got out of his way.

  One of those people, not a guard, seized his cloak, yanking him mostly to a halt. I need this cloak! Not getting caught was more important; he undid the clasp in an instant, abandoning the fistful of fabric to the man who had interfered.

  I should have tried to bribe the guard, he thought belatedly. Even a good guard would look the other way for a gold coin, so long as no harm was obvious.

  He refused to let himself be herded; he would be trapped in short order if the guards steered him where they wanted. When a guard got in his path and charged towards him, Arven went to meet him head on and only at the last instant dodged. In an flash, he was past and racing for the gate.

  He started hearing the word elf in the human tongue getting shouted back and forth. By the time he approached the gate, there were over a half-dozen humans standing in the way, all looking eager to seize him. Arven called to the spirits for aid as he struggled to turn sharply without barreling into the waiting crowd.

  Over the wall it is, then. He raced for the closest ladder, but a guard appeared and blocked his path. Arven tried to get past the man, but his right leg erupted in burning pain and no longer would support his weight. The guard had slashed Arven's calf with his sword. Arven tumbled to the ground.

  The guard was on him in an instant. Arven tried to spread his hands in surrender, but the man simply punched him, over and over, and was soon joined by others. Half a dozen shod feet kicked him viciously. Arven vomited up the meat pie he had just sampled, and blow after blow rained down upon him until he knew no more.