"We're just as disappointed over here," Roche sighed heavily. "We might not make it to Phyal in time."

  "If you don't mind running a few horses to death, it's only half a day's ride from here to Phyal."

  "We're not in a hurry. But if all goes well, we plan to leave today." The dwarf thanked the landlady as she brought his breakfast. "Leaving today?" Frantans covered her mouth in surprise. "I thought you'd stay a few more days."

  Roche flashed her a yellowed grin. "The kid's leg is nearly healed, and we've lingered here long enough. The Gambril Oathsworn have likely reached Phyal by now. If that dullard of a coachman hadn't smuggled us from the city gate to Kadenford in a freight cart, I might already be savoring sweet wine in Cynthia Palace... Naturally, should my absence prove too painful for you to bear, good lady, I might be persuaded to grace this establishment with my presence a while longer..."

  Plump Frantans rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself," she said. "I merely wanted to remind you about your outstanding rent."

  Another dwarf traveling with Roche and a halfling with an injured leg were slowly making their way down the stairs, drawing the landlady's attention. The morning light seemed unusually early today; while Carnegie's group often appeared at dawn, Frantans hadn't expected them quite this early. This volunteer with the Kadenford militia was notoriously temperamental and ill-mannered, possessing all the hallmarks one expects of a proper ruffian. She considered using a break in her duties to warn her eldest daughter—who served as a tavern maid—to remain in her quarters this morning. Kitty was blossoming into womanhood and, like many country girls, boasted curves in all the right places. While perhaps no great beauty, she was certainly enough to turn men's heads.

  Only then did she notice Irene. She recalled how this woman, now slumped across the corner table, had pounded on the door late last night with even greater fervor than Carnegie had shown this morning, then dramatically tossed a handful of Cynthia Nitts onto the table, demanding dinner and lodging. In truth, those coins would barely purchase half a bottle of decent wine. Still, Frantans had taken her in—at the time, the woman had looked for all the world like a walking corpse. "Miss?" Frantans approached and tapped her shoulder. "Miss?" She worried the woman might have expired—Frantans needed no additional troubles, especially not now.

  "Mmph..." Irene finally stirred. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes vigorously. "Did you spend the entire night here?"

  "...Perhaps." Irene snatched up the empty tankard, tried to drain it, and finding nothing, slammed it back onto the table. "Could I trouble you for some breakfast, madam? Mashed potatoes, sausage, fried eggs—anything at all. And ale, of course." A hollow grin touched her lips. "The ale is what matters most."

  Plump Frantans placed her hands on her hips, frowning. "I—" Irene immediately understood her meaning. "I have payment..." She reached inside her coat, fumbling through an empty purse. "Damn it all."

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  "Never mind, miss," Frantans relented, albeit reluctantly. "You didn't use the room anyway." But Irene clutched at her sleeve. "Take this instead, madam." She pressed an exquisitely crafted, gem-studded dagger into Frantans's palm. "It's quite valuable."

  Before the landlady could decline, Irene had collapsed back onto the table.

  The halfling Emry perched atop the table, gnawing on a chunk of stale bread, his legs swinging freely. "You seem to be recovering nicely, lad." Roche turned to his dwarven companion, "Banli, has his fever subsided?"

  "Started breaking last night," Banli replied between mouthfuls. "Though his leg might not fully heal so quickly. If there are lasting effects, we might need to consult the temple's high priest..."

  "We lack the funds," Roche reminded him. "Then find a hedge-witch. Anyone but those butchers in the hospitals who likely can't count their own fingers."

  "We lack the time as well."

  "Gentlemen, please don't trouble yourselves over me," said the brown-haired halfling, propping his injured leg on the tabletop. "I'm feeling considerably better. Another day, and I'll be running as swiftly as ever, I'm certain."

  "If you were truly certain," Roche told him, "you'd never have attempted thievery, Emry."

  "Haven't you heard? We halflings have earned the title 'Burglar' for good reason."

  The dwarf nearly choked. "Child, 'Burglar' refers to one legendary individual among your kind, not every halfling who ever lived. Besides," he reached over to pinch Emry's cheek, "the Burglar stole rings, not sweetrolls."

  "Leave him be, Roche," Banli interjected, his mouth still full. "He's already paid with his leg, after all."

  "What are your plans now, gentlemen?" Emry inquired. "Heading to Phyal?"

  "Indeed. We intend to pose as members of the Gambril Oathsworn..." Only then did Banli realize his stuffed mouth hadn't prevented him from divulging their secret. "What?!" the halfling exclaimed. "You mean you're not actually—"

  Roche yanked him off the table, clamping a hand over his mouth. He scanned the room—no one appeared to have noticed amid the general clamor. It was the tavern's typical breakfast hour, with guests filtering into the dining hall for their worthless meals. Four local farmers were engaged in a boisterous argument—self-proclaimed volunteers who had abandoned their farms to "protect Kadenford and Cynthia," yet could reliably be found at the tavern every single day.

  "Very well, Emry." Roche straightened the halfling's disheveled clothing. "We aren't truly members of the Gambril Oathsworn. All that nonsense about missing the rendezvous was fabrication. We're merely common fighters—or not even that, just lumberjacks from Megonian who've traveled all this way hoping to profit from the war."

  "But couldn't you establish your own company, or enlist as independent mercenaries?"

  "Nobody's willing," Banli explained. "This is the largest conflict in our lifetime, and few wish to challenge the Godmans." He crammed more bacon into his mouth. "The two of us alone can't form a proper company. There's little coin in fighting under your own banner if no one's heard of it, and even less for sellswords with no company at all. But the Gambril Oathsworn—that's entirely different." The dwarf smiled slyly. "Their reputation is legendary, their equipment surpasses even the human military's, and rumor suggests they're granted audience with Cynthia's royal family. If we could siphon even modest resources from such an organization, I could construct a proper home for my little piglets in the countryside."