The Grinning Fox sat on the corner of two wide, populated streets. The sign hanging above the door swung in the night breeze, carved with a little red-painted fox bounding playfully across its surface.

Wil could smell the food and ale from outside the doors. He had eaten at the palace, of course, but he didn’t go to the Fox for the food. He slipped inside with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes cast downward. He was conspicuous even out of his Venandi uniform, and he didn’t want to draw unwanted attention from the patrons in the tavern.

The Fox was one of the only places he felt comfortable showing his face, not that his eyes didn’t earn stares there too. But he’d grown used to it, and it helped that Dixon was there with him every week, looking him in the eye and making him feel like a normal person.

Wil’s friend sat in their usual spot, at a table off in one corner by himself. He was Wil’s age, with mousy brown hair that fell to his shoulders and an uneven beard over his jaw.

“Well? How did it go?” Dixon asked. He signed his words with quick, practiced movements as he spoke.

Wil made a disgruntled face at his friend as he sat across the table from him.

“That bad, eh?” When Wil shrugged, Dixon raised a hand to flag down a barmaid. They exchanged quick words and she left, returning a moment later to drop off a pair of ales in big mugs.

“I dinnae understand it sometimes. Why no’ leave the killin’ to another hunter?” Dixon said. “There are other ways o’ serving the Venandi, ye ken.”

I don’t have the talent for spying like you do, Wil signed. Besides, being a Whisper requires working ears. He gave a small, crooked smile and tapped the shell of his ear with a finger. I’m an Edge, through and through.

Dixon shrugged. “So? Ye could still leave, run the shop wi’ me.” He took a sip of his ale. “Ye’ve got money, a place to live. Ye don’t need to do the king’s bidding.”

The king is also my father, Wil reminded his friend. And the only reason I’m not in a silver collar like the rest of them.

Dixon gave a soft sigh. “Aye.” Then Dixon’s eyes shifted to the middle distance behind Wil’s shoulder and went hazy and unfocused. He tilted his head slightly, and Wil knew his friend was listening to something nearby that Wil couldn’t hear. People liked to talk when their bellies were full of food and drink—it was part of the reason Dixon liked to meet here. He heard much among the steady din of voices. Wil watched him patiently for a moment, letting the Whisper do his work.

Finally Dixon blinked his eyes back into focus and they flitted up to meet Wil’s again. Wil raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Dixon shook his head. “Dinnae trouble yerself, brother,” he said. “I’ve got it handled.”

What is it?

“Rumors, nothing more,” he said, frowning. “Only thing about having lots o’ wee birds in yer ear, sometimes they all sing different songs.”

Wil frowned. Anything I can help with?

Dixon shook his head. “Nothin’ yet, but I’ll let ye know.” He lifted his mug of ale and knocked it lightly against Wil’s. “Cheers,” he said, and the pair knocked back their ales, eagerly setting the day’s troubles aside.