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So he had one bowl.

And everyone looked at him.

The common room looked at him as he entered. Conversations faltered, scattered and then crawled back together like a frightened herd of humans huddling after a flash of lightning. He saw Harrow first — quick hands, quick smile, that sort of social creature that did not bother with routines but fed on interruptions with glee. Clustered around her were Fallem, Branwen, Nion, Kal, and Ondahr. They all turned when Harrow raised her arm and waved him over.

Yu thought briefly of the borman, still upstairs. Of the krynn, still with the shaman and the selder. He should probably serve the new guests first. Then again, he did not want to serve the borman — or any borman, for that matter. If Tria had known of this, that Yu would end up serving a borman, she would not have sent him here. She would never have tolerated that her own shirrin would wait on a borman guest who, of all things, owned and brought a human. And oh, if she had been been told that Yu would have to live and work alongside a borman guard, not as a superior, not even as an equal, but as the new shit job guy, she would lose her shit. He was sure of that.

Yu forced the thoughts to stop, as he realised that he was just standing there with his wings folded around the bowl, staring at the fireplace people, who were all staring back. So he began to walk. He walked over to Harrow. There was no choice, not really, not when his indecision was confronted with her insistence. She beckoned him with that impatient, open cheer that made resistance feel absurd. It was very easy to just follow someone like this; Yu had noticed it before, on the trail. It was scary how simple it was to surrender the thinking to someone louder. But he must not fall back to that. He needed to stay in control, or at least look it. He needed to remember why he doubted her, and why he feared all of them. These people were not safe. So now, as he approached, Yu really looked to see what they were doing. His eyes flashed from one to the other, rushing past and returning, always, inevitably, to Harrow before anyone else could meet and hold them, but catching fragments all the same; registering postures, actions, and reach.

Kal sat furthest back, at the corner of the couch, where the firelight flickered over the scars on his face. He was running a whetstone down the length of a narrow dagger, each stroke methodical, drawn with the same rhythmic patience as his breath. Beside him crouched Nion, elbows to knees, carving small notches into the wooden haft of a slender metal spike. Yu had not seen the thing before. It was almost as long as Nion's forearm; perhaps something from the tents or a piece of violence in the making.

Branwen sat apart. He had dragged one of the heavy armchairs away from its line by the hearth, wedging it into the space between the fire and the wall. There he sat, not opposite the others but further back. He still wore his coat, the thick folds gathered beneath his arms like a makeshift blanket. On him, it looked strangely careless, because Branwen had always been so serious and composed. Now he appeared at ease. Or emptied. On the trail, he had never talked much, but his body had always been desperate. Yu had never understood this sense of tension, that constant strain beneath the calm, until he had first seen him smoke. That had been on the fifth day, when they had slept in a cave. Since then, the pipe had been the one ritual that steadied him. Branwen had smoked whenever possible during the sparce moments they found some sort of shelter from the storms. It had also been the first thing he had done when they arrived at the guild. Today was no different. The faint ember of his pipe glinted in his palm, and thick clouds of smoke curled above his head. He still looked at Yu, though also at something behind him, that was not really there. Or so Yu hoped.

Ondahr and Fallem sat on the two others armchairs that were still lined up opposite the couch. Between the chairs and the couch stood a narrow bench that served as a footstool for those who wished to sprawl toward the fire. Across it, Ondahr had spread a travel map, its parchment a chaos of circles, lines, and letters in differing hands, some neat and measured, others inconsistent, uneven scribbles. A quill lay in a small casing near his claws, its nib stained and the parchment next to it torn where he had pressed too hard. Fallem sat beside him, half-turned away, toying with a small brass thing that clicked and chimed; some sort of complex pocket compass or watch, or perhaps an artefact. As he tinkered with it, the lid opened and shut, opened and shut, keeping time with Harrow's fingers drumming on the backrest of her chair.

Harrow sat low in the puffed chair between the right-hand couch and the pair of seats opposite. Her long legs sprawled diagonally, one to either side of the footbench, with the left sliding beneath Ondahr's chair. Her upper body was twisted almost backwards, turned all the way round toward Yu. Both arms rested across the top of the chair's backrest.

"Hello. Sorry to interrupt," Yu started, and paused, and started again. "I mean, you got interrupted, during dinner, so I —"

He got no further.

Harrow cut across. "And what an interruption it was! Yessss, finally! Let's hear it, Yu. Nothing is to see, only blank, through that window, no, rrh, no!"

Yu looked to the thick window by the garderobe. He saw only white. "Well, it's not the frost. I mean, not only. The glass is just so thick." It was layered so heavily that it distorted and swallowed everything beyond. "So you sort of need to press your face right up against it." He knew from cleaning it earlier.

When he turned back, the whole table was staring at him. Everyone but Fallem, who had turned back to the clicking thing in his hand. It was all the awkward silence Yu needed to realise what sort of dumb shit he was babbling.

"So true!" Harrow, seemingly, did not. She pulled in her legs and turned all the way around on her chair, so that she now sat the wrong way around but faced Yu directly, with her folded legs on the seat and her upper body pressed against the backrest. Her arms, as before, were placed on top. Her grin stayed sharp and fixed. "And now, the story, dear watchman Yu!"

No one else looked as inviting as her. Why was she so friendly? Why was she so happy? Why was she so ... normal, when talking to him? Yu had to be normal too. Well, not normal, but himself, whatever counted as normal for him. These people knew his normal. He had to give them that.

"Well, uhm, there was the witch."

"And?" Harrow leaned towards him, voice too eager, eyes too bright.

The others fixed on him as well.

It took Yu everything he had not to step back. "Tirran said she can't come in."

"And???"

"And then she left."

"And?????"

"Well. All is well. I mean, all is safe."

"And??????????"

"The. End."

Harrow barked laughter. "You are, hrrrn, a better storyteller, even, yess, than Imbiad."

"I mean, well, sorry." Not sorry. "Can you please take the soup now — the stew."

He held the bowl out toward her. It was getting increasingly hot and heavy, dangerously so, and there was no place to set it. There was no way to put it down it on the footbench, unless he wanted to squeeze and lean in between everyone, and then splash dump the bowl straight onto the map.

"Stew? What?" Nion jumped in, absurdly excited.

It was not only him. From one word to the next, everyone seemed way more engaged. The sudden shift creeped Yu out.

"Yes. I'll bring out the food now. More, I mean."

"Food! For us!" Harrow cried, adding a string of her many strange noises that had nothing in common with normal language, though they showed a disturbing level of euphoria. "Best man! Yesss!"

"Yes, here," Yu forced himself normal, and now he really pushed the bowl onto her. "You want this or not? Take it, please."

At last Harrow did take it. "For me? What?" She peered into the bowl. "Ha! This is stew! No, really! I thought it was your drink, but no!"

"What?" You did not follow. It took him too long to strip her noises from her words, to filter out all her nonesense sounds and put the rest of her utterances into sensible order.

The others were faster. Yu saw it on their faces, especially with Ondahr and Nion, who started grinning before she even finished. Harrow, meanwhile, grabbed the bowl by its handle, turned around on her chair and held it out for everyone to see inside. The gesture gave Yu absolutely nothing, but from the others' expressions, he gathered that all of them got it. All of them got the joke, except him.

"You don't want it?" Yu blurted. "What's wrong with it?"

Harrow passed the bowl to Nion. He laughed, which rippled over to Ondahr and Kal. Fallem smirked. Branwen only gave a brief, throaty snort, but for him, that was practically a roar.

Harrow's grin widened as she finally deigned to answer. "Nah, I don't eat meats, yesss, no, and all these plants, oh no! But you know that, Yu! You saw me eat."

"Oh. Yes, right, sorry. Uhm … then, what do you eat — want, I mean. What do you want?"

"From the cellar, yesss, like yesterday, thank you."

"Uhm. All right." Yu had no idea what that meant, but he could not focus.

Why is this so funny? Why the fuck are they still laughing?

Nion took the bowl by the handle and swirled the contents, which was met with great anticipation on all sides. Then he raised it to his mouth and drank straight from the bowl. Everyone cheered — except Branwen, who, again, did not count.

"Seriously, what's wrong with it?" Yu's voice cracked. What's wrong with you arseholes?

That only made them laugh harder. Branwen drew so fiercely on his pipe that it sent the embers flaring.

Ondahr and Kal spoke at once.

"Stew in a mug?"

"For drinking?"

"Not even a spoon?" Nion added, mock-aghast.

Yu's stomach dropped.

There it was. The mistake. The wrong thing. The reason they all laughed about him. Of course — he had brought them a mug, not a bowl.

For a moment, Yu simply blanked.

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---------------------WHY

---------------------------did these things

-----------keep

----HAPPENING?

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------------------------------WHY

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

--------------- was he

----------------------------SO.

---------------------FUCKING.

-------------------STUPID?

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No. Not stupid. Or at least, not that kind of stupid. There had been a reason — a good, practical, perfectly plausible, reasonable reason. Habit. The mug made sense. It made sense if you went for what you always went for — as a fina, in a fina kitchen. Because to a fina, that thing was a bowl. Even Tria would say so. This was, most definitely, a vessel for food. Proper. Functional. Familiar. Like an ampat or a polla, the standard bowls found in every settlement household. They had a circular shape but were flattened at one side, with a broad opening and a thin lip that let the beak slip in neatly. They also had a handle, to tilt the bowl where it stood or lift it close to the face if you went for the last bits. Like that, fina could eat from start to finish without mess, whether beak to bowl or bowl to beak. They were common. Utterly ordinary. Every home and every tavern had them stacked in rows.

But this was not the estate. The Albweiss was a cold and hostile wilderness for everyone but fina.

Yu looked at them now – Harrow, Fallem, the four nepter –, at their broad, flat and beakless faces turned toward him in that knowing, condescending amusement. What was natural to him had no place here. What seemed a sensible, if slightly narrow bowl in his eyes was far off from the broad, rim-raised plates they used. To them, it was absurd. Yu saw it now, in Nion's hand; the mug, so obviously for drinking. Generous for someone his size, which meant small for a borman and, in turn, grotesquely oversized for Yu.

So, being stupid by habit, Yu had brought them a thing for a beak. And he had also forgotten the spoons for their hands. Well, at least that would give them enough food for thought to never again mistake him for anything but an utter retard.

"Sorry, I thought —," Yu muttered, but then caught himself. They could not eat arguments, neither excuses, nor apologies. "I mean, I'll bring them. Spoons. Bowls. The real ones."

"Good thinking!" said Nion.

Yu wanted to die. Though, before he did, he wanted to take Nion down first.

But he had no words to throw back, so his body defaulted to what it knew best and retreated. He stumbled backwards toward the kitchen, fleeing rather than walking, though no one chased. Halfway there, he stopped short. The halt was clumsy, and the stilted turn that followed worse; all twitching wings and scraping talons. Still, he forced himself to get back to them, step by step, awkward and exposed, with Harrow's grin waiting like a sprung trap to receive him.

Yu tried, but he could not look past her. "So, then ... I wanted to ask. What do you mean — did you, I mean, wait, no, not me, but you — Shit! Sorry! I. mean. What did you want when you asked for something from the cellar? What food?"

"Ah, yesss, that was some fine crasting!"

You had no idea what that was. It sounded like one of those raw river-and-dirt things the kyrthik ate. And then there was the cellar. He had not even known that there was one.

"Sorry, Harrow. I think I have to ask Bubs for that later. When he comes out, I mean. I'll ask him. Then. Sorry. Is that all right?"

"Just fine, Yu. And no worries, I have my own. Good rations."

No way he would do that. Cellar meant underground. The kitchen was already enough of a tomb; all stone walls and no windows. And Bubs would probably send him there alone. Thanks but no thanks.

"But I can bring stew," he said, in an attempt not to end the encounter in total defeat. "So, who else wants more dinner? Do you want more? I mean, how many bowls?"

Yu regretted the question the instant it left him. He had thought one, maybe two people might still want food. Just something light for the night. But no. Of course not. Of course every single one of them wanted something. Hands rose and voices overlapped, as if they had not already devoured a whole cauldron of stew during dinner. Yu counted five requests, one bowl for each person at the table, except Harrow. Then they wanted two more, for Bawal and Jerakill, who were not even in the room. That made seven. And then Nion had the audacity to lift his half emptied mug and ask for a second helping. Eight. And on top of that, there were still the krynn and the borman to feed. So ten.

At least ten bowls.

At least ten times up and down the fucking stool.

When Yu finally turned away, the conversation behind him reformed, their laughter sliding back around Nion, who kept drinking his stew.

-

Yu let the two sets of doors fall shut behind him, and for a moment, he simply leaned against the kitchen wall, wings trembling, the weight of heat and noise pressed out of him. But he could not stay. He could not wait it out. Because everyone was waiting now. Waiting and watching.

Yu pushed himself off the stone. The sight before him met him like mockery: three portions already prepared — three more mugs. They had been an utter pain in the ass to fill. Not literally, though. His ass, his legs, and his back, just like everything else, had hurt horribly after all the scrubbing and bending and hauling of the day. Yet now, the pain was still dull, as if it had retreated somewhere deeper. His body was still submerged. But Yu felt it. At least something. Slightly. When he really focussed.

He was not ready to. He was not yet ready to seek and sort that out, so instead, he busied himself. First, he gathered an assortment of spoons, different sizes, shapes, materials, and dumped them all into a single mug. He brought that out. And because there was no proper table except that leg rest turned map stand, he simply passed the mug to Kal and then left the group to handle the rest. It would do.

When Yu got back, he finally found what he should have seen from the beginning: proper, non-fina bowls. Broad and shallow. Not mugs. Not the stupid things he had carried out there, but plates with raised rims, made for spooning stuff with hands.

They sat in one of the cupboards that doubled as the legs of the central workbench. Actually, there were plates, bowls, and cutlery in all three of them. Yu must have seen all of it earlier, during his compulsive rounds of inspection. He had opened each cupboard, but somehow remembered none of it. He had looked straight at all that kitchenware and yet, he had not registered any of it. Perhaps because he had not been looking for bowls then. He had been looking for something else. Or rather, for someone.

After setting up three of the new bowls on the workbench, Yu poured the stew from the mugs. It went badly. He slopped and spilled so much that three mugs became but two muddied bowls, with not enough left to fill the third. In hindsight, it might have worked out if he had not filled the first two all the way to the rim, but by the time that thought arrived, it was already too late. All he could do now was wipe the mess away. Well, he managed the tray, the bowls, and then the major spills on the workbench, but was forced to stop when wiping shit up became spreading shit around. Good intentions only spread the filth thinner. The rag was soaked through, slick and heavy with chunks. When it left more behind than it took away, Yu dropped it where it fell, amid some salt-rimed prints and a last smear of stew. There were probably more rags somewhere, but Yu really did not want to search for them. He could clean properly later, when the feeling of being watched through the walls had quieted. To make it stop, he had to get them what they wanted.

Yu stared at the two bowls on the tray. One at a time. That was the plan. Take one, walk it out, come back for the next. In and out. Hello, there you go, more is coming.

Yes. He could do this.

The mask could do this.

And it did. Twice.

Then the mask took him back onto the suicidal stunting stool, where he filled more bowls with his two-stools-one-ladle scooping system. It was fucking hard; the constant up and down to change bowls, and the balancing act with every reach. Each bowl took three scoops, and each scoop a near-death negotiation with heat and gravity. Yu almost-died at least twice per bowl. And for what? For the amusement of Harrow and her pack of greedy criminals. They ate. They lay around and lazed about. They laughed. Nion and Kal had started to play music. As it turned out, the long thing Nion had been refining was a flute. Kal, meanwhile, plucking at a small hand-held instrument with a row of flexible slivers of metal that sung when pressed. They looked so normal, unbothered and unbroken.

Yu tried to be, also. But every bowl crossing from the kitchen to the common room, past the door of the sick bay, felt like crossing a ridge on the Snowtrail. On the far side, the wind of her voice waited; an echo threading through the dullness in his ears. Each trip made the wanting part stir.

But the mask told him to keep ladling stew. So he did. The bowls filled and passed from wings to hands an claws. The rhythm of the serving became its own arithmetic. As dangerous as it was, and horrible as it felt, the guard-mask took hold of the sequence. It filled and served one bowl at a time, and in between counted his steps, when he was walking, and his scoops, when he was pouring, and the number of bowls, as he was passing them out. The mask fixated on that, it led and it endured. Until the moment the borman came down.

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