My stand, The Fat Dwarf, is wedged between a money-changer’s kiosk and a colonnade that funnels the breeze from the harbour. The spot is close enough to the steps of the Patrician’s Chamber that nobles proudly clad in their expensive pleated chitons and imported Draji linen cloaks wander by before sessions. Yet, it’s also tucked just deep enough into the shadowed agora that smugglers and Veiled Alliance agents can slip up unseen. Even the praetors like it here; nothing masks the stink of extortion better than the smell of fried silt mussels.

It’s early morning and my calloused hands work methodically, grinding dried larvae meat and agafari nuts together into a powder with a pestle worn smooth by decades of use. The mortar, made from the best Nibenese ceramic, is my most cherished possession.

Steam rises from my large ceramic pot as I stir the morning’s first batch of gruel. The mixture is thin today; I’ve stretched what remains of yesterday’s supply with water and bitter herbs scavenged outside the city walls. The customers won’t notice if I season it right, and if they do, they’ll eat it anyway. I might as well be feeding stock animals.

I light the charcoal, the moment every cook dreads, knowing that the heat will start its beating on our bodies. I curse it, I curse Balic, I curse Andropinis, and I curse the long-dead fool who cut the first marble slab and made this city shine. Behind me, Horak the slave-boy strips silt-spawn flank into ribbons. He’s quick and quiet, BUT doesn’t worry enough about wasting meat. I have to scream at least twice an hour that “nothing is scrap”. Gristle goes in the stock pot; sinew dries into chew-strips; even marrow finds a buyer.

A praetor patrol wanders nearby with their pristine cream-colored togas and their tiny golden medallions around their neck. Andropinis’ vultures. The captain does the stallholder’s dance: pretends to inspect licenses, compliments the aroma, and waits for me to hand over a “sample.” I plate three choice skewers, drizzling the glaze slowly so the smell wraps around him like perfume.

Payment?

“Protection for the week.” he says, “Your food is really as good as people say, dwarf.” and scribbles a sigil on my stall plank with chalk. The mark means his patrol collects bribes here; it also scares off small-time thieves. Bribed with food only? Am I dreaming, or are those parasites not greedy today?!

“Your patronage is more than I could ever hope for, captain.” I say, disgusted with my own grueling words.

He leans closer. “Speaking of which, see anything strange - any Veiled Alliance activity or contraband - whisper to me right away.”

Yeah, I’ve seen strange. I shave it every morning, hand it a cleaver, and send it to feed you bloodsuckers.

I nod. “Of course, captain.”

He smiles at me, chewing, grease streaking his beard as he strides off to terrorize less useful citizens. I exhale. My cheeks hurt from holding the smile so long.

As the crimson sun climbs higher, the heat becomes oppressive. The stone buildings radiate warmth like ovens and the air shimmers with waves of distortion. I drape a tattered cloth over my head and continue serving.

Each customer pays what they can, and I serve what I can afford to give. The arithmetic plays out in ceramic bits and silver coins, in watered-down gruel and grateful nods. I’ve been doing this calculation for twenty years, ever since the praetors claimed my father for the slave pit.

By midday, my pot is nearly empty, and my coin pouch holds exactly three silver and fourteen ceramic bits. Just enough to pay a bribe, if the captain changes his mind. Fair enough, the maggots with real money come later anyway.

Near high-sun the sky turns the color of rust. Bazaar criers shout “Silt-wind!” and canvas flaps snap shut across stalls. I lash the awning, pull a cloth over my nose and mouth, and keep the fire pit alive. Work becomes unbearable, but storm crowds still get hungry, even if every breath tastes of sand.

Business swells. I double the price board with a quick chalk stroke; no one argues in a storm.

Then trouble: a wiry elf named Blyksnis elbows to the front, pocket bulging with expensive spice bags stolen from the merchant two stalls over. He wants me to hide the stash under my pit until nightfall. I flick a glance at the templar sigil. Stupid idea. But the usual cut that I receive for being used as a stash is worth the risk. Because, of course, a bag of funny tasting herbs is worth my neck.

Before I decide, a Veiled Alliance courier ducks beneath the awning, cloak crusted with dust. She slips a crystal shard, psionically warm, into my palm along with seven silver coins. “Bake it into something,” she whispers. “Deliver to the Beggar’s Gate after sunset.”

My pulse hammers. If any praetor searches, I’m flensed alive.

Two favors asked in three breaths, each dangerous, each worth more than I’ll make with honest work. I nod to the courier first. That’s the way to make a living in Balic.

———————————————–

While the silt storm rages, I mix dough from meal-worm flour and crodlu eggs with a topping of kank honey, folding the shard inside a nice small bun. It bakes golden in the corner of the pit where heat is gentle. Looks innocent, smells divine; just good simple cooking. I slide it into a side basket marked for special deliveries.

Blyksnis still hovers. I relent, but charge him one tenth of the loot and make him swear to collect by dusk. I stash the spice bags beneath false bricks beside the ash chute. The praetor protection only covers visible shakedowns; if they think I dabble in contraband I might as well hang myself on the public square.

The storm breaks with a sudden hush, then blinding sunlight comes. Bazaar folk unseal flaps and sweep dunes of silt from counters. Two stalls down, the spice merchant discovers his loss and howls. Templars swarm like flies to rotting meat in the sun. I keep my head down, and feed the fire of the pit.

I’m barely finished raking the charcoal when Patrician Ryzon Yedecis waddles up, gold rings flashing like signal mirrors. He’s sweating garlic and olive through his chiton.

“Morning, Kerej,” he trumpets. “Your spiced silt-spawn, same as always: thick and juicy. And be quick, today’s vote will be brutal.”

My eye twitches. Brutal, he says, as though casting a vote is the same as spending the day cooking in this inferno. I slap a slab of meat onto the grill harder than necessary. Fat sputters; an angry hiss I wish were his scream. On the outside I pin a smile to my face.

“At once, honoured Patrician,” I say before I turn the meat on the grill - hiss! The smell of scorched fat rises.

While the meat sears, I reach for the spice jar. I crush the clay lid a fraction harder than needed. Crack. A shard chips off, slices my thumb. Pain flares; I ball my fist, tuck the bleeding thumb behind my apron, and sprinkle crimson pepper with my other hand. I notice that my blood is on some of the pepper. Bah, so be it. I mix it in. Personal touch.

He never notices. Coins clink on the counter; he waddles off delighted. As I wipe the blood on my apron, I whisper, May you die of indigestion on the Senate floor. I’ll toast your obituary with port wine.

In the late afternoon the crowd surges again: dockhands fresh off loading grain barges, templars’ scribes bearing parchment bundles, pit fighters freshly stitched by arena healers.

The praetor captain visits again for ‘inspection.’ He eyes the new chalk prices, chuckles, and orders a round for his squad. Payment this time is gossip: the praetors plan to raid ‘subversives’ near Beggar’s Gate at sunset. My heart taps a faster rhythm: exactly where the shard must go. I smile and offer him a bonus bun. I almost offer him the shard-filled bun, I’m clearly too stupid to be dishonest. I thank him for keeping the streets safe. He leaves licking honey from his plump fingers.

Horak watches me from the cutting block, eyes wide. “You’re sweating on the buns, Kerej.”

“Heat,” I mutter. “And conscience.”

The line snarls when a half-giant gladiator, still dusted with blood and drunk on wine, lumbers to the front.

“Out of my way, mites!” he bellows, and backhands Horak. Pottery shatters; olive oil floods beneath my sandals, as Horak tries to stand up visibly shaken.

I snap. I bring the cleaver down - CRACK! - splitting the chopping board dead-centre. The market freezes; even the flies seem to hover mid-air.

I lean forward, voice low, “Break another thing and you’ll be soup stock by sunrise.”

The half-giant’s one good eye narrows. For a heartbeat I think he’ll swing; my muscles coil for suicide. Then he notices the praetor and his guards lounging nearby, amused, itching for an excuse to collect a fine, or a corpse.

The half-giant snorts, flings a heavy pouch of bits. “For the pot.” he growls. He yoinks two raw skewers straight off the iron, flesh sizzling, and stumbles toward the wine stalls.

Laughter bubbles from the crowd, nervous but real. Horak mouths a silent thanks before returning to work. My pulse hammers. If you really want to die you might as well jump head first into the harbour silt.

The praetor saunters up, claps me on the shoulder, “Fine show, cook. Sharp knife and a sharper tongue, ah!”

I show teeth; he thinks it’s a smile. If I could, I would put your head on a spike.

The sky is turning a dark purple when Blyksnis returns. Late, of course! Fastest thing on Athas, and may I be eaten by the Dragon - why is it that every dung-for-brains elf I ever interact with is always late? I fish the pouch from behind the bricks, handing it over without a word.

Blyksnis can see my temper is worse than usual, “Everything alright today, Kerej?”

I huff and puff, “A few highs, and many lows. Please go, I still have work to do.”

I pack the last orders, and trust Horak to douse the pit. The tenuous chalk sigil and the boy’s quick knife hands will guard the stall. Congratulations, Kerej. You might be about to sell tomorrow’s head for today’s rent.

I walk briskly towards Beggar’s Gate, located well south of the Agora, but before the Elven Market. Refugees, mostly from Tyr or Raam, gather here nightly, hoping for work or mercy rations. I think I see my contact disguised as a crippled sap-seller; praetors prowl the periphery, torches flaring.

“Bun delivery,” I say, palming the still warm pastry. She winks, slides me a ceramic disk stamped with a sheaf of grain and a sword, an Alliance goodwill token. Worth a week’s grain and, in the right hands, a minor miracle.

I turn to leave, and nearly collide with the captain praetor. That’s it, I’m done, that sack of elf-dung has sold me to the praetors. My brain scalds with excuses, but he only smirks, saying “Good hustle, cook. City needs more hard working vendors.” He strides past, barking orders to search a refugee’s wagon, too focused to even notice the modest sap-seller, who takes her cue and quickly moves out of the area.

I breathe again. A few highs, and many lows.