He’d reconnoitered Casoria during the war and remembered the layout well enough to take him to a corner tavern called The Fish Belly.  He’d been disguised that night, his hair dyed  brown with henna root, his skin powdered with clay, and he’d pretended to drink more than he did as he bought rounds for others. As the night wore out, Oren had learned plenty – the desperate straits of the city, the bickering at court and the rise of a group called the Red Robes, whom everyone seemed to fear. He’s also caught the eye of a buxom barmaid who’d turned out to be more of a nuisance than friend. 

Her name was . . . Dusty, Rosie, no. . . Gustie!!!  That night at the tavern, she’d been his only fear. Her laughing eyes missed nothing and his gut had tightened in a way that never lied: she knew him for a spy. Yet, she said nothing, alerted no one. And when she’d answered the few questions he’d thrown her way, she’d asked first for coin. 

If he could find her again, he’d ask if rumors of an Earth Child had surfaced. He’d pay any price. 

Around a corner and there it was, the same bedraggled sign swaying in the wind. THE FISH BELLY. Beneath the words was a painting of a man standing inside a whale. Directly across from it was a path between two narrow buildings that, if followed, widened into a road that led directly to Ursaulis. It had been the barmaid who’d told him of the route that night, her hand stroking his palm as she took th