Vencian walked along the river lane, boards creaking under boots, fish smell clinging to nets laid out to dry.
The stalls were narrow, the wares rough, and the people watched coin before faces, which told him enough before he asked anyone about gramox.
He still asked twice.
Both merchants shook their heads, one with a laugh, the other with a shrug that came with cracked fingernails and a stained apron.
The town sat low and slow beside the water, huts patched with tar, boats pulled up like tired animals.
That matched expectation, set by the thin purses he had already seen.
By the time he turned back toward the inn, his boots carried river grit and his patience had worn down to a narrow strip.
The common room was loud.
Smoke curled under the beams, mugs clinked, and a group of travelers crowded the long table near the hearth. The merchant sat among them, flushed, cup raised, voice already halfway into a story.
