Talen’s Prince Conroy loved nothing more than to drop like a stone upon a rodent, skewer it with his talons, and then peck it to a bloody pulp.

There were other roosters that would fly into an attack when they felt threatened or one of their hens screamed. And most chickens would snatch up a mouse and run off with the prize to eat it. But Conroy, it seemed, went looking for rats. He was, in his rat hunting, better than a dog. Of course, he wouldn’t be much against Sleth.

Conroy darted ahead of Talen to chase a white and black butterfly, following it into the tall weeds.

The barn, old house, and smoke shed stretched away from Talen like a crooked arm on his left while the pigpen, garden, and privy stretched out on his right.

When he came to the barn, he heard a scuffle by the wood stack alongside the far wall.

His heart jumped. He realized he had no weapon but the hoggin.

It could have been a rat, he told himself.

“Conroy,” he called. He made the trill and yip that always brought the rooster. When Conroy came running, Talen looked down at the bird. “It’s time to earn your keep,” he said and pointed to the side of the barn to where the wood was stacked. They’d gone rat hunting like this many times before. He made another trill and yip and Conroy dashed around the corner of the barn.

He waited and heard nothing.

This would go down well in the stories, he thought. The mighty hunter stays back and sends his rooster in to deal with the danger. Talen took a deep breath and marched around the barn so he could get a good look down the wall.

Conroy stood alone, eyeing the woodpile.

So, it was a rat. Talen walked down to the spot where he figured the sound had come from and kicked the wood. He waited for a scrabble of tiny claws. What he heard instead was someone running away from the back of the barn.

Talen’s heart quickened. He took the last three steps to the back of the barn, giving the corner a wide berth just in case something was there.

Conroy lingered for a moment, eyeing the wood stack, and then trotted after Talen.

Talen saw nothing behind the barn, but then out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. He turned toward it and saw someone’s back and one of their legs disappear behind the old house.

Lords, he was not imagining it.

“Sammesh?” he said.

Sammesh was the ale sot’s son. Da had caught him once stealing meat from the smoke shed. But instead of putting some fear into the boy, Da told him if he wanted meat, he’d have to bring something to trade. So from that day on, Sammesh slinked in and out of their place with his trade. Sometimes it was fair; other times, it wasn’t. He’d once taken a rope and left a small bowl of blueberries for it. The blueberries had been delicious but they were not worth half the value of that rope. Talen had told his da that he was only fostering dishonesty—Sammesh needed to be taught a lesson. But Da said Sammesh had received far too many of those kinds of lessons already. Talen wondered if that’s where all the boy’s bruises came from. Or was it simply because he was a thief?

Talen picked up a short cudgel from the woodpile and walked toward the old house.

“Sammesh! Come out, or I’ll thrash the stumps with you.”

There was no answer.

“An honest trader doesn’t skulk.”

Then he heard another sound behind the old house. He paused and listened, but all was quiet.

Something was there.

He had seen the back of a figure too small to be that of an adult. Too small for even Sammesh.

“Who are you?” said Talen.