Mara and Hal sat side by side on their bed, sleeves rolled up, their forearms a mess of criss-cross scratches. Mara looked at hers, then at Hal’s.

  “Why did he say we had to wash the cats again?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure he did. He just insisted,” Hal said, thinking the same thing she was. Why were they bleeding for the cats?

  The cats had arrived, and the boss had insisted they be washed immediately, as if this were the obvious and sensible first step.

  “You know, when we arrived, he had us wash too,” Hal said, glancing sideways at her.

  “He didn’t dip us in vinegar afterwards. That’s a small mercy,” Mara said.

  Alric was patient and fair but occasionally deeply strange in ways that cost skin, Mara thought. She was also slightly bitter that she had ended up with the most vicious of the three cats, who appeared to regard her forearms as a personal grievance.

  “I can endure this and worse for the baths,” Mara said, her resolve firming, which was usually a sign that she had already endured worse.

  Hal lay back. “I’ll put up with it if we keep eating the food and drinking the beer,” he said to the ceiling, which did not argue.

  Mara turned sharply to look at him. “That’s another thing. We eat the same food as him.”

  Hal put a finger to his lips. She winced, then nodded.

  “I know it’s strange. I thought it would be scraps or cheaper things. He said it was easier to make more of the same,” Hal said more quietly. They fell silent for a moment, each considering how unsettling it was that this explanation made sense.

  “None of that matters right now. We need to decide what we’re doing tomorrow,” Mara said, keeping her voice low.

  Hal nodded and sat up. This mattered.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s a small tavern at the docks. It has a table facing the river. No one should see us there,” he whispered, as if the idea itself might overhear.

  Mara considered it, then nodded. “As long as no one we know sees us.”

  They both sighed, in the manner of people who had agreed on the least bad option.

  Mara and Hal came from poor backgrounds. Mara’s family had pushed hard to get her into an apprenticeship, hoping she could help lift her brothers and sisters after. The apprenticeship had fallen through. The obligation had not. She and Hal had agreed to send most of their wages back, but that did not change the facts. They looked hale, clean, well dressed, boots in good condition. No one would believe they served a strange boss who spoiled his staff. That simply was not done, and explaining it would only make it worse.

  “He said we get two days off,” Hal said, still not looking at her. “Every week.”

  The city worked on a six-day cycle. One day had begun as a religious rest and later been mandated by the city, which had helpfully removed any remaining doubt about whether one was supposed to enjoy it.

  “And he looked so smug when he said it,” Mara added.

  “Do we leave our boots behind when we go to the docks? It’s not far,” Hal asked. Mara considered the point.

  “Honestly, if the boss sees us without them, I think he’ll be upset. We just stay out of sight, boots on” she said, with a sigh that suggested this was becoming a habit.

  Meanwhile in the cat room.

  “Hm hm.” Alric made a smug noise. He sat in the same room as the three cats, trying to entice them with pieces of dried fish. It wasn’t working. The cats seemed to have reached a consensus. They disliked each other, but they disliked the creatures that had bathed them far more, which at least showed an ability to prioritise.

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  “You can call me Mr Progressive Employer,” he said, holding out a piece of fish. “Four days on, two off. Not you lot though. You work every day, but you’re allowed as many naps as you want.” He sounded pleased with himself, which the cats declined to acknowledge.

  The day off every sixth day had bothered him once he realised he’d missed it. Inns and markets tended to run regardless, so he’d never noticed at first. Once he had, he found he liked the idea a great deal, particularly the part where it made him feel clever.

  “Boiling pots and cooling barrels with the doors closed while you’re settling in is a bad idea,” he told the cats. “So it’s time for some time off.” The three lay opposite him, carefully not looking in his direction, a skill they were already mastering.

  Their continued indifference struck a small chord. He sighed. He’d been pushing hard since selling the armour, and he was starting to recognise the signs, which he had learned to trust.

  Yesterday’s tasting could hardly have gone better, yet he felt dissatisfied. That was a problem. This was the edge of burnout. When he’d arrived in this world, he’d already been exhausted. It was better now, but if he kept going like this, he’d circle back, and circles were rarely productive.

  Even learning of his own death had left him hollow and indifferent. That could not happen again. He needed to take breaks, and take them seriously. He’d failed at that before, only realising how bad it had been afterwards.

  Alric looked at the cats again. “You, the one with half a tail. Your name’s Bob. Like bobcat.” He paused. “I’m still thinking about names for the rest of you. Hang in there, alright?” He set the bowl down and left the food for them, which they accepted on their own terms.

  It was the next morning. Alric was failing to win over the cats again, though he had begun introducing them to the wider warehouse instead of confining them to the small staff room. One of them, braver than the others, sniffed cautiously around while the remaining two napped.

  “Ah, you two have a good time today,” Alric said as his staff left. Both gave polite waves on their way out. Alric smiled to himself, feeling like a good boss.

  With no boiling planned, he checked over the inventory. He reviewed a few systems, took notes, recounted his casks, moved several things that did not need moving, and made sure the cats had food and water. Satisfied, he gave the space a small nod, stepped outside, and locked up.

  Standing there, he unfolded his list. Apothecary first, he decided. He needed something like citronella for the cats. Vinegar might discourage fleas, but he wanted something more lasting. The mosquitoes could use attention as well.

  The day became a series of errands. Alric found something that smelled vaguely like citronella, bought a few necessities, picked up groceries, and then made an unexpected discovery.

  There was nothing to do in the city.

  At the market, he noticed that when people had time to spare, they went to taverns. There were no theatres or anything like them. Any music he’d heard came from inns late at night as he passed by. He frowned.

  In one corner of the market stood a small stall with children sitting in front of it. A puppet show. Shrugging, he went to watch, if only to see what stories were told.

  The show was clearly meant to keep children entertained while their parents shopped. Some parents dropped a copper into a slot, but there was no strict arrangement. Alric tried to follow the story.

  A green finger puppet attacked a black finger puppet. The green one lost for no apparent reason, and the children cheered. Alric understood none of it. The entertainment felt as strange as anything else in the city.

  His shoulders slumped. He had a day off and nowhere to put it. He considered finding Stromni for a drink, but Stromni had made it clear he was busy. Moreen would likely try to corner him into a deal, and Alric still found him unsettling. Fresh air seemed the best option. He retrieved the wooden chit from his pocket. Perhaps it was time to leave the city for a while.

  The alternative was drinking sour, soapy beer at a tavern, and he was not doing that.

  Leaving the city turned out to be simple, provided the timing was right. At the gate, he held up the chit. The guard barely reacted, only tilting his head to let him pass.

  A few paces outside, Alric stopped and tried to draw in clean country air. He was still too close. He moved farther away and tried again, only to be met by the sharp scent of manure.

  He sighed. In the fields, a lone tree stood some distance off. He headed toward it, careful not to step into planted ground. The people he passed glanced at his boots and nodded politely.

  The tree seemed as good a place as any. Alric sat, leaned back against the trunk, and watched. He took out a cask of boiled drinking water he’d begun carrying, poured himself a tankard, and sipped while watching the fields. Children and adults emerged from the distant woods and made their way back toward the city.

  The calm lasted until ants began crawling over him and biting. He sighed again, brushed them away, and gave up on forcing the moment.

  Instead, he walked the edges of the fields, inspected the crops, spoke with the workers, and found he enjoyed himself more once he stopped trying.

  --------------------------------

  Meanwhile, at a tavern near the docks, two people sat with their backs to the wall, facing the river. Tankards sat untouched in front of them.

  “This is hard to drink now. It tastes foul,” Hal said, staring into his cup.

  Mara nodded. “The taste doesn’t bother me. I’m more worried about getting sick.” Hal nodded in agreement. They both looked out over the river.

  “By the city’s standards, this is awful,” he said. The beer had the familiar sourness he used to like, but there were too many other off flavours layered over it. Mara said nothing, watching the water slide past.

  “Do you think we’ll ever understand the boss?” Hal asked, the question small and half-hearted.

  Mara shook her head.

  They sat there in silence, uncomfortable, eyes fixed on the steady flow of the river, hoping no one they knew would see them, and not enjoying themselves at all.