In broad daylight, Chickenman wove through the bustling crowd of Rovic's market square, the kettle helmet wobbling slightly with every step. The air was thick with overlapping scents, freshly baked bread, woodsmoke, roasting chestnuts, the sharp tang of iron from the smithy, and underneath it all, the warm, earthy perfume of spices that tugged at his nose like an invisible thread.

  "Spices, that must be it," he muttered, following the smell.

  The herb and spice trader's stall stood like a small colorful fortress amid the chaos, baskets and burlap sacks overflowing with dried roots, powdered leaves, curled bark, and strange knobby things Chickenman couldn't name. Bunches of herbs hung from the awning, swaying gently in the breeze.

  The trader himself a wiry man with white-bread skin and a neatly trimmed beard was deep in negotiation with another customer, gesturing grandly at a small jar of saffron threads that glowed like captured sunlight.

  Chickenman stepped closer. The trader glanced at him, took in the kettle helmet and sword, and offered a quick, respectful, "One moment, sir," before returning to his sale.

  Chickenman looked down at the display. Baskets of every shade of brown, yellow, red, and green stared back at him. He had no idea what ginseng looked like, let alone how to judge whether it was good, bad, fresh, dried, or worth the silver in his pouch.

  "Great," he muttered under his breath. "Spices. Smells exactly like Tobias's alchemy workroom. Which one is ginseng? The brown one? The yellow one? That one… looks like dried rat tails."

  He was still frowning at a particularly twisted root when the trader finally bowed to his previous customer, pressed both palms to his chest, and turned to Chickenman with a warm, practiced smile.

  "Blessings upon you, good sir. How may I serve?" He clearly thought Chickenman was some kind of guard, the tone was polite, almost deferential.

  Chickenman scratched his jaw, feeling every bit the fraud he was. "I… uh… which one is ginseng?"

  The trader's smile never faltered. He redirected Chickenman's attention to three separate baskets with a flourish. "These, good sir. Which would you prefer? Dried root from the cold hills of East-Hill, fresh from the warm southern plains, or the rare yellow variety shipped all the way from the far east? They know how to farm it despite the frost, truly remarkable."

  Chickenman stared. "Uh… which is the finest?"

  The trader beamed, already reaching for the yellow ginseng. "These three are all fine, but if you want the very best…" He lifted a handful of the pale yellow roots, holding them up so the light caught the delicate fibers. "This one. Twenty silver."

  "Twenty?" Chickenman muttered. He mentally counted the thirty-eight silver coins in his hand now he knew they were called groschen. Twenty would eat more than half. He looked up. "Which one is the… least finest?"

  The trader blinked, genuinely startled, then laughed a warm, rolling sound. "Least finest? My stall has no such thing! Everything here has it's own quality, its own virtue. But if your purse is feeling shy…" He gestured to a smaller basket of reddish roots. "These are milder good for everyday remedies. Half a silver each."

  Chickenman thought for a second. "Alright. I'll take four of the red ones."

  The trader nodded cheerfully, scooped four reddish ginseng roots into a small cloth warp around the ginseng, tied it neatly, and accepted the two silver Chickenman pressed into his palm. "Thank you, kind sir. Come again."

  Chickenman nodded, now holding four ginseng roots warp in cloth in his left hand and the remaining thirty-six silver in his right. He looked around the market, suddenly aware of how awkwardly he was carrying everything. "I need a bag… or a satchel. Like Tobias or Lucien."

  His eyes caught on a tailor's stall a short distance away bolts of cloth in every shade, finished garments hanging from the awning. He started toward it.

  Halfway there, he collided hard with someone.

  He stumbled, nearly dropping the ginseng, and turned to apologize.

  The witch stood before him.

  Gone was the lazy, amused smile from the wagon. Her expression was stern, almost angry, the wide-brimmed hat casting deep shadows across her luminous white face and obsidian-black hands. She met his eyes for only a heartbeat long enough for Chickenman to register something close to trouble then swept past without a word, dark dress trailing behind her like spilled ink.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Not two seconds later, three soldier in blue House of Geny surcoats pushed through the crowd in her wake, hands resting on sword hilts, shoulders squared, clearing a path with brusque authority.

  "What the hell…?" Chickenman muttered, watching them disappear into the throng. He shook his head. Learning from last time, it's better not to get involved. He had spices to carry and silver to spend.

  The tailor's stall was bright and orderly. The tailor himself a tall man in almost ostentatiously fine blue wool looked up from his stitching as Chickenman approached. He rose, straightening to his full height, the fabric of his doublet stretching smoothly across his shoulders.

  "Good day, sir. What can I do for you?" A slight bow, polite but appraising.

  "I want a satchel," Chickenman said, "and some clothes. Decent ones. At least better than… this." He gestured vaguely at his patched and travel-worn shirt.

  The tailor adjusted the spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, looking Chickenman up and down with open curiosity. "What are you, exactly? A guard? A homeless looter who found a nice helmet?"

  Chickenman blinked, taken aback. "What?"

  The tailor waved a hand, chuckling. "I'm only teasing. So, what material? I have wool, linen, hemp… even silk, if your purse is feeling generous." he said while gesture to line of cloth front of him.

  Chickenman glanced at the display bolts. "I… ahem… just want something decent. Better than what I've got." He said, a clear signal for something cheap.

  The tailor nodded, already reaching for a sturdy gray wool. "Wool it is. And from what I see…" He studied Chickenman again, deadpan. "You look like a man suffering from an identity crisis. You're wearing a guard's helmet and carrying a sword, but you don't move like one. You also look like you just stole those clothes off a corpse."

  Chickenman opened his mouth, closed it again. The tailor was uncomfortably accurate.

  "I'm only teasing," the tailor said again, smiling and chuckling. "Stand here. I need measurements."

  Chickenman set the ginseng carefully on the tailor's table, keeping the groschen clutched in his fist, and stepped onto the small wooden platform the tailor indicated.

  The man moved with practiced efficiency, measuring neck, chest, waist, hips, shoulders, sleeve length, writing each number neatly in a small ledger. The whole process reminded Chickenman of Tobias preparing potions slow, precise, almost ritualistic. When he finished, the tailor straightened. "And your name, sir? For the order book."

  Chickenman hesitated, slightly tremble. "Chickenman."

  The tailor looked up sharply. "Your name is… Chickenman?"

  "Yeah…"

  The tailor stared for a long second, then shook his head with a faint, disbelieving smile. "Very well. I hope it's an alias to keep you incognito. Come back in an hour or two your shirt, trousers, belt, and satchel will be ready. Wool trousers and shirt, sturdy belt, good leather satchel… it's twenty-three silver."

  Chickenman counted the coins in his hand. Twenty-three would leave him with thirteen barely enough for four phials if the price was what he feared. He thought. Then he looked up, "Can we… talk about the price?"

  The tailor sighed theatrically. "Fine. If it's lower than twenty, I'll make your clothes small enough for a toddler."

  "Can we do twenty?"

  Another sigh longer, more dramatic. "You drive a hard bargain, Chickenman. Twenty it is." He held out his palm.

  Chickenman, with a heavy heart, counted out the coins and placed them in the tailor's hand half his remaining fortune gone in a single transaction. "Thank you. I'll be back."

  He gathered the ginseng again, cradling the roots against his chest, and stepped back into the market. "Now… phials. What the hell is an apothecary?"

  He scanned the square again food stalls, armorers, weapon-sellers, cloth merchants but nothing obviously screamed "phials." He spotted another House of Geny soldier standing near a doorway, arms crossed, watching the crowd.

  Chickenman approached cautiously and slow. "Uh… God bless, sir?"

  The soldier turned, smiled faintly. "Forever and ever. What do you need? If your asking to join, you can follow the caravan head to Pradonburg."

  "I just wanted to ask… where's the apothecary?" Chickenman asked while looking around like a lost child.

  The soldier lifted his chin, pointing with one finger. "Straight that way. Keep going until you see the sign with the phial and mortar. You can't miss it if you've got working eyes."

  "Thank you…" Chickenman muttered, already walking away to where the soldier pointing at. "Why does everyone here make fun of me…?"

  He passed more people, more soldier, rows of houses, until finally he saw it, a wooden sign swinging gently above a doorway, painted with a stylized glass phial crossed by a mortar and pestle. "Finally," he breathed. "That took forever."

  He climbed the three steps, sighed, braced himself for another round of mockery, and pushed the door open. A sharp, heady wave of scent rolled over him perfume, dried herbs, spices, something faintly metallic. Chickenman coughed, eyes watering.

  A voice called from behind the counter. "Welcome! I'm Aldric, alchemist's apprentice. How may I help you?"

  Chickenman wiped his eyes and looked up.

  A young man in a white pointed hat and a red cloak stood behind the counter, smiling brightly. Shelves towered behind him, crowded with jars, bottles, dried bundles, and row upon row of ceramic phials in every size.

  Chickenman approached. "I need phials."

  Aldric nodded enthusiastically. "What size? Small? Medium? Large?"

  Chickenman glanced at the display. "How small does the small one look?"

  Aldric turned, reached up, and brought down a delicate round phial no bigger than his palm. "Like this."

  Chickenman shook his head. "What about medium?"

  Aldric fetched a larger one familiar in shape to the ones Tobias used. "This one."

  "That's… looks like the one," Chickenman said with relief.

  Aldric hesitated, scratching his chin. "Medium… I think it's one silver each. Maybe? Yes, i think so."

  Chickenman counted his remaining thirteen coins. Four phials would leave him nine. "I'll take four."

  Aldric beamed, gathered three more from the shelf, and set them carefully on the counter. Chickenman placed four groschen beside them.

  "Are you new around here?" Aldric asked as he wrapped the phials in soft cloth. "A traveler, perhaps? I've never seen you in the village before."

  Chickenman shook his head. "Not really. I live in the forest. With my… boss."

  Aldric's eyes lit up. "You live with your master? We're practically brothers! Let me guess, he sent you for phials too?" He leaned forward, suddenly animated. "I once had to go all the way to Humminburg for rare herbs. Have you been there yet? It's a proper town big and tall walls, way bigger than this village. Bigger market, better soldier equipment, I mean, this already a large village but—"

  Chickenman raised a hand. "Alright, alright, I get it. I have to be back at the tavern before sunset. Sorry to cut you off."

  Aldric chuckled, bowing with one hand to his chest. "No harm done. It's rare I meet a fellow apprentice. Please, come back anytime."

  "Thank you," Chickenman said, carefully gathering the wrapped phials. He had to cradle them against his chest with both arms to keep them from slipping.

  He stepped back into the sunlight, phials secure, ginseng tucked under one arm, and only nine groschen left in his hand. "Now… back to the tailor. Then the wagon."

  He started walking, moving slowly and deliberately through the crowd, every step calculated to keep the precious ceramic from breaking.

  One wrong move, and he'd be buying more phials. The market continued its noisy, colorful life around him oblivious to the small, determined figure in the kettle helmet who was trying very hard not to drop everything he carried.