Market square is busier. The fishmongers' stalls have been open since morning; their wares are not damaged by the morning rains. The square's two bakeries have been open since first light. Now, the afternoon merchants are setting up their wares in the mist, getting ready for the afternoon rush during Elftown's few hours of daily sun. The larger stalls and tables have guards. At the smaller ones, sharp-eyed merchants arrange their goods warily, watching for the sneaky urchins to materialize out of the fog and try to make off with their goods. That's how Alvar ate before I hired him to get my bread. That's how I ate when I was a street rat.

As I circle around the square, I see a contingent of humans standing guard between the market square and Dockside. Not good. Ordinarily the watch patrols through the slum, constantly moving along the main streets. I duck into Eladan's grain shop.

The shop is a small room attached to the front of a larger warehouse. The room is divided by a wooden counter, behind which stand Eladan and two clerks, dealing with two bakers who are ordering their grain for the next morning's baking. Before me, several more elven bakers are huddled, waiting their turn. Two guards stand just inside the doors, one to either side. Eladan looks up as I enter and directs the junior clerk, Fëan, to assist me. As an apprentice, Fëan is not allowed to deal with the bigger buyers, but is allowed to sell to small buyers, like me.

"Arquë," he greets me warmly. "Going to brew another batch? How did the last one turn out?"

"Passable," I reply. "I won't be putting the taverns out of business anytime soon."

The apprentice feigns concern.

"Not due to any fault of the grain, I hope?" He and I both know the fault is my inexperience and the difficulty of brewing in this filthy slum, but we play this polite game every time.

"No," I reply. "The grain is fine. Getting a good gruit is the tough part." I hand him my bag.

"Barley?"

"As always." I pay, and he takes my bag back into the warehouse, returning in short order with my barley. I nod a thank you to him. Before I finish looping the top of my grain bag into a knot, he has returned to assist Eladan in taking larger orders and I am forgotten.

I carry my sack of grain to the Lydia, an old stone warehouse backed up against the wall a block and a half from the ever-closed gate to the human part of the city. The Lydia was built by a human speculator not long after Elftown was founded, to store goods for transport directly through the gate into the city. Elven ingenuity - applied in the form of constant escape attempts - and outright attacks led the humans to pass laws closing the gate to trade and expanding the harbor. The law was a disaster for the owner of the Lydia, whose warehouse was now on the opposite side of Elftown from the flow of goods. Many of the chambers are empty. The remaining ones are rented at reduced rates primarily for long term storage. 

Dern, the elf who runs the warehouse for the human owner, lives in one of the larger chambers with his wife and adult son, who serves as the warehouse's only guard. In most of Elftown, such a lightly guarded warehouse would be a ripe target for thieves and for the protection enforcers of the local boss. Not here, though. It's too close to the gate, which is always manned by a human guard contingent. Their proximity is enough to keep predators away. On the other side of the warehouse are the ruins of the abandoned and haunted Hall of Law, the old human administrative center for Elftown. No boss claims the area just inside the gate or near the ruins. Call it cowardice. Call it prudence. Call it an instinct for self-preservation, I don't care. All I know is that it means my little brewing operation is safe and I am generally left alone here.

I rent the smallest of spaces on the other end of the Lydia from Dern's chamber, barely wider than the door at three cubits across and five deep. It was originally intended to house either a laborer or guard and has a compact fireplace on the left rear corner for cooking, which I use for malting.

This room was the home of Nana Romina when I was a street rat. Her husband had been Dern's predecessor. When he died, Dern took over running the warehouse, and she moved to this room. She died when I was a young tough, and then I, with my big dreams of brewing and owning a tavern, rented the room to get my start.

I rented my other room when I started working for Jet. Jet wants to know where his enforcers are and I didn't want anyone to know about my little operation here. So I decided it was best, expensive as it is, to rent a second room closer to his place. That's where I live now. But this little place is home.