X. A Trap Wearing a Pattern

Tobin stood outside Vaelis’ office with one hand still near the door handle, afraid for a moment that he had closed it wrong.

He waited half a breath to see if the door would open again and Vaelis would correct him on hinge etiquette. It did not. That should have helped.

It did not.

Left-handed torches.

Red Door Supply Closet.

She.

The hallway stretched quiet around him, smelling of clean linen, beeswax, baked bread, and dried flowers. Somewhere behind one of the open chamber doors, a maid snapped a sheet with the crisp violence of someone who had recently been told a fold could have moral failings. Down the hall, the service stair waited.

Tobin started toward it.

You cannot screw this up.

The thought arrived sharp and urgent.

You are already screwing this up.

He kept walking.

No. He was doing the task. Maybe poorly. Maybe with more questions than progress. But doing a thing badly was not the same as failing. Not yet.

You are going to screw this up.

His hand tightened around the strap of his satchel.

Why are you like this?

That one landed harder than the others.

Tobin stopped beside a narrow window near the end of the hall and looked out before his own thoughts could dig any deeper. The view faced toward the road and the broad shape of the land beyond the waystation. The sun had dropped low, turning the sky gold at the edges and setting long shadows across the yards, sheds, wagons, and roofs below. The day was not over, but it was leaning that way.

Almost supper.

Almost evening.

Almost the end of his first day, and he still had no torches, no answer, and no idea whether he was being trained, tested, or passed from one amused superior to another like a bad message.

He looked down at his boots, then remembered the coin pouch at his belt.

The Packed Mule.

Silas had told him to go there if he wanted receipts that would survive being handed back to the Crown. A proper shop down the road, stocked with everything a new worker might need to look less like he had been hired by accident. Uniform pieces. Work tools. Maybe boots. Maybe whatever counted as “required items,” since no one had yet told him what those were, only that he was expected to purchase them correctly.

And since the sun was lowering, he had better go before the place closed.

Besides, if he could not find the damned left-handed torches, he could at least return tomorrow dressed like someone who belonged badly instead of someone who did not belong at all.

Then he remembered Harlan.

More accurately, he remembered the coin he had given Harlan.

The coin he was supposed to account for.

The coin that had become a joint, a hidden shed, a few deep breaths, and the best part of his first day by such a wide distance that it hardly seemed fair to compare it with the rest.

Worth it.

Still.

Silas wanted receipts.

Harlan had said the neck cloth only cost a coin at the shop, but also that a person could sometimes find one free in Lost and Found behind Maribel’s office if they knew how to ask. Tobin did not know how to ask, exactly, but he had been wandering the waystation all day asking questions badly. One more could not ruin the pattern.

Probably.

XI. Lost and Found

He took the service stairs down.

The first-floor hall received him with the familiar damp breath of soap, lye, old stone, and all the unpleasant things that polite guests believed vanished by magic. Tobin moved past the work corridor, keeping his eyes forward and his breathing careful, and found the side door that opened into the Guest Support Station.

He poked his head in first.

The station was quieter now. The earlier swarm of guests had thinned to nothing, leaving the counter, the shelves, the Lost and Found alcove, and a single receptionist behind the desk. Not Maribel. Someone younger than Maribel but older than Nessa, with her sleeves rolled and her hair pinned badly enough to suggest the day had been winning.

She looked up.

“Yes?”

Tobin stepped in slowly, trying to look harmless and staff-like at the same time. He suspected he achieved neither.

“Hello. I’m Tobin. First day. Assistant to the Waystation Attendants.”

The receptionist’s mouth twitched.

“First day explains a lot.”

“Does it show?”

“Only everywhere.”

“Right.” Tobin cleared his throat. “I was hoping you could help me. I was told Lost and Found might have spare neck cloths. Red, if possible. I need one for uniform, and I am trying very hard not to make Silas appear in my future holding a ledger.”

The receptionist giggled, light and quick.

“That is wise.”

She pointed behind herself toward a low shelf beneath the Lost and Found alcove, then bent out of sight and came back up with a wooden bin so full of random treasures and forgotten relics that Tobin immediately understood why Maribel had a whole station for guest problems.

The receptionist set it on the counter with a thump.

“Freshest bin. If it bites, tell me before you bleed on the counter.”

“Has that happened?”

“Not to me.”

Again, not comforting.

Tobin began sorting.

The bin contained three gloves that did not match each other, a cracked comb, two ribbons, a dull brass button, a child’s carved horse, a little bottle labeled only For Throat, six neck cloths in colors no uniform should be forced to accept, a tin whistle, a spoon, a folded letter with no name on it, and something wrapped in blue cloth that hummed faintly until Tobin decided not to touch it.

Then he saw red.

He pulled the neck cloth free and lifted it into the air like a captured banner.

Victory.

Actual victory.

Small, possibly stolen-adjacent victory, but victory all the same.

The receptionist laughed.

“Need me to mark that claimed?”

“Yes, please. Properly. With whatever records make Silas least likely to know my name more than he already does.”

“Smart boy.”

Tobin smiled down at the red neck cloth, then glanced back into the bin.

That was when he saw the shoes.

Dark green dress shoes, half-hidden beneath a folded scarf and a traveler’s cap. Not bright green. Not ridiculous green. A deep, rich green, like shaded leaves after rain. His favorite color.

He pulled them out.

They were scuffed at the toes, but good leather. Better than anything he owned. Tobin looked at the receptionist.

“Are shoes also claimable?”

“If they’ve been in the bin more than thirty days and no one can describe them better than ‘my shoes,’ yes.”

“Have these?”

She leaned over, checked a small tag tied through one lace, and nodded.

“Forty-two.”

That seemed like permission from the universe.

Tobin slipped one on.

Then the other.

They fit.

They fit perfectly.

For one glorious moment, Tobin almost jumped where he stood. He caught himself because there was a receptionist watching, and because jumping in borrowed shoes from Lost and Found felt like the sort of thing that turned joy into injury.

“They fit,” he said.

“I can see that.”

“They fit exactly.”

“That does happen with shoes.”

“No, but—” Tobin looked down at them again. “They’re green.”

“Yes.”

“Dark green.”

“I had noticed.”

“My favorite color.”

The receptionist smiled, softer this time. “Then I suppose they were waiting for you.”

Tobin wanted to say something clever. Nothing arrived. So he simply nodded.

“Thank you.”

The receptionist marked both items in a little ledger and waved him off before he could ask whether Silas accepted Lost and Found as a receipt. Tobin decided not to ask. Some questions were best saved until they became someone else’s problem.

He stepped back through the side door into the service hallway with a red neck cloth in hand and dark green shoes on his feet.

The day had not been a success.

But it had produced shoes.

That counted for something.

He turned toward the rear exit, then paused.

A porter passed ahead of him, carrying a bundle of rolled mats, and disappeared through what looked very much like a dead end.

Tobin stopped.

The wall was plain stone. No door. No handle. No sign. But the porter had stepped out from it. Tobin was sure.

A shimmer.

It had to be.

And if it was a shimmer, it might lead outside near the staff entrance. Maybe not the exact staff entrance he wanted, but outside was outside, and outside meant road, and road meant The Packed Mule.

For once, Tobin decided not to overthink it.

Confidence rose in him, small but real.

He had walked through shimmer doors before. Twice. Almost gracefully the second time.

He walked toward the wall.

Straightened his shoulders.

Did not slow.

And crashed face-first into solid stone.

The sound was not dignified.

Neither was the way he bounced back, tripped over his own newly acquired green shoes, and landed hard on the floor.

For a moment, he lay there staring up at the ceiling.

The ceiling offered no explanation.

“Of course,” Tobin said.

He sat up slowly, pressing one hand to his nose and the other to the floor. Nothing broken. Pride damaged beyond repair, but he was beginning to suspect pride did not survive long at the Crown Road Waystation anyway.

He looked around.

No porter.

No shimmer.

No door.

Just a wall that had apparently decided Tobin was exactly the sort of person walls were built to stop.

“Where did he come from?” Tobin muttered.

A distant voice somewhere around a corner called, “You all right?”

“Yes,” Tobin called back immediately. “Wall inspection.”

No answer.

That was probably for the best.

He pushed himself to his feet, brushed dust from his clothes, adjusted the red neck cloth under one arm, and looked for another way out.

The nearest available exit was the one he least wanted.

Through the Chamber Pot Return.

Tobin stared toward it.

No.

Absolutely not.

He looked back at the wall.

The wall remained a wall.

Tobin sighed.

“Fine.”

He went through the Chamber Pot Return holding his nose the entire time.

The passage was tiled, drained, practical, and offensive in ways that felt personal. Even with most of the day’s work done, even with soap and water and whatever powders the staff used to convince the air not to quit, the place still smelled like every guest in the waystation had joined together to make a point. Tobin hurried through, shoes clicking against damp stone, one hand pinching his nose, the other holding his neck cloth and dry goods as far from the room as possible.

“I will learn this place,” he muttered through blocked nostrils. “Every hall. Every stair. Every false wall. Every cursed shimmer door. I will know it all.”

A bucket sat near the exit, looking smug.

“And I will never use this way again unless death is behind me and even then I may compare options.”

He pushed out through the side exit and into open air.

The evening hit him cool and wide. After the chamber pot passage, even the service yard smelled like freedom. Horse dung, hay, wagon grease, road dust — all of it felt practically floral by comparison.

Tobin started toward the road.

Near the garden side, he spotted a figure by the shed and lifted a hand.

“Harlan?”

The figure turned.

It was not Harlan.

It was another worker entirely, holding a rake and staring at Tobin with the blank caution of a man who had just been waved at by a stranger emerging from the chamber pot exit wearing green shoes and carrying a red neck cloth.

The worker did not wave back.

Tobin lowered his hand.

“Not Harlan,” he said, and immediately began walking faster.

He reached the road, turned away from the waystation, and headed down toward The Packed Mule.

Behind him, the Crown Road Waystation rose in the low sun, huge and bright and impossible, every window catching gold as if the building had not spent the day swallowing him whole and sending him back out by way of filth.

Tobin walked with purpose.

Or something close enough to it.

The left-handed torches could wait a little longer. The Red Door Supply Closet, whoever or whatever she was, could keep hiding. For now, he needed uniform pieces, tools, receipts, and possibly a better understanding of walls.

Tomorrow would bring whatever tomorrow brought.

Tonight, he was going to buy what he needed, account for what he could, and try not to think too hard about the fact that he still had to return to Chef Emberhand empty-handed.

He glanced down at the dark green shoes.

At least one part of the day fit.

XII. The Packed Mule

The road to The Packed Mule was not long, which was fortunate because Tobin spent most of it inside his own head and very little of it paying attention to where his feet were going.

The Crown Road Waystation stayed behind him like a mountain with windows. Even when he did not look back, he felt it there: bright in the low sun, full of stairways, false walls, sharp-eyed attendants, hidden halls, and at least one supply closet that had been referred to as she.

She.

Why had Vaelis said that?

And why had everyone said Red Door Supply Closet like it was a place, except no one seemed to agree where that place was?

First floor.

Wagon shed.

Fourth floor.

Behind.

Beside.

Ask someone else.

Go there.

Not there.

The more Tobin thought about it, the more the whole thing felt less like a task and more like being dropped into a barrel and rolled downhill by committee.

You should have known.

No. He could not have known.

You did know. Left-handed torch? Really?

He frowned at the road.

All torches were left-handed if a person held them in the left hand. That had been his first thought. His correct thought. His thought before Chef Emberhand had made the fire pit sound offended on behalf of the entire culinary profession.

Maybe the trick was not finding the torch.

Maybe the trick was surviving everyone’s confidence while they sent him after it.

Or maybe he was just thinking too much because the day had been long, his feet were sore, and Harlan’s joint still had the edges of the world wrapped in soft cloth.

He nearly walked past The Packed Mule.

A painted wooden sign creaked above a broad shopfront, showing a stubborn little mule loaded with packs, bundles, rope, pans, and what looked like half a household. Beneath it, in neat lettering, were the words:

THE PACKED MULE GENERAL SUPPLIES FOR THE ROAD AHEAD

Warm lamplight spilled through the windows. Shelves crowded the glass from within, stacked with cloth, tools, boots, coils of rope, jars, tin cups, blankets, lanterns, soap, and enough practical objects to make Tobin feel underprepared just by looking at them.

He pushed open the front door.

A bell above it gave a clear, cheerful ring.

Tobin barely heard it. His mind was still caught halfway between Chef’s fire, Vaelis’s reflective eyes, and the question of whether a supply closet could be female, alive, or both.

“Hello, young sir. How may I help you today?”

The voice cut through his thoughts at once.

It was loud enough to fill the shop, present enough to command it, and sincere enough that Tobin did not feel accused by the volume.

He looked up.

A man stood behind the center counter with one hand resting beside an open ledger and the other holding a narrow marking pencil. He was middle-aged, sturdy, and neatly put together in the way of someone who worked with both hands and numbers. Warm brown skin, dark wavy hair threaded with gray, and a trimmed beard gave his assessing expression a kind of practiced patience. He wore a white shirt beneath a green vest with patterned trim, an apron tied at the waist, and enough keys, tags, pouches, and measuring cords hanging from his belt to suggest there was not a drawer, crate, lockbox, shelf, or customer excuse in the shop that he had not personally dealt with before.

Behind him, shelves rose in crowded layers: rope and line, travel gear, tools and repairs, folded cloth, stacked boots, soap, dried rations, lantern oil, small blades, blankets, buttons, buckles, and a dozen other things Tobin suddenly suspected he needed.

“Oh,” Tobin said. “Hello. Sorry. I’m Tobin. New worker at the Royal Waystation down the road.”

The man’s expression brightened with recognition.

“Ah. That explains the look.”

Tobin looked down at himself. “Which look?”

“The first-day look.” The man set down the pencil and came around the counter with a merchant’s ease. “Half dust, half panic, trying to appear employed.”

“That is very specific.”

“It is a very specific road.” He offered a hand. “Bram Kettlewick. Manager of The Packed Mule.”

Tobin shook his hand. Bram’s grip was warm, firm, and brief. A proper shopkeeper’s grip. Enough to greet, not enough to waste time.

“Good to meet you, sir.”

“Bram will do unless a tax collector is present.” Bram looked him over again, not rudely, but thoroughly. His eyes paused on the red neck cloth under Tobin’s arm, the green shoes on his feet, and the satchel at his side. “You must be here for the rest of your uniform, then.”

“Yes. I think so. I need… several things. Probably more than I know.”

“That is also the first-day look.” Bram pointed toward the back of the shop. “West room. Clothing and garments. Royal Waystation section is in the far corner. Should have what you need to look official enough for people to start blaming you for things. Pants, button shirts, overshirts, work jackets, spare neck cloths, belts if your current one has suffered from optimism.”

Tobin glanced toward the direction Bram pointed.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome to the area, Tobin. Let me know if you need help finding anything else. Bring it up when you are done, and I will make sure Silas gets the sort of receipt that lets him sleep at night.”

Tobin stopped.

“You know Silas?”

Bram smiled.

“Everyone with a ledger knows Silas.”

Tobin thanked him again and made his way through the shop.

The Packed Mule was larger inside than it looked from the road, or maybe it only felt that way because every inch of it had been filled with useful things. Shelves leaned close on both sides. Barrels sat under tables. Hooks hung from beams. Signs marked sections in tidy lettering: TRAVEL GEAR, TOOLS & REPAIRS, DRIED RATIONS, BOOTS, LANTERNS, CLOTHING, SOAP, ODDS & ENDS, and one small shelf labeled THINGS PEOPLE FORGET THEY NEED UNTIL THEY NEED THEM.

Tobin passed that one twice as slowly.

His list was short because his knowledge was short.

Pants.

Button-up undershirt.

Overshirt.

Maybe a work jacket if coin allowed.

Maybe socks.

The west room was near the back, beyond a rack of walking sticks and a stack of folded blankets. The smell changed there from oil, rope, and dry goods to cloth, leather, cedar chips, and old wool. Shirts hung from pegs. Pants were folded in stacks. Jackets lined a wall by size, color, and purpose. Tobin saw three different shades of brown that looked identical until he stepped closer, at which point they became a moral puzzle.

He began looking for anything that matched what he had seen on the staff that day.

Royal red neck cloth.

Practical pants.

Button shirt.

Overshirt or jacket with room to move.

Clean, but not fine.

Official, but not expensive.