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several little wooden farmhouses only stared curiously at him as he walked by. He wondered if these Kozari thought he was one of them. If they noticed the very slight hitch in his gait, did they guess it was a remnant of the war? And if so, did they assume he’d received the injury from a Wedey weapon rather than a Kozari one?
    Volos reached his destination just before sunset. A single sign announced the name of the place: Chorna. The painted lettering was tiny and faded, as if the inhabitants assumed that nobody would care about the name of their town. It certainly didn’t seem a place that attracted many visitors. There was a single market square with worn cobbles and a fountain near the middle, and a few streets lined with slumping brick-and-timber buildings. As far as Volos could tell, there was only one tavern, apparently nameless. He went inside.
    It wasn’t crowded. Perhaps fifteen men and women sat at the tables, drinking ale and eating plates of food. The ceiling was low, the air was close and smoky, and the room smelled strongly of drink and charred meat. Everyone watched while Volos chose an empty table near the door.
    “Do you want dinner or just a tankard?” asked a tall young man with a green apron tied around his waist. His blond hair stuck straight up in tufts and his blue eyes were set at a slightly oblique angle. He was smiling.
    “Both.”
    “Are you sure? The food’s not that good.”
    “I’m hungry. Do I have any alternatives?”
    “Nope,” the man replied cheerfully. “But I thought I’d warn you. Are you from Felekna?”
    Volos wasn’t particularly adept at Kozari geography, but he knew Felekna was the capital. It had been Berhanu’s destination. “No.”
    “Oh. But you must be from a city, right? You look like you belong in a big city.”
    “I’m from the south,” Volos said truthfully. “But I’ve lived in cities.”
    The innkeeper’s grin increased. “I knew it. Then you’ll really be disappointed with our food, I’m afraid. It’s not fancy.”
    “At this point, I’d eat a raw dragon,” said Volos. “I’m starved.”
    “Well, hunger does make an excellent spice. I’ll be back in a moment.”
    Volos waited impatiently, trying to sneak looks at the other patrons. It was killing him to know that Berhanu was probably somewhere close by, probably in wretched condition, while Volos sat comfortably waiting to be fed. But it was impossible to know where, exactly, Berhanu was; the queen’s information had not been specific. Volos was going to have to be patient until he found out.
    Most of the other people in the room had returned to their meals and conversations, but a few still stared at him quite frankly. None of them looked like Juganin— but then, maybe Juganin looked perfectly ordinary when they were out of uniform, enjoying a pint or two instead of torturing prisoners. Maybe Juganin even had homes and spouses and children, and maybe they had friends and hobbies too.
    The innkeeper was back with a large tankard and an overflowing plate, which he set in front of Volos. But he didn’t seem inclined to leave. He watched as Volos picked up a fork, stabbed a chunk of meat, and took a bite. The meat was tough. But the spices… he didn’t know what they were called, but he recognized the flavor at once. His father had used them in his cooking.
    “You’re not dying,” the innkeeper observed. “Or puking.”
    “It’s not nearly as terrible as you led me to believe.”
    The man beamed. “Good. I guess low expectations are the key to customer satisfaction. Is there anything else I can get you?” He waggled his eyebrows slightly, perhaps gently suggesting that he wasn’t talking about food or drink.
    Volos ignored the innuendo. “Do you have rooms to let?”
    “You mean you intend to stay in Chorna?”
    “For a little while, yes.”
    “Why in the third hell would you want to do that?”
    Volos had been concocting this tale for days. He hoped it was convincing.