‘Those aren’t your true names,’ I say.
The colour drains from his face, and he turns defensive. ‘Are you a Bastion spy?’ he asks through gritted teeth.
‘Of course not,’ I glower. ‘But I know you’re lying.’
‘I’m Isagani,’ they say, trying to ease the tension at the table. ‘So, not too far off.’
The man looks at me stubbornly. ‘Nothing personal, love. We’ve lied to a lot of folk.’
‘I’ll keep your cover,’ I say, trying to even my voice. ‘You’ve seen what my girl can do. We’re in the same boat, friend. A little honesty builds trust.’
‘Finlyr,’ the man mumbles, relenting.
‘Are you really father and daughter?’
‘They’re my kin,’ Finlyr says firmly, and I steal a glance at Isagani, who ducks their head to hide their blush.
A large, black otter-cat prowls into the dining room, and Biba stares at it. She grabs a fish from her plate and holds it out to the creature.
‘Biba, that’s impolite!’ I admonish, but the otter-cat grabs the proffered fish by the tail and lays it down on the rug. ‘My thanks, little one,’ he says, his voice low and guttural.
‘He can talk!’ Biba says, clapping her hands together.
‘That wee bastard is Sinigang,’ the merchant explains. ‘He comes with the inn. Unfortunately. Soon you’ll want to strangle him with his own tail.’
‘He’s an otter-cat,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ Finlyr replies. ‘You outer island folk never seen a hybrid before?’
‘They don’t usually talk, do they?’ I ask, observing Sinigang tearing into his breakfast, ripping the silver head off the fish and meticulously gnawing at the delicate bones.
‘You’ll have to ask him yourself,’ Finlyr says with a laugh.
I snort. ‘What sort of place have we come to?’
‘Narra seems to collect trouble.’
‘What about those two?’ I nod at Ligaya and Morna, who are bringing in plates of bread and pastries and more of those moreish buns.
‘Narra’s pretty apprentice and her culinary supplier? When they aren’t staring at books or plants they’re making eyes at each other.’
Some of the inn’s other guests are standing around the cauldron, which hangs above the fireplace. They have wooden bowls in their hands and scoop ladlefuls from the pot, one person standing at the cauldron and serving while the others pass filled bowls back. Eventually one makes its way to us and Isagani passes it to Biba.
‘Careful, it’s hot,’ they say, and she grabs it gently but firmly and sets it down on the bench in front of her.
‘What is that?’ I ask.
‘Perpetual stew,’ Finlyr says. ‘Surely you have that on the outer isles?’
‘Aye,’ I say indignantly, rootling in my mind for any such thing at Vullis’s tavern.
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘You’re suspicious of everything.’
‘If I don’t know it, how can I trust it?’ I counter.
‘Oh, for Paranish’s sake,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘It’s magic, that’s all.’
Biba looks up from her plate and stares at Finlyr, blinking. We’ve never heard anyone speak so openly of the touched and their powers. She’s never heard such free talk of her power. It must be a relief to find others like you, and to not be feared by those who aren’t.
