I walked over to the nearest vendor. A handsome burgundy-haired boy sat on a stool beside the stall, a fountain of metallic thread spilling over his hand. His attention was devoted to the hooded hunting-style cloak in his lap, its grommeted hem already encircled with leaves sewn in silver and rose-gold. The embroidery prettied up the fact that the garment was hardly more than a rectangle of fabric tied off with cords and buttons, versatile enough that it could be used as a blanket, stretcher, or half tent—necessary for someone ready to move at a moment’s notice, with little more than the clothes on their back.

As I approached, the boy’s gaze landed on me. His eyes were the brightest green, like new grass after a spring thaw.

Slowly, he lowered his needle without pricking the fabric. His gaze flickered from my face to my feet to the rushnyk wrapped around my waist then back again, before settling on the musket I carried over my shoulder.

He set the cloak he was working on aside and said something in a rough, gargled language.

I blinked, bewildered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand...”

“Can I help you?” His voice softened when he used the common tongue, but a hard accent still clipped the ends of his words. He sounded almost guarded.

“I’m looking for two men. One has bad teeth and blond hair, and the other has a beard.”

“You’ve described twenty percent of the men in this town,” he said dryly.

“I don’t think they’re from this town. They would just be passing through.”

“Check the inn.” He pointed across the square, in the direction of a pair of brick towers. “The Blue Raven Inn is that way, near the mill. It will be on the right, past the war memorial. You can’t miss it. The only other one is in the New Quarter, across the river. The girl at the Blue Raven will be able to give you better directions. Tell her that Vanya sent you.”

I glanced at the accessories hanging from hooks on the stall and overflowing across the counter. Not just hooded tent-cloaks, but sashes as well. It felt wrong to leave without saying something nice about them. “I like your wares.”

“Thank you.”

“The embroidery is beautiful.”

“Not as nice as yours.” He glanced down at my rushnyk, looking a touch wary. I remembered that in some regions, Stranniki were barred from dressing in red or bleached linen, to avoid being mistaken for the Troika faithful. I wondered if it was also taboo to even wear garments of those colors in their neighborhoods, or if the rushnyk itself was reason for offense.

“Did you make these all yourself?” I asked. “The clothing, I mean.”

“No, only some of them, but I did most of the embroidery.”

“Is the thread real gold?”

Vanya laughed, and for the first time, I caught a trace of genuine warmth in his features. “No, it’s a brass alloy spun over silk, or gilt silver if you can afford it. Gold is only used in marriage and burial garments. Sorry to disappoint.”