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Wrote this (first four chapters of a novel) for a class last year. Figured someone might want to read it, so here it is.

--

Aria

I

Grayson didn't like to steal. As a musician in a small, poor town, he certainly could have used the money, but even if the raccoon could have unwound the knot that formed in his gut whenever he entertained the idea of theft, he still couldn't have gone through with it. The one time he'd tried to sneak tips from the jar during one of his Saturday performances at the Hearty Stein, the ever-vigilant Arrin had glared him into misery from behind the counter and--as if that hadn't been enough--docked his wages for the next two weeks.

By contrast, Locke, the newest and youngest member of the Hillshire troupe, could have easily sustained himself solely on what he pilfered from the streets, and the fox had no shame in boasting about his conquests. Ten silvers cut away from commoners while strolling down the market, nine silvers reselling goods he'd stolen away from the merchants, three gold lifted from the coinpurse of a noble passing through to Cressala--and yet Locke always wore the same three shirts and two pairs of breeches, and never once gave thought to replacing the chipped, pale-yellow shaft of pearwood he played on.

Grayson, who saw the recorder as the single pillar of stability in his life, had longed for as long as he could remember to replace the feather-light maple instrument Arrin had given him all those years ago. Even though the raccoon took in far less silver than Locke, he still managed to save almost a year's worth of wages and tips from the street and have a new one crafted for him in Cressala, out of a beautiful, deep-colored rosewood that sang like none other he'd heard.

In hindsight, he should have known it was coming. He'd always assumed Locke's money had been funneling into something debasing and wasteful--like prostitutes--or into a giant hoard of gold and silver in the corner of his room, so that on the contingency of his actually bringing a girl to bed, he'd have something to impress her with. In fact, Grayson never hesitated to ridicule Locke for having so much more money than him, but no better quality of life. Twenty-two silvers meant little to the fox at this point, but when taken from Grayson's coinpurse and replaced with a crumpled piece of parchment marred with tiny black scrawl, it meant vengeance.

He'd taken the note to Arrin, whose mouth drew into a thin line as he wadded it up and tossed it away. "Gone to Cressala," the coyote had said, eyebrows lowered in thought. "Good riddance. Bet you'll love the extra show time." The musician searched the coyote's hardened face for sympathy, but the scowl told Grayson that Arrin wasn't going to change the deadline for his weekly lodging payment of twenty silvers, and that deadline fell tomorrow.

Later that day, perched atop the knoll that was Hillshire's namesake, just a short ways north of the town itself, Grayson could see the point far in the distance where the hilly green landscape gave way into a skyline of tall-rising mountains, tinted a faint blue in the fog of the distance. He didn't know their true color, because he'd never seen them up close, but he'd seen enough maps and heard enough of Viktor's stories to know that he was looking at the southern face of the Dugall mountains. Some miles off the range's eastern face, Cressala flanked a narrow portion of the great Cardinal river. And somewhere in the gap between here and there was Locke.

Piotyr, the only other constant in his life other than his music, sat on one foot, paw running distractedly through the grass. The handsome wolf looked off pensively into the distance, as if searching for Locke somewhere out there. "That's all it said?"

"I think so." Grayson couldn't puzzle out the meaning of the figures on parchment, but he could at least tell that there had only been three words. "Do you believe it?"

"I wouldn't, but he told me a while back he was going to leave." Piotyr shrugged. "I didn't think it'd be this soon, or this sudden. But, where else would he be?"

Piotyr's voice, much like the sound of his viol, always soothed Grayson, especially when he was the only one around to hear it.

Grayson lay down on his back and stretched out his limbs, feeling the carpet of grass shift below him. He closed his eyes to ward off the midday sun and squinted into the reddened hues of his eyelids. The knoll was one of the few places he could truly feel at peace, because here, there was never any Locke or Viktor or Arrin, and the contents of his coinpurse didn't matter. Here, he could regress back to the days long past when he and Piotyr had sat on the knoll together, first exploring the tones of their instruments, young muzzles creased with laughter at all the funny sounds they could make martelé and spiccato. Then, music was something for pleasure instead of strictly for financial sustainment.

But there was no pleasure in the all-consuming scamper for silver that possessed the entire village of Hillshire. Grayson's paws clenched into fists, and he breathed deeply. "I want to go to the city."

"I know." Grayson heard movement, and opened his eyes to see Piotyr had turned over on his side, facing him. "But, look, I've seen how much gold Locke had, and it's barely enough to last him a month."

"So?"

"So, he needs a job."

"He's got the world's best job in his quick fingers."

"Yeah." Piotyr's eyes gazed beyond him. "But the guards there have the world's best eyes."

Grayson laughed, but the humor faded quickly. He met Piotyr's eyes again and saw that they were still serious.

"We just need to get jobs in the city that can support us. It's not unheard of. Viktor did it, and he's--" He broke eye contact, scanning around as if he were expecting the bear to barge in on them. "--he's not even that good."

Piotyr should have known that mentioning Viktor never helped a conversation, especially not this conversation. Grayson worked up the best glare he could manage, but could only hold it for a few seconds, and as soon as it faded, Piotyr's mouth opened again.

"There are nobles passing through all the time." The wolf raised his paws, palms up, as if he could use them to shape his words into something that would get through. "What if one of them hears one of our shows?"

In his five years of knowing Piotyr, Grayson had only ever seen the wolf's logic break down when talking about this. At first, Piotyr been more general in his approach, yearning to be taken away to someplace where he was a musician to be revered, not merely one to be cast an appreciative tip on the way out the bar. When he'd learned of Grayson's fascination with the palace, it had slipped into the tale naturally. But one thing that never changed was that each time the subject came up, Piotyr spoke as if he were delivering some piece of life-altering news to the raccoon. No doubt this was the same crazed fantasy that had Piotyr slaving over the viol late at night until his thick callouses protest and his fingers threatened to bleed.

He was sure that deep down, Piotyr knew the fantasy was crazy, too. And even if he didn't--well, they all needed something that kept them going when the business was bad, their tips were few, and their pay was docked. For Piotyr, that something was burying his problems underneath the struggle for perfection. Grayson's something might have been dreams of the palace, if he'd ever thought of it as within his grasp.

But he didn't. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Grayson's something was Piotyr, and he wanted to share the wolf's big grin, not wipe it off. So now, as always, he said, "That'd be great."

Piotyr's grin widened, as if applauding him for an intelligent decision. "We'd have it better than Locke, for sure. No worrying about getting caught, or having a dry spell."

"But you have to have practice a lot." Seeing the opportunity for a change of topic, Grayson pressed on. "And, speaking of that, how's your new piece coming along?"

The nervous excitement fled Piotyr. "It's difficult, but it's shaped up nicely. I'm going to try it tonight on the stage."

"Already?"

The wolf nodded. "I mean, the most difficult part of the piece is so dissonant that if I slip up, no one will know."

"Except Viktor."

"He'll pick on my interpretation no matter what I do. Composers are like that. It's just not worth spending another three days on it before my first show." He craned his neck back towards the town. "Though, I should probably get back soon so I can run through it a few times, and have a while to rest before I play."

Grayson sat up and crossed his legs. "Yeah. Okay." He stretched his arms out. "I'm looking forward to hearing it."

"Thanks." Piotyr gave him a friendly clap on the back, but his paw stayed there, sliding slowly downwards and eventually collapsing back to the earth as if he'd forgotten about it. "And... hey, if you need money for tomorrow..."

Grayson's head pivoted to the right so he could look his friend in the eye. The reminder of the twenty silvers he needed should have unsettled him, but in face of Piotyr's contagious serenity, Grayson found himself unable to be upset.

"I keep some silver saved up, in case I break a couple strings."

Grayson tensed. "You..."

Piotyr's eyes and level gaze held no secrets. "It's not a big deal, if you need it. Really."

Grayson could feel each hard jerk of his heart. The offer made him feel giddy, but it was the type of giddy that wasn't any good for either of them. He hated that the world seemed to be conspiring to help Piotyr find new ways to make Grayson depend on him. Grayson let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. "I'll play at the market, the rest of today. For tips. And..."

"And I'll make up the difference."

"Thank you." The words left an odd but too-familiar taste on his tongue when directed at Piotyr.

"No problem."

One of the things Grayson had learned over the years about Piotyr was that he always took things a few steps farther than necessary. Piotyr's paw brushed lightly against the top of his own in a gesture that overstepped the boundaries of friendliness. Grayson bit his lip, and before he could stop himself from doing it, he looked away from the wolf and slowly guided their paws together. He'd known it was a bad idea, and that he'd probably regret it later, but he couldn't have stopped himself from doing it, because his body knew well that nothing beat the feeling of Piotyr's warm fur pressing against his.

He could count the number of similar events in the past two years on one paw, and they'd always ended the same. Piotyr's paw drifted away, and the wolf rose to his feet as if nothing had happened. "I'll see you tonight." The wolf's eyes lingered reflectively on Grayson, but as soon as they left him, he turned.

Grayson sat there until the footsteps died away.

II

When Grayson had first entered the Hearty Stein, it had been with the eyes of a thirteen-year-old 'coon desperate for a place for Piotyr and he to call home. Now, posture drooping in exhaustion after a long day perched at the market, he returned there only because Piotyr and he had nowhere else to go. He certainly wouldn't return to the flat ale, stale bread, and cramped chambers of his own volition. As always, the weight of his coinpurse rested lightly on his thigh, but heavily in his mind; his body attempted to comfort itself by dragging its tongue over its sore bottom lip, but rather than bring him solace, the action only reminded him of his inability to break ten silvers for a full day of work.

Opening the door of either of the other two taverns in the small city, one would be greeted with the acrid tickle of alcohol, the sight of tipsy patrons banging their dented tankards together, and the boisterous chatter that could be heard even from the streets. But two of such establishments was all Hillshire needed.

Grayson entered theStein that day to the gentle but edgy tone of the viola da gamba, playing over the landscape of hushed murmurings from the patronage. Piotyr sat perched on the circular elevation tucked into a corner that served as a stage, writhing with the viol between his legs. Even if Grayson hadn't heard him practicing this two nights ago, he still would have recognized the distinctive compositional style of Viktor, in which awkward intervals and unnerving rhythms served to emphasize the beauty of the few sparse chords. The tension rarely resolved, and when it did, it almost always resolved into just a different kind of tension, building towards the eventual climax.

Viktor caught his eye from the opposite corner of the room. The bear, the oldest of the troupe, motioned for Grayson to join him, and he could think of no justifiable reason to refuse. Viktor hardly ate, but his paunch hanged over his belt, and when standing, he towered above anyone else in the room. If Grayson hadn't known Viktor better than he probably cared to, he would've had difficulty looking the bear in the eye and saying, "Buy me a mug."

"Sure." Viktor smirked. "Restring my lute. Take it you had a nice day?"

It wasn't a question Viktor would usually ask, so he gathered that meant the bear knew about Locke. Grayson answered by pressing his tongue to the soreness of his bottom lip. "Nine silvers."

The bear laughed, causing the mop of black curls atop his head to bob in time. "And you're asking me for mead?"

He ducked his head, and his eyes drifted to the bar. The Stein wouldn't be complete without Arrin's presence behind the counter. The coyote busied himself by drying out a freshly-clean stein, but despite the deft efficiency of his movements, and the way his eyes never strayed from Piotyr, Grayson had no doubt in his mind that Arrin could feel his gaze.

"I've still got to pay Arrin." He ran eleven silvers short, and the thought of having twice that deducted from next week's wages--which was only thirty-five to begin with--made him squirm in his chair.

Viktor sighed his acknowledgement, but not his pity. "Well..." He injected feigned annoyance into a groan. "If you need money--"

"I've got money." An essential skill of living at the Stein was learning when to not let Viktor finish a sentence.

"Ah." Viktor grinned. An essential skill of Viktor's was never getting pushed around. "I hear prostitution's quite the business, these days."

Grayson probably would have snapped back and humiliated himself further had Piotyr not chosen that moment to taunt them with a series of dark, passionate triple stops. Anguish filled the bar so heavily that it was hard to believe the source of it was just a hunk of wood strewn with sheepgut. The patronage fell silent, if not in awe and bewilderment, then at least in respect. Even Grayson, who'd heard this passage several times before, sometimes fumbled, felt his spine tingle.

"Little sharp on those thirds," Viktor said around a mouthful of mead. Some of the liquid oozed out the corner of his mouth as he spoke, and he blotted it away with his sleeve, adding to the collection of stains.

"You're sharp on all your thirds."

"And how often do I play the viol?"

The song of the viol died down to a whisper as the piece made its way back to the tonic. Piotyr's eyes remained closed as the bow delicately removed itself from the string, as if it were hauling out the final echoes of the sound. The Steinnever erupted with applause; there was usually a gradual onset of clapping, more out of courtesy than actual gratitude. To the untrained ear, tonight's applause might sound no different, but noticing the slight differences in volume and character of applause was essential for the troupe's self-esteem.

Tonight, the crowd was excited. Piotyr gave a short, awkward bow before stepping down from the stage, but his movements were quick, and he was beaming. Instead of heading back to the lodging section of the tavern, he instead arced towards Grayson's table, still clutching the viol by its neck. Piotyr shared a quick grin with Grayson before turning to Viktor.

"Not bad, not bad." the big bear said. "You know where you messed up, but, it's only been a week; I'll give you that." He reached over to give the viol a slap. "Go put that thing away, and we'll talk about it."

Piotyr, visibly straining to keep the instrument held up with one paw, nodded, and slipped away. And in that moment, everything was so normal that it was easy for Grayson to forget the events of that morning.

Viktor's mug came to his lips, and he took a long, slow draught while a nearby drunk rambled about something incoherent. Once he'd swallowed, he licked his lips and cleared his throat.

"While he's doing that, why don't you bring me my old recorder?"

His old recorder, made of pale pearwood. It used to have another owner, but he was likely in Cressala by now.

He knew in that instant that was all Viktor would ever say about Locke. They all came and went--all of them but Grayson, Piotyr, and Viktor--and the thief was no different.

III

Then and always, he noted the courier's appearance as passively as he might note the local drunkard's wandering of the streets. The weasel deposited two letters into Grayson's paw and departed with a polite but uncaring wave. Undoubtedly, the letters would go to Arrin. Rarely, a single, mysteriously-heavy envelope would be sent Viktor's way, but never to Grayson, Piotyr, or Locke.

And just that easily, he found himself wondering how well the fox had adjusted to the city, for perhaps the hundredth time in the week since his departure. Perhaps he'd managed to find work and had moved in with a few other natives; perhaps he'd fallen in with a gang of master thieves; or perhaps he'd found his way into city's prison. As the week wore on, Grayson found himself caring less about which prediction would actually come true and more about the fact that he would never know which one did. After a bit of goading, Viktor told him that he could effectively consider the thief dead, and Grayson was beginning to see the truth in that.

When Viktor met him inside the door that day, the bear frowned as if he could detect Grayson's brooding. His thick fingers snatched the letters with a dexterity that defied his stature. "Hmph. That payment better be in here somewhere."

Grayson shifted his weight on his feet as he watched Viktor examine the envelopes. He didn't know what Viktor meant, but he had long given up on asking for clarification on Viktor's cryptic mutterings.

But something wasn't right. Viktor had been staring at the same envelope for too long. His lips parted as if to say something, but they eventually just drew back together into a lopsided frown.

"Hm."

The syllable came out colored with a tone Grayson had thought absent from Viktor's palette: confusion. Viktor broke the seal of the letter, and fished out the two pages of parchment that lay within.

Grayson made as if to leave him, but Viktor stalled him with a sharp, "No. Stay."

The bear's eyes flitted back and forth, scanning whatever text was inscribed on the paper. He finished with a sigh and a frown, turning his head towards Arrin, who as always, was behind the bar, pretending that he wasn't paying attention to anything.

"Wait here."

Viktor stalked off towards the bar, where he grabbed Arrin's attention. They shared a few words, and then the two quickly disappeared into the lodging section, where the troupe's rooms were. That should have been the end of it, but try as he might, Grayson couldn't dislodge the feeling of unease. The last time such an ominous letter had come, Arrin had disappeared for a hellish week, and none of them could ever get Viktor to tell them why. And this time, it seemed like it had something to do with Grayson. If he could just hear what they were saying...

This was the point at which he'd normally just search out Locke and drop a handful of silver into his palm and a sly request into his ear; the thief would have neither qualms nor difficulty with eavesdropping on Viktor and Arrin's conversation and relaying it back to Grayson Before he'd gotten used to having Locke's skills at his disposal, Grayson would've just let the pair go, but now, he had to know what they were talking about. And with no Locke around, well, he would just have to do it himself.

He counted half a minute before he followed them, wishing that he could emulate Locke's masterful art of stealth, of being both there and not there. The creak of the door's hinges made him wince, but he pressed on nonetheless. The small hallway connected to eight rooms, only four of which were usually occupied, and he didn't have to listen for voices to know which one Arrin and Viktor were in. The voices grew louder as he approached Viktor's door, and when he pressed his ear up against the wood, he could just barely make out the words over the harsh pounding of his heart.

"--losing two in one week," Arrin was saying. "What does he think we are, a charity?"

"Your mouth is fatter than I am," Viktor said. "Why don't you pinch it closed for a minute and let me finish reading the letter?"

Arrin grunted. "Then read it. I'm waiting."

"I think you'll be pleased to hear this." Grayson could hear the smirk in Viktor's voice. "We would be most grateful for the exchange," he said, voice taking on the exaggerated lisp he used whenever he was mocking the nobility, "and we would be content to dispense a quantity of thirty golden sovereigns to the cause of your establishment's future, should you choose to accept."

Silence stretched on for what seemed like an eternity. Grayson heard movement, and for the span of several seconds was sure he'd been caught, that it would only be a few seconds before the door threw itself open and he collapsed into the doorway of Viktor's room. Just thinking of Arrin's fury made him cringe.

"Thirty gold," Arrin said. "I always doubted Lord Delwin's judgment. Never thought it would come out so strongly in my favor."

Thirty gold from the lord of the province? For what? He pressed harder against the wood of the door, as if doing so would make them fill in the gaps so that he could understand. The door shifted ever-so-slightly in its frame, and ice flooded Grayson's veins.

Surely they must have heard the door. But apparently not, because what he heard Viktor say next was, "The verdict?"

A pause, in which Grayson could imagine Arrin stroking his chin, pretending to think even though he'd already made up his mind. "Send the boy to Cressala, and get me my thirty gold."

Grayson's heart pounded, and his knees threatened to give out underneath him. Lord Delwin wants the boy. Send the boy to Cressala. Send Grayson to Cressala. His breathing quickened. Could it be true? No more Hillshire, no more Hillshire troupe, no more wondering what lay on the other side of the Dugall mountains. The foundation of his entire existence gave way under those words.

And then the foundation supporting his head gave way, and he just barely managed to stop himself from barrelling into Viktor.

Few times in his life had he felt the force of raw, undistilled fear. It started at the base of his neck and crept out in fiery tendrils across the rest of his body, pricking his flesh with razor-sharp needles. He wasn't surprised when he looked up and saw the slightest hint of an amused grin on Viktor's face; what concerned him was Arrin's wrath, but when all he saw from the innkeeper was an annoyed roll of the eyes, the reality of the situation hit him anew. Just like that, he wasn't Arrin's to punish anymore.

"I can't believe Lord Delwin thinks he's worth thirty gold." That was to Viktor, but now Arrin's eyes seized Grayson's. "So, tell me, did you hear it all, or am I going to have to explain it to you?"

He could barely form words around the excitement and disbelief. "Is it true? I'm going to the city?" Excitement bubbled into the words, and he waited for one of the men to laugh and tell him that he was a complete fool and had gotten it all wrong, and why wasn't he practicing, didn't he know he had to perform tomorrow night?

But what came out of Viktor's mouth was, "Right." He passed the pieces of parchment off to Arrin, who scanned them. "Delwin's got a troupe in the city that he sponsors. Says he heard you playing in the markets when he passed through. Got to admit, I'm a little jealous. This is pretty good news for all of us here."

"Indeed." Satisfied, Arrin folded the letters and slipped them into his pocket. "I'll send our reply on the next carriage, then, and we'll arrange a date for your leave as soon as I receive my payment."

The creak of a door sounded. Piotyr ducked out of his room and peered down the hall towards Viktor's, outside of which the three of them were gathered. "What's all this talk about?"

Grayson shifted uncomfortably. In this moment, he almost wished that Piotyr would just go away, because this was supposed to be Grayson's moment, in Grayson's celebration, but how could it be fair to celebrate him when someone far more deserving was standing ten feet down the hall?

Viktor grinned, either oblivious to or ignoring this. "Looks like one of our very own is being hired off into Delwin's troop."

Grayson wasn't sure exactly how he was expecting Piotyr to react. To the eyes of Arrin and Viktor, who didn't know him as well, the wolf might have seemed happy. And part of him was. But in the instant before the corners of the wolf's mouth turned up, Grayson saw his lips part and his eyes widen. To the untrained eye, it would be a look of surprise, but Grayson knew Piotyr better than anyone, and he could see the quickly-masked disappointment and defeat in his friend's eyes.

"That's great," Piotyr said. He joined the group, and reached out to clap a paw on Grayson's shoulder. He didn't meet anyone's eyes; his own stared off towards the end of the hall. "So... that means you'll be leaving, then? For the city?"

"Indefinitely," Arrin said. "It's going to be rough losing two men in barely a week, but we'll manage." But the words fell on mostly deaf ears; Viktor wouldn't care, and Grayson knew that the only thing Piotyr had heard was indefinitely.

"I think," Viktor said, "that all this talk would go well under a few mugs of mead in celebration." The bear clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "What say you?"

IV

For as long as he could remember, the sole place in which Grayson had any pretense of privacy was the small cell of his room, but even here, he could never get away from the constant sounds of Piotyr's viol and Viktor's lute, often sounding long into the night in the rooms adjacent to his. And even this privacy was transient, because no matter what time of day it was, his troupemates were always knocking on his door, wanting his attention at all of the worst times.

Today, though, the knock was expected. He let Piotyr in, and the two of them took a seat on the foot of his bed together. The excitement he'd seen earlier in Piotyr was now drained. His friend looked in him in the eye, and his insincerity was palpable as he said, "Congratulations."

Grayson took in a deep breath. "What if I don't want to go?"

Piotyr let out a single humorless bark of laughter. "That's preposterous. This is everything you've ever wanted."

"Not entirely."

Piotyr frowned. The wolf knew what he meant, damn it, but he was going to make Grayson say it.

"It would be if you could come with me."

Piotyr's frown dissipated, and tension drained from his posture. Several seconds passed before he spoke. "Don't say that."

"And, really, you should be the one going to the city, not me."

"No. Even if I do practice more--"

"You're better."

"Well--what I mean to say is that, you've got a great opportunity, and you shouldn't pass it up just because I don't share it."

In retrospect, it seemed foolish that he and Piotyr, in all their fantasizing, had never considered the possibility that one of them would end up being shipped off to Cressala, and the other would be left behind. Grayson always knew it would happen, deep down, but he'd thought their positions would be reversed.

"I don't want to abandon you," Grayson said.

"And I don't want to be abandoned. But what if I'd been the one chosen to go to the city. Would you have begged for me to stay?"

"Of course not." Grayson frowned, and he leaned back, resting his back against the softness of the bed. "I mean, I would've wanted for you to stay, but that would be selfish. I would've told you to go."

"Right. And you can't expect me to act any differently." Piotyr lay on his side beside Grayson, and his gentle face seemed almost too close to Grayson's own. "Look, I want you to do what's best for you, and the Stein isn't best for you. I'm not best for you. Get out of here while you can."

Grayson waited until the force of Piotyr's words died down before he said, "It's not like I have a choice, really. Arrin's going to sell me off no matter what I want."

"And you want to go. You'll be in the lord's troupe! You'll almost certainly get to see inside the palace. You'll get to live in the city, and I'm sure you'll be paid very well."

Grayson closed his eyes.

"There are so many amazing people in the city. You've heard Viktor's stories." His voice thrummed with vicarious excitement. "You'll meet better viol players, and better recorder players, and better composers. And you'll meet other..." He hesitated, as if he were unsure of how to finish the sentence. "...people like you."

"You mean, people like us."

Piotyr frowned, and the frown lied, I'm not like you. Grayson's paws had balled into fists, and he had to focus to relax them. This, he thought, was exactly the reason why part of him sometimes detested Piotyr--and as much as he didn't want to admit it, as much as he wanted to keep his one true friend around, this was exactly the reason why he needed to leave him behind.

He was going to leave behind almost everything he ever knew and never before had excitement mixed so thoroughly with sadness.

V

Viktor's fat fingers danced with impossible precision down the neck of the lute. His voice, raspy and deep, contrasted sharply with the warbling tenor so valued in vocal music. As a performer, Grayson knew he should be paying more attention to the inflections in Viktor's voice, but all he could concern himself were the words, which he'd been told countless times were the exclusive domain of the composer. Still, when Viktor came to the final chord of his new composition, Grayson couldn't help but pipe up from the other end of the bed, "You've been to the city?"

Piotyr's way of answering stupid questions was to laugh; Viktor's was to roll his eyes and sigh. "Of course."

Grayson closed his eyes, and for a moment, he could see the foggy mountains miles in the distance from his now-habitual perch atop the knoll. When he re-opened them, he was again alone with Viktor in the bear's room. "What's it like?"

Now Viktor scowled, balancing the lute vertically on one leg. "That's not even what the song was about."

"But you said--"

"That was two lines out of fifty, and I told you to analyze the chords, anyway." Viktor pointed a finger at him. "Can't you focus at all?"

He wanted to say that he was focusing, just not on the things that Viktor wanted, but before he could gather the nerve, Viktor's mouth opened again.

"Sometimes I wonder if you're fit for music."

Grayson burned. A long silence passed. The raccoon knew nothing he could say would placate Viktor, but the bear had eyes on him, waiting for a response. "I'm learning fine."

"Only when I tell you to do it." Viktor turned to face him. Viktor was uncomfortably close to him, and he still would have been even if the bear weresitting ten miles away, as long as they could still make eye contact. His scent was domineering. "If I stopped telling you to practice this and practice that, would you stop improving?"

The instinctive no wrestled with the truthful probably, and they both fizzled out, leaving Grayson silent. Viktor's posture shifted, and he took in a breath to speak. Grayson braced himself for a thrashing, but what came out was:

"The city is its own world."

It took him a minute to realize that was Viktor's way of inviting questions. "What do you mean by that?"

Viktor waved his paws in a gesture that was meaningless even to him. "Walk in, never walk out. No reason to. Got everything you need right in there."

He sounded angry. "So?"

Viktor gave a condescending frown. "It's like a vacuum that sucks in everything in life worth living."

Grayson tilted his head, afraid of saying something that would set Viktor off. "So, you've been there. But why did you leave?"

Viktor shrugged, as if grateful for a change of topic. "Everything has a price."

He thought the bear was referring to a monetary price. Not until years later did he contemplate otherwise.

For as long as he could remember, Grayson had watched passing carriages with envy. They'd never rested long in Hillshire, of course, always rushing to transport whatever lord, lady, or artisan they held to the city. He'd long dreamed about one day being able to ride in one--dreamed about sharing esteemed company en route to the city to do Great Things--but after twelve hours trapped in such a carriage, all he wanted to do was get out.

It would help, he thought, if it weren't raining. The light rain pattered overhead, and though the car was sheltered, needles of rain slanted in from outside. His heavy clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin. He wished he could see where they were going, but with the tall driver's seat in front of them and the old skunk sitting beside him, the only view he got was to his right, which was on the wrong side to even see the mountains. Two other males shared the four-person carriage with him, but neither of them spoke; they both had the simple of attire of merchants, not the elegant garb of lords. And the hard wooden seats were beginning to give him sores.

When they finally coasted to a stop, he thought at first that it was just for another meal or stretch break, until he heard the voices ahead. Though the words lost over the soft rumble of the rain, he knew what they were saying. They'd arrived. Angling his head back and squinting into the mist, he could make out the walls of the city, rivulets of water carving small nooks down their façade. His eyes were still locked there when the harried-looking driver opened his door for him, gesturing forward. Grayson grabbed the single bag that held his clothes and instrument, and followed. The driver led Grayson and his companions up to the door, which was flanked by two guardsmen garbed in light tunics with a mountain-shaped emblem sewn into the breast. Once inside, Grayson looked back just in time to glimpse the stablehands approaching the carriage before the city door closed, sealing him inside.

The rest of the group scattered; the two merchants scurried off one way, the driver hobbled another way, and Grayson just stood there, becoming more soaked by the minute. The city. Muddy paths wove intricate webs between multi-tiered buildings, the likes of which dwarfed anything he'd seen in Hillshire. Despite the weather, people still hustled about, shielding themselves from the rain as best they could with whatever they had handy.

But one person was hustling towards him. The fox looked to be in his thirties, and his clothes may have been impressive were they not drenched. "You're Grayson, right?" It wasn't a question. "Come with me. We'll talk when we're out of the rain."

The fox darted away, and Grayson trailed behind him. Grayson scanned the area, trying to collect his bearings, but they were moving quickly, and with his blurred vision, he couldn't take much of anything in. Still, as he walked, he managed to glimpse several bars, a smithy, a few diners, and what he could have sworn was a brothel blended into the city. All he could see was the occasional disconnected piece, but the sheer number of pieces astounded him, and he marvelled at the expanse of the whole.

They reached shelter in the form of a cloth tarp held up by wooden shafts, and finally, he could pause and get his bearings. Not too far from where he stood, the great Cardinal river cut the city into halves, and each half was dotted by similar shelters, some of which still had merchants huddling underneath, but most of which had been abandoned with the onset of the weather. Stone footbridges of various sizes spanned the length of the river, some large enough even for carriages to pass over. And as far as he looked in any direction, all he could see was more buildings, as if he'd entered an entirely different self-contained world where there was nothing but the city. Blends of stone and wooden architecture of all sorts of apparent ages loomed everywhere, and far off in the distance on the other side of the river, he could just barely make out the largest, most intricate structure he'd ever seen. Underneath the heavy, blanketing scent of the rain, he could smell hundreds of stale personal scents and the faint aroma of freshly-baked bread.

"Welcome to Cressala," his companion said. He pointed to the large structure. "That's where we're headed."

Grayson's eyes widened. "The palace?"

"Unfortunately." The fox spoke in a smooth monotone. "It is quite far, but that is where Lord Delwin stays, and I should inform him of your arrival as soon as possible..."

He'd be going into the palace, then, to visit a lord, of all things. He imagined himself telling Piotyr this story later; he wondered how excited his friend would be that he'd finally gotten to do so many of the things they'd fantasized about for years. And thinking about that made him think about Viktor, about the smug, annoyed grin that would doubtlessly mar the bear's face when Grayson told him that all of his stories about the city had turned out to be true, after all. And then he wondered when he'd have a chance to have either of those conversations, and as far as he could tell, the best answer he could give was never.

"The rain will ease off soon," the fox said, gazing off in the distance, where the clouds weren't quite as dark. "Give it a few minutes, and then we'll set off."

Grayson nodded. "So, who exactly are you?"

"I am Caril, Lord Delwin's valet."

"Valet?"

"His personal servant. I attend to his private affairs."

"He sent you here?"

Caril paused, and his eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. The angle of the wind shifted slightly, and a spray of rainwater met his cheek. "His lordship is prone to forgetting things. I sent myself."

Grayson'd eyes widened. "He... forgot about a member of his own troupe?"

"I'm afraid you overestimate his involvement. He sponsors a troupe, but that is the only role he plays in it." His eyes rested on the palace for several long seconds. "Perhaps it is unnecessary to drag you all the way to the palace in this rain. After all, Lord Delwin will just ask me to show you to your residence with the rest of the troupe."

Grayson frowned. "I'm not living in the palace?"

Caril laughed. "Of course not. You are housed on the east side of the city with the rest of the troupe. It's not far from here. I will take you there now, and then head back to the palace by myself."

The east side, Grayson could tell, was the side of the river they were currently on. Sizing up the buildings on either side of the river, he could tell immediately that the east side's architecture was smaller and less elaborate, and there was no palace on the east side.

Disappointment layered with disappointment, but the greatest disappointment he had was of himself. He shouldn't have allowed himself to even entertain the hope that he might be staying at the palace. And, of course the Lord himself wasn't involved in the affairs of some troupe that was small and needy enough to hire him, of all people.

But, he was still in the city, and things were still better than they had been at Hillshire already. He had no Viktor or Piotyr, but surely he would meet good people and make good friends here, and the thought had him excited already.

Grayson nodded. "Okay. Show me to my place, then."