“Why’s that?” Kyra asked, confused.

“Only highborn can read,” she said. “I wish I could.”

Kyra felt sorry.

“My brothers cannot,” Kyra replied. “I was the only one who insisted. I can teach you, if you like.”

Dierdre’s eyes lit up.

“I would like that,” she replied.

As they approached, Kyra reached down and was reassured to feel the gold jingling in her pocket, knowing it would be more than enough to get the provisions they needed. They would stay just long enough to thaw out their frozen hands, to buy feed for the horse and Andor, and move on. How much could happen in a few minutes’ time?

She looked and saw no sign of Pandesian horses or boats outside, and she felt a bit of relief. Fellow Escalons would likely not attack their own; after all, they were all in this war together. But travelers?

They headed around the side of the structure, searching for the front door, and Kyra found it ajar, crooked, facing the gushing river and near the wooden bridge that crossed it. Bobbing in the river were dozens of small boats, some long and narrow, like canoes, others wide and flat; to the north she saw the mouth of the harbor leading to the sea and the many large ships flying the colors of all different lands. She figured all these sailors probably stopped here for the same reason she did: to replenish their provisions and get some warmth.

They dismounted, Kyra tying Andor alongside the structure, while Dierdre tied up her horse. Andor, resentful, stomped uncomfortably and snarled.

Kyra reached up and stroked his head.

“I’ll be right out,” she said. “I’m just going to get you some food.”

Andor stomped again, as if he knew bad things lay inside.

Leo whined, wanting to join, too, but Kyra knelt down and held him in place, stroking his head.

“Wait with Andor,” she said, feeling guilty as the rain picked up.

“Let’s go,” Dierdre said.

Kyra stood, following Dierdre as they walked up the creaky wooden plank toward the door, and as they did, it suddenly slammed open, a man stumbling out so quickly they had to get out of his way. The man hurried to the side rail, leaned over, and threw up.

Kyra, revolted, tried not to look; she turned back for the door and hurried inside, wondering if that was an omen.

As the door opened, Kyra was struck by a wave of noise and by the smell of stale beer, body odor, sweat, and food. She nearly gagged. She looked around and saw a narrow bar, behind which was a tall, skinny bartender with a gaunt face, perhaps in his forties. Inside the room were dozens of men, sitting and standing, of all different appearances, their dress foreign, men clearly from all over the world. She heard languages she did not recognize, and accents she could not understand. All of them were immersed in drink.