July 25th, 2815

Abraham was well aware there was a complacency developing in him. Complacency was a dangerous trap, but it was, regrettably, comfortable to fall into. In his four days in the care of the kindly Octiennes, he had already grown attached to the small luxuries he received. All the luxuries they had to offer.

As though reverted to adolescence, he slept until noon. As though aged a century, he napped between meals and retired before eight every night. He woke to eat, and he ate as much as his gut would take. His body was starting to adjust to the regular meals, but he could not yet finish a full portion.

There was little for him to do at his hosts' little hovel. The day before, he'd taken to shuffling through cupboards while William and Jen were at work. Anything with words he had to hold close to his face, for Jen had taken his glasses to be repaired. He'd found useless trinkets like knitting needles and steel wool, and he'd found interesting things, like the liquor cabinet and map. He'd been very tempted to bring out a half-empty whiskey bottle that was labeled as "Hughes' choice", but overcame the urge when he realized that his hosts would be home in a brief matter of time. It had reminded him of his purpose. Hughes.

It was mid-morning when Abraham, pulling on his shirt—which he had left buttoned when he had stripped it off the previous night—trudged out of his guestroom yawning. While the shirt was still stuck on his nose, he remembered his eyeglasses and turned back into the room. He heard a chuckle behind him, and jumped, so startled that he forgot his footing and crashed backwards into his bed, shoulders braced against its mattress, with his bony rear end bruised on the packed dirt floor.

He gasped and forced his shirt down the rest of the way, then scrabbled to fetch his glasses on his hands and knees. Still close to the ground, he peered out his door, eyes wide and trembling.

"William!" Abraham exclaimed, and leapt to his feet, feeling scarlet flush his face. He looked to the old clock that hung over the kitchen sink, and back to the teacher, who lowered his parchment. "Shouldn't you be at the elementary?"

Octienne regarded Abraham's socks and pajama bottoms—tied with string around his stick-thin waist— with amusement. The teacher had not owned a spare pajama top to give his guest, so Abraham slept bare-chested. He pulled on his black button-up every morning when he rose, but was used to not changing into his trousers until after breakfast.

"It is Saturday, Mr Walters," said the teacher.

Abraham had not yet figured out what it was that William taught, or what his wife taught. It confused him when they called each other 'Master'. It made him question their sanity. The man queasily chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Is it?" He pointed to the parchment in Octienne's hand. "Is that a newspaper?"

Octienne tapped the page with his finger, and it made a hollow sound, unlike the sound of paper. "Alas, friend, we have no more paper than we have news. Yesterday I took stock of what we have in the elementary trade school's lab, on a papyrus sheet. I'm just reviewing it." He pointed to the dining table. "Breakfast is just there. And if you would like any tea, Jen is just at the well, now."

"Oh," Abraham said. "Thank you."

He folded into the chair at the table that he had laid claim to since his arrival. It was the same as the other three chairs. He took a bite of bread. All the food in this place, he found, was plain and simple. There were no perishables. No fresh meat or vegetables. Meals consisted mainly of grains, oats, rice, and sometimes bread. For dinners, whichever Octienne that was cooking—they took turns—would open a can. Usually beans.

"So... William," he refused to call the man 'master', "I've been meaning to ask. About the man that cured me... his name was Drew Hughes, was it not?"

"I feel like you know the answer."

"Well, you see, that name carries a lot of weight where I am from, as I am sure that you know. Drew Hughes is notorious—I mean, legendary—for freeing test subjects right under the noses of the Shir family over many years. If you every bring him up in the manor—at work, that is—you risk condemnation. I know a fellow who was beheaded for running his mouth about Drew Hughes." Abraham started to clean his lenses with the bottom of his shirt. "The Drew Hughes who cured me looks exceedingly different to his posters which hang outside the pub, far from the manor, in our city. But, I am good with faces, and I do believe the name is no coincidence. Could you confirm that he is, truly, Ban-Ken's long-lost hero?"

"Was, perhaps," Octienne replied. He folded his stock-take and set it on the coffee table. "Will be, we hope. But, currently, I don't believe he is at all. It has been a long time."

The time didn't matter. The state of the 'hero' didn't matter. What mattered was the man's existence.

"Well, may God be with him in his travels. I believe that he is just the right man to save our city," Abraham said, drawing a cross over his chest. He didn't believe such at all. He only needed confirmation of the man's identity.

The reward for the apprehension of Drew Hughes was unfathomably grand, though his disappearance and the rumors of death had disheartened most search parties long ago. Not to mention, how strict Lord Pallis was about bringing up any rumor of his existence without evidence. Abraham had evidence. Riches and luxuries beyond the scope of humble William Octienne's moral boundaries of imagination filled the former captain's thoughts.

Abraham could see mountains of golden gears. A mansion with an unnecessarily high amount of bedrooms for unnecessarily large parties, with an unnecessarily expansive cellar for finely aged liquors. Bourbon every night, fresh fruit and meat at every meal. No rations, but access to every food he fancied. Ladies on his arms. Maybe even men on his arms—he hadn't experimented yet. Servants and waiting staff and chefs and bakers. A life made before the age of thirty. What more could a man want?

There would be no more dormitory living, no more awkward, lonely mealtimes of sitting by himself among crowds of loud men and women that loved the jobs he hated, and no more scrimping and saving weekly wages just to have a drink and a smoke.

The door opened to let in Jen, interrupting Abraham's daydream. The refugee turned to wave.

"Good morning, Jen."

"Good morning, Abraham! I see you are still in pajamas. Another day of rest?"

"Oh," Abraham's face flushed. "No, ma'am. Just unprepared for the weekend."

Jen smirked. "Cup of tea? Peppermint, chamomile, or jasmine?"

"Peppermint would be lovely, thank you."

"Will do." She bent by the pot suspended over the fire in the hearth. With a mitt, she lifted the top away to pour in the water that she had fetched. She replaced the lid and returned the mitt to its peg beside the fireplace. "And you, Will?"

"Jasmine, thank you, dear." William propped his arm on the back of his armchair. "Abraham, I will take you to my lab today, and we'll give you a proper check-up to see how you are improving."

"Oh, and Diana says she'll have your glasses ready on Monday, I almost forgot to say," said Jen.

"Marvelous. Sincerely, I thank you both." Abraham smiled. He finished the last bite of his oatmeal, against his stomach's wishes. It was the first full portion that he'd managed to down. A part of him feared that it would come up later, as a few prior meals had. He rubbed his throat to soothe a wave of unwelcome nausea.

He slid from his seat and placed his dish in the sink. "I'll get properly dressed, and you can take me wherever, whenever you like."

***

First thing in the morning, Master Hughes found himself surprised, even impressed, by Alyn's determination and work ethic. He watched her over his morning coffee and potion, and said nothing of his approval. He gave her no sign of his interest. She had started working before he had even bothered to sit up.

The evening before, while Hughes miserably poked through his unpleasant dinner of gruel and nearly stale bread, Alyn had approached him at the wagon's side, where he had attempted to isolate himself. To his amazement, her mouth opened only—no more, and no less—to question him on what she was to do next. As the questions were relevant to apprenticing, and not more of her personal inquiries, he answered. He thought nothing of it.

Good for the girl, perhaps. She's learning, perhaps. Thank the damn stars, she's starting to control her yap, for certain.

But, exceeding his expectations that next morning, there she was, banging away at the forge-heated edges of her blade, and proving her evening inquiries to be anything but idle.

She'd been at it for some time, but her tact had barely improved. It was almost amusing to Hughes', how she struggled with her balance with hammer in hand, until he found reason for concern. She was clumsy with the hammer, and this was normal for most beginners, but to lose her balance so often seemed strange. She consistently tripped over her toes and stumbled under the weight of her tool. Hughes swore that there was something wrong with her feet.

He disregarded the notion soon after it came.

"Around the tip more," he called, scrutinizing her work from his short distance.

Alyn clenched her jaw and pounded around the tip of the blade. The edges were gradually becoming rounded. They would be sharpened later.

"Scrawny little urchin, isn't she?" Hughes commented to his horse.

Patriot whinnied.

Another hour of critical observation passed before Master Hughes rose from his seat against the wagon's wheel. He shooed Alyn away from her blade and took his gloves off her to wield it. He inspected its shape. "It'll do."

"It'll do?" She spat and pushed up her sleeves. "You're just jealous."

Hughes grunted and replaced the charred blade on the anvil. Soot and smoke from the forge had coated the steel black. Hughes pulled the heat-handling gloves from his hands, one after the other. "Sandpaper's in the toolbox. Scrape it 'till it shines."

"Oh, yeah. It'll shine, all right."

"See that it does."

She snatched a pile of sandpaper squares from his toolbox and settled down to work.

By early evening, Alyn had a sword. It wasn't exactly straight, its weight wasn't evenly distributed, and its tip wasn't quite centered, but to the girl, it was perfect. No matter Hughes' criticism, it was hers, and in being so, it quickly became the most precious thing that she owned—for what else did she own that mattered?

Master Hughes fashioned the hilt for her out of a few blocks of bronze. It wasn't an overly valuable metal, but he told her that he didn't like to waste materials, and he preferred to make it for her himself rather than have her deplete his small inventory with mistakes she was bound to make. The insult was implied when he handed her the pre-made hilt. All she had to do was fuse the two pieces; and even for this, Hughes grew impatient and growled at her for being too slow.

"I could make a crappy sword like this in four hours. Five at most," he boasted, prodding her chest with the tip of the roughly finished blade.

"Yeah, I'd hope you could as a stupid old teacher. It's your job."

Hughes tossed her the strips of leather that he had cut previously. "Wrap these around the hilt. Make it comfortable. You'll sharpen the blade in Quales when we arrive tomorrow."

***

Fists on his hips, Master Hughes surveyed the flickering sign overhead with a loathsome eye. A few of its bulbs had gone out, while others struggled to stay alight. In the dim of the evening, it was one of few indicators of electricity in the small town. It dangled, off-kilter, above a beautifully carved door.

The dull light on the misshapen sign attracted more attention than the place that was being advertised. Tastes of the World. Master Hughes glanced down the dark and dusty street, longing for a better establishment to appear. His face wrinkled in distaste.

"Take your time," Alyn drawled, leaned against the wall of the restaurant. It was a very fancy place indeed, as could be seen by the electric lights inside and out. Minutes before, she had taken a long look through the open window and had been astonished by the sights. The peeling paint on the walls was white and patterned with decals of vines. The white of walls wasn't even yellowed!

The town seemed wealthy, with mostly intact cement buildings, only slightly eroded. A loud hum from a generator vibrated the ground from somewhere nearby. Across the street stood a closed boutique with shuddered windows. A beautiful and likely expensive dress was painted on the steel shutters, faded from red to pink.

Hughes gestured to the carved door of the resteraunt. "We'll eat here."

Alyn rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I figured, what with yous standin' here fer so long."

He ignored her and pulled on the door.

"It's a push door," Alyn commented.

The blacksmith grumbled and pushed the door. He trudged to a seat at a booth inside, and left Alyn to catch the heavy door herself. She heaved it open and stumbled after her master. She drank in the sights, mouth hanging open. She had never seen a booth before, much less sat in one.

"This is very classy!" She enthused.

"No," Hughes dismissed. He unfolded a laminated menu. "It was classy. It's just another dump, now. Like the rest of 'em."

Alyn harrumphed. "Hardly think that you'd have the right experience to say so."

"You don't know the first thing about me."

Alyn's attempt at a retort was ignored. She snatched herself a menu, but found no use for it. She had never properly learned to read as it was, but the letters on the menu looked distinctly foreign; unlike anything that she had seen in West Haven. There were no pictures.

A waiter approached as she lowered the menu. Hughes continued to wrinkle his nose at the nonsense on the laminated paper.

"Absinthe," he said to the waiter, though he behaved as though he were addressing the menu itself, "and shawarma."

The waiter did not take note. Hughes noticed this, and testily glanced up.

The waiter cleared his throat, eyes scanning over dead Master Hughes' unfortunate appearance. "And you are quite certain that you would be able to pay for that?"

With his worn, dirty, over-sized clothing and unkempt whiskers, he did not seem to belong in the restaurant. The other patrons, all of the upper class, dressed in reflection of their wealth in tidy suits and silken gowns.

Hughes bristled, turning tomato red. "Yes," he scoffed. "Yes, I am 'quite certain' that I can pay," he superciliously insisted. "Were I not 'quite certain', I would not have come to this dump. And if it is all the same to you, I will order what I like and not receive questioning and dirty looks from a nasally weasel who, likely as not, does not understand a word of what is written on this menu, because as it happens, roughly half of these 'exotic tastes' are spelled incorrectly, and the descriptions have the poorest of grammar. Are you going to serve me, or will I have to serve myself?"

Alyn whistled and laughed at the startled waiter. "You've done yerself in, sir!"

"Sir, I might ask you to—" the waiter began.

"To leave?" Hughes interrupted. He smiled patronizingly and leaned over the table. "Is that so?" He sneered. "You are going to ask a paying customer to leave because he pointed out faults in your unimpressive menu, hm? Because he does not dress with a proper stick up his ass, hm? After you so rudely chose to address him as though he were daft and incapable of paying for what he has come to pay for?" The blacksmith drew a handful of golden gears from his pocket and tossed them across the table. Alyn scrambled to catch the riches before they could clatter to the floor. "As it happens, you dreadful little weasel, I could buy this entire restaurant with my pocket money, but I think that it would be a rather poor choice to do so. Now, I will have what I ordered, or you will be both strangled and unpaid. Do I make myself clear?"

Alyn pushed the golden gears back to Hughes, who ignored them as though they were mere trifles. She continued to laugh at the waiter, who swallowed and hesitantly pulled out a clay tablet and chalk pen.

"I should hope so," Hughes sniffed, returning his gaze to the menu. "As I said, I will be having absinthe and shawarma."

"I'll have what he's having," Alyn trustingly piped.

Hughes held up a finger. "No, she will not," he stated. "The girl will have a pu pu platter and... ah. Baklava. Water to drink. That is all."

"But, I..."

"That is all," Hughes finalized.

He watched the waiter scribble down the order and gruffly barked at him to be on his way.

Alyn huffed, sinking into the booth cushions. Hughes scooped his gears into his pockets.

"Why do you get to pick for me, huh? Maybe I wanted the shawarma, too."

"Oh, quit your whining. As if you know what any of it is."

"Well, if it's poo poo," the girl complained, "I doubt it's anything good."

"You are a stupid little girl," he remarked over his menu, as if he had not constantly told her this already.

Alyn frowned and idly drummed her fingers on the table. A waiter, different to the one that Hughes had growled at, placed a glass of water in front of her and a swirling, cloud-like drink in front of Hughes, and promptly withdrew. Hughes set aside his menu and eagerly eyed his drink.

Alyn blandly glanced at her water, then at his absinthe. It excited her. "It looks like magic in a glass."

"Tastes like it, too," Hughes replied, drinking.

Alyn leaned forward, grinning. "Can I try?"

Hughes held the drink away. "No, you cannot. I have enough to handle without having a drunk little girl on my hands."

Alyn sat back again, cross. She folded her arms. "So, it's alkeehaul, then."

"Yes, it is alcohol."

Alyn gagged.

Hughes grunted, and narrowed his eyes, "Shut it, whelp."

"Fat old drunk," Alyn muttered. She grabbed at her water.

Hughes set his glass on the table and rifled though his coat pockets. "Watch your mouth."

"You would have reacted more if it offended you."

He pulled out a thin vial, easily recognized as his twice-daily potion. He popped the cork and answered, "I accept that I have let myself go, stupid girl. To be offended by such would be to be offended every time I look in the glass."

Alyn started and shook her hands in protest. "Wait, I—I didn't mean it! Ye're not even that old! Or... that fat... or..."

"I said I wasn't offended, stupid girl," Hughes interrupted, pouring his potion into his absinthe. "Shut up while you are still ahead. You are digging yourself a deeper hole."

Alyn squirmed uncomfortably. "Sorry."

"Quiet." Hughes swirled his drink. He tucked away the empty vial and sipped from his glass.

Alyn cleared her throat. "Is it a good idea to be mixing a potion with alkeehaul?"

"I'll take my chances," he grumbled. He had done so for as long as he could remember.

Alyn leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands. "So... what's it for, anyways? The potion?"

Hughes drained his glass and set it down. He blinked at it a few times, as if gathering his thoughts. "Strong stuff, that," he commented. "Might have to get another."

The girl's brows pinched in opposition to the idea.

Hughes snickered. "Kidding."

"Must be strong if you're kidding."

He scowled.

Alyn drummed her fingers on her cheeks. "So, what's the potion for?" She asked again.

"Look, girl. No matter how many times you ask, I will not tell you. It is my private business, and does not concern you. Now, if you will, be silent."

Alyn huffed.

They waited for their meals in near silence. Alyn attempted to speak many times, but eventually gave up, for at every attempt, Hughes discouraged her with a forceful 'SH'. He ran a pen over the menu, making corrections to exercise his mind. The employees of the restaurant dared not stop him.

Alyn played with a cloudy metal fork.

The pu pu platter and baklava were placed in front of Alyn, and the shawarma in front of Master Hughes. Alyn stabbed at the baklava with her fork.

"No, that is dessert, stupid girl, and if I finish my shawarma before you finish your pu pu, I'll eat it for you. Get onto it."

Alyn pulled her fork out of the sweet and instead pierced a piece of meat on the platter. "I can't finish all this!"

"Then I will eat it for you, or we'll put it away for tomorrow."

"I want to try all of it, sir, I do! But I ain't got as big of a gut as yous."

"'You'," he corrected. "Without the 's'." He rubbed his temple. "Just hurry up an eat what you can, girl. I want to get on the road."

"On the road? It's...late! It's dark and late!"

Hughes spoke over a mouthful of shawarma. "Dark and late? Oh dear. Whatever shall I do?"

Alyn pulled a face. "Don't talk with your mouth full."

"I'm already closer to desert. Get a move on, child. I am setting off in half an hour whether you are in the caravan or not."

"Aw gee, ain't we past that yet?" she moaned.

***

In the caravan, Alyn was out like a light. With belly full of warm, rich food, she lasted barely more than a minute awake on the wood floor. Her eyelids dragged her down and anchored her to the floor. Soft, slow breathing indicated that she was asleep.

After a hard day of work, she deserved a rest.

Besides, Master Hughes didn't mind taking the reins overnight. He often skipped sleep. He would close his eyes at night, as Alyn had seen, but he would only flicker in and out of consciousness. Mostly, the night was for thinking. Sleep, unless induced by drink, was often unpleasant. When he closed his eyes, he preferred to spend the silent hours in contemplation.

The caravan trundled from Addinburgh's cobbled gray streets and clunked onto the dirt road to Quales, and the blacksmith glanced over his shoulder. Curled up on the wagon floor, cuddling her threadbare scarf, a happy noise stirred from the sleeping child. Hughes jumped, taken aback. He thought he had seen something wiggle beneath her breeches, around her tailbone. He stared, and swallowed.

"I could have sworn...," he began. He waited to see if the movement would come again. His brows fixed in concentration. Nothing. He blushed, realizing his foolishness, and where he was looking.

Patriot flapped his lips.

Hughes shook his head and returned his attention to the dirt road before them. "Never mind."

He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.

Perhaps the absinthe had been stronger than he had thought.