QUEST WORLD

NOBLE: Spiced Orange Hope

I pivot toward the out-of-place noble. He sees my attention and pushes to his feet, which just jostles the table, so he sits again, but that just rocks the table back towards him.

I sweep forward and set the table right. "Most people don't act like this until after they've eaten my aunt's goat stew," I say, "but if you need to use the outhouse, it's around back."

The nobleman's mouth bobbles open. "I— what?"

"I assume you need to, as my cousin says, chop off a log."

"What in sweet heaven—" The nobleman goes scarlet. "No. No. I'm quite fine, thank you."

I grin at his discomfort. "Well, what can I get you, then?"

He settles back in his seat and stretches his hands across the table top, trying to gather himself. The cuffs of his navy velour uniform are worn and frayed—actually, up close, his whole uniform looks insanely old. The seams are softened and stretched, the buttons and brooches lightly caked with grimed. The insignia of the king, the winged gold lion, has threads poking out here and there and looks like it's barely hanging on.

The nobleman is talking, probably ordering something, but I squint at his face. Clean-shaven. A few years older than I am. Clean hair and straight teeth and wide, clear eyes. He definitely looks like a noble human. But why would anyone in his station have such a decrepit uniform? He's definitely some kind of low-level nobleman in service to a higher lord, or maybe a squire to a knight. But even the poorest knights would make sure their squires aren't wearing bedraggled hand-me-downs.

"Um, Miss?"

The nobleman leans forward, catching my eyes. I've totally missed what he said.

"So, ale then?" I guess.

The man frowns. "What? No, I asked if you might know of anyone in this village who is, um—" He leans closer to me. I get a whiff of spiced orange off his clothes.

He smells like the winter solstice celebrations. Like coziness and falling snow and hope for coming spring.

A tingle runs up my spine.

Gods help me, I missed what he said. Again.

When I stare blankly at him, he narrows his eyes, some of his discomfort fading in favor of confusion.

"Who is an orphan," he finishes.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm looking for an orphan girl," he says.

Unease replaces any pleasant tingles. Pure bred humans, especially anyone connected to nobility, always have a catch. This one appears to be a creep.

My hackles raise. "An orphan girl. That way, there are less questions when she disappears, is that what you're into?"

The human's eyes widen. "What is wrong with you— gods save me, no—"

He fiddles with something in a pocket within his cloak. It looks like a quilled pen, a glint and glimmer of inlaid gold and teal feathers.

He shoves it back in his pocket and runs a hand through his thick hair. It makes him look mussed and a little bit terrified and inwardly, I smile.

"This is not going how I planned," he says to himself.

"Kidnappings usually hit snags."

"I'm not—" He bolts closer to me, eyes wild with terror. But one glance around tells him that there's no one here of any consequence to be afraid of. His voice softens when he continues. "I'm not here to kidnap someone. Sweet savior, are you always this direct with your customers?"