After the Name
The Jovial Juggler was still awake when I decided to leave it.
Not lively—just occupied. Conversation had thinned into murmurs, chairs drawn closer, the night settling into something quieter and more deliberate. I was already halfway to the door, my attention turned outward, when movement cut across my periphery.
She passed close enough that I felt the shift of air.
I registered her first as intention rather than detail—someone moving with the expectation of being accommodated. Only after did the particulars follow: dark clothing cut for travel rather than display, fabric layered and practical, the kind of black that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. A floral scent lingered a moment longer than her presence, restrained and deliberate. Chosen.
I was dimly aware of Garrick behind me—of where he would be standing, where I had last seen him—without turning to confirm it.
Then she spoke.
"Garrick."
The name landed cleanly, low and certain.
I did not turn around.
I stepped through the door before the room could rearrange itself around the sound of it.
The latch clicked shut behind me, final and uninterested. Night air replaced the warmth all at once—cool, heavy, carrying the lingering damp of a day that had already spent its rain but not its consequences. Stone underfoot held moisture in its seams, and the air pressed close enough to remind me that drying was a gradual negotiation, not an event.
I did not slow.
Whatever had been said behind me belonged to the room now, not to me. If I lingered on it, it would only grow teeth.
The street sloped gently downward, lantern light pooling unevenly where the ground hadn't yet decided whether it was done being wet. The air clung faintly, a humid aftertaste that made movement feel deliberate rather than brisk, guiding me toward Feldepost's Inn.
Compared to the Jovial Juggler, it wore its reputation differently—less performance, more intent. The kind of place where conversations were meant to be overheard, and reputations quietly exchanged without ceremony.
Inside, the air was warmer. Thicker. Lived-in.
Marl was slumped near the bar.
I recognized him immediately—and just as quickly dismissed the possibility of trouble. Whatever anger had driven our last encounter had drowned itself in drink. His head dipped toward his chest and stayed there longer each time, his grip slack on the mug beneath his hand. This was not a man spoiling for another argument.
Just a man who had reached the end of his night.
I turned my attention elsewhere.
The party had claimed a table that suggested intent rather than leisure. Packs were gathered close. Weapons leaned where they could be reached without being displayed. No one looked relaxed, exactly—but no one looked surprised to be here, either.
Imoen spotted me instantly.
She rose from her seat and crossed the space between us with unsettling confidence, leaning in close and tilting her head slightly as though considering a puzzle only she could see.
She inhaled.
Slowly.
I froze.
"…Huh," she said.
"Well?" I asked.
She frowned and leaned closer, close enough that I could see the way her eyes narrowed, focusing past expression and into scent. She sniffed again, more deliberately this time.
"You don't smell drunk," she said at last. "Which is suspicious."
I opened my mouth.
"You also don't smell not drunk," she added. "Which is worse."
"Imoen—"
She straightened a fraction, still studying my face. "You said you wouldn't be long," she continued, casual enough that it almost passed for teasing. "You said you were just stepping out for a bit."
"I was," I said.
Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "Uh-huh. Well. It's very late for 'a bit.'"
She hesitated, then leaned in one last time—less to sniff now than to look.
"And before you ask," she said, softer, "yes, I noticed."
That landed harder than it should have.
She waved it off immediately, grin snapping back into place like a shield. "Relax. No search parties. Just… you know. Mild concern."
"Where were you?" she asked.
"Out," I said.
"Helpful," she replied. Then, after a beat, with a grin that carried more insight than humor,
"You smell like thinking."
I did not dignify that with a response.
We reconvened, plans settling into place as naturally as breath. The road south loomed large—long, exposed stretches, fewer walls, fewer witnesses. Nashkel lay ahead, distant but unavoidable, its name carrying weight even when spoken casually.
Khalid did most of the talking. He always did when routes were involved, hands tracing invisible lines across the table as though the map were etched into his memory. Jaheira listened, interjecting only when necessary, her attention fixed not on the destination but on the spaces between.
"And once we're beyond the Coast Way," Khalid said, adjusting his tone slightly, "we'll need to be mindful. The land opens up there. Fewer places to disappear if something goes wrong."
Jaheira nodded. "And fewer places to pretend we weren't seen."
She didn't raise her voice. Didn't lower it either.
"There are people along that stretch who pay attention," she continued. "If the wrong kind of interest forms, we'll hear about it."
The way she said we'll hear about it wasn't reassuring.
It was procedural.
I did not look at Montaron immediately. Or Xzar. I did not need to.
Something shifted.
Not dramatically. No sudden movement. Just the smallest recalibration—like a weight redistributed, like a smile adjusted by half a degree. Xzar's grin remained, but its edges sharpened. Montaron's posture did not change, but his fingers curled once, briefly, then relaxed again.
The conversation moved on.
Supplies. Timing. Where to rest. Where not to. Practicalities reclaimed their place.
But the air had changed.
I listened. I watched. I said nothing.
Some knowledge did not need to be acknowledged to be dangerous.
And some roads, once named, did not care whether you were ready to walk them.