They say you can get anything in Salliverna. Unfortunately, that includes not just goods and services, but also guests. Part and parcel of being the last major city before the most dangerous wilderness known to civilization.

As a royally-blessed inn and tavern for the extremely powerful (who are often rich, or useful enough that they don't need money), we have been put to the test again and again. Hurriedly built sky stables for a flock of young Wyverns, who will accept fish but are partial to rabbit; custom smithing for honeymooning royalty after he got caught with a courtesan who was not as discreet as ours would have been; the bones of the recently deceased, ethically sourced, are actually one of our more common offerings. But this?

The young lord is one of the better clients. He tips generously, does not start or encourage trouble, and makes no unreasonable requests. He seems embarrassed to be making this one.

"Yes, I was hoping for a flourless bread. Flour breads seem to disturb my stomach greatly, but I miss the taste."

"Would a bread made of rye be suitable?" I inquire.

He checks a scrivened list. I recognize Merdockai's monogrammed parchment.

"I'm afraid not."

"Perhaps I may examine the list of ingredients that are to be avoided in the bread? I can not make any guarantees that we will be able to get it today, but if such a thing can be arranged I will take care of it."

Wheat, rye, oats, barley. I wonder if I can think of grains that are not included on the list. I fail. I note down these requirements. If he wanted something simple, like the head of a lesser dragon, it'd be a small matter of posting a notice on our request board. Some intrepid adventurer would slay one for a mere two nights and fare in our standard rooms. Even the horns of a Skerrelack could be gained by sending a sparrowhawk to Hardegger, the great hermit of the Deep Wilds. But flourless bread?

The in-house baker suggests an alchemist. The Alchemist suggests a witch with culinary specialty. The witch laughs in my face. I am forced to my last resort. It feels almost like a failure to do it, but I am compelled once more.

I cover my work attire with a ragged cloak as I pass from the clean, safe, cobbled streets, into a labyrinth of gravel strewn alleys. The reek of urine, rotting vegetables, and some complex, horrid mix of other things assaults my nose. Bodies lay on the sides of the ditches, pressed up against the squat, unsteady daub and wattle houses. The bodies may or may not still be breathing. I clutch my dagger close. No one makes eye contact on this street, but all of our eyes are flicking and active as we move quickly, knowingly through the maze. There are only two kinds in this place, locals and prey.

I arrive at the wooden door. It is more solid than it looks. I take a deep breath.

˜˜˜

The young lord checks with me twice, that no flour of wheat, rye, oats, or barley has touched this bread. It looks like bread. It smells like bread, but there is some subtle difference. I inform him it won't be entirely the same, but it ought to be fairly close. Imported rice is sourced from the far east and finely powdered. Mountain roots from the lofty empires of the Ocolacolt range, boiled, mashed, dried. Yeast cultivated in the hotels own vats. Seeds from the great mill cities. I am not merely fishing for tips. I have written a recipe so that he may request it in the future. He smiles. He lifts it to his mouth.

˜˜˜

I knock at the door. It swings open, a waft of other scents overriding the foul miasma of the labyrinthine ghetto. Familiar eyes crinkle. "Mishalla! You do not come here enough, you ungrateful wretch."

I hug the old woman. "I know. I've got another work problem, mom."

She waves a hand that somehow manages to be at once pudgy and bony. "Work later, have some tea first."

˜˜˜

The young lord's face loosens in pleasure. He chews, and murmurs in delight. He opens his eyes.

"How do you do it?" he asks. "No place I've been has managed it before."

"An old, and powerful magic," I reply.