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first goose he’s tangled with, eh Dys?”
    Dysan hated when Bezul shortened his name. It reminded him that the first two letters matched those of the goddess he despised.
    When Dysan did not back-banter, Bezul’s tone changed to one of concern. “You all right, boy?”
    “Eh, Bez,” Dysan returned belatedly, though Bezul was already a shortened form of the man’s name: Bezulshash. “I thought you locked those nasty critters up during the day.”
    “Must have missed one.” It was the standard answer. It seemed like Bezul always forgot a goose or two when he shooed them from the main yard in the morning. Usually, they had the common sense not to follow someone inside the shop.
    Dysan swept the clay shards into a pile so he did not have to force a smile. He owed no one an explanation, especially not in Sanctuary, but he still felt obligated to say something. He forced himself to look up. Then, uncertain what to do with his now-free hands, he rubbed his nose with a not-quite casual gesture. “It wasn’t the goose. It was the thought of who’s going to have to pay for this.” He made a gesture that encompassed those shards that had escaped his crude attempt at cleaning.
    Bezul shrugged off the concern. “My goose. My mistake.”
    Pel headed for the door, and Dysan gave him plenty of space. “We’ll all pay for it, ultimately.” He looked down at the younger man from a frame at least a third again as tall as Dysan’s and winked. “You, me, everyone. Believe me.”
    Bezul neither confirmed nor contradicted as Pel left the shop. He watched the man down the pathway and through the gate before turning to Dysan, who had slowly risen. “So, what can I get for you today?”
    Dysan knew he ought to make small talk before launching into business, but jokes about shins bruised by the goose might force him to display the real ones he had gotten from falling building stones. He could ask about Bezul’s mother, wife, and children; but he always sounded nervous when he did. Chatter made him uncomfortable; and, under the circumstances, he preferred to stick with the familiar. “I need something to put on my feet.” He raised a bare foot, then returned it to the floor, careful to avoid the piled shards of clay. “Some live rats or mice. A couple of snakes.”
    Bezul’s brows crept upward. “You’re keeping odd pets these days, Dysan.” He did not question; Bezul never questioned. But he left the point hanging if Dysan wished to discuss it further.
    Dysan gave an evasive answer. “Need more meat in my diet.” Knowing what he could buy depended on what he had to exchange for it, Dysan untied the purse and spilled its contents on the counter. Bezul’s head bent over the coins, revealing pale scalp where his hair had begun its southward march. He picked up the soldats, sep-arating them from the padpols. “Not pure, but decent. Worth about—”
    Dysan stayed the Changer with a raised hand. “Just tell me what I can get with it. Something for my feet. And those critters I mentioned.”
    Bezul straightened. “Right.” An almost imperceptible grin touched the corners of his mouth. By now, he had to know Dysan preferred not to count money or deal with much in the way of change. They both scanned the outer shelves, filled with an assortment of bric-a-brac that spanned the length and breadth of Dysan’s imagination. Pots and mugs sat beside foodstuffs, trinkets, books, and artwork, much of it filmed with a layer of dust. As he headed for the back room, Bezul made a quick grab that knocked a neat pile of linen askew. He emerged with a writhing black snake clutched behind the head. He held it up in triumph, then took it with him as he disappeared into the back.
    Dysan planted his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Too tired even to glance around the shop, he closed his eyes and savored the moments of dark aloneness. His mind glided toward those empty moments prior to sleep.
    Safely ensconced in his hiding