The cock's crow unglued Séa's eyes enough for dawn's light to register in her fuzzy brain.

"Righteous Torugg," she mumbled, "I love you and all, but this is really early."

She closed her eyes tight for a single heartbeat, then sprang from the sleeping mat to begin her energetic regimen of calisthenics. "As you ask, so I do, oh Endurer."

Flushed with invigorated blood, she joined the younger acolytes for the morning chant. I'm not an acolyte anymore, she thought. I'm a full paladin. It's hard to get used to. After prayers came a breakfast of porridge and water, followed by archery practice.

Friar Obel came to visit her there. Understandably, perhaps, the swine and fowl that roamed the Priory avoided the archery range, and so gave the good Friar no reason to complain as he and his questionable knees traversed the grassy strip. "Lady Séa, what did you learn?"

A paladin of the Holy Order of Torugg is not, in fact, a Lady in the sense used for female persons of noble lineage. However, the terms "lady," "dame," or "knight" were acceptable shorthand in this particular corner of the world. Lady Séa lived in the country of Omnius, the village of Brook-upon-Tricklewater, and the pig-overrun compound known as the Priory of Torugg.

Séa let one more arrow fly before answering. With a satisfying thock the arrow buried itself in the target. "Good morning, Friar. It's a rescue quest, and seems noble enough. I agreed to it. I'm to meet my companions at nine bells."

"Ho!" The good friar's rounded cheeks bulged as his face lit up. "Torugg looks upon you with favor, Séa. He has provided the next lesson in your education."

Séa couldn't help it. A grin split her face and she gave Obel a one-armed hug, the other being occupied by a recurved war bow. "May the one-eyed god bless you, Friar. You always know what to say."

"Let go of me, you overgrown little squirt. I'm fragile. You'll snap a rib." But his merry expression never faltered even as he attempted a ferocious squint. "I know what to say, eh? Well, now I say get off the archery field and find your armor. The quartermaster should have a pack for you, but go through what's there, eh? Make sure there's some rope and some jerky. And you might as well take a horse, unless they told you otherwise."

Séa's smile faded and she pursed her lips. "Father, one of the party is a liar."

Obel's eyebrows climbed his bald forehead. "I see. Well, if I'm required to say wise things about it, I guess I'd say enjoy the experience. Liars can be hilarious."

"What?" Séa's mouth dropped open in protest. "But demons lie."

"Even the deer lies, yes?" Obel's eyes squeezed to happy arcs. "The deer says, look, wolf, I'm just a brown smudge. I'm part of the forest. You don't see me. Furthermore, I don't smell like anything."

"That's for survival."

"Yes, that's how it starts, for us humans."

Séa's lower jaw jutted forward. "Lies are destructive. Lies are evil."

"Yes, but also educational for you to sort out. Are you going to stand here and argue with me? Or are you going to go a-questing?" Obel folded his arms and attempted to look cross.

His attempt ended in another, even stronger, hug.

Séa visited the quartermaster, then threw on about half of her full set of plate armor. The rest she stuffed into saddlebags and jogged off to the stables.

As the priory bell tolled, she trotted down the hill toward Brook-upon-Tricklewater astride a heavy bay mare. A blaze whitened the mare's forehead, and her silver bangles jingled. The horse shared the paladin's boisterous physical energy.

As they passed the outermost village houses, Séa halted the mare and looked over her shoulder.

The sagging Priory squatted on a hillock that overlooked the red-tiled roofs of the village. A crooked bell tower and the triangular tops of dormitories peeked over its perimeter wall. The mid-morning sun erased the old monastery's shadows. The Priory seemed as though it had been painted onto the sky and then tacked up behind the village as a theatrical backdrop.

Torugg probably didn't mind the disrepair. One-eyed Torugg wasn't an appealing god like Koulaina, goddess of drink and dance, or depressing like Vawl, god of perpetual war. Nor was he outrageous like Giasleppi, mysterious like Shalamoux-Nora, or clever like Bandibandi. On the contrary, Torugg resonated with those who hoped that a regular person might be good enough. With a faint air of desperation, they clung to the notion that one didn't have to be smart, good-looking, or lucky to have a decent go at life.

"I'm not sure I like this, Bayrump," Séa confessed. "Even the part about building a temple to Torugg."

Bayrump blew a blubbery snort through her horsey lips.

"I'm not a politics person, you know? The last thing I want to be is a pillar of the community. What if they involve me? What if I get stuck overseeing construction? I know less than nothing about stone masons. Or, you know, floors. Roofs. Walls."

The charger remained silent.

"And that's another thing. How did I get on the same list as Sir Fawk? I'm barely out of school. Basically, I'm a pig farmer that prays a lot."

Again, the horse had no answer. But nothing could dampen one's spirits on a day as resplendent as this one was.

Tash rubbed sleep out of her eyes and sat up. For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was, and the semidarkness slowed recognition. An acidic tang scented the air, and a faint, constant bubbling sound tickled her eardrums. Underneath her lay a wooden floor, well-trodden. She lay in the aisle between two shelves crammed with bottles and cans. A glance over her shoulder showed an oil flame warming a glass sphere. Bubbles percolated through an attached helical glass tube, and the gas ended up in a vented metal canister.

"Right. The apothecary. I remember." She ran her hands down leather clad thighs and stretched like a cat.

The apothecary lay two merchant-shingles down from the Brass Lass. The place seemed likely to be dry and empty of people, so Tash had let herself in after business had concluded at the Brass Lass.

She stood and stretched some more, then shouldered her pack and shortbow. Morning sunlight poured through a few cracks between boards in the walls and from underneath the shutters. Bottles dominated the shop's wares, though there were plenty of other items, like crystals, herbs, soaplike bars, skins for liquids, and cannisters.

Booted footsteps clomped. The front door rattled. Tash ducked out of sight behind a cluster of ropes hung with garlic and dried mushrooms.

The front door swung open and light flooded the potion shop's interior. Keys jingled, then were pocketed. The boots clomped to the bubbling alembic, and the fellow with the keys transformed from a silhouette into a riot of color. Brown-skinned hands with reddish nails trimmed the lamp wick. A black fuzz covered his skull, except where a pair of blue horns sprouted. A bright blue coat with heavy cuffs hung to his knees, until he shucked it off and hung it on a peg. Over his robes, he tied on a well-stained apron.

The owner, I presume. Those horns! Some demon blood flows in his veins. Tash kept a rack of shelves between herself and the owner as he moved to push blue window shutters open. Was it her imagination, or could she already smell the manure-tainted village air?

Technically, the shop's open. Right?

She popped up into view. "Morning!" she chirped.

That sounded very annoying. Good job, Tash, especially since you feel like meat after it has been minced. I think that floor bruised my hip. And I need breakfast.

"Gah!" The merchant's hands flew up and a quiver shook his stringy body. His gaze darted here and there, but he faced outward. Only the rutted dirt streets and dilapidated cottages of Brook-upon-Tricklewater met his eyes.

"Back here," called Tash. She plucked a bottle from the shelf at random. "Oo! What's this bubbly pink stuff?"

The shopkeeper spun around, and his robes wound up a half-turn. As his robe folds relaxed, he gaped at the invader nonchalantly slouched in the middle of his shop. Tash knew approximately what he saw. Practical leathers encased her from collarbone to soles. Dark hair with a streak dyed red spiraled from her head and framed a face that some might call attractive, except that a brutal scar slashed down her forehead, bisected an eyebrow, and leapt over her bright eye to the cheek below. Her ear tips came to a point, so maybe the owner would deduce that she was half elven. Would he share her sense of humor? Doubtful. Very doubtful.

Falsetto squeaks ruined his otherwise thundering challenge. "Who in blazes are you?"

"Don't get all upset. You're open for business, now, right? I'm just a customer. And they're calling me Sir Fawk."

"How did you get in h—" The shopkeeper blinked five times in rapid succession. A vivid red colored his irises. "You're not Sir Fawk!"

"True, true. But that's what they're calling me. I'll just bask in reflected glory until they wise up." Tash slid the pink potion back to its shelf, then plucked a dark green bottle to inspect. "Potion of true shot! Sounds expensive."

"You break it, you buy it," he said automatically.

"The wizard's buying, not I." The woman grinned and tossed the green bottle from hand to hand, back and forth. "Speaking of wizards, I hear his doddering footsteps on the threshold now. Time to separate an old man from his money, shopkeep!"

"Watch those sticky fingers, honorable gentlewoman." Sarcasm laced the final two words and the merchant bared a mouthful of pointed teeth at "Sir Fawk."

Tash lost her grin. If the horns and red eyes hadn't done so already, that toothy maw confirmed his demon ancestry, and thus a certain violent instability of mood. Tash, your urge to poke hornet nests is going to get you stung, one of these days.

The doorway darkened. Morning light made a triangular silhouette of Ghomarck. His wizard robes flared at the bottom and his hat came to a point at the top. Add in narrow shoulders, and the illusion of an ambulatory pyramid was complete. "Greetings, potionsmaster."

"Welcome to you, stranger. Is this—" The shopkeeper swept a hand to indicate Tash. "—one of yours?"

Tash blew air past her tongue, generating a rude rattle and spraying spittle.

"Erm," wheezed the wizard, "the exact answer to your question is a tale so subtle and lengthy that it cries out for truncation. Forgive my imprecision, but in the interests of brevity, I'll simply answer in the affirmative."

"Simple. Brief. Suuuure." Tash rolled her eyes as she browsed the racks of vials and shelves of powder boxes.

The owner took up station behind his counter and watched with narrowed red eyes as the wizard shuffled in. Ghomarck tipped his hat to Tash. "Good morning, Sir F—, erm, good morning to you."

"Good morning, Master Ghomarck, wizard extraordinaire!" Tash swept an overly ornate bow. In rapid succession she plucked several items from nearby racks and piled them in his wizened hands. "Fog in a bottle. Tangle splash. Instant rust. What's our budget?"

The wizard regarded the potion bottles dubiously. "Alas, you appear to have exceeded it already."

"No! Really?"

"I started with plenty, but someone's large advance consumed my coin purse." Ghomarck's prominent eyebrows quivered as he leaned forward to study Tash's face, with a particular focus on the scar that bisected her eyebrow.

"Worry not, master," she said glibly, "your decision was wise. I'm well worth it, and we might not need the tangle splash potion." She heaved a melodramatic sigh. Prolonging eye contact, the sort of eye contact used through the ages by daughters to lay guilt upon their parents, she cruised past the wizard toward the exit.

Once bathed in sunlight, she paused to scan the village. Up and down the dirt path that served as Brook-upon-Tricklewater's main thoroughfare, goats and chickens milled around ramshackle huts. Judging by the smell, cattle, sheep, cats, dogs, and pigs also resided nearby. The corners of her mouth drooped, and weariness added mass to her eyelids.

From the left-hand middle distance cantered a muscular mare with the paladin from last night astride her. They came accompanied by the faint music of harness bells and a bouncy aura of joy. The bright morning sparkled on the bits of her well-worn armor that could still shine and made a halo of her light brown coif. Corded neck muscles rippled below a cleft chin. Her broad face would never win a beauty contest, but it exuded a placid solidity that elevated Tash's eyebrows in speculative assessment.

Séa reigned in the mare, and the bells quieted. The knight bounced to the dirt and jogged in a beeline toward the apothecary, only to halt and blink at the sight of the Tash. A cheerful grin spread across her bland features. "You have a face, after all." She winked. "Imposter."

The rogue trailed a gloved finger over the curve of her hip. "Last I checked, I had all my body parts, milady."

The grin intensified. "That is excellent news. It would be awkward, should we find ourselves hot in combat, if you suddenly confessed you were down a lung." Séa's gray eyes scanned her up and down, and Tash stiffened. How would the paladin judge the stains and blade scars that marred her softened leathers? And, ye gods, my backpack looks like it was dragged through a dragon's digestive tract. She saw my scar, of course. Everyone does.

But Séa's sunny expression, instead of hardening with disgust or suspicion, softened.

Tash blinked, then squinted one eye. "What? See something?"

"No, no, just reflecting."

Tash narrowed her eyes further. "Judging, you mean."

Séa's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Not in a negative way, milady."

Tash found herself believing the words. A cool mental mist calmed her suspicious instincts. It's her religion, isn't it? She's taken vows. Obedience and truth and chastity and all that. Ugh. So twisted.

The paladin's smile turned wry. "We likely won't get along, will we?"

The remark echoed Tash's own thought so closely that a surge of mirth warmed her belly and blossomed into a grin on her face. "Don't see how we could. You're from that moldy hilltop churchy thing, aren't you?"

"Um. Yes?"

"Thought so." The rogue's eyes drifted to the lumpy priory. They wall themselves away and pray, pray, pray. Sourly, she said, "That's as far from my world as it's possible to get."

The paladin's eyebrows squirmed. "I'm sorry. What world is that?"

Séa's horse nickered and shook itself. From the right-hand path, two more laden horses clopped toward the shop. One of them nickered a horsey reply.

"The real world." The words came harsher than Tash intended. To compensate, she smiled. "Now, what should I call you? How long is your list of titles?"

"I'm called Séa."

"Say-ah. Just that? No string of flowery epithets? You're not the medium-high priestess of the Holy Order of Saint Random-ass?"

"Only Séa. No titles. I just barely graduated divinity school."

She's young, then. So, probably even more of a zealot than a typical insufferable, self-righteous paladin. Oh, joy. "I see. Congratulations."

Séa arched an eyebrow. "And by what name should I call you?"

Tash failed to stop a cheeky grin from splitting her face. "Sir Fawk."

Séa's mouth flattened to a disapproving line. "No, that's Sir Fawk." The paladin indicated one of the approaching pair of horses. Its rider gleamed with feathered regalia. Radiant as his raiment shone, its glory was nearly eclipsed by his bright, gallant rows of teeth.

Tash grimaced. My bad luck strikes again. I can only stand one or two sanctimonious, holier-than-thou upper-crusters per day. "Ah. Impressive, isn't he? Both of them, really." The second horse carried a female knight. Her blonde hair streamed behind her, somehow immune to becoming tangled.

"Mm." Séa's lips stayed flat and tight. "So, what is your name?"

"Tash." She steepled her fingers in entreaty. "But can you not tell the wizard right away? I'm enjoying the joke. Also, now that I see him, for actually rescuing a princess, I'm worth ten of Sir-fawking-obvious, there."

"I may not have the option of keeping your secret, Tash." Distaste tainted Séa's otherwise mellow voice. "The knights appear to be stopping here."