We didn't camp at the site of the ambush. No matter how comfortable I might have been on a battlefield when Lyana was alive, the thought of sleeping next to the dead made me sick. I used to practically bathe in blood, but since my time at the inn, only a wall away from Ana and Lucian's fragile snoring bodies, I couldn't stomach it. I didn't even bother to ask Eskir how he felt, though I'm sure he would have said the same.

His murderous "friends" buried and his meditation site thoroughly vandalised, he signalled that he was ready to leave.

"Why take the trouble to destroy it?" I asked. "Why not leave it for the forest, or someone else who shares your path?"

He shook his head, a dejected look barely present in his eyes. But he didn't speak.

The day was already nearing its end by the time we set out. We wouldn't ride in the dark, and the days were still short in the spring, but the horses would at least take us away from the site of the ambush.

We arrived in the evening of the next day. Immediately, the crowds made me miss Ana. She would have moved through them like a dancer surrounded by a shower of falling cherry blossoms, never touching any of them and maintaining such grace that they seemed to flow with her. She always seemed so at home in a a crowd like this.

It made me wonder why she chose our inn, less crowded and more quaint than seemed to suit her.

Probably for the same reason as I had come to stay there. It was home.

But this place was densely packed, far more than our inn at the crossroads ever saw outside of peak seasons. And it was still spring, with soft mud and remnants of snow outside. A better time to travel than winter, but still weeks too early for ideal circumstances.

I handed the innkeep, a stubby sort of man with greasy hair, a few pieces to spend the night. Then, Eskir dragged me to huddle over the serving counter of the restaurant.

"Ah, beer if you please!" said Eskir.

"Alehouse is that way," said the server curtly, but barely lifted his finger to point. Eskir turned around, confused.

"Outside, through those doors," I told him. "They only serve the good stuff in here."

"The good stuff?" he sputtered in outrage. "I asked for beer!"

"Exactly," I snickered.

"Now listen here," he started, "we weren't all raised in a palace with the fancy folk. I want beer! What is this, some sort of class discrimination?"

"Yes," said the server with a gruff laugh. He wore a shoddy black coat and ruffled cotton pants. He didn't look like much, but the Lakeside wasn't a place for looks. It was an inn for the wealthier, but not quite noble side of the population, notably higher end merchants and Kindred.

This man was not Kindred, but I caught a flash in his eyes that said he was something. A sorcerer, perhaps?

The doors to the inn popped as they hit the wall, and I could tell by the shingles that the regulars here liked to swing them hard. The doors needed replacing. I wouldn't have tolerated that sort of behaviour in the tavern at the crossroads, but this was Lakeside. If anything, it brought a small smile to my lips.

The server didn't react to the doors.

I enjoyed the rivalry, even if I happened to be the only one who ever thought about it.

Well, that's not entirely true. Lucian first mentioned Lakeside to me with a sneer. Look at him, not me. It's all Lucian's fault that I relished the subtle damage to their veneer.

Two Kindred walked in, neither of them particularly remarkable.

"Look," I whispered to Eskir, nodding at them. "They're heading to Merity Point. See the gold dragon emblem on their pauldrons? And they're dressed in full armour as they travel. They're even taking the time to walk rather than run."

"I want a beer," he complained.

"Merity Point," I repeated. "The two of them might be able to build their own inn if they survive the season and pool the earnings. That's the sort of clientele Lakeside gets, and you want a beer."

"Eisbock," he said wistfully. "Eisbock like they had at Lucky Lake. Lucky Lake the city I mean, not the villages around the lake. Or a rauchbier, but one of the really strong, smokey ones."

"You're not getting drunk," I chided.

"I am most certainly getting drunk," he insisted. "Yesterday, I watched you save my life by murdering my friends. And you think I'm staying sober?"

"Ahhaha, keep your voice—" I whalloped him in the gut, "—down."

Eskir heaved out the air from his lungs with a huff. "What's the issue?" he wheezed over my fist. "There's about a dozen wars on across the country. Nobody's going to be surprised at a Kindred doing some tiny violence."

"Shut up," I ordered. "We don't know who's listening." I dropped into a whisper and held his ear to my mouth. "Or would you like a third attempt on your life?"

He scowled at me, but eased off, and slumped over to the counter of the restaurant, still holding his stomach. I may have hit him a bit harder than expected. There would likely be a large bruise there by morning.

"Get me a fucking drink," he demanded.

The server glared at him.

"Fine, not beer! Cider, wine, whatever you have. Just get me something with alcohol."

"Would you like to see a list of our collection," asked the server with an annoyed curl to his lip, "or shall I close my eyes and pick at random?"

"You know what?" Eskir laughed. "The eyes closed one sounds good. Yeah, do that. Make sure to spin around three times first, so you get all nice and dizzy and don't remember where anything is."

The server scowled and stomped over to a large rack of bottles. It was carved from a deep red wood, probably stained oak, and sat over four massive barrel kegs. It wasn't a particularly large rack, but the guests of the restaurant likely didn't drink themselves to quite the same extent as Eskir was planning to.

The server picked up a dark, unlabelled bottle of what may have been a reserva, or possibly cognac. It wasn't wine. The edges of the bottle were square. It couldn't have been whiskey, but that didn't seem quite right. Despite the smokey brown colour of the bottle, I could make out a reddish tint from the liquid inside.

The colour was confirmed when he poured a long, thin stream of dark red liquid into a glass stout mug.

Eskir eagerly brought it to his lips and drank faster than he likely ought to. His lips formed into a look of disgust and alcohol dribbled from his open jaw. "Egh!" he spat. "What is this?"

"Wine," smiled the server. "You asked for something random."

"It tastes like feet."

"Kidney beans," he said. "I've been trying to find someone willing to drink it. That'll be three avens for the bottle."

"THREE AVENS?" he yelped, spitting out what little liquid he still had in his mouth. Without missing a beat, he instinctively grabbed the mug with his other hand to stabilise it, making sure it didn't spill. "What am I, made of money?"

"That bottle has been aged for eight years," said the server. "You're getting it at a startling discount."

"Why am I buying the entire bottle?! Why has it been ageing for EIGHT YEARS?"

"That's what you agreed to," he cackled. "You said to pick at random. This bottle is only sold by the bottle. As for the age... well, I suppose I just haven't been able to find anyone willing to buy it in all that time."

"You're a demon."

"I hear that sentiment quite a bit when dealing with customers who like beer."

"Oh," seethed Eskir, "I can imagine."

"I suspect it's your... composition. Mostly water."

I couldn't help myself from laughing. I handed the server the three avens, and a lettercoin as a tip. "Thank you, this was... this has been engaging," I said. "Come on Eskir, drink up. Don't waste the bottle. Hang on, we should get a stopper, just in case you want to save some for later."

The server produced one from his pocket. "On the house," he grinned.

Eskir was nearly in tears from the taste lingering on his tongue. I wasn't tempted.

"There has to be more to this than kidney beans," he sobbed.

"Red kidney beans!" said the server. "That, and I believe some dried autumn leaves shovelled off the ground. Oh, and some citrus for nutrients. This was made by a clever little fellow from Lucky Lake."

Eskir paled. "My own country betrayed me."

"Yes, citrus, leaves, beans. Oh, but he sprouted the beans, boiled them, chewed them, and spat them into a pot. He boiled the leaves too and added some sugar. Nectar, I believe, though I'm not sure from which plant. Not very much of it though, just enough to get the fermentation started. He had a name for the bottle, I think it was Mistake."

Eskir gagged, choking on the memory of the taste of the wine. "You handed me a bottle named Mistake?"

"Oh no, don't be ridiculous. See? The label's worn off. No, it used to be called Mistake. I don't think it's called anything now. Bit of a fun technicality there for you."

"Burn in hell."

"Oh, I intend to follow you straight down."

"Why?! Why would you do this to me?"

"You wanted beer. I told you where to find it. It's in the alehouse. You didn't want to listen. So I gave you the closest thing I have."

Eskir lunged at the server. I grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing my companion to keel over in pain. He was still trying to wipe his tongue against his teeth.

I braced his body against my knee to keep him from collapsing to the ground.

"Thanks for the wine," I said, waving the server away. He left with a light giggle on his lips.

"Xera, just do it," said Eskir. "Kill me now. I don't want to taste this anymore. It's not going away. It's just going to sit there forever."

"You'll be fine," I said. "Oh, server?" I called over another one, this time a young woman. "I'd like to order some drinks. For the man pressed into my knee, he'll take a hot-brewed vanilla nutmeg cider and rum. For me, an orc's sunrise."

The cider and rum was good, in my experience, at washing away taste. It had a habit of leaving a cinnamon-like craving in the mouths of the people who drank it, encouraging them to keep drinking for as long as we wanted them to.

The orc's sunrise was a favourite of mine. Lime and juniper mead poured over a fire-touched, half-grated orange rind, with just a dash of peppercorn syrup. We rarely served it at the tavern, as none of the ingredients were in hot demand by passing merchants.

But Lakeside was more upper class, a resting spot merging a three-way intersection leading between Senvia, Bell Haven, and the northern road to the foothills, which connected as well to the main road linking Bell Haven and the hollow point where Senvia had been. There were enough nobles here to warrant it, even though the drink itself was fairly inexpensive if the ingredients were held on-hand.

A different server passed us the drinks. Mine, a ceramic mug with a long handle that reminded me of an old milk pot, and his, a stout wooden mazer with steam coming out the top. I propped Eskir back up on a stool and left him with his cider and rum. He shot me a foul glance, then gave the bean wine server a side-eye before bringing the drink to his lips.

"L'chaim," he said over the rim of the mazer. There was a faint glint of hope in his eyes, for what I assumed was anything different from what was already in his mouth. He tilted the mazer back, and the relief that fell over him was palpable.

I laughed, and looked back around the room. I was rarely given the chance to be this aloof with security before Senvia vanished, and I now felt very much at home in this atmosphere, but I had to remember our circumstance. Twice now, Eskir had nearly died. I wanted to capture the next person who attempted to kill him. An interrogation could yield more results than Eskir's lack of a voice.