The owner went back toward the counter.

Koldin picked up one of the algae slices. It bent but did not break. He tore it in half between both hands and took the knife, cutting into the butter and spreading it across the coarse surface. The heat drew it inward until the slice shone darkly.

He bit off a corner.

It was tough and faintly saline, like something dredged from the bottom of a drainage canal and disciplined into food by industrial pressure. He chewed slowly. The shelltooth bore down through the dense algae while his tongue pushed what broke off into his mouth, the smaller teeth grinding the algae down.

The owner returned with a ceramic cup and four sealed bottles, having to make two trips for the bottles.

Koldin picked up the cup, pressing its lip against the right side of his snout, tilted it a bit, and took a long sip.

It was hot, bitter, and had a good lingering aftertaste. He used it to wash down the algae, alternating bite and drink until the plate began to empty. The mushrooms were easier. They collapsed beneath the fork and released a salty oil with a faint peppery sweetness.

At the next table the blue bird descended again. It landed near the abandoned cup and waited. Koldin broke off a piece of mushroom no larger than a fingernail and placed it on the table’s edge.

The bird studied him, then the food.

“It’s yours.”

The bird flew over to Koldin's table, took it, and flew out through the open door.

The quarrel outside had ended. One of the men who had been shouting now stood alone beneath the awning, smoking as though nothing had occurred. This too was a familiar local outcome. People expressed their grievances loudly and resolved them invisibly.

Koldin finished the first bottle of water before beginning the second half of the algae, then the second bottle. He opened the bottles by drawing his pistol, puling back the slide, and using the frame to pry off the cap. No one batted an eye at this as long as Koldin pressed the slide release and holstered it quickly. The liquid was cool only in comparison with the room. He held it in his mouth for a moment and tasted the faint mineral cleanness of someplace wealthier.

Clean water was one of those things that lost its identity once a person had enough of it. It became merely water. Here it remained an article of manufacture. Someone had filtered it, sealed it, transported it across the country, stacked it in a sweating restaurant, and charged him for the privilege of not considering what lived in the town pipes.

Progress arrived in bottles. It arrived by the case and went away empty.

He finished eating and wiped the butter knife across the last piece of algae. The plate bore smears of green, brown oil, and cooling fat. The coffee was nearly gone. He drank what remained and felt the bitterness settle in his stomach with the food.

The owner approached with a small handwritten slip, although both of them knew the amount.

Koldin reached into the inner pocket of his fatigues and removed four pink-and-gray Val Salian dalasi notes, handing them to the owner.

The paper was firm and slightly dirty, made to survive damp climates and the handling of people who worked outdoors. Each bill bore the engraved face of someone long dead. A monarch on one of them, a yinglet patriarch of great fame on another. A baxxid philosopher on the third. The fourth displayed an inventor who had discovered ammonia-enriched fertilizer, and had been rewarded with immortality on currency.

None of the four looked pleased to be in Lenkerk.

The owner held the notes briefly to the light and stuffed them into a pocket. Val Salian dalasi circulated throughout Olissingen because they retained purchasing power better than the local guilder, and because merchants preferred the distant certainty of the Heart to the immediate promises of their own treasury.

“Same tomorrow?” the owner asked.

“Depends on tomorrow.”

“It generally does.”

Koldin fitted the two unopened water bottles into the haversack attached to his belt. Their combined weight pulled at the strap. He tightened it, put his hat back on, and stood.

The golok shifted against the chair with a scrape.

At the doorway he paused. The insecticide still hung in the room as a fine visible haze where the sunlight entered. Beneath the tables, several flies had ceased moving. Others had landed on the sprayed surfaces and walked through the poison without apparent concern.

The owner had begun wiping the counter.

“You’re spraying too much of zhat,” Koldin said.

“Not enough. They keep coming.”

“Zhey’ll outlive us.”

“Then they can pay the rent.”

Koldin stepped outside.

The heat struck with greater certainty than before. The road had begun to dry at the crown, leaving pale mud along its edges and dark standing water in the wheel ruts. A freight bell sounded from the direction of the yard. Someone farther down the street was splitting wood with a axe, each blow separated from the next by an identical interval.

Koldin checked the position of the water bottles in his haversack and began walking toward the eastern road. 

Breakfast was finished. The patrol had begun.

Ahead waited the eastern road, the market, the freight yard, the water stand, the old airport, and every small disorder that might gather between them. The rest of the day lay before him. It did not yet appear hostile, but Koldin knew that could change quickly.