XIII. Vivi Lark’s Answer

He was squinting at two nearly identical shirts when he stepped sideways and bumped into someone.

“Oh, sorry,” he said at once, turning. “I didn’t—”

He stopped.

A young woman stood beside a rack of event ribbons and bright oversashes, holding three folded pieces of fabric over one arm. She could not have been much older than Tobin, but she had the kind of presence that made age feel like the least important thing about her. Her hair was styled with careless perfection. Her clothes were practical enough for work, but arranged like the entire shop might become a stage if she found the right corner of light. She wore color as if color owed her rent.

Tobin knew her.

Not personally.

Of course not personally.

But he knew her face.

He had seen it on a poster at the wagon exchange station two towns back, smiling beneath curling letters that promised:

VIVI LARK’S PARTY AT THE MOAT MUSIC, LIGHTS, GAMES, AND NIGHT MARKET DELIGHTS

His mouth opened before his judgment could tackle it.

“Oh my gods,” Tobin said. “I know who you are.”

The young woman blinked, then smiled like she was trying not to enjoy that too much.

“You do?”

“You’re Vivi Lark.” He pointed, then immediately realized pointing was strange and lowered his hand. “I saw your picture. On a poster. The Party at the Moat. I can’t believe I’m meeting you on my first day here. My name is Tobin.”

Vivi laughed, bright and quick.

“Well, that is a much better introduction than most people manage after bumping into me.” She shifted the fabrics in her arms and gave him a little bow that was half performance, half joke. “It is nice to meet you, Tobin. What brings you to this part of the kingdom?”

“I got hired,” he said, still a little too fast. “At the Royal Waystation down the road. Assistant to the Waystation Attendants.”

Vivi’s smile remained for one more second.

Then something behind it changed.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Tobin felt his own smile falter.

“What?”

“Oh no.”

“What does oh no mean?”

Vivi pressed the folded fabric against her chest and looked toward the ceiling as if asking the beams for mercy.

“I forgot.”

Tobin’s stomach sank. “Forgot what?”

“Something very important.” Then she looked back at him, and her expression shifted again, the panic becoming theatrical determination. “But fate has a way of smiling on those who spread joy.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I found you before Serelle found me not finding you.”

That did not help.

Vivi stepped closer and lowered her voice, though not enough to suggest she actually cared who heard. “Tobin, I am Vivi Lark. Entertainment and Events Attendant at the Royal Waystation.”

Tobin stared at her.

“One of my bosses?”

“One of your five bosses,” she said, raising a finger. “And before you make that face, yes, I know. Five is too many. But Serelle told me I could be paid to throw parties, arrange games, plan guest entertainments, dress rooms for celebration, oversee rooftop evenings, manage musicians, argue with jugglers, and make rich people feel like they are spontaneous. It was the perfect job.”

“That does sound good, but.”

“It is good. Mostly. Except for the paperwork. And the guests who think ‘festive’ means ‘impossible by sunset.’ And this very strange tradition where the new Assistant to the Waystation Attendants gets sent all over the building looking for the Red Door Supply Closet.”

Tobin went still.

Vivi noticed.

“Oh,” she said softly. “They started already.”

Tobin felt several pieces of the day line up in a way he did not enjoy.

“The left-handed torches,” he said.

Vivi made a face.

“Yes. Those.”

Tobin stared at her.

“I knew there wasn’t any such thing as a left-handed torch.”

“Of course there isn’t.”

“I said that.”

“To Chef?”

“Yes.”

Vivi winced so hard it looked painful.

“Oh, Tobin.”

“The fire pit roared.”

“I imagine it did.”

“He asked if I believed his task was amusement.”

“That sounds like Chef.”

“And everyone kept telling me Red Door Supply Closet.”

“That also sounds like everyone.”

Tobin leaned against the clothing rack with one hand.

“I have been to the first floor, the wagon shed, the fourth floor, behind a garden shed, Guest Support, Vaelis’s office, and possibly through personal ruin.”

“On your first day?”

“Yes.”

Vivi looked impressed despite herself.

“You lasted longer than the last one.”

That was not the comfort she seemed to think it was.

“The last one?”

Vivi bit her lip.

Then she sighed.

“You are the fifth assistant this moon cycle.”

Tobin stared at her.

“The fifth.”

“Yes.”

“This moon cycle.”

“Yes.”

“And none of them made it past the first task?”

Vivi tilted her hand back and forth. “One made it to supper.”

“That is not past the task.”

“No,” she admitted. “But he did eat.”

Tobin turned away for a moment and looked at a wall of folded pants.

The shop seemed suddenly too warm.

A wild goose chase.

An initiation.

A test.

A joke.

Maybe all of them at once.

“You are telling me,” Tobin said carefully, “that the entire day has been some kind of old initiation ritual.”

“Weird old initiation ritual,” Vivi corrected. “Important distinction. I do not care for it.”

“That helps very little.”

“I know.”

He looked back at her. “So what do I do?”

Vivi shifted the fabrics to one arm and pointed toward a shelf beyond the work jackets.

“Find a torch.”

“A normal torch?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Give it to Chef Emberhand.”

“As a left-handed torch.”

“Yes.”

“He will know.”

“Of course he will know.”

“Then why would that work?”

Vivi smiled.

“Because the task is not to find a left-handed torch, Tobin. It is to stop running around long enough to decide what answer you are willing to stand behind.”

That sounded almost wise.

He hated that it sounded almost wise.

“So I lie to Chef Emberhand.”

“No. You present him with a torch held in your left hand and say, ‘Chef, I found your left-handed torch.’ If he asks why it is left-handed, you say, ‘Because I am holding it in my left hand.’”

Tobin blinked.

“That is what I said this morning.”

“Yes,” Vivi said. “But this time say it like someone who has survived the building.”

That sat in him differently.

Tobin looked toward the racks of clothing.

“I need uniform pieces.”

“Of course you do. Come on.”

She led him deeper into the back corner, where a small sign marked ROYAL WAYSTATION STAFF. The garments there were plainer than the bright event pieces, but better organized than anything else in the room. Pants in sturdy browns and blacks. Button shirts in cream and white. Overshirts and work jackets in dark practical cuts. A small row of red neck cloths hung beside them, though Tobin ignored those with the smug satisfaction of a man who had already discovered the lost and found.

“This is your section,” Vivi said. “Start with two undershirts if you can. One pair of pants at minimum, two if Silas has not frightened all generosity out of your pouch. Overshirt. Work jacket if you can manage it. And do not buy the stiff one unless you enjoy moving like a cupboard.”

Tobin touched one jacket and immediately put it back.

“Cupboard.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Vivi gave him a quick smile, and for a second she seemed less like the woman from the poster and more like another worker trying to keep the day from eating someone new.

“I hope I see you later, Tobin.”

“At the waystation?”

“Well, yes. But preferably not crying behind the linen carts.”

“I will try to avoid that.”

“Good.” She gathered her fabrics again and started away, then turned back. “And do not let Emberhand’s bullshit get to you too much.”

Tobin stared.

“I did not expect you to say that.”

“That is why I said it.” She flashed him one last grin. “Goodbye, Tobin.”

“Goodbye, Vivi.”

She disappeared between the racks with the easy brightness of someone who could leave a room and somehow make it feel like she had taken some of the music with her.

Tobin stood there a moment longer.

Then he picked out what he could afford.

Two button undershirts.

One pair of sturdy pants.

One overshirt.

A work jacket that did not make him move like a cupboard.

He hesitated over a second pair of pants, counted his coins, remembered Harlan’s invitation if he lasted a week, and put the pants back with hope.

Then, after thinking of Chef Emberhand, he added one plain torch from a nearby barrel marked HOUSEHOLD & TRAVEL TORCHES.

Just one.

Normal.

Right-handed, left-handed, and all other directions depending on grip.

He carried everything back to the center counter.

Bram looked up from his ledger as Tobin approached. His eyes moved over the stack of clothes, the torch, the red neck cloth, the green shoes, and Tobin’s face.

“Find everything all right?”

“Yes,” Tobin said. Then, after a second, “And more than I thought I would.”

Bram’s mouth curved.

“That happens here.”

Tobin set the items on the counter. “Thank you for the service.”

“Service is easy when customers gather the right piles.” Bram began sorting the items with practiced speed, marking each on a sheet as he went. “Two shirts. Pants. Overshirt. Work jacket. One torch.”

“A necessary torch.”

“I assumed it was not decorative.” Bram glanced up. “You have a neck cloth?”

Tobin held up the red one.

“Lost and Found.”

“Good. Belt?”

Tobin touched his own.

“Good enough for today.”

“Boots?”

Tobin looked down at the green shoes.

“Also Lost and Found.”

Bram leaned slightly over the counter to inspect them.

“Those are not work boots.”

“No.”

“They are good shoes.”

“Yes.”

“They fit?”

“Perfectly.”

Bram nodded as if that settled something private between him and the universe. “Then keep them for when you need to look slightly more respectable than you feel. You will still want boots eventually.”

“Eventually is likely after I earn more than one day’s allowance.”

Bram’s eyes sharpened with amusement.

“You are missing a few key pieces.”

“I know,” Tobin said. “I already had some, and I do not have the coin for everything new yet. Something came up.”

“Something.”

“Yes.”

Bram studied him.

Then he smirked.

“Someone’s cousin?”

Tobin froze.

Silas’s voice returned from earlier with awful clarity.

Not lending to a cousin with a plan.

Tobin narrowed his eyes. “Does everyone with a ledger know everything?”

“Only the useful things.” Bram finished writing, tore the receipt cleanly, and placed it on top of the folded clothes. “Good gear. Fair price. Honest measure. Give that receipt to Silas before he asks for it. It makes him less dramatic.”

“Silas is dramatic?”

“Not where anyone can prove it.”

Tobin took the wrapped bundle and receipt. “Thank you, Bram.”

“Welcome to the road, Tobin. And to the waystation.”

Tobin tucked the receipt safely away, balanced the clothes under one arm, held the torch in the other hand, and headed for the door.

The bell rang again as he stepped outside.

Evening had settled deeper over the road. The last of the sunlight clung to the upper windows of the Crown Road Waystation behind him, while ahead and just beyond the great building waited the Royal Waystation Staff House.

His living quarters.

Bed ten.

Half-width trunk space.

Shared peg.

Pillow issued if House Laundry had forgiven them.

Tobin adjusted his bundle and started down the road, past the waystation, toward the place where the staff slept when the building finally stopped asking things of them.

In his hand, the torch felt plain and ordinary.

That was the point, apparently.

Tomorrow, he would have to hand it to Chef Emberhand and see whether ordinary could survive being called left-handed.

For now, Tobin walked toward the Staff House in the deepening evening, carrying his first uniform, his first receipt, his first proper clue about life at the waystation, and one very normal torch.

XIV. The Crown Road Staff House

The Royal Waystation Staff House sat just beyond the main building, close enough to belong to it and far enough away to pretend it had its own mind.

It was smaller than the waystation, of course, but almost everything was smaller than the waystation. The staff house was still large by normal standards: three stories of timber and stone, warm windows, a practical roof, and a front door that looked as if it had seen every kind of exhausted worker lean against it. A narrow yard stretched to one side, with packed dirt, a few benches, a worn patch of grass, and space enough for games, arguments, laundry disputes, and whatever else staff did when guests were not watching.

Tobin stood outside for a moment with his bundle under one arm and the torch in his other hand.

His first day had begun with him standing outside a door, trying to convince his feet to carry him inside.

Apparently, that was the shape of his life now.

Go in.

You already survived the bigger one.

That does not make this one safe.

No, but it probably has fewer flying knives.

Probably.

He opened the door.

The inside of the staff house smelled of old wood, stew, boots, candle smoke, laundry soap, and people who had stopped pretending the day had not touched them. The entry hall was plain but busy, with hooks along one wall, a notice board covered in scraps of paper, and a long bench beneath it where someone had abandoned a pair of muddy work gloves with great confidence.

A man stood near the board, reading one of the notices with his hands clasped behind his back.

He turned before Tobin had made it three steps inside.

“You are Tobin.”

It was not quite a question.

The man was lean, middle-aged, and dressed in simple dark clothes that suggested authority without any desire to impress. His face carried a somber patience, as if he had long ago accepted that staff housing was mostly a matter of preventing adults from behaving like unsupervised children. His tone was firm, official, and somehow tired enough to prove he had been doing this longer than anyone deserved.

“Yes,” Tobin said. “That’s me.”

“Oren,” the man said. “Overseer of the Staff House.”

Tobin shifted his bundle and held out his hand, then realized Oren had not offered one. He lowered it with what he hoped looked like intention.

“Good to meet you.”

“I have been expecting you for some time now.” Oren looked him over. “Glad you showed up earlier rather than later.”

Tobin glanced toward a window, where evening had nearly finished settling.

“This is earlier?”

“For staff housing, yes.” Oren turned and motioned for him to follow. “Come.”

Tobin followed because by this point in the day, following authoritative people through doors had become less a choice and more a survival instinct.

Oren led him through a side door, down a short hall, and up a set of narrow stairs that creaked in specific places, as if warning new residents where not to sneak. As they walked, Oren began speaking in the same somber, measured tone.

“House rules are posted on the board inside the front hall. Read them. Pretend to remember them. Then read them again when someone else breaks one and you wonder why I am knocking on your bunk frame.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oren is fine. Sir makes people think I have more power than I do, and less patience than I have.”

Tobin nodded.

“There are two boards you need to know. House notice board inside. Job notice board outside by the yard gate. They are not the same board.”

“That seems important.”

“It is. The house board tells you what affects living here. Bed openings, meal notices, laundry issues, curfews, complaints, repairs, lost items, found items, and reminders that candles are not to be left burning near curtains no matter how romantic someone believes themselves to be.”

Tobin blinked.

“That needed a notice?”

“Twice.” Oren reached the top of the stairs and opened another door. “The job board outside is for extra work, shift calls, short labor needs, event setup, cleanup crews, and any department trying to borrow hands without starting a fight. Check both. Daily. The wrong board ignored at the wrong time can cost you sleep, coin, or standing.”

They entered a long room filled with bunk beds.

The room was not fancy, but it was not cruel either. Rows of bunks stood along both sides, each with a trunk at the foot, a peg or two nearby, and just enough space between them to suggest privacy had been considered and then rejected due to cost. Some bunks were neat. Some were not. A few had blankets rolled tight, others had shirts hanging from posts, boots tucked underneath, little charms tied to bed frames, a book left open face-down, a wooden cup, a spare sock, someone’s attempt at dignity.

Tobin held his bundle a little tighter.

Oren walked between the bunks without looking around, as if he could sense disorder through the floorboards.

“Rec yard is out back,” he continued. “Open for anyone to use when not on duty. Cards, dice, sparring, music, reading, sitting, shouting at the sky, throwing balls, throwing horseshoes, or whatever else people decide is fun after a day of being useful. It remains open as long as it remains safe.”

“And if it does not?”

“It closes.”

“For everyone?”

“For everyone.”

“That seems unpopular.”

“It is meant to be.”

Oren stopped at a set of bunks near the middle of the room and bent to open the trunk at the foot of one bed. He checked inside, closed it, then handed Tobin a small iron key.

“This trunk is yours. Keep it locked.”

Tobin took the key.

“Always?”

“Always.”

“Even when I am nearby?”

“Especially then. People steal less often from strangers than from familiar faces they believe will forgive them.”

Tobin looked down at the trunk.

That felt like the kind of sentence a man learned the hard way.

“Yes, Oren.”

Oren pointed to the adjacent bunk bed.

“Middle bunk. That one is yours.”

Tobin looked.

There were three stacked beds. The bottom looked closest to civilization. The top looked closest to death. The middle looked like compromise had been built in wood.

“Middle,” Tobin repeated.

“If beds open up, it will be listed on the house notice board. Seniority decides who gets first claim if more than one person wants the same opening. Do not argue seniority with me. I did not invent it, but I enjoy enforcing it.”

Tobin nodded.

Middle bunk.

Bed ten.

Trunk space half-width.

Peg shared.

It was real now in a way the bunk card had not been.

Oren glanced toward the bedding, then gave a short sigh.

“No pillows at the moment.”

Tobin looked at him.

“House Laundry has not forgiven us?”

Oren’s expression shifted by one almost invisible degree.

“So Records warned you.”

“Mabel did.”

“She would.” Oren folded his hands behind his back again. “There is an ongoing issue with the laundry workers. Until it is resolved, you may use folded clothing, rolled blanket, or poor choices.”

“I have experience with poor choices.”

“I suspected.”

Oren moved to the window and looked down toward the yard, where a few workers were gathering near a bench with bowls in hand.

“House meals are posted below, but the usual times are morning before first shifts, evening after main service, and late bowl for those kept past proper hours. If you miss a meal, you miss a meal unless your department sends word. Do not come to my office angry because your stomach failed to keep schedule.”

“Yes, Oren.”

Without warning, Oren turned and tossed a small sack at him.

Tobin caught it against his chest, barely keeping hold of his bundle and the torch.

“Food,” Oren said. “Enough for tonight. Bread, meat, apple, and whatever sweet thing Cook’s helper believed would keep new staff from looking tragic.”

Tobin looked into the sack.

There was, in fact, something sweet wrapped in cloth.

“Thank you.”

“If you need anything else, find me in my office. First floor. Door with the sign. If the sign says I am unavailable, I am unavailable. If the matter involves blood, fire, theft, structural collapse, or someone attempting to climb out a window for romantic reasons, knock anyway.”

Tobin stared.

“Again?”

Oren’s face did not change.

“Different person.”

Then he turned and left the room.

No farewell. No lingering. No wasted motion.

The door closed behind him.

Tobin stood alone beside his bunk with his bundle, his torch, his food sack, his key, his thoughts, and the growing suspicion that every person in authority at the Crown Road Waystation had been trained to walk away before he finished processing what had happened.

XV. The Middle Bunk

Slowly, he set the torch on the trunk.

Then he climbed into the middle bunk.

It took more effort than he expected and less dignity than he hoped. The bed creaked under him, then accepted his weight with a tired groan. Tobin sat with his back against the wall, opened the food sack, and pulled out the bread.

For a while, he ate without thinking.

That was nice.

Bread did not ask him questions. Meat did not send him to another floor. The apple did not require a receipt. The sweet thing, which turned out to be a little honey cake, did not care whether he knew where the Red Door Supply Closet was.

But the quiet did not last.

Once his hands were still and his mouth had something to do, his mind returned to the day and began laying pieces on the table.

Chef Emberhand had started it.

The left-handed torches.

The Red Door Supply Closet.

Then the server had sent him to the first floor.

Maribel to the wagon shed.

Rowan to the fourth floor.

Edrin had agreed.

Vaelis had been annoyed by the whole thing.

And Vivi had told him the truth.

Or part of it.

Tobin chewed slowly.

Was everyone in on it?

Serelle?

She had known he was new. She had handed him through the building like a letter being passed to each department. Had she known Chef would send him after a fake torch? Had she expected it? Had she allowed it because that was simply what happened to new assistants?

Silas?

No. Silas had seemed too concerned with coins to care about torches. Unless the whole thing had a line in a ledger somewhere.

New Assistant Initiation: one torch, several hours, no refund.

Tobin snorted softly around a bite of apple.

But the attendants were in on it.

At least some of them.

Maribel had smiled too kindly.

Rowan had looked too amused.

Edrin had given the answer too easily.

Vivi had known the tradition and hated it.

Vaelis…

Tobin paused.

Vaelis had said she.

He sat up a little straighter in the bunk, nearly knocking his head against the slats above him.

“That’s what they meant,” he whispered.

The Red Door Supply Closet.

She.

Vivi.

Vaelis had not meant a closet.

They had meant Vivi.

Vaelis had been supposed to send him to Vivi.

Or maybe everyone had been supposed to pass him from attendant to attendant until he reached the one who would finally explain the ritual. Chef to the staff. Staff to Maribel. Maribel to Rowan. Rowan to Edrin. Edrin to Vaelis. Vaelis to Vivi.

But Vaelis had been annoyed and busy and had not played their part the way the others had.

And Tobin, by pure accident, had found Vivi anyway.

He sat there in the middle bunk, holding the last piece of bread, and let that settle.

It was not just a prank.

Not exactly.

It was a path.

A ridiculous, humiliating, badly explained path designed to drag the new assistant through the departments and see if he could survive being confused, corrected, teased, and redirected without quitting.

Five assistants this moon cycle.

None had made it past the first task.

Tobin looked down at the torch resting on his trunk.

Tomorrow.

That was the real question now.

What did he do tomorrow?

He could walk into Chef Emberhand’s kitchen, hand him the torch, and say the line Vivi had given him.

Chef, I found your left-handed torch.

If Chef asked why it was left-handed, Tobin could say, Because I am holding it in my left hand.

Simple. Clean. Smart.

Or he could do something else.

He could tell Chef he had looked all over the waystation and could not find one, so he went to town and purchased a left-handed torch special from a traveling merchant. Just for him. A proper answer dressed as obedience. A small polite jab wrapped in helpfulness.

That tempted him.

More than it should.

Or he could tell the truth.

That he knew it was a lie. That the torch did not exist. That the Red Door Supply Closet was not a closet. That they had all sent him wandering for their own amusement, or tradition, or training, or whatever name people gave cruelty when they wanted it to sound useful.

He imagined saying that to Chef Emberhand.

He imagined the fire pit.

He imagined his eyebrows leaving his face forever.

No.

Not that.

Not yet.

Tobin leaned his head back against the wall and stared across the bunk room. A few other staff had drifted in while he ate. Someone was whispering near the far end. Someone else unlaced boots with a sigh that sounded older than they were. A trunk lid closed. A blanket rustled. The staff house settled around him, full of strangers who already knew how to belong here better than he did.

His first day had been a joke he did not understand until nearly the end.

Fine.

Let it be a joke.

He was still here.

He had not quit.

He had not run back down the road.

He had not been flattened by a wagon, stabbed by flying knives, corrected to death by Vaelis, financially destroyed by Silas, or fully swallowed by the Chamber Pot Return.

He had a bunk.

He had a trunk.

He had a uniform.

He had a receipt.

He had a torch.

And tomorrow, he would return to Chef Emberhand.

Tobin felt something inside him settle. Not confidence, exactly. Confidence was too clean a word for it. This was rougher. Stubbornness with sore feet. Pride with bruised edges. A small, ugly little ember that refused to go out simply because the room had gotten dark.

They could laugh if they wanted.

They could test him.

They could send him through every hall, stair, yard, shed, shimmer, office, and foul-smelling exit in the building.

He had been hired to do a job.

He was going to do it.

Tobin climbed down from the bunk and opened the trunk. He placed his folded clothes inside carefully, then the receipt, then the red neck cloth. He hesitated over the torch before setting it on top where he could reach it in the morning.

The green shoes he left by the trunk, lined up neatly, because Vaelis had apparently entered his mind and begun judging corners from within.

He closed the trunk and locked it.

Then he climbed back into the middle bunk, tucked the key beneath the folded bundle of clothes he was using as a pillow, and settled onto his side.

Folded clothing was not a pillow.

Mabel had been right about that.

Still, it would do.

For one breath, Tobin lay awake listening to the staff house: floorboards creaking, voices murmuring, someone laughing softly below, the far-off clatter of dishes, the road quieting beyond the windows.

Tomorrow, he would decide exactly what to say.

Tomorrow, he would face Chef Emberhand.

Tomorrow, he would learn whether a normal torch could become left-handed through courage, sarcasm, or technicality.

But that was tomorrow.

Tonight, Tobin closed his eyes.

And for the first time since he had seen the Crown Road Waystation rising over the road that morning, no voice inside him told him to run.

HASH & DAGGER

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