Page 7 of When the Merchant Met the Orc

“Soldiers of the king are required to do everything one normally does on a journey. We were constantly traveling back then. To the southern border, to the north. On and on. And it’s not as if we have employees of any kind. It was all up to us.”

“What else did you have to do during your time working for the king?”

Her curious face, all bunched eyebrows and pursed lips, is completely adorable.

“Well, fighting, obviously,” I reply.

“What were your strengths and why are you grinning?”

“I enjoy the way you dive into conversations.”

“What do you mean?”

We climb into the wagon. She takes the driver’s bench, and I settle into the back of the open-topped cart. I remove my sword and shield and set them down beside me—within easy reach. Once Tamar is clomping along the cobblestones, I finally answer Rychell’s question.

“What I meant was that most folks warm up with some small talk. The weather. Friends and family updates. But not you. You take a different tack.”

“I suppose I do. I get bored talking about the weather and how everyone’s grandmother is.”

I bark a laugh. “Love that honesty, too.”

Her lips quirk up slightly at the corners, and her gaze flashes across my face. Then her half-grin falters, and her eyes pinch. “You don’t have to talk about your past. Sorry if I was being too nosy.”

We cross the market and are almost to Two Cats Bakery.

“I don’t mind at all,” I say. “I don’t miss my former life as a warrior, but I was lucky enough not to be too scarred by it. I am not sure if that makes me less of a person.”

“Certainly not. We don’t get to choose how our hearts deal with horrible situations.”

“Well, I didn’t mind cutting down the bands of criminals who pillaged the borderlands. I hated every second of the war, though.”

She chews her lip and finishes adjusting Tamar’s reins. “I can imagine.”

“My strength is with the sword.” I tap the hilt of my weapon. It’s strapped to my back, a familiar weight after so many years of fighting before I came to Leafshire Cove.

Rychell stops Tamar with a tug on the reins, and we climb out of the wagon and start toward Kaya’s bakery door. But the door flies open before Rychell can knock.

“Ma!” Nate runs from the front door with Sio, Baker Kaya’s talking maplecat, at his heels.

Maplecats are common enough. Their red-brown fur has the look of autumn leaves. It’s not magic. It’s a natural camouflage the species developed for hiding in the wilds of the forest. But talking maplecats? There is only one that I know of.

Nate smashes into Rychell’s leg and holds on as if she’s leaving forever.

Sio eyes me, and I give the cat a nod.

“Morning, Sio.”

The pelt is sticky in places, the maple leaf shapes distorted.

“What happened to you?” I ask the cat.

“The combination of Nate and a jar of honey,” Sio says, glaring daggers at the young male.

“Well, you smell lovely,” I say, smirking.

Sio hisses and leaps into the back of the wagon. He sits on the bag of oregano.

Rychell scoops up Nate and hugs him close. “It won’t be a long trip. When I return, we’ll go to the Nocturne Festival together.”