Chapter 16
"—and if you roast the roots first the texture's completely different, but you have to watch them because they go from perfect to charred in about thirty seconds, I learned that the hard way when I was fourteen, smoke everywhere, Nugget's grandmother wouldn't stop screaming—well, not Nugget's grandmother necessarily, I don't actually know Nugget's genealogy, but a chicken of that era—"
"Mel."
"—the point is you roast them low and slow or you don't roast them at all, and also do they sell honey here? We need honey. Not just for cooking, honey's medicinal, good for burns, good for sealing wounds when you're out of paste—"
"Mel."
"What?"
"You have not stopped talking since we left."
The market moves around us—voices, carts, the clatter of someone stacking crates—and Kestria is looking at me with her head tilted, one eyebrow up, mouth pressed flat and careful.
"That's not true."
"It is true. You covered root vegetables, chicken genealogy, honey, three separate tangents about soil quality, the structural problems with your old cottage walls, and a beetle you found once that I'm still not clear on."
"The beetle was relevant."
"To what?"
"Soil composition. Which affects moonbright potency. Everything connects."
"Mm-hmm." She stops walking. We're between stalls—cloth merchant on one side, dried goods on the other—and the morning crowd parts around us without interest. "You know what else is connected?"
"Don't."
"The talking. And the not-thinking."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You know exactly what I mean." Her hand touches my arm. Brief, warm. "You don't have to fill every gap."
My fingers tighten on the cart handle. Salt. Herbs. Chickens to evaluate. Honey if they have it—honey's good for burns and I'm almost out. Rope—do we need rope? We might need rope. And salt, did I already say salt—
His hand on my elbow when I tripped. The way his fingers—
Salt. Herbs. Chickens. Honey. Rope.
"I'm fine," I tell Kestria, and start moving again. "Herb stall. That one."
I'm sorting through bundles before the trader finishes her greeting.
"Yarrow's good." I hold up a dried bundle. "Properly cured. And this feverfew—I've been needing this for ages."
"What about that one?"
"Chamomile. Decent, not great. Harvested too early—see how small the flowers are?"
"Does it matter?"
"For potency? Absolutely. Underdeveloped flowers, lower concentration of—" I catch the trader watching me and switch tracks. "How much for the yarrow and feverfew?"
"Four coppers."
"Two."
"Three."
"Two and a half. And I won't mention the chamomile situation out loud where your other customers can hear."
She looks at the chamomile. Looks at me.
"Two and a half."
I count out coins and hand the bundles to Kestria. She takes them, shifts the weight in her arms.
"You just threatened that woman with public herb criticism."
"I gave her a professional courtesy."
"You're terrifying."
"I'm economical. There's a difference." Already moving. "Salt next."
The salt trader tries for five coppers. I get him down to three and a half and take a rosemary bundle for his trouble.
"Has anyone ever out-haggled you?" Kestria helps me stack the salt in the cart.
"A woman in Blomstradal did once. I was twelve. It was formative." I check the cart—supplies settling, weight distributed, good. "Never again."
"So you've been holding a grudge against market traders for ten years."
"It's not a grudge. It's motivation."
She laughs, and I'm already scanning ahead—past the cloth merchant to the far end where cages are stacked. I can hear chickens. My pulse picks up, which is ridiculous.
They're chickens.
"There."
"You're practically running."
"I'm walking with purpose toward nutritional infrastructure."
"You're running toward chickens."
I'm already crouching in front of the cages—sorting through what's available.
Brown hen, good weight, bright eyes. Speckled pair, healthy feathers.
The one in the back is older, might not lay as well, but calm hens steady a flock.
The all-black one is glaring at me through the bars with open hatred.
"That one." I point. "The black one."
"She looks furious."
"She looks like Nugget."
"That's what I said."
The trader appears from behind a stack of crates. Middle-aged, weathered, sleeves rolled past her elbows.
"Can I help you?"
"Eight hens. The black one, definitely. Those six prime layers. Those two younger ones—they'll come into production in a couple months." I straighten up. "Twenty coppers for the lot."
She blinks.
"That's—"
"Fair. That speckled one's about to molt—look at the pin feathers coming in along the breast. You're better off moving her now than feeding her through a dry spell. Twenty. Final."
She looks at the speckled hen. Back at me.
"Deal."
"Good." I turn to Kestria. "Can you help her load the travel cages? I want to check the goats before he raises the price on those too."
"On it." She moves toward the cages, and the hens protest immediately—loud, dramatic, absolutely convinced that mild inconvenience is death.
Love it.
"Need a rooster?" the trader calls after me.
I stop. Turn around. "You have one?"
"Got one." She nods toward a separate cage in the corner. "He's mean. I'll discount him."
I walk over.
The rooster is bigger than expected. Dark red, black tail, scarred around the neck and chest. The second I get close he throws himself at the bars—not a peck, a full assault. Beak stabbing, talons raking, hitting notes I didn't know birds could reach. Not crowing. This bird wants to kill me.
Big. Scarred. Throwing himself at everything that gets close.
Hmm.
"Been that way since I got him." The trader shrugs. "Nearly took my thumb off yesterday."
The rooster hurls himself at the bars again. His whole body vibrating with the effort, feathers puffed to twice their size.
"He's perfect."
"He's a nightmare."
"One copper?"
"One copper. Take him. Please."
I pay and she transfers the cage to our cart with obvious relief. The rooster attacks the walls the entire time.
Kestria finishes loading the hens and comes over. Stops. Stares.
"Mel."
"Yes?"
"He reminds me of someone."
I look at the rooster. Look at Kestria.
"We're calling him Keer Jr."
Her hand flies to her mouth.
"Look at him," I say. "Aggressive. Intimidating. Covered in battle damage. Got the whole 'don't come near me or I'll take your fingers off' energy. Very familiar."
"You can't—"
"Already did. Keer Jr. Final answer."
She's doubled over, arms around her stomach, and the rooster takes this as a personal attack and hurls himself at the bars again. Which makes it worse. She's not making sound anymore. Just shaking.
"Goats," I say. "Before I lose it too."
The goat pen is three stalls down. Four females, one male, a young one that's not worth the feed yet.
"Those three." I point. "The dappled, the brown, and the one trying to climb out."
The trader leans on his fence. "Good eye. Six coppers each."
"Three."
"Three? Lady, the brown one alone is worth—"
"The brown one has an overgrown hoof. See the curl on the front left? That's weeks of neglect. You haven't trimmed her once this season."
He looks at the hoof and doesn't argue.
"And the climber's got mites on her ears. I can see them from here. I'll treat both when I get home, but you're not charging me full price for animals you haven't maintained."
"Four coppers."
"Three and a half."
"Done." He sticks his hand out. "You want the male too?"
"How much?"
"Five."
"Three. He's aggressive and you know it."
"He's a breeding male. Aggressive is the job."
"Three and a half. Final."
"You're killing me."
"You'll survive." I shake his hand.
He laughs. Kestria's already reaching for the rope leads.
"You've had goats before?"
"Long time ago. Lost them. Starting over."
He nods—doesn't need the full story.
The goats come with rope leads. Three females on one side of the cart, male on the other. He immediately tries to eat the wooden slats.
"Stop that."
He doesn't.
"I'm not asking." I shove his head away from the wood. "You're going to be pulling this later, probably. Don't eat your future job."
"Is he?" Kestria's wiping her eyes. "Pulling the cart?"
"No. Keer is."
"You're going to ask the Alpha to pull a cart full of chickens and goats."
"And supplies. Don't forget the supplies." I tighten a rope on the nearest cage. The hens scream about it.
"Mel—"
"He's got the muscles. He came along. Might as well use him."
"He didn't come to be a pack mule. He came to keep us from dying."
"Eh, same thing."
She steps back and looks at what we've assembled. Hens in travel cages, stacked and protesting. One rooster in a cage of his own, rattling the bars. Goats roped to the sides. Salt, herbs, dried goods crammed into every gap. The cart groans when I test its weight.
"This is insane."
"I know."
"You're not even going to defend it."
"I'm tired."
"It's a traveling disaster."
"Help me with the goats."
I grab the cart handle and pull. Kestria takes the rope leads—the goats fighting every direction that isn't backwards. The chickens lose their minds. Keer Jr. screams louder. A child we pass starts crying—I feel bad, but not enough to stop.
"Almost there," I manage. Arms burning. The cart weighs more than I thought possible. Wheels catching on every stone.
"Do you need me to—" Kestria reaches for the handle and I see it—the hitch in her step, her hand ghosting her side before she catches herself.
"I've got it. Manage the goats."
"The goats are managing me."
We reach the trees and stop, both panting. Cart settles. Goats start grazing immediately. I push hair off my face—when did that come loose?—and look toward the oak.
Keer steps out of the shadows. Same tree. Same position. Hasn't moved. He probably heard us coming from a quarter mile away—the chickens alone would carry that far.
My hands are dirty and my hair's half down and I'm breathing hard from the cart and his eye stays on me one beat too long before it drops to what I've brought back.
His face cracks. Mouth opening, eye going wide—just a second before he catches it, everything slamming shut. He stares at me.
"We got everything!" I grab the side of the cart. "Market was great. Very productive. Lots of—"
He looks at the cart.
He looks at me.
"No."
"No what?"
"I am NOT pulling that."
"You haven't even—"
"No."
"Keer. You're the strongest person here. The cart weighs more than I do. Kestria was stabbed—"
"Find another way."
"There isn't another way. Unless you want the goats to pull it, which I considered, but the male keeps trying to eat the—"
"I said no."
I look at Kestria. She's pressed her lips together hard, chin trembling with the effort of keeping it in.
I look back at Keer. Arms crossed. Jaw set. And the rooster is screaming directly at him.
"What's his name?" He drops his arms.
I open my mouth.
Kestria exhales sharply through her nose.
"Don't answer that."
"Keer Jr."
Silence.
His eye closes. Opens. He looks at the rooster—scarred, furious, cage shaking—and then at me, standing there with wild hair and dirt on my face and my chin up.
"You named it after me."
"The resemblance is uncanny."
"Change it."
"Can't. It's done. You can't rename a rooster—it confuses them."
"That's not true."
"How would you know? Raised a lot of roosters?"
He stares at the cart. At the rooster. At me.
Kestria sits down on the ground. Face in her hands, shoulders heaving.
Keer Jr. screams.
Keer looks at the sky.
"Melori. I am not pulling the cart."
"We’ll see."
"I'm not—"
Keer Jr. screams.